couldn't see very good.  Catchach swore like a trooper.  I could tell
that by the way he was grinnin', but the fearful pity was neither me
nor his Reverence could understand it!"

They went off again with such utter abandon that Duncan feared the
minister might be shocked by such uproarious behaviour on the public
road.  He did not at all comprehend the meaning of their conversation
himself, in fact he scarcely listened to it, so eagerly was he watching
for Donald.

The noisy crowd passed the house, and one tall figure detached itself
from the group and, swinging open the gate, came up the path.  Donald
never forgot to give his uncle a call, as he passed on his way to the
Glen.  Duncan rose in a tremor of joy.  He did not notice that his
nephew gave a start at the sight of the minister.  Mr. Egerton rose
also and for an instant the two young men looked into each other's eyes
with an expression of anything but amity.

"Oh and it will be you, Donal'," cried the old man in a voice which
trembled with pleasure.  "Here is the minister come to call."

Donald came forward, clinging desperately to the forlorn hope that the
conversation had not been overheard.

"Good evening, Mr. Egerton," he said in a rather constrained voice,
holding out his hand; but the other young man did not seem to notice;
perhaps the dusk accounted for his mistake.

"Good evening, Mr. McDonald," he said stiffly.  "I have remained rather
long," he continued, speaking to Duncan Polite and incidentally turning
his back upon Donald.  He shook hands with his host and without so much
as a nod towards the younger man, started for the gate.  Duncan
followed him, protesting, but the minister could not stay.  He did not
seem to hear the old man's timid suggestion that Donald would be going
down to the village, too, and would be glad to accompany him, but
strode off alone, indignation displayed in every line of his fine,
straight figure.

VI

THE FULFILMENT OF PROMISE

There was not one dissenting voice in the chorus of admiration sung by
the young people of Glenoro after their new pastor's social triumph at
the Hamiltons'.  Everybody liked him and there went through the older
folk a thrill of joy that their pastor should be the leader of the
young and unsteady set, to bring them to a higher and nobler plane of
life.

Even Mrs. Fraser, the hypochondriac, was pleased with him in a mournful
sort of way.  Of course, she was somewhat alarmed when Miss Cotton
declared that the minister was "jist a terror to cut up and could play
'Dan Tucker' better than Sandy Neil himself."  But Annie Fraser
explained that Mr. Egerton had done it just to show that he wasn't
stiff or "stuck up."

This phase of the matter was a relief to her mother.  Mrs. Fraser was a
person to whom the world and everything in it was one series of
ever-recurring disaster.  She was a doleful body, taking pleasure only
in funerals and the laying out of the dead.  With her peculiar taste
for sorrow and distress, she had come to be self-appointed nurse to the
whole neighbourhood.  She was always due at the house of affliction
and, with her kindly heart and a certain skill in nursing, she proved a
sort of melancholy blessing.  Her predilection for disaster caused her
to be regarded as a bird of ill-omen, for where Mrs. Fraser was, there
would calamities be gathered together, and to see her issue from the
big gate on the brow of the south hill with her ominous-looking black
bag was sufficient to raise apprehension in every heart.  Indeed, Mrs.
Duffy, who lived nearly opposite the Frasers and who regarded the
village nurse with something akin to superstitious fear, would throw up
her hands at the sight of the herald of misfortune passing the door and
exclaim, "God bless me sowl, who's dead now?"

So if Mrs. Fraser was willing to look hopefully on the actions of the
new minister, the rest of the congregation might feel themselves
secure.  But he was not long in showing that he could be quite as
energetic in his church affairs as in playing "Dan Tucker."

He plunged into the work with a vim and ardour which commanded the
admiration of a thrifty and hard-working people.

The young folk were no longer the drones in the hive; he had not been
among them a month before he had stirred them all up to an activity and
interest in church affairs they had never dreamed of before.

He organised a Young People's Society of Christian Endeavour and, with
the help of Mr. Watson, a Young Men's Christian Association.  He joined
the Sons of Temperance and infused new life into that organisation.  He
even went so far as to get the older women out of their homes and
before they knew what they were doing they had formed a Ladies' Aid
Society and were making plans to carpet and decorate the church.

Miss Cotton was the president of this latter organisation and worked up
the interest to such a pitch that even Mrs. Neil More went to one of
the meetings, and Archie set fire to the house while she was absent,
probably feeling that as the established order of the universe had been
completely overturned, the total destruction of all material things
should naturally follow.

The Methodists were incited to emulation by all this activity and Sim
Basketful started an Epworth League.  Then Mr. Egerton, in his
free-hearted way, proposed that the two societies join and hold
alternate meetings in the two churches, a suggestion which met with
hearty approval and raised the young minister to the status of a saint
in the eyes of Mr. Ansdell.

He soon established himself on friendly terms with "the boys" who met
at the corner in the evenings.  He entered into all their sports.
Whether it was throwing quoits in the middle of the road, playing
foot-ball in the river pastures below the mill, swimming in the milldam
or walking the logs on the pond, he was the leader.  He was a favourite
with all classes.  Mr. Watson, who was rumoured to have loose notions
on religion, was his constant companion.  Syl Todd, the village dandy,
worshipped him, and Pat Duffy, who was rather a liberal-minded
Catholic, declared him "a blazin' fine chap" and gave as his opinion
that it was "a relief to see a parson that didn't look scared when a
fellow swore a little"--which indulgence was a conversational necessity
to Mr. Duffy.

The Glen grew livelier every day and the meetings at the Hamiltons'
larger and more frequent.  John Egerton fell into the habit of dropping
in there very often.  The whole family were most hospitable and Miss
Jessie was very charming.  He saw from the first that she and young
Neil were avowed sweethearts.  Mrs. McNabb informed him that Jessie and
Donald had been lovers ever since the day at school when he had
thrashed Pat Duffy for taking a forcible and liberal bite out of her
one apple.  The young minister assured himself that he was very much
interested in the pretty rural romance and wrote an account of it to
Helen.

But, though he admired the village belle, he could not bring himself to
have any warmth of feeling for Donald.  He met him almost every evening
either at the Hamiltons' or down at the corner and, while he could find
no fault in the young man's conduct, he never quite forgave the prank
he had played and did not unbend to him as he did to the others.
Donald's honest heart was filled with remorse for the mischief he had
unwittingly caused and in his straightforward fashion he went to the
minister to make an explanation and, if need be, offer an apology.  But
his friendly advances were met with such cold politeness on the part of
his pastor that the apology died on Donald's lips.  Instead, he made
matters worse by referring to the disagreeable incident and from that
time forward relations between him and the minister were somewhat
strained.

They were not improved by an incident that occurred shortly.  One
afternoon Duncan Polite sent his nephew on an errand to some relatives
who lived down by Lake Simcoe and he was not able to return until the
next morning.  Mr. Egerton noticed, with a feeling of relief, that he
was absent from the Epworth League that evening and at the close of the
meeting the thought struck him that there would surely be no harm in
his walking down the hill with Jessie Hamilton.  He had no sooner
thought of it than his mind was made up and after the close of the
meeting he found himself, somewhat to his amusement, standing with the
crowd of young men who waited, at the gate, the coming of their
respective chosen.

The young ladies crowded out, some hurriedly and anxiously, others,
sure of their power, with provoking leisureliness.  The Hamilton girls
were among the last.  Wee Andra seized Bella and disappeared into the
darkness as suddenly as if they had been engulfed in oblivion.  Sarah
followed, very disgusted at being accompanied by Peter McNabb, Junior,
who worked in his father's blacksmith shop and did not even know that
there were such things in existence as Euclid and Algebra.  Jessie came
next; John Egerton stepped out from the ranks and raised his hat.  "And
may I have the pleasure of walking down the hill with you, Miss
Jessie?" he asked, and the girl, murmuring some faint, shy words of
consent, they walked side by side down the leafy path where the
moonbeams through the trees made flecks of light upon her white dress.

The few stragglers still standing at the gate noticed the little scene
and many were the comments upon what would likely transpire if the
minister took to "keeping company with Don Neil's girl."

There was one who had noted the affair with perfect approval.  Sylvanus
Todd had long worshipped Maggie Hamilton from afar with absolutely no
success; but so far from being disheartened by continuous rebuffs, he
only seemed to increase in ardour under them.  He adored Mr. Egerton's
elegant ease and tried to copy it upon all occasions.  His manner of
addressing Jessie he considered irresistible and felt sure it would not
fail with even so hardhearted a divinity as was his.  Maggie was just
emerging from the church, talking and laughing in a way that would have
scandalised old Andrew Johnstone, when Syl stepped forward to put his
new formula to the test.  Raising his hat in precise imitation of the
young minister's easy grace, he said, in as near an approach to Mr.
Egerton's deep, musical tone as he could manage, "And may I have the
pleasure of walking down the hill with you, _Miss_ Maggie?"

But the result was quite different.  Maggie turned and stared at him in
genuine consternation.  "Merciful gracious!" she screamed, "he's gone
clean, stark, staring crazy!"

Mr. Todd was about to reply with some dignity, when Allan Fraser, who
followed the more expeditious if less elegant method of the ordinary
young man of Glenoro and never asked permission, caught Maggie's arm
and swept her unceremoniously from underneath Sylvanus' nose.

Meanwhile, John Egerton, strolling slowly down the leafy path at
Jessie's side, was enjoying himself.  This was the first time he had
ever been alone with the girl and by tactful questions he found out
more about her in their short walk than in all of their previous
acquaintance.  His discoveries were all pleasant.  As he had surmised,
she was more serious than her sisters; she had read a little,
too,--Dickens and Scott and some of Tennyson.  They stood at the gate
in the moonlight for a long time, talking of books.  He found she had a
thirst for them and he promised to lend her as many as she could read.
It was late when at last he left her; the radiant moonlight, the heavy
scent of the dewy garden, the soft rushing sound of the river and the
slim, graceful girl beneath the wide oaks had made a combination which
was intoxicating.  He did not describe this scene to Helen, however, as
he had done so many others.

But of course Donald heard of it, and very soon.  When Coonie came down
with the mail the next morning, Syl Todd confided his troubles to the
mail-carrier as he watered his horse.  "Now, that there Allan Fraser
ain't got no more manners than if he'd never been outside of Glenoro,"
he said in conclusion of his mournful recital; "he don't know nothin'
about how to treat a lady."  Syl was the only young man in Glenoro who
gave "the girls" the dignified title of "ladies."

"Always the way with them college chaps," agreed Coonie.  "They think
they're some punkins and they don't know enough to make cheese."

"That's true," assented Mr. Todd, warmed by this unwonted sympathy.
"An' there's Don Neil; he's another that's been puttin' on airs, but
I'll bet he'll quit now; mind you, Coonie, the minister went home with
Jessie last night."

"Gosh!" exclaimed Coonie, expectorating copiously, "that's noos!"

"You bet!  Don'll be hoppin' when he hears it.  All the fellows has
been sayin' they bet Mr. Egerton would have liked to go with Jessie
ever since he come here if Don didn't keep him shooed off.  Wait till
he goes back to college and the minister'll have his turn.  Long's he
don't go hangin' 'round Maggie, _I_ won't bother him."  And Mr. Todd
put his head on one side and gazed sentimentally up the hill, a pose
which was slightly damaged by old Bella throwing up her head and
spattering him with water.

As Donald Neil came cantering homeward, he met the mail driver dropping
down the Glenoro hills towards the Flats.  "Hello, Coonie!" called the
young man, "how's yourself to-day?"

Coonie pulled up his old horse, which stopped with as much difficulty
as she started.  He was very glad to meet Donald.  "Oh, jist chawin'
an' spittin'," he answered with suspicious cordiality.  "What kind o' a
new apostle's this you've got up here?"

"Who?  Mr. Egerton?  Oh! he's all right," said Donald, giving Bella a
poke in the ribs with his whip.  "Haven't you seen him?"

Coonie spat disapprovingly.  "Yes, you bet.  Seen him this mornin'
showin' off the soles o' his boots on Peter McNabb's veranda an'
readin' novels.  Soft snap them preacher fellows have.  Nothin' in the
world to do but run after the girls.  Don't wonder that you're headin'
that way yourself; guess Mr. Egerton thinks you're tryin' to get up to
him in the religion business, so he'll race you in the sparkin' line.
Haw!  Haw!"

Donald looked down at him calmly.  "Go on," he said quietly, "you've
got something on your mind, Coonie, and you'll never be easy till it's
off.  I saw you were loaded when I was half a mile back; what's the
trouble?"

Coonie did not enjoy this; Donald Neil was not the right sort of person
to torment.  He took that sort of thing too indifferently and one was
always left in the tantalising doubt as to whether he cared or not.
Coonie did not believe in casting his pearls before swine, so he
cracked his long whip with the usual admonitory inquiry, "Gedap there!
What're ye doin'?"

Bella gave her preliminary scramble, stopped, tried again and slowly
shambled off.  But her driver could not resist turning in his teetering
seat, as the dust began to rise, to shout back, "If I'd a girl I was as
spooney over as you are, I'd keep an eye skinned for chaps as good
lookin' as the parson.  Haw!  Haw!--_Gedap_!"

Donald rode off with a laugh, but his face became grave as he climbed
the hill.  A dark suspicion that the minister might some day be his
rival had long been forming in his mind.  Perhaps jealousy was the
cause of his unforgiving spirit.  He went to Wee Andra for an
explanation of just what Coonie meant and his mind was not eased by it.
He had never had a dangerous rival before and he was forced to confess
that the minister was certainly a very captivating young man.

Duncan Polite had hoped that ere this his nephew and Mr. Egerton would
have been firm friends.  He wondered sadly over his failure to bring
them together at his house.  He wondered over other things, too.  He
regarded the revival of activity in the church with a heart of
overflowing joy, but a joy tinged with a puzzled uncertainty.  He knew
that the young people of the congregation were now taking a greater
interest in religious matters than they had ever done, and yet he could
not quite understand why it was that, though the boys went regularly to
the meetings of the various organisations and were constant in their
attendance at the weekly prayer-meeting, which they had formerly
eschewed, still they showed no consequent change of conduct.  Sandy's
fiddling and dancing went on uninterruptedly, parallel with his
Christian Endeavour meetings.  Wee Andra was even more irreverent than
formerly and Donald showed no signs of an added desire to enter the
ministry.  Donald's case was particularly disappointing.  He wanted
Donald to sit at his young pastor's feet and learn the lesson of true
consecration.  He never dreamed that those two whom he desired to be
fast friends were in great danger of becoming enemies, and that events
were shaping themselves to widen the breach between them.

VII

A DISASTROUS PICNIC.

Dominion Day was approaching, the day upon which Glenoro had held a
picnic in Isaac Thompson's maple grove, about half a mile down the
river, ever since there was a Dominion Day.

The affair was ostensibly for the Presbyterian Sabbath School, but all
Glenoro and the surrounding neighbourhood attended.  The people from
the Oa and the Flats and even from over on the Tenth flocked to
Thompson's grove and swung in the trees and joined the swimming matches
and helped on the festivity.  Besides the sports and other attractions,
there was always a programme of music and speeches after tea.  Andrew
Johnstone, as superintendent of the Sabbath School, was responsible for
this part of the entertainment.  The young men erected a platform of
new pine boards from the mill and the young women decorated it with
evergreen boughs and the visiting clergymen and township orators seated
themselves upon it in dignified array.  Peter McNabb led the whole
assembly in a psalm or paraphrase and then Mr. Cameron and the
Methodist minister and all others honoured with a seat upon the
platform delivered addresses to the people seated in semi-circles on
the ground.  Some of the speeches were sound and edifying, some were of
a lighter tone and were sprinkled with judicious jokes culled from many
sources for the occasion.  Old Mr. Lawton, an itinerant Baptist
preacher who, no matter what his peregrinations might be, always
happened to be in Glenoro on Dominion Day, had told the same jokes
annually within the memory of the oldest picnicker, but, as they came
only once a year, they were quite fresh after their long rest and the
audience laughed at them each season with unabated mirth.

When Mr. Watson participated in the Glenoro picnic for the first time,
he was filled with a deep disapproval.  He was an energetic,
well-meaning young man, rather injudicious and fiercely patriotic after
the spread-eagle manner of his cousins across the international
boundary.  The Glenoro picnic struck him as being nothing short of
disloyal.  There was not a flag to be seen anywhere in the woods, only
one of the speakers mentioned the fact that it was Dominion Day, and
then in a mere incidental way, and at the closing they actually sang
"Praise God from Whom All Blessings Flow" instead of "God Save the
Queen!"  The schoolmaster made up his mind that if he lived till the
next first of July, he would show the people what a Dominion Day
celebration ought to be.  For this purpose he sought the co-operation
of the minister.  Old Andrew Johnstone was ruining the rising
generation, he explained, and it was time somebody showed him that he
and his old-fashioned ideas were antediluvian.  John Egerton hesitated
at first.  He did not like the idea of running counter to his ruling
elder, but he secretly agreed with Mr. Watson that that old man had too
much to do with the affairs of the church.  He felt also that this
would be a fine opportunity to come in touch with the boys and girls;
so, after some demurring, he finally yielded and consented to give a
helping hand in the patriotic demonstration.

Mr. Watson set to work with wonderful zest.  As the picnic was for the
Sabbath school, the children should properly be the entertainers, he
declared, so the public school pupils were detained every day after
school hours and the minister came down and helped drill them in
patriotic songs and exercises.  Of course, they needed a musical
instrument, so they hired the Temperance Society's organ, and Jessie
Hamilton was asked to play.  The whole arrangement proved highly
satisfactory to the young minister.  He found himself looking forward
to the practise hour with pleasure, for he would walk down to the
Hamiltons', call for Jessie, and together they would stroll across the
bridge and up the river road beneath the trees to the school house
where they spent an hour in each other's company.

The undertaking had its drawbacks as well as its pleasure, however.
The chief one was young Neil Neil, a worse imp than Sandy even, and an
unfailing source of disorder.  He and his bosom companion in iniquity,
a wild Irishman from the Flats by the name of Patrick Regan, conspired
to make the practise hour a burden to both their instructors.  John
Egerton was sometimes tempted to wonder if Donald Neil was taking his
revenge by inciting his young relative to acts of rebellion.  Then,
too, some of the parents grumbled because their children did not return
home in time to do "the chores."  This gave the schoolmaster very
little trouble, however.  He paid no attention to such base sentiments;
patriotism must be inculcated in the minds of young Canada, whether the
calves were fed or not.

But in spite of all discouragements the work progressed.  There were
flag drills and motion songs, patriotic songs and public spirited
recitations and when the programme was finally completed Mr. Watson
heaved a sigh of content.  There was to be only one speech, for Mr.
Egerton insisted that Mr. Ansdell be asked to say "a few words."  They
quite forgot, however, that the superintendent of the Sabbath school
had always given the opening address and that Sim Basketful, though a
Methodist, had never missed contributing to the programme.  For the
postmaster was undoubtedly the orator of Glenoro and had never before
seen a picnic bill between the Oa and the Flats without his name on it
in large type.  Mr. Watson brushed away any doubts the minister had
regarding the innovation.  "Was he going to be ruled by Splinterin'
Andra, or was he not?" he inquired, and John Egerton had responded that
he most decidedly was not, so the preparations went on unabated.

To Donald Neil the new arrangement was anything but pleasing.  He never
seemed to be able to see Jessie any more.  She was always trying over
some new songs with the minister or reading a book he had given her, or
in consultation with him over their preparations for the picnic.
Donald's opinion of his pastor was not improved by this.  He was too
jealous to be quite impartial in his judgment and, therefore, did not
realise that his rival was more careless than culpable.  Donald's
conception of a minister heretofore had been the Glenoro ideal,
heightened by Duncan Polite's teachings,--a holy man, set apart from
ordinary humanity for the Lord's special work.  John Egerton was a
revelation to him.  Was this the sort of man his uncle worshipped? he
asked himself.  Was this the sort of man he was to emulate?  He
concluded by deciding that if John Egerton was a good sample of the
ministry, then Donald McDonald would have nothing to do with the
profession.

Meanwhile, John Egerton went happily on his way, all unconscious that
he was doing any harm.  As the date of the picnic approached he found,
to his intense amusement, that there was still another faction in
Glenoro church.  This one was not at all formidable, however, for it
was neither religious nor national, but merely culinary and
geographical, namely, a strong rivalry in the production of pies and
cakes between the matrons north of Glenoro and those beyond the
southern hill.  It broke out violently twice a year, at the first of
July picnic and at the New Year's tea-meeting.  When the date of these
functions drew near, it was the custom for the North to muster their
forces at the house of Andrew Johnstone, while the South flocked to
their standard at Donald Fraser's and each made stupendous efforts to
out-bake the other.  But very rarely was there an advantage on either
side.  If one party got ahead of the other by so much as a cookie at
one festivity, the defeated were sure to produce some unheard-of
ammunition at the next.  One New Year's Eve the South came charging up
with thirty different varieties of pie, causing rout and dismay in the
ranks of the enemy.  But on the next Dominion Day the North responded
gallantly with an eleven-story iced cake looking like a triumphal
monument to celebrate their victory, and the balance of power was
restored.

This summer, with the inspiring presence of the new minister, efforts
were redoubled and for several days before the picnic the houses of the
Johnstones and the Frasers were turned into bake-shops, and pies and
cookies and tarts and story cakes were produced in such quantities and
with such elaboration that the producers themselves were rather alarmed.

The great day arrived at last and Nature did her part nobly.  It was
one of those intensely clear, sunny days which only our Lady of the
Sunshine can produce, a day when the thermometer announces that it is
very hot, but when Nature denies the slander and the blood dances to
the time set by the bracing air.

The blood was dancing in Mr. Watson's veins, at any rate.  He was up
early and had all his plans laid before noon.  He collected his pupils
at the school house early in the afternoon and gave them copious
instructions.  As soon as a sufficient crowd had collected at the
picnic grounds, they were to walk in procession with him down to the
grove, and just at their entry into the woods to burst into song and
march in twos up to the platform, waving their banners and singing of
the glory of Canada.  After this they were to be given the freedom of
the woods until such time as the performance should commence.

The idea had been Mr. Egerton's and had been planned by him with great
care.  He felt that the sight would be inspiring enough to please even
Splinterin' Andra.  For the ruling elder looked with dark disfavour
upon any prominent performance by children and his young minister was
rather anxious as to the effect the programme would have upon him.

John Egerton assisted his colleague at the school house and then
repaired to the grove ahead of the procession, on purpose to be able to
report afterwards upon its appearance.  When he arrived, the picnic
grounds presented a lively and pleasing appearance.  Away back among
the trees, in the flecking light and shade, the long, white tables were
already being laid.  White-aproned girls, among whom he recognised
Jessie's trim figure, were flitting about them, setting cups and
saucers with a musical clatter.  Away in the background, a blue column
of smoke rose straight into the treetops from the old stove where Mrs.
Fraser and Miss Cotton were superintending the boiling of the tea and
at a table near by, piled with baskets, the matrons of the North and
South laughed and chatted over their rival productions.  Over in an
open space of sunlight the boys and young men of the village were
engaged in athletic sports, jumping, racing and throwing the shoulder
stone.  As he looked, he saw the slim, lithe figure of Donald Neil go
up over a bar with easy grace, amid the applause of the surrounding
spectators.  Between the trees to the right flashed a line of blue and
silver, where the shouting and splashing of the swimmers had already
commenced.  Everywhere to right and left there were swings--little
swings and big swings.  The latter were patronised by young ladies and
their attendant swains and manned by two stalwart young men who sent
their burden of sober dun-coloured masculinity and fluttering muslin
and ribbon swaying far into the treetops, to the accompaniment of many
personal and highly mirth-provoking remarks from the crowd waiting to
be in the same position.

There was a mingling of shouts, laughter, neighing of horses, scraping
of turning buggies and clattering of dishes, harmonised by that
wonderful power which the forest possesses of turning all discordant
sounds within her bosom to perfect music.

The young minister moved about from group to group with a pleasant word
for all.  He swung with Maggie Hamilton and Annie Fraser and Julia
Duffy; he entered keenly into the young men's athletic competitions; he
carried water for Miss Cotton and waited on the young ladies at the
tables; and finally he strolled over towards the platform where the
fathers of Glenoro were gathered.  They sat on mossy logs or stumps,
with drooping shoulders, smoking their pipes in solemn content,
discussing crops and creeds, horses and heresies and enjoying life to
the full.  Old Andrew Johnstone was there; but Duncan Polite was not
with him.  Duncan never went anywhere except to church.  The ruling
elder seemed in a rather mild frame of mind in spite of the fact that
the reins of government had been taken out of his hands.  The young
pastor could not know that Duncan Polite's influence had soothed his
wrath.  He sat beside the old man and chatted away genially, while
Splinterin' Andra watched him solemnly and with a certain wistfulness
in his stern face.

But John Egerton did not rest long; he was beginning to wonder why Mr.
Watson and his flock had not by this time startled them all into
admiration by their appearance.  The time set for their arrival had
long passed and still the burst of music and the gleam of banners which
was to herald their approach did not come.  He arose and walked towards
the road to see if they were in sight, when he saw the schoolmaster
approaching alone and with a haste which betokened disaster.  His
friend hurried to meet him.  "Why, what has happened?" he cried.
"Where are the children?"

But Mr. Watson was in a state of speechless wrath.  The heat of the
summer sun combined with the internal burning of his indignation would
have produced apoplexy in a less cadaverous person.  Some minutes
passed before he could quite explain the situation.  When at length he
could tell it, it appeared that he had collected his flock at the
school in proper order and supplied them all with full instructions.
Then he delivered a flag to each boy and a maple branch to each girl,
to be waved as they entered the woods singing.  Mr. Watson had an eye
for the artistic, and had at first decreed that each flag should march
beside a maple bough; but the proposition was received with such
hysterical squeals and giggles from beneath the Canadian emblems and
such dark looks of terrible rebellion from the red banners that the
schoolmaster was compelled to change the order of their going.  So the
boys led the procession, going two and two, with the girls tripping
demurely behind, as was compatible with the masculine idea of the
fitness of things.  The procession marched along quietly enough.  Only
one digression occurred, when Neil Neil and Patsy Regan halted long
enough to hold a muscular dispute as to who should lead the van, a
contest in which both the Flag that Braved a Thousand Years and the
Maple Leaf Forever were trampled in the dust of the highway.  The
matter was settled by their teacher setting the two belligerents, with
sundry cuffs and jerks, to march side by side, which they did in
perfect peace until they reached the grove.

And then it occurred--the great disaster!  Just how it was managed, or
whether it was impromptu or with malice aforethought, the schoolmaster
did not know.  But just as they entered the leafy path and he was
clearing his throat to give the keynote of "Upon the Heights of
Queenston," without warning or disturbance, the flags of their country
were flung to the ground and the disloyal young Britons were scurrying
off through the woods in twenty different directions, leaping over
fallen logs, crashing through underbrush and whooping like a pack of
wild Indians.  The crucial moment had proved too much for schoolboy
modesty.  Mr. Watson glared around to find himself left with only a
handful of embarrassed and giggling girls.  Just one boy remained,
little Tommy Basketful, who was too small to run away and who held to
his sister's hand.  There was no use trying to have the procession now;
the master dismissed the girls in a choking voice and went raging
through the woods to find Mr. Egerton, his progress and his wrath
accelerated by snatches of the interrupted song coming in high falsetto
voice or deep bass growl, from tree-top or hollow stump.

"I'll wager my next year's salary it's that young Turk, Neil, who's at
the bottom of it all!" he cried when he had finished the dismal recital
and wiped the perspiration from his face.  "By Jove, if it isn't a fix!
There's Splinterin' Andra over by the platform; he'll never get over
it!  Yes sir, it's young Neil Neil's done it all, with Patsy Regan's
help.  They think they're safe because it's holidays, but I'll lay my
rawhide on to them next term or my name's not George Watson!"

"Never mind," said the minister, with his usual kindly cheerfulness,
"we shall have the programme at any rate."

"Programme!  That's just what we won't have!  Those young reprobates
are gone for good.  I know them!  The girls can't do the drills alone
and there won't be one piece fit to be given!"

The case was certainly more serious than the minister had at first
thought.  They had advertised their entertainment far and wide and the
people were expecting something unique.  If Neil Neil would not bring
back his rebel band the whole affair would be a complete failure; he
and Mr. Watson would be the laughing stock of the community and
Splinterin' Andra would be grimly pleased.  The young man's face
darkened when he reflected that it was Donald Neil's brother who had
wrought all this mischief.  Was that whole family in league against
him?  The two looked at each other in dismay.

"Those Neil boys are a bad lot!" Mr. Watson burst forth again.
"They've been the plague of Glenoro school ever since Donald
started----  By Jove!"  He started up suddenly, his face aglow, "I have
it!  Don can make young Neil do anything.  We'll get him to order the
young rascal back and to bring the others with him!  Let's hunt him up!"

John Egerton drew back; he knew his relations with Donald Neil had not
improved since Jessie had begun to help with the picnic programme and
he did not at all relish the idea of asking his assistance in his
dilemma.  But Mr. Watson was already tearing off impetuously and, as
there seemed no other way out of the difficulty and he could not leave
his friend to bear the burden alone, he reluctantly followed.

A rapid survey of the grove showed that Donald was not at the sports,
nor at the swings.  Mr. Egerton noted with satisfaction that he was not
with Jessie.  She had put aside her apron and was on one of the big
swings with a youth from the Tenth, her muslin dress swaying in the
breeze, her brown curls flying.  But Mr. Watson would not suffer him to
stop one moment to admire the picture.

"He'll be down at the water," he cried, plunging headlong into a little
path which led to the river.  "Come along, we've no time to lose--if I
only had my rawhide on that young Turk's back!"

The path they were following dipped suddenly into a little hollow where
it was completely concealed from the picnickers by thick clumps of
cedar and, at a sudden turn in the most secluded part, Mr. Watson
almost ran against the object of their search.  He was hurrying up from
the river; his face was flushed, his hair damp and curly; he had
evidently just emerged from the water.  He drew back suddenly to let
the schoolmaster pass.

"Are you playing tag?" he asked.

But Mr. Watson was in no mood for joking.  "You're just the chap we're
looking for, Don!  Mr. Egerton and I are in a beast of a pickle.  That
young brother of yours has got to be looked after; he upset the
procession from the school, and he's cleared off with all the other
boys and we can't have any programme without them, and our whole
entertainment's ruined!"

Donald glanced past him at the minister, standing in dignified silence,
awaiting the issue, and for an instant a gleam of mischievous pleasure
flashed in his eyes, a glance John Egerton did not fail to detect and
at that moment he would have preferred to let the whole picnic be
ruined rather than ask a favour of Donald Neil.

"What have I to do with it?" Donald was asking gravely.

"Oh, you know," returned the schoolmaster in a wheedling tone; "you can
make Neil do anything.  You order him to come back and bring the other
chaps, and we'll be eternally grateful; that's a good fellow, Don."

Donald's eyes were beginning to twinkle again; he could not help
enjoying his pastor's discomfort.  "Why don't you discipline him
yourself?" he asked teasingly.  "If he's amenable to neither religion
nor education"--he glanced at the minister again--"I am afraid I can do
nothing with him."

John Egerton's face flushed angrily.  "I think you should feel yourself
responsible for your brother's action, Mr. McDonald," he said coldly.
"I must say he has been an unmitigated nuisance ever since we commenced
to practise, and now he promises to spoil everything.  If you have the
slightest interest in the entertainment, you will see that he does his
duty."

Donald looked steadily into his pastor's eyes.  For an instant a wild
desire to refuse help, to even command Neil to see that the programme
was a failure, entered his heart.  But it was only momentary; Donald
was incapable of being petty.  But he could not resist the retort, "I
couldn't think of assuming such honours in the presence of the
clergyman and the schoolmaster, but I can at least produce the cause of
this serious mishap."  He put his fingers to his lips and gave three
sharp whistles, ending in a long musical note.  A moment later a boy
came bounding up the path from the river; he was barefooted, his coat
was off and he was plainly preparing for a swim.  He stopped suddenly a
few paces away when he saw who was with his brother and hung his black
curly head sheepishly.

"What d'ye want?" he called.

"Come here," said Donald quietly, and Neil obeyed; he knew that
whatever judgment was to be meted out to him, Don would see that he got
justice.  "Mr. Egerton and Mr. Watson have something to say to you."

The culprit's bright eyes took on a look of alarm; he wriggled his
small bare toes in the dead leaves.

Donald pushed him towards the minister half mockingly.  "Here," he said
with suspicious gravity, "you must judge this grave matter for
yourself."

John Egerton's sensitive face flushed hotly.  He felt himself to be in
an extremely ludicrous position, Mr. Watson stood in the background
ready to second anything he might say, but very glad to be able to take
a subordinate position in the affair, and Donald leaned back against a
tree and looked upon the little scene with an extravagant solemnity
which was maddening.

At that moment the young clergyman would have enjoyed turning upon the
insolent fellow standing there with his arms folded so evidently
enjoying his discomfiture and thrashing him soundly, had he been able
to find an excuse.  Unhappily he had none, however, and his wrath all
burst forth upon the boy.

"What did you mean by breaking up Mr. Watson's procession and leading
all the boys away?" he demanded hotly.

Neil's inbred reverence for the cloth had suffered somewhat under Mr.
Egerton's efforts to teach him to sing, so he answered promptly, "I
never!  I jist cut off with the other fellows."

The minister's temper was fast slipping from his control.  "Don't dare
to tell me that!" he cried, snatching the boy's arm.  "You know you
planned this disgraceful affair!"

But the lad had darted a glance at his brother, and the keen instinct
of childhood had perceived that Donald was not in league with his
judges.  So he looked up into the minister's face and said with
incisive impudence, "It's a lie!"

John Egerton might have restrained his rage even then, had he not again
caught the gleam of laughter in Donald's eyes.  The double insult was
too much.  He promptly caught the saucy boy a sounding box upon the ear
which sent him sprawling upon the ground.

The next instant Donald was in front of him.  "Try something nearer
your own size, you coward!" he was saying, and barely giving his
opponent time to prepare, he planted a blow right between the
minister's eyes and sent him reeling back against a tree.

He was up and at Donald in an instant, and so sudden and terrible was
his onslaught that the champion boxer of Glenoro had a distinct
impression that he was meeting his match.  Donald was just settling to
the fierce joy of battle when the schoolmaster flung himself upon them.

"There's somebody coming!  Stop, Donald!  For heaven's sake stop, Mr.
Egerton!" he implored frantically.

The antagonists parted with a sudden awakening to their position.  The
minister was fighting with one of his church members!  For an instant
the two young men stood back and regarded each other with something
like horror.  Donald looked at the dark bruise on the other's lately
handsome face, and, realising who it was he had struck, his generous
heart smote him.

The approaching group turned off into another path, and as their voices
died away a terrible silence fell upon the four.  Donald was the first
to break it.  Duncan Polite's nephew could be courteous even in the
midst of his anger.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Egerton," he said with quiet dignity; "I should
not have struck you; I forgot your position."

But John Egerton's rage was still shaking him.  "I regret very much
that my position makes it impossible for me to give you the thrashing
you deserve.  If I were not the minister of this place----"  His voice
choked with anger.

Donald's lips grew tight at this reception of his apology.  "You are
happy in your choice of profession, sir," he said quietly.  "It is at
least--safe."

The other stepped forward, his hands clenched.  "Do you intend to
insult me again?" he demanded, his face white.

"I was merely going to add," said Donald with a smile, "that it's
rather hard on the profession."

Mr. Watson caught his pastor round the waist in a determined grasp.

"Splinterin' Andra's coming down the path!" he whispered wildly.
"He'll be here in two minutes!  Don Neil, you ought to be ashamed of
yourself!  Mr. Egerton," he implored, "for goodness' sake come away!"
He dragged the unwilling young man out of the pathway.  "If this gets
out you'll not be able to stay in Glenoro another day!  Think of
yourself!  Think how it would look!"

Donald stood for a moment after they had left, torn between anger and
shame.  The small cause of all this commotion stood shifting from one
foot to another and looking up at his big brother with frightened eyes.
"I never made the other fellows cut off, Don," he whispered as they
stepped quickly out of the way of the elder, "honor bright, I didn't."

"I know," said Donald dully.  "It's all right; run off now.  And look
here, Neil, not a word about this to anyone, remember, and you and the
other boys be at the platform when Mr. Watson wants you."

Neil promised and ran swiftly back to the river.  Left alone, Donald
glanced about anxiously and was much relieved to see no one near.
Personally, he did not care if he had been seen, but he knew that
Duncan Polite's happiness would be at an end if he knew his nephew had
been fighting the minister.  With a heavy heart he walked slowly back
to where the boys were pitching quoits.  He was equally enraged at
himself for starting the fight and for not insisting upon finishing it,
yes, even though all the congregation of Glenoro Presbyterian Church,
elders included, had been watching.  But above all, the sense of the
disgrace he had brought upon himself and all that his uncle held dear
weighed upon the boy's heart.  Jessie was at leisure now, standing with
a group of girls near the swing, but he could not go and ask her to
swing with him after what he had done.  He was tormented by the thought
that she might blame him if she knew.  So he turned and wandered off
alone into the depths of the woods, farther down the river, full of
anger and misery.

The first tables were being filled when he returned.  He found an
excited group gathered around one of them.

"Mr. Egerton's sick!" cried Wee Andra, as Donald approached; "Watson
took him home."

"I wonder if it was a sunstroke, poor young man!" exclaimed Mrs.
McNabb, bustling about with motherly anxiety.  "I'm going to run home
and see, and if he isn't any better I'll not come back.  Liza, you and
Mrs. Johnstone'll have to 'tend to those sandwiches.  Dear, dear, isn't
it a dreadful pity!"

Mrs. Fraser was already on her way to the afflicted one, and in the
bustle and consternation Donald was able to hide his perturbation.  He
was filled with compunction at the havoc he had unwittingly wrought,
for he knew the minister's disfigured face prevented his appearance in
public.

A gloom seemed to be thrown over the whole festivity.  The minister's
sudden affliction was the one subject of conversation at the tea-table.
The usual mirth and jollity gave place to a quiet gravity which might
have satisfied even Splinterin' Andra.  The schoolmaster did not
return, so the original programme was dropped altogether.  Instead of
the grand-march and chorus which was to open the exercises, they sang
the twenty-third psalm, and Mr. Ansdell led in prayer, adding a fervent
petition that the young pastor might speedily be restored to health.
Then there were some speeches after all.  Sim Basketful, who was always
ready, and old Andrew Johnstone, as was his unfailing custom, gave
long, earnest addresses, and they sang the Doxology and went home.

Mrs. Fraser returned just before the assembly broke up with the news
that Mr. Egerton was not ill, but had had a nasty accident.  Mr. Watson
said that he had stumbled and fallen when they were running through the
woods, and had cut his face upon a stone.  Mrs. Fraser considered it a
mercy that he was not killed.  Poor young man!  In the midst of life
they were in death, and likely Providence had sent this as a warning to
the young people who were careless about their future state.

Miss Cotton didn't know what in the world the minister wanted to go
tearing through the bush like that for, anyhow.  It wasn't very
becoming, she thought, and it was likely if Providence meant any kind
of a warning it was for himself.

VIII

BURSTING OF  THE STORM

Duncan Polite stepped out of the little gate one Sabbath afternoon,
late in July, and joined his old friend on his way to Sabbath school.
To-day the service was to be of unusual interest, for Mr. Egerton was
to pay his first visit to the Sabbath school.  Though he had been some
months in Glenoro, he had never had such an opportunity before, on
account of the afternoon service at his other charge.  But to-day the
service at the Tenth was to be taken by a visiting clergyman, and the
superintendent of the Sabbath school was looking forward grimly to his
pastor's visitation.

A few months previous this event would have been hailed by Duncan as a
blessing from on high, but he had learned to expect much less from his
pastor than in the early days of his ministry.  He still hoped and
prayed for great results, for to confess, even to himself, that the
young man was a failure seemed like pronouncing his own doom.  Still,
it was being slowly but surely borne in upon him that Mr. McAlpine's
grandson was neither a prophet like his relative nor a shepherd like
his predecessor.  Duncan's hopes for his valley were beginning to wane.
What better were they now than four months ago?  What better was
Donald?  And at the thought of his nephew, Duncan's heart ached.  What
was the matter with his boy?  Some strange, unpleasant change seemed to
have come over him; he never went to church, and it was whispered so
loudly that it was heard even in the Watchman's exclusive little shanty
that Donald Neil and the minister had quarrelled, and that Jessie
Hamilton was the cause.  Just how badly fate was using his boy Duncan
could not know.  In his honest endeavours to guard the young minister
from the rumours afloat regarding the picnic Donald fell under his
sweetheart's suspicion.  It was their first quarrel, nothing serious at
first, but Donald withdrew indignantly and devoted himself to his farm
work.  Full of repentance Jessie watched and waited for his return, and
finally, as a means of hastening him to her side, she accepted
cordially the kindly attentions of the minister.

And this was the condition of affairs at a time when Duncan Polite had
hoped to see the two young men in perfect sympathy over a common
cause--that of raising the spiritual life of his glen.  The old
Watchman's eyes grew deeper and more mournful every day over the fading
of his cherished hopes.  His promise to his father was not being kept.
The covenant the founder of Glenoro had made, and which his son had
renewed, was forgotten, and often in the distress of his soul the cry
of Job came to Duncan's lips, "Oh that I might have my request and that
God would grant me the thing I long for!"

But in the presence of Andrew Johnstone, the peacemaker was careful to
hide his fears.  He knew that his friend's dissatisfaction with the
young minister was smouldering ominously and he watched Splinterin'
Andra with ever-increasing anxiety.

On this Sabbath, Andrew was in such a sour frame of mind that the
peacemaker's task was an especially difficult one.  He plunged into the
dangerous subject as soon as Duncan joined him.

"We're to hae oor bit meenister the day," he announced sourly.  "We
need na expec' ony great thing though, Ah'm thinkin'," he added
soberly.  "Ah suppose Ah'll ask him to take the Bible class."

"Oh, that will be a fine thing," said Duncan, with a great show of
hopefulness.  "The young man will be knowing his Bible well, and he
will jist be giving the young folk some grand thoughts.  Oh yes,
indeed."

"Mebby."  Andrew Johnstone's voice was anything but hopeful.  "He could
learn them plenty aboot fit-ball and croquet better, though."

Duncan saw the danger and hastened into the breach with soothing words.
"It would be too soon to look for results," he declared.  They must be
patient.  He managed to guide the conversation into smoother channels,
and by the time they reached the church the danger of an outburst had
been once more averted.

Mr. Egerton taught the Bible class in a most kindly and pleasant manner
considering the ungracious way the superintendent requested his
services.  But Jessie Hamilton sat in one corner of it, her sweet face
half hidden beneath her wide drooping hat, and that may have partially
accounted for the feeling of pleasure with which he undertook the task.

During the remainder of the exercises he sat with the pupils, a silent
spectator of old Andrew's methods.  The superintendent was more
impressively solemn than usual, and to the young minister, accustomed
mostly to city Sabbath schools where the average boy conducted himself
with considerable freedom, the place was oppressively rigid.  He was
amazed at the solemn silence.  The children were unusually well
behaved; even Mr. Hamilton's class was exemplary, for beside the usual
terror of Splinterin' Andra, the presence of the minister demanded the
very best conduct.

But the atmosphere of the place was oppressive to the bright,
high-spirited young man.  The bare severity of the building was bad
enough in church, he felt, but in Sunday school it was disastrous.  It
should be a bright place, full of light and life.  He made up his mind
he would set Miss Cotton and the Ladies' Aid to redouble their efforts
towards improving the place.  When the service ended with a long,
slowly-droned psalm and the children filed quietly out, whispering even
on the doorstep, the minister drew a deep breath of relief.

He found himself walking up the hill with old John Hamilton and Peter
McNabb.  Behind them came the superintendent and Duncan Polite.  Mr.
Hamilton turned to include them in their conversation.

"And what do ye think o' oor Sabbath school, Maister Egerton?" he was
saying.  "Maister Johnstone here has made us a fine superintendent for
mony a lang year."

"It's very good indeed," answered the young man heartily; "fine
attendance, and the order is better than I ever saw it.  But don't you
think children need a little more brightness and life in their service
to keep them interested?"  He turned to his sour-faced elder with a
charming air of deference which would have disarmed any man but
Splinterin' Andra.  But the elder's stick was already waving
threateningly behind him, like the tail of a lion aroused.  The young
man did not notice the ominous sign and hastened on to his doom.

"I believe your Sabbath school to be a most exemplary one, Mr.
Johnstone, but I hope you do not mind my saying that I believe the
children should take a more active part in the exercises.  They should
feel it is theirs.  A few good rousing hymns, now, in which they are
interested, and--" he hesitated a moment, and then remembering how
often the young people had begged him to open the subject of a musical
instrument to Splinterin' Andra, and feeling that he was doing well,
and now was his opportunity, continued--"and perhaps the use of an
organ to help the music would aid greatly and add brightness and
interest to the school."

The red rag had been shaken in the bull's face!  Shaken very politely
and gently it is true, but a maddening challenge nevertheless.  Had the
minister only left out the organ the presence of Duncan Polite might
have restrained his friend from violence, but an organ stood for
everything that was frivolous and worldly.  And now that this man who
had been the Joshua of his hopes, who was to lead the young people into
the promised land of righteousness after their old leader had gone up
to his rest, now that he had come out avowedly the promoter of
instability and the apostle of fashion, it was too much for Splinterin'
Andra.  He had loved and revered the young man so long, in spite of his
many failures, that his resentment was now in proportion to his former
confidence.

Peter McNabb saw the danger, and burst in with a not altogether
irrelevant remark about there being thunder in the air; but he was too
late; already Splinterin' Andra's stick had darted from its place like
a sword from its scabbard.

"Man!" he exclaimed, turning a face of righteous wrath upon the
well-meaning young clergyman, "man!  It's ma' opeenion, that wi' an
instrument o' wund in the pulpit, we're no in great need o' anither in
the congregation!" and sweeping a clattering shower of stones down the
hill, he tramped away ahead, leaving consternation and dismay in his
wake.

Duncan Polite walked by his friend's side in silence.  He sympathised
deeply with Andrew's feelings, but this new disaster was like to break
the old man's heart.  But Andrew Johnstone was not done.

"An organ!"  He repeated the words with all the bitterness of his
disappointed soul.  "An organ!  The Lord peety the kirk that has a fule
for a meenister!"

"Oh, you must not be saying that, Andra," said Duncan Polite.  "The
Lord will be a better judge than man----"

But old Andrew interrupted him tempestuously.

"Man, Duncan, Ah've kept it tae ma'sel for mony a day, but Ah jist
canna bide it ony mair!  Him an' his organ!  Aye, he's after some bit
balderdash a' the time.  Ah tell ye the buddy's no got the root o' the
matter in him!  He can preach, aye, Ah'll no deny yon, but what's the
gude o' what he's haverin' aboot?  This mornin' he preached jist half
an oor, aye, an' twenty meenits o' it taken up in provin' that Paul was
a gude man, a thing that no the biggest fule in the Glen would gainsay,
no, not even oor Andra'," he concluded sombrely.

Duncan sighed.  He had noticed that the sermons were steadily growing
shorter.  Indeed, from the first Sabbath of his pastorate the young
minister had deliberately set himself to abbreviate the church service,
commencing with the sermon.  He had done it so gradually that he
flattered himself it was unnoticed, but no one could depart one jot or
one tittle from the ancient ways without the argus eye of the ruling
elder spying out the offence.

"Oh well, indeed," said Duncan Polite, "it would be a clever sermon,
Andra, and I would be thinking he gave us some fine thoughts on Paul."

"Paul!" cried the other with withering scorn.  "Paul! and who sent out
meenisters to preach Paul?"

Duncan could not answer.  John McAlpine Egerton was a clever speaker
certainly, with much of his grandfather's fire, but to the brilliant
discourses on the heroes of the Bible which had constituted his sermons
lately Duncan had listened with a remote ache in his heart.  For though
Paul was a great apostle, and David the Lord's anointed King, who were
they to the King of Kings and Lord of Lords?

Old Andrew was still talking, his stick waving furiously.  "It's
railin' agen this, and rowin' agen that: it's Socialism and Anarchism
and some other rubbishy ism every Sabbath.  Man, why can the crater no
preach the Gospel?  Aye, an' we had a half an oor o' havers aboot
infidelity last Sabbath.  Tod!  Naebody in the Glen kenned what
infidelity was till he cam' except mebby yon lad o' Silas Todd's, an'
the crater's no wise onyway!"

Duncan made a feeble attempt to stem the tide.  "But these societies,
maybe they will be doing good, whatever."

This was only fuel to the fire.  "His societies!  Man, wi' his Y. P. S.
C. E. an' his Y. M. C. A. an' his X. Y. Z., fowk's heids are fair
turned!  Jist sparkin' bees, every ane o' them!  An' him the biggest
spark o' them a'!  A Chreestian Endeavour Society!  Man, where's he
gaun to get it, wi' oot the Chreestians?  Our Andra an' yon natral o'
Silas Todd's, an' thae huzzies o' John Hamilton's, an' yon nephew o'
yours!  _A Chreestian Endeavour_!  Eh, man, does the buddy no ken he
canna mak' bricks wi'oot straw?"

Duncan made no reply.  He was as utterly crushed as though he were
guilty of all the sins imputed to the minister.  His heart was crying
out in its pain and disappointment.  Andrew's parting words sounded
like the closing forever of the door of hope.  "Aye, an' we thought he
would be anither Mr. McAlpine!  The Lord forgie us for oor meeserable
presumption!"

When the first sting of his resentment against the elder was over, John
Egerton was not sorry that the disagreeable affair had occurred.  The
quarrel had not been of his seeking, everybody knew that; and the
knowledge that he did not need to be on friendly terms with the
cantankerous old man was a distinct relief.  He realised now that the
ruling elder had been something of an encumbrance to him ever since he
came to Glenoro.  He represented everything unprogressive in the
church, and he, the minister, had always been under the unpleasant
obligation of conciliating him.  He almost drew a breath of relief when
he found it was quite proper for him to take the opposite course.

So the consequence of Andrew Johnstone's hasty words was that the young
minister joined the rising generation in all their risings.  Fortified
by his support they soared higher than they had ever dared before and
demanded every innovation that has ever been known since churches began
to follow the fashions.  And first of all they set themselves
tenaciously to the getting of a church organ.

They went about it with the wisdom of the serpent, too.  The Christian
Endeavour Society went through the congregation, collecting money from
such as were favourable to the project.  When they found themselves
with a sufficient sum, their plan was to purchase the coveted
instrument, present it to the session, and they would just like to see
how Splinterin' Andra would prevent their accepting it.

But that was exactly what Splinterin' Andra intended to do; failing
that, he determined to carry his old threat of violence into effect,
rather than allow the desecration.  He grew fiercer and more resolute
every day, and yet in spite of his strength it was plain that at last
he was approaching defeat.

Duncan Polite strove to bring about a peaceable settlement.  He
counselled yielding.

"It will be a great sin in the Lord's sight, Andra," he said
pleadingly, "these wranglings among his own people.  'Peace be within
thy walls, oh Zion!' that will be the will of the Master and, indeed, I
will be thinking if we would jist all be of the right mind, this organ
would be a source of blessing, and like David's harp that drove the
evil spirits from Saul."

Andrew gave a derisive snort.  "If ye can see ony similarity between
David and yon bit, gigglin' light-headed lass o' Donald Fraser's that
thinks she's to play the thing, ye're michty far seein', Duncan.  And
ye ken weel if the Gospel does na' touch them, they'll no be converted
by a few bit worldly squeaks from a music-boax.  No, it's jist all
vanity, Duncan, jist vanity, an' we'll no hae the thing in Maister
Cameron's church as lang as Ah've gotten the use o' ma' arms!"

But the organ party went on collecting money unheedingly, and Duncan
was in despair.  He appealed to Donald, but found very little
satisfaction.  Donald was working hard in the harvest fields, and came
to Glenoro very seldom.  Duncan could not but guess the reason; the
minister's attentions to Jessie Hamilton were growing more marked every
day.  Wherever he looked Duncan could see signs of trouble, which he
was powerless to avert.

The great day arrived when the sum of money was complete.  At the next
Endeavour meeting they would make all arrangements for purchasing the
organ.  Mr. Egerton preached a very clever and caustic sermon that
Sabbath upon narrow-mindedness, and Duncan Polite's face was drawn with
pain as he listened.

On Monday evening, the night before the final and crucial meeting the
young minister was walking briskly down the road from the Oa.  He had
been taking tea with one of his most friendly families and had stayed
rather late playing croquet with the young ladies.  As he went along
the winding thoroughfare it suddenly occurred to him that he could save
time if he went over the fields and through the woods, coming out on
the road again just above the Glen.  He was over the fence in an
instant and crossing the dusky fields, the sharp stubble of the wheat
clicking against his feet as he walked.  Then he crossed a
sweet-scented pasture, with the dim, shadowy outlines of the cows lying
here and there, the stillness broken now and then by the soft tinkle of
a disturbed bell.  Next he entered the woods, so dark and still, with
only the light of a few stars peeping through the branches.  The young
man forgot Splinterin' Andra and Donald Neil and all his worries as he
moved through the mysterious darkness.  The strange, still whisper of
the forest, that gave a sense of life, as if the whole dark
surroundings were some great breathing creature, touched him nearly.
He felt awed; the trivial things which made up so much of his life
seemed infinitesimal now, in the face of this mysterious wonder.  When
he emerged into the grey light of the open fields again, he was both
saddened and uplifted.  He climbed the fence into Duncan Polite's
pasture field and made his way round the little shanty, stepping
quietly for fear of disturbing the old man, who might be sleeping.  But
as he passed the place a sound arrested his footsteps, a sound of a
human voice full of anguish.

The minister paused and drew nearer.  The green paper window-blind was
rolled up a few inches and from beneath it shone the light of a lamp.
He stepped up to the window and peeped in.  In the middle of the bare
room knelt Duncan Polite.  His Scotch bonnet lay on the floor at his
side and the rays of the little lamp on the table touched his thin
white hair with silver.  His pallid face was upturned, his eyes closed.
Collie stood beside him, his head on one side, a look of longing on his
canine face, as though his dog's heart were striving to know and share
his master's grief.  He stiffened and bristled at the scent of the
intruder, but Duncan had begun to speak again and the dumb sympathiser
was once more all attention.

"Oh, my Father, my Father!"  The words broke from him like a cry of
pain.  "Oh, my Father, Thou knowest there will be dissension in Thy
House and trouble in Thy Holy Place!  Oh set Ye open unto us the gates
of righteousness!  Father, lead us to the light and let not Thine Holy
One be put to shame among us!"

His voice broke, and Collie gave a quivering whine.  Then the man's
tones rose again in passionate pleading.  He poured out his whole,
great soul in such an anguish-laden prayer for the young man who was
listening, that he stood for a moment overcome.  Then, unable to bear
it, he turned and slipped softly around the house and out upon the
road.  He stumbled often and he did not walk with his accustomed easy
swing.  And as he entered the valley, the lights of the village swam
below in a mist, and the sad drone of the river rose to meet him like
the echo of Duncan Polite's prayer.

IX

THE PRESIDENT OF THE LADIES' AID SOCIETY

Miss Eliza Cotton took her scissors and roll of dress patterns and
started across the street for a day's sewing at the Hamiltons'.  She
liked to sew there, for she was fond of the girls in her queer way, and
there was plenty of life and fun.  To-day she was particularly pleased
to go to some place where she could pour out the vials of her wrath
upon the minister for the ridiculous way he had acted in refusing to go
on with the organ scheme.  Next to the latest news of the
neighbourhood, Miss Cotton loved what she termed "style."  Before Mr.
Egerton's advent the Glenoro Church had been utterly devoid of this
saving quality.  Since his arrival, however, matters had improved
rapidly.  But now, just when they had got a carpet for the pulpit
stairs and matting for the aisles, and were on the eve of purchasing
the long-talked-of organ, the very prompter and head of all the
enterprise must suddenly declare a complete change of front.  To Miss
Cotton the loss of his support was an absolute disaster, as it was to
many others, especially those who had to tramp over many miles of
country to return the money they had been at such pains to collect.
Even Mrs. Fraser was disappointed in the minister's action, for she had
been in hopes that Annie would be the organist, and she sighed long and
deeply over the mutability of the young minister.  Such sudden changes
of opinion, she declared, denoted an unstable character, and she feared
he would not have a good influence over the wild and unsettled young
men of Glenoro.

Miss Cotton did not care what characteristics were denoted by the
affair.  She only knew that in her opinion Mr. Egerton had behaved
outrageously, and she went over to the Hamiltons' prepared to maintain
the same at the point of her sharp tongue.

"Well, 'Liza," said Mrs. Hamilton, as soon as the dressmaker was
settled in her corner of the wide, breezy kitchen surrounded by billows
of light blue silk, "what do you think o' the minister changing his
mind in such a hurry?"

She did not ask because she was seeking information, for Miss Cotton
had left no one in doubt as to her views on the subject, but only as a
pretext for getting launched upon the all-important subject.

Miss Cotton sniffed indignantly.  "Mighty queer, that's all I have to
say.  He knew as well as we did all along that Splinterin' Andra an' a
whole crowd o' old fogies didn't want an organ, an' to think he'd stand
up at the very last meetin' an' say it would cause trouble--cause
fiddlesticks!  I'll bet there's somethin' at the bottom o' all this;
mebby some o' you girls knows more about it than I do.  Jessie here
seems to be gettin' awful thick with him."  She glanced sharply around
at each young woman, engaged in some household duty.

"That's just to make Don jealous.  Jess is awful cute!" said Maggie,
who was making intermittent attempts to wash the breakfast dishes.

Jessie was accustomed to such attacks, for she was the
sweetest-tempered member of the family, with much of her father's grave
gentleness, and she received even more than her share of teasing.  But
her heart was still very sore over her disagreement with Donald, and
she bent lower over her sewing.

"Be quiet, Mag," said Bella, who was the only one in the Hamilton
household who exercised any authority.  "Leave Jess alone and go on
with your work."

Maggie seated herself complacently upon the sewing machine box and
swung her dish-towel to and fro.  "To tell you the truth, Liza," she
said solemnly, "I believe the minister was scared.  I think he thought
that when Splinterin' Andra got done makin' kindlin' wood o' the organ,
he'd make sausage meat o' him, an' if he was in that condition he
couldn't marry Jess----"

"To Don Neil," put in Sarah neatly.

"Mother, come and make the girls be quiet," pleaded the victim.

"Jess would make a fine minister's wife, though, Liza," continued
Maggie, knowing well that every word she uttered would be repeated
verbatim to Mrs. Fraser at the earliest possible date.  "She takes
pious fits, doesn't she, mother?"

"I never notice much piety about any of you," retorted Mrs. Hamilton
smartly.

"Oh, mother Hamilton, you ought to be ashamed to own it, and here's
Bella and Jess getting themselves fixed to join the church.  Shouldn't
wonder but I'll be doing something rash like that myself, now that I've
turned Christian Endeavourer."

"A fine specimen of a Christian Endeavorer you are," said Miss Cotton
scornfully.  "An' you an active member, too!"

"Of course!  I wouldn't be in anything where I couldn't be active.
It's heaps o' fun."

"My goodness, if you giddy folks had old Mr. Cameron over you, he'd
show you how to behave.  It's my private opinion the minister don't
know a Christian from a wheelbarrow or he wouldn't have all you
feather-heads joining his societies."

"That's true, I do believe," agreed Maggie, "or he'd never a' got you
for President of the Ladies' Aid, for you know you say heaps more than
your prayers!"

"Maggie, you're a caution; do behave!" cried her mother, glancing at
Miss Cotton with secret pride to see how she appreciated Maggie's sharp
tongue.

"Oh, she's gone daft.  Don't listen to her, 'Liza," cried Bella
impatiently.  "Whatever do you 'spose made Mr. Egerton turn 'round and
act the way he did, anyhow?"

Miss Cotton looked mysterious.  "I know a good bit more about that chap
than I've ever told," she said, nodding her head in a tantalising
manner.  "I've got a letter over home that might throw some light on
the matter."  She took up her work again, waiting for this startling
piece of intelligence to take effect.

"What in the world is it, 'Liza?" cried Mrs. Hamilton, approaching the
sewing machine.  "I jist knew by the look o' you when you came in that
you'd something in your mind that----"

"That's so, she does look queer," declared Maggie, stopping, with her
dish-cloth suspended, to examine Miss Cotton critically.  "Now, I've
seen 'Liza so often when her mind was empty----"

"Don't listen to her, 'Liza!" cried Jessie, her small mouth twitching
with laughter.  "What were you going to say?"

"Well, if that young gas-bag would shut up for half a minit, I'd tell
you something pretty queer about the minister.  But, mind you, it's a
dead secret, and you must _promise_----"

There was a chorus of solemn pledges to secrecy from the group which
collected hastily around the sewing machine.  Mrs. Hamilton left her
bread-making and came, with floury hands held carefully away from the
blue silk, to listen.

Miss Cotton leaned back in her chair and raised her scissors.  Such
moments as this were her happiest.  "Well, I don't pretend to know what
made him change his mind so sudden," she said, lowering her voice
mysteriously, "for I don't, not any more than that sewing machine; but
I do know somethin' about him, that not a soul in Glenoro knows, an' it
makes me have some idea why he acts so queer."  A solemn silence fell
over the listeners.

"I've known it for two whole days, an' never whispered it to a livin'
soul!" she added, proud of this achievement in reticence.

"My! it's a wonder you didn't explode."  Maggie's voice somewhat
relieved the tension.  The narrator paid no heed.

"Now I guess you won't believe me, but mind you, I seen that fellow
before he ever came here.  It was when I was in Toronto that fall,
visitin' Maria, an' you'd never guess where I seen him, if you was to
try from now to the crack o' doom!"

She resumed her sewing with the most aggravating coolness.

"Drunk in the street," suggested Maggie.

"Maggie, it's awful to talk about a minister like that!" cried her
mother, weakening her reproof with a laugh.

"Where in the world was it, 'Liza?"

Miss Cotton resumed her oratorical attitude.  "Well, mind you, I never
knew myself that I'd ever clapped eyes on him, till night before last,
but his face puzzled the senses out o' me ever since he came here.
Only I'd heard so much about what old McAlpine looked like, that I
thought it was because he looked like him.  But if I've told Mrs.
Fraser once, I've told her a dozen times that----"

"Oh, go on with your yarn!" Maggie's dish-cloth was waving impatiently.

"Well, you mind that fall I went to the Exhibition an' stayed with
Maria till near Christmas?  My, the sights I did see that time!  You
girls ought to take a trip to the city now, why----"

"Oh, never mind, 'Liza," said Maggie, knowing the narrator's weakness.
"Settle the minister first, an' you can talk Toronto all day after."

"My! but you're anxious about him, Maggie!  That's a bad sign.  Well,
as I was sayin', I stayed all fall, you know, an' Maria she was bound
and determined I'd see an' hear everything that was worth while, an'
her and James they jist trotted me 'round till I was near dead.  James
Turner does make Maria an awful kind man, I will say, though I ain't
got much use for men.  Well, one night we went to a high-toned concert,
got up by a lot o' college fellows.  I tell you there's where you see
the fine lookin' chaps!  Don Neil couldn't hold a candle to them, the
way they was dressed up, reg'lar doods every one o' them, an' the
style!  If I'd been a young thing like one o' you girls now, I'd a lost
my heart a dozen times over.  But if you'd a' seen the fellows that
took part in the concert, you'd a' died, the way they were rigged up!
They all came a-flippin' an' a-floppin' out onto the platform, an'
besides their pants an' coats, every mother's son o' them had on some
kind of a long cloak, for all the world like Mrs. Duffy's black dolman.
An' they had the curiousest things on their heads, jist exactly like
the black shingles that was flyin' 'round here the night the sawmill
burned down!"

"Why, they were college gowns and caps," said Sarah; "Don Neil and
Allan Fraser are both going to get them."

"Well, don't I know that, you young upstart.  An' Mrs. Fraser's in an
awful way about Allan wearin' one, too, but that don't prove that they
didn't look jist like the mischief itself."

"Dear me, do they wear them kind o' things out amongst other folks?"
inquired Mrs. Hamilton in mild alarm.  She had supposed that such
raiment would be confined to the seclusion of one's own bed chamber.

"Indeed, they jist do, Mrs. Hamilton.  If Jessie an' Don Neil makes up
this little lovers' quarrel they've got up lately, you'll have him
comin' flappin' down the hill to see her in one o' them next winter.
But reelly, you wouldn't believe what awful trollops they were; an' if
I couldn't turn out a stylisher lookin' wrapper an' a mighty better
fit, too, I'd go an' choke myself."

"You'll choke before you get this story told, if you don't quit
talkin'," said the plain-spoken Maggie.  "Did the minister have a
wrapper on?"

But Miss Cotton had a fine eye to the structure of a story.  "Oh, I'm
comin' to him, at the right time.  Well, as I was sayin', there was a
whole swarm o' these fellows came floppin' an' flounderin' onto the
platform an' they all squat down in a long row with their wrappers an'
shingles on, an' started to play like all possessed on what they call
bangjoes or some such tomfoolery."

"Banjoes," corrected Sarah.  "Lots of the boys and girls play them at
the High School."

The orator paid no attention.

"An' they set there fiddle-dee-deein' for about a quarter of an
hour,--an' now I'm comin' to the important part.  There was one tall,
good-lookin' chap, sittin' right in the middle o' the row----"

"Mr. Egerton," whispered Maggie.

"An' he was scratchin' away for dear life on some sort of a fryin'-pan
thing, an' I leans over to James an' I sez, 'James,' sez I, 'ain't it
for all the world like gratin' nutmegs?' sez I.  Well, we were bang-up
in the very front seat, for James Turner always believes in gettin' all
he pays for, an' the fellows was makin' the awfullest clatter, an' you
know, James Turner's as deaf as a post, anyhow, an'--well, now, if any
o' you scalawags lets this out I'll massacree the whole lot o' you!"

A chorus of renewed promises and entreaties to continue followed this
terrible threat.

"Well, jist as I was sayin' it, good and loud, what should that blessed
racket do but stop short, jist as if they'd all been shot dead; an'
jist at that very min'it I was yellin' 'gratin' nutmegs!' at the top o'
my lungs!"

She joined heartily in the shrieks of laughter, for Miss Cotton loved a
joke on herself, as well as on another.

"O' course, they all went at it again, with a bang," she continued,
"but them fellas heard, o' course, an' they started to shake.  An' this
tall chap in the middle, I'm tellin' you about, was the worst of all.
I thought he'd a' took a conniption fit an' when he did manage to sober
up a bit, he stared down at me that hard, that if I'd been a skit o' a
thing like one o' you girls, I'd a' blushed, sure.  But I jist stared
back at him, good and hard, I tell you, till he had to look away.

"There was lots more programme besides that, singin' an' speakin'
pieces an'--oh, land! there was one girl come switchin' in with a long
tail to her dress, that would reach clean from here to the mill, an'
the neck of it cut that low it would make a body want to get under the
seat; it was jist shameful!  An' the way she sang was jist near as bad.
She squalled an' took on as if everybody she'd ever knowed had been
massacreed, an' you couldn't make out one single word she said no more
than if it had been Eyetalian.  An' all them folks set with their
mouths open, an' seemed to think it was jist grand, low neck an' all,
an' when she finished up with a yell jist like the sawmill whistle,
they clapped fit to kill.  I'm sure I'd heaps rather listen to Julia
Duffy singin' 'Father, dear father, come home with me now,' an' you
know what that's like."

"But that ain't near the worst yet.  After all them fellas got through
some more scrabblin', out comes the tall chap again, I was tellin' you
about.  Maria said it was him, or I never would a guessed it, because,
as sure as you're standin' there, Mrs. Hamilton, he was all blackened
up and togged out with a long-tailed coat, an' a high hat, an' danced,
an' cut up jist fit to kill.  The people all went clean into fits; an'
I thought James Turner would a' died laughin'.  It was real kind o'
comical, too, the way he went on.  But now I'm comin' to the real part
o' my story.  When we were goin' home on the street car, Maria says to
me, sez she, 'Do you mind the fellow that sang the coon song?' sez she.
'Well, I should think I do,' sez I, 'an' of all the bold young
scamps!'--'Well,' sez she, 'that fellow's goin' to be a Presbyterian
minister!'  'A minister!' sez I; 'what on earth's a minister doin'
flappin' 'round in a black night-gown an' playin' on a fryin' pan an'
singin' nigger songs?  He ought to be home readin' his Bible!' sez I.
'Well,' sez Maria, 'he's goin' to be one anyhow.  He's jist in Var-city
yet,' sez she, 'an' I guess it don't matter.'  'Well,' sez I, 'Maria
Cotton, the sooner he gets out o' _Var_-city, or whatever you call it,
the better, for it must be a wicked hole!'  Well, we didn't say any
more about him, 'cause we was racin' an tearin' 'round to somethin' new
all the time, an' I clean forgot all about it, until Monday night, I
was goin' home a piece o' the road with Mrs. Fraser, an' Mrs. Basketful
called to me that there was a letter from Maria for me.  I was scairt
for a minit, for I thought her an' the children must be all dead, she
writes so seldom.  But here if she didn't write to tell me the most
surprisin' news you ever heard, no less than that my gigglin' dancin'
chap with the bangjo was no less than our own minister!"

There was a chorus of startled exclamations.  Everyone had guessed the
end of the story, but it was astounding nevertheless when put into
words.

"How I could ha' been so stupid as to forget," continued Miss Cotton,
"I can't imagine.  It's a good long time ago, though, an' Maria never
told me his name; but now what do you think o' that, Mrs. Hamilton?"

"Dear, dear, ain't it awful!" exclaimed that lady, in genuine distress.
She was of the old school, who considered a minister removed far beyond
the frivolities of ordinary mortals, and was completely bewildered.
"Mebby that was when he was sowin' his wild oats," she said at last,
with some hope.

"Pshaw, mother, ministers ain't supposed to grow wild oats!" cried
Bella piously.  She was not as much enamoured of Mr. Egerton as
formerly; for Wee Andra was openly antagonistic to him since his
mysterious disagreement with Donald Neil.

"Don't any o' you girls breathe a word o' this," warned Mrs. Hamilton.
"Andra Johnstone an' some o' the other elders aren't too well pleased
with the poor fellow now."

"My!" sighed Maggie.  "Wouldn't I love to tell Splinterin' Andra that
the minister could sing nigger songs and play a banjo.  He'd say--'Show
me the sinfu' instrument of Belial an' Ah'll smash it into a thoosand
splinters!'"  She accompanied the speech with such an exaggerated
imitation of the old man's vigorous gestures, using the poker in lieu
of a cane, that the spectators shrieked with laughter.

"I'm afraid he'd smash the minister, too," declared Sarah.

"Oh, well," said Jessie, "I don't see that there was any harm in Mr.
Egerton's singing and playing when he was young----"

"Oh, yes, o' course you'll take his part!" cried Miss Cotton.  "But
I'll tell you this much, I've got something more to tell, bigger than
all that, something that'll make _you_ think he ain't quite so perfect."

"Why, 'Liza!" cried Mrs. Hamilton in alarm, "there surely ain't more!"

"There jist is, Mrs. Hamilton, an' something pretty queer."  She was
whispering again, and her audience drew near with bated breath.  "Maria
wrote two whole pages about him, an' she left the worst to the last.
She said, 'I s'pose he's a great fella' for the girls, he always was in
Toronto, an'--Jessie's lookin' scairt, I do declare!  Well, she said
he'd better take care 'cause he was engaged to a high-toned lady in
Toronto, engaged to be _married_, mind you!  It's true, too, because
Maria knows.  She's rich, an' awful stylish, an' her name's Helen
Weir-Huntley, mind ye, one o' them high-toned names with a stroke in
the middle.  An' Mrs. McNabb told Mrs. Fraser on the sly that Mrs.
Basketful told her he wrote to a girl by that name every week o' his
life, only not to tell.  An' he gets a letter back every week, too,
with a big chunk of red wax on it, an' some kind of a business stamped
on; jist stylish folks uses that kind.  So I guess you girls had better
quit playin' organs an' doin' things for him!"

Jessie's face flushed crimson.  "I don't see what difference that would
make, 'Liza," she said with a steady look from her deep grey eyes.

"Well, well, ain't it awful!" commented Mrs. Hamilton for the fifth
time, quite overcome by this second disclosure.

"Well, I think it's a pretty queer thing, anyhow," said the narrator,
setting the sewing machine whirring again; "I don't set up for no saint
myself----"

"That's a good thing, 'Liza," interrupted Maggie, who had recovered
somewhat; "just think how it would bother you!"

"But I _do_ say," continued the other, imperturbably, "that ministers
ought to act different from common folks.  And when I heard about his
goin's on, I jist thought it wasn't any wonder he acted so queer about
the organ.  Bella, let's see if this band fits.  Goodness gracious,
girls, speak of angels!  Who's that comin' in at the front gate?"

"It's him!  It's the minister!" cried Maggie, dancing wildly around,
"Let's go an' ask him how Miss
Thingy-me-bob-with-the-stroke-in-the-middle-of-her-name is!"

"For pity's sake!" cried Mrs. Hamilton, an ejaculation of no particular
meaning, but one she always used under unusual excitement.

"Bella, run an' show him into the settin' room, while I wash my hands
out o' this bread.  Who'd a' thought of him comin' here this mornin'
an' us jist talkin' about him!"

"Mercy me, mother!  I can't go to the door in this wrapper.  Send
somebody else; Jess, you look all right."

"Yes, Jess, you trot out an' show him in.  Tell him the President of
the Ladies' Aid's here, in a most pious frame of mind, and she'd like
to hear him play the bangjo and sing the other Joe--'Old Black Joe,' or
whatever you call him, and maybe he'll dance the 'Highland Fling,' too!"

"Maggie!" implored her mother.  "He'll hear you!  There's the knocker!"

The minister's sudden appearance put an abrupt termination to Miss
Cotton's gossip, but the story did not end there.  Jessie concluded for
the time, that, though a minister, Mr. Egerton must be something of a
flirt, and as Donald was now repentant she soon found no time to bestow
upon his rival.  The young minister missed the girl's pleasant
companionship, but he soon discovered that there was much greater
trouble ahead of him.  The story of his musical attainments in his
college days rolled through Glenoro, gaining in bulk as it progressed.
For, contrary to Miss Cotton's warning but quite in accord with her
expectations, the tale leaked out.  Bella told it to Wee Andra, who
told "the boys" at the corner.  Syl Todd rehearsed it before Coonie the
next morning, and that was all that was necessary.  Coonie embellished
it to suit himself, and produced such a work of art that he shocked
Mrs. Fraser beyond speech when he delivered it to her at the top of the
hill.

By the time it reached the Oa it was to the effect that in his college
days Mr. Egerton had been a very wild and dissolute youth.  Glenoro
might not have objected to a thoroughly reformed villain, but this
young man's gay conduct left them in doubt whether at heart he was any
better now than in the past.  Old Andrew Johnstone, who had been
somewhat mollified by the young man's action in regard to the organ,
was once more aroused.  At first he paid no heed to the story, for his
son had told it to him.  Wee Andra did not think it necessary to repeat
it verbatim; he was rather vague concerning details, but extremely
serious.  Some tale 'Liza Cotton had heard, he explained.  It was quite
true, he feared, something or other about his playing a fiddle and
dancing, far worse than Sandy Neil had ever been guilty of, for this
was in a theatre.  Wee Andra knew the word theatre was to his father a
synonym for the bottomless pit.  "Mebbe the minister had been an actor
once."  Wee Andra hoped, for the sake of the Church, that it wasn't
true.

"Ah, ye tale-bearer!" cried his father with a withering contempt, which
could not quite hide his perturbation.  "It's a fine pack ye meet every
night in the Glen!  Their only thought is to hear or tell some new
thing, let it be false or true!  Ye canna' even keep yer ill tongues
aff a meenister o' the Gospel!"

"But this is true, father," declared the young man seriously.  "'Liza
Cotton saw him herself; you can ask her, if you don't believe me.
Man!" he continued, growing frivolous again, "it'll be fine here next
winter if he plays the fiddle!  Sandy Neil's goin' to ask him to learn
him some new dance tunes!"

"Ah, ye irreverent fool!" shouted his father, rising up from the dinner
table where this conversation had been held.  "Man, ye an' yon Neil
pack neither fear God nor regard man!  Get oot o' ma' sight!"

Wee Andra, having wisely deferred his last shot until his dinner was
finished, obeyed his father's injunction with alacrity, and went off to
the fields, consumed with unfilial mirth.

Meantime the subject of all this discussion was not oblivious to the
fact that some strange undercurrent of feeling was working against him.
Coonie was the instrument used to make a reality out of the intangible
thing.

The mail-carrier was coming slowly down the hill one September morning
with hanging head and sullen mien.  Eliza Cotton had been sewing down
on the Flats for over a week and he had not had any fun for a long
time.  He was just sweeping the valley with his green eyes like a huge
spider in search of prey, when he caught sight of a tempting fly.  The
young minister was coming up the leaf-strewn path by the roadside.  He
was just turning in at the McNabbs' gateway, when Coonie pulled up.  He
had brought a bundle from Lakeview for the blacksmith's wife with his
accustomed grumblings, and had intended to fling it over the gate, as
he passed, in the hope that it contained something breakable.  But now
he recognised in it an instrument in the hand of Providence to give him
the long-wished-for speech with the minister.

"Good-mornin'!" he called, rather crustily, for Coonie affected good
manners before no one, no matter what was his aim.  "Will you hand this
bundle to the Missus in there, if you're goin'.  It's some o' the fool
truck I've got to lug across the country for weemen."

Mr. Egerton stepped towards the buckboard, and Coonie grinned as he saw
the brilliant polish of his boots disappear in the grey dust of the
road.

"Hope you're likin' Glenoro," he said as he handed out the parcel.

John Egerton met the unaccustomed friendliness of the mail-carrier with
the utmost cordiality.  "Oh, yes, very well indeed, thank you!" he
answered, but without the enthusiasm he would have displayed a couple
months previous.

"Awful place for talk," replied Coonie righteously.  "Never saw the
likes.  If a fellow's ever done anythin' in his life he shouldn't a'
done, cried too much when he was a baby, or anythin' like that, they'll
find it out.  S'pose you'll find they're rakin' up all the things you
ever did?"

John Egerton looked at the questioner keenly.  He was not sufficiently
acquainted with this queer specimen to be able to answer him according
to his folly; so he said curtly, "I am perfectly willing they should,
Mr. Greene; I never did anything I am ashamed of."

Coonie's face expressed profound astonishment, not unmixed with gentle
reproof.  "Is _that_ so?  Glad to hear it, sir, glad to hear it."  He
shook his head doubtfully as he spoke, and rode away, his shoulders
drooping suspiciously.  He was in such good humour that seeing some of
the Hamilton girls on the veranda, he drew in all the breath he was
capable of and bawled, "Say, which o' yous girls is goin' to marry the
minister?  I hear you're all after him!"

There was a chorus of smothered shrieks and a sudden vanishing of
whisking skirts within the doorway, and having satisfied himself that
Mr. Egerton must have heard, Coonie swung his whip round old Bella and
clattered up to the post-office in high glee.  And Duncan Polite from
his watchtower on the hilltop witnessed his meeting with the minister
and prayed that the young servant of his Master might be speaking to
Coonie of things eternal.

John Egerton returned to his study in deep annoyance.  He now realised
certainly that someone was circulating slanderous tales about him,
tales that had caused Jessie Hamilton to avoid him.  His thoughts
instantly reverted to Donald.  He had noticed him and Jessie strolling
along the river bank nearly every evening lately; probably he was
filling the girl's mind with disagreeable untruths regarding her
pastor.  He believed young Neil capable of it.  The knowledge of his
perfect innocence in the past only served to increase his anger at
anyone who had dared to malign him.  He waited until four o'clock and
then went up to the schoolmaster's house and demanded an explanation.

Mr. Watson confessed all he knew, making the story as much like the
original as possible.  It was not Donald but 'Liza Cotton that had told
it, he explained.  At first the victim of the tale could have laughed
at the absurdity of it all, it seemed so trivial.  But that did not
explain why Jessie Hamilton had so suddenly preferred Donald to him.

"Are you sure that's all, Watson?" he demanded, "absolutely all?"

"Well--," the schoolmaster hesitated, but he was the minister's slave
and could deny him nothing.  "There was something more, about your
being engaged.  They've even got the lady's name; the post-mistress
indorsed it, too.  Aren't they a pack of jackals, anyhow!"

The young shepherd went home without denying this imputation against
his flock.  He was overcome by a feeling of impotent rage against
everyone in Glenoro.  Did ever mortal man have such a position to fill?
He must be all things to all men.  He must have the inspiration of his
grandfather in the pulpit, and the piety of Mr. Cameron in the home; he
must be a hail-fellow-well-met with every country bumpkin who came
under his notice, and he must have the manner of a judge pronouncing
death, to meet with the approval of his elders.  He must not pay
attention to any particular young lady, and yet he must dance
attendance upon all; he must have the gift of tongues in the Oa and an
Irish brogue in the Flats.  And just when he was pleasing the party he
felt to be the most influential, and to him the most congenial, they
must turn upon him and rend him for the very qualities they most
admired in him!  He was exasperated beyond endurance.  He would resign:
yes immediately, and leave the silly, gossiping place to its fate.  And
then he thought how it would look before his compeers: he, John
McAlpine Egerton, the pride of his year, the hope of the professors,
and the most promising young man in the college, could not manage this
little back-woods church for one year.  And then there was Jessie.  Of
course he was not in love with her, he told himself, but he did want
her to think well of him.  She had heard about Helen, of course.  It
was the old story.  He could not lift his hat to a girl but the whole
congregation must stand waiting for him to marry her.  He fairly
writhed in his indignation during the night, the only night his Glenoro
congregation had disturbed his slumbers, and the next morning he was no
nearer a solution of his difficulties.

The poor young man was treading a hard road, one which was made all the
harder because it was of his own choosing.  For he had, like the
foolish priests of olden times, tried to do, with carnal means, a holy
task which demanded heavenly, and was suffering the naturally resulting
confusion and distress.  For he had forgotten that the Jehovah who
demanded holy fire from Nadab and Abihu, does so even to-day; and the
priest who raises unconsecrated hands to His altar must even yet hear
the dread tones of the Omnipotent--"I will be sanctified in them that
come nigh Me: and before all the people I will be glorified."

X

THE WATCHMAN'S DESPAIR

The summer was gone.  The harvest days, the days of crimson and golden
woods, of smooth-shaven fields, of orchards weighed down with their
sweet burden, and of barns bursting with grain had come.  A tingle of
frost in the bracing air told that they must soon give place to winter.

One mild evening Duncan Polite sat at his shanty door, watching the sun
go down behind the flaming trees.  He knew the nights would soon be too
chill for this pleasant pastime and he cherished each moment spent at
his open door.  In his sadness and anxiety, the glorious robes assumed
by Nature at the sunset hour lifted, for a little, the shadow from his
spirit.

But to-night the sun went down in a colourless silver glow, which
prophesied winter and storms, and to Duncan the grey dreariness seemed
in keeping with his feelings.  For Donald had gone back to the city
that day, and when he had bidden the boy farewell the old man had also
parted with his great aspiration.  Donald had come to him the week
before, and with his usual frankness made known the fact that he could
never entertain any further thought of entering the ministry, and had
therefore abandoned all idea of returning to college.  The sacrifice of
his education was a great trial to Donald, but he could not return
under a false pretence.

Duncan Polite made no appeal, uttered no reproof.  He realised that he
had been expecting this all summer, and he had become so accustomed to
disappointments of the bitterest kind that this one did not move him as
he had expected.

"It will be between your own soul and your Maker, Donal'," he said
gently.  "And I will not be urging you; for only the Lord must guide
you to this great work."  He sighed deeply and at the sight of the pain
he was inflicting Donald's heart suddenly contracted.

"But you will be going back and finishing your colleging, my
lad,--yes," as Donald protested vehemently, "you will be doing this for
me, for my heart will be in it, and if the Lord will not be calling you
to the church, you will be a good man, like your grandfather, and that
will be a great thing, whatever."

Donald could not answer.  Even when he came to say good-bye, he could
find but few words of gratitude.  But the reticent Duncan understood,
and the young man went away with the fixed determination, that though
he could not attain to his uncle's ambition, he would at least, with
God's help, be such a man as would never bring dishonour upon Duncan
Polite.

When his boy left him the brightness seemed to die out of the days for
the lonely old watchman on the hilltop.  He realised now how much he
had hoped for and expected in the springtime, when Donald returned from
college and Mr. McAlpine's grandson stood in Glenoro pulpit.  When he
thought of all his great hopes, he could not forbear, in the bitterness
of his soul, saying to himself, as he saw around him the signs of a
dying season, "The harvest is past, and the summer is ended, and we are
not saved."

A figure grew out of the dusk of the road, and the gate latch clicked,
and a familiar form, erect and sturdy, came up the path.  Duncan arose
with a sensation of comfort at the sight of his friend.  Andrew
Johnstone never went down to the village without dropping in for a few
minutes at the little shanty.

Duncan brought out a chair, and together the two old men sat at the
door and watched the stars come out in the clear, pale sky, and as if
they were their earthly reflections, the lights appear in the valley.
Andrew puffed a while at his pipe in silence.

"So Donal's awa'" he said at length, guessing partly the reason of the
weary look in his friend's face.

"Yes, oh, yes,"--Duncan's voice was like a sigh--"he would be going
back to-day."

"Aye, it's jist as weel.  He'll come to nae mair harm in the city than
he would in yon gabblin' crew o' young folk in the Glen.  Man, Duncan,
the Scripter described them weel.  They're jist naething but the
cracklin' o' thorns under a pot, aye, an' yon foolish bit crater that
an ill fate has gie'n us for a meenister is the lightest o' them a'.
May the Lord forgie the man that disgraced Maister Cameron's pulpit an'
Maister McAlpine's name!"

Duncan did not seem to have the strength to combat his friend's
statements; and Splinterin' Andra sailed on, encouraged by his silence.

"Ah dinna ken what's come till the man; he acted maist strange aboot
the bit music-boax, an' whiles Ah hoped he'd got some sense intill him.
But there's nae change in him.  It's a tea-meetin' or a huskin' bee, or
ane o' his society meetin's ivery night.  Och, for a meenister wi' the
grace of God in his heart an' a hunger for souls!  We hae fallen upon
ill times, Duncan!"

Duncan Polite roused himself with an effort.  "They will not be so bad
but the Father can mend them, Andra, an' indeed it will not be like the
times when your father an' mine would be praying here for the Glen."

"Ah dinna ken that," replied old Andrew morosely.  "If they didna' have
a meenister in thae times, to show them the way o' salvation, they
didna hae a bit worldling to lead them astray."

"Oh, it may be better than we will be thinking; the young folk now are
always at the church, Andra, and at the prayer meeting."

"Hooch! an' they might jist as well be awa' for a' the good they get.
There's a pack o' godless young folk in the Glen that naething but the
terrors o' damnation'll iver reach an' they listen to a meenister who
says 'peace, peace' when there's nae peace!"

"Oh, well, indeed, indeed,"--Duncan Polite's gentle voice again stemmed
the torrent--"we must jist be praying for an awakening, Andra, like our
fathers would be doing.  And it will be coming," he added with a sudden
fire.  "But I will be fearing the sacrifice."

Andrew Johnstone paused in his fierce puffing at his pipe, and turned
to look at his friend.  The light of the dying sun touched his white
hair and his thin face and showed the sudden, mysterious, supernatural
fire in his deep eyes.  The matter-of-fact Scot felt a strange
sensation as of the presence of some greater power.

"The sacrifice, Duncan?" he asked in a tone of surprise.  "Ye ken they
will na' heed the one great Sacrifice that's already been made."

"Yes, oh yes, that's jist it, Andra."  Duncan's voice sank to a
whisper.  "They have rejected the Sacrifice and the Lord will require
one from among us.  It would be a message to me."

His voice died away; his eyes seemed to pierce the violet mists of the
valley with prophetic power.

Andrew Johnstone was silent, oppressed by a feeling he did not
understand.  Duncan continued, as though speaking to himself:

"Yes, oh yes, indeed.  There will be a sacrifice, and I will be fearing
it!  What will the Lord require?  It would be the first fruits in the
olden times, Andra, and I will be thinking of Donal' an' Sandy an' the
lads----"

"Ah, they're jist a scandalous pack!" cried the other, relieved at
again being able to pour out his feelings upon something tangible.
"Yon lad o' mine's the worst o' them a' wi' his singin' an' his
dancin'.  It's the blue beech gad they want, ivery one 'o' them.  Ah
wouldna' be botherin' wi' them lads o' Betsey's, Duncan; they're a sair
burden to ye!"

"I have a burden, Andra," said Duncan, after a long silence, and
speaking with an effort.  "But Betsey's lads will not be making it any
greater.  I----" he hesitated again.  To the reticent Duncan Polite the
confession of his heart's secret was extremely difficult.  "I have a
burden," he continued, "but it is the whole Glen I carry, day an'
night, Andra, day an' night!"

There was a wail in the old man's voice which sent a thrill of sympathy
through his old comrade.

"Yes, they will not be like they were, and the sin will be growing; the
tavern is at the lake yet; and the lads will not be heeding the word of
God, and I will be saying, what will be the end, what will be the end?"
He paused again; his friend was gazing at him wonderingly.

"My father would be praying and watching the valley all his life, for
he would be making a covenant with the Lord at the big stone over
yonder; you will be minding that, Andra.  But when he died, he would be
leaving it to me, and when he was going he would be saying, 'Duncan,
lad, remember Bethel.  God hath set you as a watchman on the hilltop
here, to warn every soul from the way of death; see that He doth not
require the blood of a soul at your hands.'  And I would be thinking,
in my presumption, that I would be like my father, and that I would be
worthy for this work.  And the Lord would be answering my father's
prayer by sending Mr. McAlpine, and I would be praying, too, for a
deliverer, but I would not be worthy; and He has punished my pride.
And I will be bringing all this sin and worldliness on the place."

"It's havers ye're talkin', Duncan!" cried old Andrew sharply.  "It's
no yer fault!  If the careless an' godless willna' listen to the Gospel
ye're no to blame, man!"

"Look you!" cried the old man, pointing down the dim valley with its
twinkling lights.  "I will be seeing this day and night, all my life,
and the Lord hath put it into my heart to be a watchman of souls.  I
have heard Him say it, 'Son of man, I have set thee a watchman .....
and if the people be not warned, and if the sword come, and take any
person from among them, he is taken away in his iniquity, but his blood
will I require at the watchman's hands!' .....  '_At the watchman's
hands_,' mark you, Andra; and the sword of unrighteousness will be
hanging over my father's Glen, and I will not be keeping my covenant!"

"Duncan!" cried his friend in alarm, "this is not right for you.  The
Lord doesna' lay the sins o' ithers on one man's heid.  By their own
deeds shall they stand or fall."

Duncan Polite shook his head slowly; he seemed scarcely to hear.  "He
would be showing me I was not worthy," he said, in deepest humility.
"For I would not be warning the people as my father would, and I will
be punished for my sin.  The blessing will not be coming as in my
father's time; for I will be hearing Him say, 'Bind the sacrifice with
cords even unto the horns of the altar,' and what will it be, Andra,
what will it be?  The watchman will be an unfaithful servant.  Oh,
wae's me for a worthless vessel!"

Old Andrew's sympathy moved him to rough, quick speech.  "Ye're tryin'
to carry the sins o' people who must suffer for their ain, Duncan
McDonald," he said, with a harshness Duncan did not misunderstand.
"It's nane o' your fault, man!"

"It will be my inheritance, Andra," said the other, with quiet but firm
conviction.  "I would be hearing it, 'Son of man, I have set thee a
watchman.'  It would be a message to me."

There was a long silence, broken only by the distant sounds of the
village.  To the matter-of-fact Andrew Johnstone the mystic Highlander
was a puzzle; but his faith and sympathy remained unabated.  Duncan had
never fully opened his heart before, and his friend stood awed at the
depths revealed.  He had little to say in reply; the elder was a man
whose emotions, except that of righteous indignation, were kept
suppressed.  But every word of his old friend sank deep into his heart.
He parted with a word of comfort.

"We mustna' forget that the Lord has us a' in His hands, Duncan," he
said awkwardly, as he rose to go, feeling strange in his entirely new
role of comforter to the hopeful one.  "He is all-wise, an' He kens, ye
mind."

"Oh, indeed yes, indeed yes."  Duncan's tone was full of contrition for
his late despair.  "He will be a very present help in time of trouble."

But he sat at his dark little window, looking over at the place of his
covenant until the shadowy, ethereal greyness of the dawn concentrated
itself in a glorious bar on the eastern horizon and gradually grew into
the great awakening of another day.

He had been disturbed in his meditations and prayers only once.  At
about midnight, a laughing crowd of young folk passed the house on
their way to the village.  They were returning from a husking bee.
Duncan could hear their noisy, gay chatter, and among the merriest
voices he could distinguish the one that he had once hoped would call
all the youth of his valley to a higher and better life.

XI

COALS OF FIRE

When Donald Neil left Glenoro his pastor drew a breath of relief.
Donald's conduct towards him, since the day of the picnic had been
above reproach, but try as he would, he could not help associating all
his troubles with that young man.  With his removal the minister was
not surprised to find that his affairs settled down to their old happy
level.  The story of his youthful frivolity was dying out; when Coonie
furnished a new variation of it every day, sensible people ceased to
believe even the original.  The young people, always ready to follow
him, convinced themselves, though somewhat reluctantly, that he had
acted rightly regarding the organ; and the older folk considered his
conduct in that affair wise beyond his years.

Without any volition on his part he gradually drifted into his old
intimacy with Jessie Hamilton.  Since her reconciliation with Donald he
had enjoyed very little of her company, and had missed it more than he
cared to admit.  Jessie admired him profoundly; the very fact of his
being a minister set him immeasurably above all the other young men of
her acquaintance.  He must be a wonder of goodness and unselfishness,
the girl felt, to give up his whole life to the service of God, and she
was filled with a sublime joy to find that he deigned to single her out
to assist him in his great work.  Though she never dreamed of setting
him above her hero, she felt compelled to admit that he must be a great
deal better than Don, for Don had lately scouted the idea of being a
minister.  She felt herself highly privileged to be the friend of such
a man.  And since he was engaged to be married, there could be no harm
in her being friendly with him.

Whatever mistakes John Egerton made, they were committed with the best
intentions.  He determined, while enjoying Jessie's friendship, to
maintain a strictly impartial position among the young ladies of his
congregation.  But somehow fate seemed against him.  The very night
after Donald left there was a husking bee at Big Archie Red McDonald's
in the Oa, and as he sat down in the long, noisy row of boys and girls
and helped to fill the barn with laughter and dust, he found himself
next to Jessie.  He had never seen her look prettier, and she had never
found him more entertaining.  He threw himself into the work with all
his might, and was so gay and so witty, that the common verdict was
spoken by Big Archie Red's bigger and redder son, that "they didn't
know what fun was until the minister came."  He could not resist the
pleasure of a walk down the great terraces in the moonlight in such
pleasant company as Jessie afforded.  That walk was the beginning of
it; what was to be the end, all Glenoro was in a fever to know.  There
was no doubt of one thing; the minister was "keeping company" with John
Hamilton's second girl whether his congregation liked it or not.

For a short season John Egerton experienced an uncomfortable sensation
that he was not acting just rightly.  This was at Thanksgiving time,
when he paid his first visit to Toronto.  As the train whirled him
northward again, through the sunlit spaces of brown earth and blue sky,
he told himself positively that he had gone too far with the little
village belle, and that he must hereafter walk more circumspectly.  For
when he had found himself once more in the stately home of the woman he
loved, and Helen, tall and beautiful, had swept into the spacious
drawing-room to greet him, he realised, for the first time, what a
difference lay between the queenly young woman of society and the
simple little country girl who had been absorbing such a dangerously
large amount of his time and thoughts.  Helen, so composed, so
elegantly poised, so thoroughly at home in the best social circles of
the city, would be a perfect companion for him, one in every way suited
to take her place at his side in the brilliant career he had mapped out
for himself.  Jessie would have looked out of place, he feared, in
Helen's elegant home.

But when he returned, and met the Glenoro girl coming down the northern
hill, her nut-brown curls dancing in the wind, her cheeks crimson from
its caress, her eyes as clear and radiant as the river which flashed
before her, he was forced to admit that Jessie was as perfectly in
accord with her surroundings as Helen had been in the flower-scented
drawing-room.  He was bewildered.  Was it possible, he asked himself,
for a man to have two natures, quite distinct in tastes?  He worried
himself almost to distraction over the question; but as there was no
one to answer it, he drove it from his mind by spending the evening at
the Hamiltons' teaching Jessie to play chess.

And so the autumn passed very merrily for the minister of Glenoro,
disturbed only by occasional doubts as to his course, until, with the
opening of winter, came the Christmas holidays and Donald Neil.  Duncan
Polite's heart grew happy again under his boy's sunny presence.
Donald's deep regret at the disappointment he was causing his best
friend made him assiduous in his attentions to Duncan.  He spent so
much of his time at the old shanty on the hill that the old man's cares
were for the time forgotten.

Unfortunately, Donald's advent brought anything but peace in other
quarters.  John Egerton asked himself with keen self-reproach if it
were possible that he was jealous of the young man.  He could not help
resenting Donald's cool manner of appropriating Jessie's time and
attention.  The young minister was not accustomed to being set aside in
that lordly fashion.  He felt it was high time that this haughty youth,
who had behaved so ill to him ever since his arrival in Glenoro, was
taught a lesson.  He would show him that John Egerton was to be shoved
aside by no man.  So he steadily continued his visits to the
Hamiltons', and abated not one whit his attentions to their pretty
daughter.

Those were exciting days for Glenoro.  Coonie was kept so busy
manufacturing and spreading tales of the rivals, that he quite
neglected Miss Cotton, and sometimes even forgot to linger on the road.
Jessie, herself, seemed to enjoy the excitement as much as anyone.
Perfectly secure in the knowledge that Donald loved her, and equally
sure of her love for him, she felt there could be no harm in having "a
little fun."  She was carried away by the flattery, and took a foolish
pleasure in encouraging both young men.  She lived only in the
intoxication of the moment, quite careless of the fact that she was
laying up sorrow for herself as well as for others.

The winter had opened with a severe frost preceding the snow, and the
Oro was a glittering sheet of ice.  In the daytime the school children
covered the shining expense, and when a game of shinny was in progress
Mr. Watson might ring his bell till it cracked.  But in the evenings
the grown-up youth of the village appropriated the pond.  Every night
it was black with skaters, while occasionally a group would spin away
up the river under the dark, over-shadowing banks.

The pond, however, was the centre of attraction.  For several evenings
Wee Andra had been furnishing hilarious entertainment for the village
by his agonized efforts to skate.  Donald had undertaken the herculean
task of instructing him in the art, and no one envied him his position.
For while the Glenoro giant was not utterly devoid of agility on his
native element, on the ice, and crippled by skates, he was as helpless
as an ocean steamship without an engine and almost as difficult to
navigate.  The crowd generally gave him a wide space for their
gyrations, for, when Wee Andra succumbed to the forces of gravity he
never managed to descend unaccompanied.

One evening the tutor called in reinforcements.  It was the last night
of his holidays and he did not want to spend it all on even such a
faithful friend as Andrew.  So Donald summoned Allan Fraser to assist
him in piloting his unsteady burden to the other shore.  With their
pupil hanging helpless between them, the two young men staggered
uncertainly along, followed by a noisy crowd, very merry, and very
prodigal of advice of a highly mirth-provoking order.  Between his
frantic lunges the victim was vowing death and destruction to all and
sundry, from his faithful teachers down, as soon as he was free from
the accursed shackles.  The young man's wrath was not appeased by the
fact that his supporters were weak with laughter and that Bella
Hamilton was skimming gaily up the river with Mack Fraser, the most
expert skater on the pond.

Jessie was circling around with Maggie, waiting for Donald.  She had
promised him this last evening.  He was to join her as soon as he had
dragged his friend once more over the slippery circuit.  Just as Donald
turned away, the minister came skating smoothly towards her.  He had
just arrived.  Would Miss Jessie not come up the river a little way
with him?  She glanced across the pond.  The boys were still struggling
manfully with their wobbling burden.  They could not be back for some
time, she reflected.  Don would never know if she took just one little
skate up to the school house and back.  She gave the minister her hand
and they glided up the winding silvery track to where the moonlight was
hidden by the towering river banks.

Meanwhile, Wee Andra, goaded to desperation by his absolute lack of
success and the facetious remarks which were rendering his guides weak
and incompetent, resolved to give up the hopeless struggle.  He shoved
aside his supporting comrades fiercely, and came down upon the ice with
a crash that seemed as if he had decided to end his tortures
Samson-like and die with his tormentors.  But fortunately the ice held.

He tore off his skates, and, hurling them in the direction whence had
arisen most of the remarks upon his uncertain locomotion, leaped up and
charged headlong into the ranks of the enemy.

Very much relieved, Donald skated back eagerly to Jessie.  When he
reached the spot where he had left her, he saw her disappearing with
his rival up the glittering pathway.  Donald's face grew dark with
anger.  He was too indignant to consider that he had returned much
sooner than she expected.  He realised only that she had left him on
this his last night, and for that fellow!  He turned with a fierce
jerk, and almost skated into Maggie.  That young lady was darting
wildly here and there in her efforts to elude Syl Todd.  Whatever
trouble Syl might have with his head, he was the perfection of
nimbleness with his feet, and Maggie was almost cornered.  She clutched
Donald's arm.

"Oh, Don," she cried, "get me out o' this.  That crazy little mosquito
is after me again!"

Glad of an excuse for swift motion, Donald caught her hands and swept
her forward with a force that made her gasp.  Away they spun in a mad
race up the river, Maggie propelled by the impulse of a wild glee,
Donald by the anger that was consuming him.  Neither had any thought of
the direction they were taking, neither dreamed that their winged
flight was to be a race with death.

A few moments earlier Jessie had declared that they must turn back.
They had gone farther up the river than they had ever ventured before,
and she was troubled at the thought that Donald might be waiting.  John
Egerton felt chagrined at her evident anxiety to return.  He could not
shut his eyes to the fact that Donald was very much to her, perhaps
everything.  "Let us cross here, and go down the other side," he
suggested, wishing to prolong the pleasure.  They glided out from the
shadow of the overhanging cliffs, the ice ringing beneath their feet.
Here the banks were close together, and a narrow strip of moonlight
marked the middle of the stream.  Just as they touched its silvery
edge, there came a loud crackling sound.  John Egerton realised with
appalling suddenness that he had made a fatal mistake.  With a powerful
swing of his arm he sent the girl flying forward.  "To the shore!" he
shouted.  Before Jessie could grasp his meaning she felt herself
darting forward with the impetus from his arm, and at the same instant
the ice beneath her companion gave way with a sickening crash, and he
was engulfed in the swirling black water.

The girl's wild scream of terror was scarcely uttered when there was a
rush past her; she realised as if in a dream that Maggie was beside her
and that someone was darting out towards the middle of the river,
grasping a stout rail.  The sisters clung to each other for an instant
in dumb fear, as they saw in the narrow strip of moonlight, the
minister's head, just above the black hole.  He was clinging
desperately to the edge of the ice, which broke off now and then in his
benumbed grasp.  Donald shouted a word of encouragement, and laying the
rail upon the ice he threw himself across it and worked cautiously
forward.  As he went down upon the rail there was a cry from the bank.

"Oh, Jess, Don's in too!" gasped Maggie, faint with terror.  Jessie's
heart stood still.  In the darkness of the shadow Donald's figure was
scarcely discernible to her terrified gaze.

"Oh, he's gone down," she cried; "if he drowns I'll die!"  She tore
herself from Maggie's grasp and shot down the stream calling for help.

As Donald reached cautiously forward and clutched the drowning man in
an iron grip, Jessie's cry of terror floated out to him.  He never
dreamed of applying the words to himself.  In the whirl of the moment
he scarcely grasped their meaning.  That came to him later with
overwhelming force.  With all his strength he was struggling to draw
his burden up on the ice.  But already Jessie had returned with
assistance; another rail was being propelled towards the dangerous
spot, another pair of strong arms were stretched out and in a few
moments the young minister was dragged back, unconscious, into safety.

The next morning brought to John Egerton a vivid recollection of the
last night's events.  His first impulse was to get out of his bed and
go straight to Donald and thank him from the bottom of his full and
humble heart.  But Mrs. McNabb sat at his side, sympathetic but
inexorable.  He was not to move out of his bed that day, she commanded;
Mrs. Fraser had left instructions to that effect.  The helpless
prisoner appealed to Peter Junior.  That young man came into the room
before going to his work to see if his hero had quite recovered.  "See
what your mother's doing to me, Pete," he complained, half laughingly.
"I'm as well as you are, and she won't let me get up.  I want to see
Donald.  He pulled me out all alone, didn't he?"

Peter Junior was a garrulous youth of seventeen indiscreet summers.  He
was enthusiastic over Donald's courageous deed.  "You just bet he did,
Mr. Egerton!" he cried, seating his blacksmith's overalls on the
minister's immaculate white counterpane, too eager to notice that his
mother was telegraphing frantic disapproval.  "You just bet!  Mack
Fraser got there in time to give a little pull, but Don did the most of
it.  Say! but it was fine though!  All the fellows 'round said it was
jist nip an' tuck for about a minit whether he'd go in himself or not!"

"It was simply splendid of him!" cried the minister warmly.  "I shall
never be able to thank him."

Mrs. McNabb left the room for a few minutes and her son became
confidential.

"Say, though," he exclaimed sympathetically, "all the fellows was
sayin' last night it must be kind o' awkward for you, havin' Don pull
you out.  They're all wonderin' how Jessie Hamilton'll take it."

If Mrs. McNabb had happened to take her patient's temperature at that
moment she would have been highly alarmed.  But it was impossible to
resent Peter's blundering sympathy.

"Where's Donald?" he asked, with an effort.  "I must see him."

"He went off this mornin' early.  Sandy drove him to Mapletown.  Don't
know what he was in such a fearful rush for.  Allan Fraser's goin' on
the same train an' he doesn't go till the afternoon.  Hello, there's
Flo yellin' at me.  Now, you take care o' yourself, an' do what mother
tells you," he added, rising, and gazing affectionately at the young
minister.  "You'll soon be all right.  There's been about a thousand
people here this mornin' already askin' for you."

John Egerton scarcely heard the kindly words.  Left alone he turned his
face to the wall.  He was descending the valley of bitter humiliation
and regret.  Donald Neil, the young man he had almost hated, had saved
his life at the risk of his own, and had then gone off apparently to
escape his thanks.  Did the young man despise him so much then?  His
conscience smote him relentlessly as he went over the events of the
past two weeks.  How must his conduct have looked in Donald's eyes?
And he the minister, the guide and example of the young men of the
community.  It was impossible to bear his self-accusation and lie
inactive.  In spite of his landlady's prayers and protests he insisted
upon rising.  He felt rather weak and giddy, but he got to his writing
desk and there poured out his repentant soul in a letter to Donald.  He
thanked him humbly from the bottom of his heart for the great service
he had rendered him.  He hinted that if he had ever done Donald an
injury, either in word or action, he was willing to make amends
ten-fold.  He declared that he was ready, nay anxious, to do anything
or everything that Donald might suggest that would in any small way
help to repay him for what he had done.

Donald was touched by the letter.  It was impossible not to read the
sorrow and repentance in it, not to feel its ring of truth.  He
pondered over it deeply.  A man who could write such a letter as that
could not but be honourable, he reflected.  And why should he blame him
for falling in love with Jessie?  Indeed Donald confessed that he did
not see how he could help it.  And was he justified in hating the man
because he had won that which he himself had lost?  It was hard to be
generous, but Donald's nature was so essentially honest he could not
but respond to the heartfelt words.  He intended to answer the letter
the very next evening, but was prevented by an invitation to the home
of one of his professors.

Donald was glad to escape from his own moody thoughts, so, early in the
evening, he found himself packed into a layer of fellow students
against the wall of the crowded drawing-room.  He was listening
absently to the strains of music that floated in from another room,
when he felt himself clutched violently from behind.  He turned to meet
an elegant young man, small and dapper, who was struggling eagerly to
his side.  Donald recognised him as a law student whose field of labour
was in society, and who went by the name of Dickey Deane.

"I say, McDonald," he whispered eagerly, when he had dragged Donald
aside, "don't you hail from Glenoro, or some such place, and don't you
occasionally masquerade under the title of Neil?"

Donald confessed that he was guilty on both counts.

The young man slapped him joyously upon the back.  "By Jove!" he cried
enthusiastically, "I've found you at last!  Come along here, my Eureka;
there's a young lady here waiting to fall down and worship you.  Didn't
you pull the Reverend Egerton out of a hole in the ice at Christmas?
You close beggar, why couldn't you tell people?  And Jack Egerton's
your minister!  Well, Jupiter, wouldn't that drive anyone to drink!
You'll know all about Miss Weir-Huntley, then.  She's had me doing
amateur detective work for nearly a week, running down a glorious hero
by the name of Neil.  I didn't know you had to travel incog.  Come
along here; you may be a questionable character, for all I know, but
she thinks you're Neptune's own son.  There she is, under the lamps,
the goddess in pale green.  Isn't she a stunner?  Don't you wish you
had let the Reverend Jack go under?"

Donald's grip brought the young man's headlong progress to a sudden
termination.  His brain was in a whirl.  The young lady's name had
awakened vague memories of Glenoro gossip.