"Is she less sad, think you?  She seems more at home among us, at
least."

"I cannot say that she is lass sad.  But her sadness is no longer utter
gloom and despair, as it seemed to be at first.  And she says her
prayers now, Marjorie tells me.  I see myself that she listens to what
you say in the kirk.  I think it may be that she is just coming out of
the darkness of some great sorrow which had at first seemed to her to
end all.  She is young and strong, and it is natural that her burden of
trouble, whatever it may be, should grow lighter as the time goes by.
Oh! she is sad still, and she is sometimes afraid, but she is in a
better state to bear her trouble, whatever it may be, than she was when
she came first among us.  I sometimes think if some good and pleasant
thing were to come into her life, some great surprise, that might take
her thoughts quite off the past, she might forget after a little and get
back her natural cheerfulness again."

Mrs Hume ceased suddenly.  For a moment a strong temptation assailed
her.  If ever man and wife were perfectly one in heart and thought and
desires, these two were.  As for the wife, no thought or wish of hers,
whether of great things or of small, seemed quite her own till she had
also made it his.  Seeing the look which had come to her face, her
husband waited for her to say more.  But she was silent.  She had no
right to utter the words which had almost risen to her lips.  To tell
another's secret--if indeed there were a secret--would be betrayal and a
cruel wrong.  Even to her husband she might not tell her thoughts, and
indeed, if she had but known it, there was, as far as Allison Bain was
concerned, no secret to tell.

But Robin, who was in the way of sharing with his mother most things
which greatly interested himself, had told her about his morning run
over the hills after John Beaton, and how he had found him "looking at
nothing" on the very spot where, the day before, he had got his first
look at Allison Bain, and how he had turned and run home again without
being seen.  Robin only told the story.  He drew no inference from it,
at least he did not for his mother's hearing.

His mother did that for herself.  Remembering John's dazed condition at
worship on the first night of his homecoming, it is not surprising she
should have said to herself that "the lad's time had come."

And what of Allison?  She had asked herself that question a good many
times since John's departure; but she owned that never, either by word
or look, had Allison betrayed herself, if indeed she had anything to
betray, and of that she was less assured as the days went on.  But
whether or not, it was evident, Mrs Hume assured herself, that Allison
was "coming to herself" at last.

And so she was.  Young and naturally hopeful, it is not to be supposed
that Allison's sorrow, heavy and sore though it was, could make all the
future dark to her, and bow her always to the earth.  She had lost
herself for a time in the maze of trouble, into which death, and her
enforced marriage, and her brother's sin and its punishment, had brought
her.  But she was coming to the end, and out of it now.  She was no
longer living and walking in a dream.  She was able to look over the
last year of her life at home with calmness, and she could see how,
being overwrought in mind and body, spent with work and watching and
care, she had fallen under the mastery of blind terror for her brother's
safety, and had yielded where she ought to have stood firm.

She had no one to blame for what had befallen her.  Her mother had
hardly been in a state to know what was going on around her, except that
her "bonny Willie"--as she called him in her prayers, and in her
murmured longings for him--was faraway, and might not come home in time
to see her die, or to help to lay her in her grave.  Her father grieved
for his son, but, angry at him also, had uttered no word either to help
or to hinder the cause of the man who had made Allison's promise the
price of her brother's safety.  But he went about with bowed head,
listening, and looking, and longing, ay longing, for the coming of the
lad.  So what could she do but yield for their sakes, and take what
seemed the only way to bring him back again?

But one wrong was never righted by the doing of another, and her
sacrifice had come to worse than naught.  Though she had sinned blindly,
she had suffered for her sin, and must suffer still.  But gradually the
despair which darkened all the year was passing.  There was hope in her
heart now, and a longing to throw off the dead-weight which had so long
held her down.  And the lightening of her burden showed now and then in
eye, and voice, and step, so that all could see the change.  But with
all this the thought of John Beaton had nothing to do.

She had seen him just as she had seen other folk and he had come into
her thoughts once or twice when he was not in her sight.  But that was
because of the good understanding there was between him and little
Marjorie.  The child had much to say about him when he was at home; and
when she was carried out in Allison's arms on those days, she was always
wishing that they might meet him before they went home again.

One day they met, and Marjorie being gently and safely transferred to
John's arms, Allison turned and went back into the house without a word
of explanation or apology.

"It's ironing day," explained Marjorie, a little startled at the look on
John's face.

"Oh! it's ironing day, is it?  Well, never mind.  I am going to take you
to the very top of Windhill to give you a taste of the fresh air, and
then I shall carry you home to take tea with my mother and me."

"That will be delightful," said Marjorie with a sigh of pleasure.

No.  In those days Allison was thinking nothing at all about John.  When
she went about the house, with no gloom, but only a shadow of softened
sadness on her face, and a look of longing in her eyes, it was of her
brother that she was thinking.  She was saying in her heart:

"God help him in that dismal place--he who should be free upon the hills
with the sheep, or following the plough on his ain land at home."

And when a sudden smile came, or a bright glance, or a murmur of song,
she was telling herself that his time was nearly over; that he would
soon be free again to go faraway over the sea, where, with kind help
from Mr Hadden, he would begin a new life, and all would be well with
him once more.  Yes, and they might be together again.

But this could not be for a long time.  She must not even try to see her
brother.  For Brownrig would be sure to have a watch set on him when he
was free.  And Brownrig--having the law on his side, as he had said in
the hearing of many, on the night of the dark day on which her father
was buried, raising his voice that she too might hear him, the door
being locked and barred between them--Brownrig would come and she would
be found, and then lost forever.

"For," said Allison to herself, "I should have to drown myself then, and
make an end of it all."

She was standing on the edge of Burney's Pot, near the mill-dam, when
she said this to herself, and she shuddered as she looked down into the
grey water.

"But it will never come to that!  Oh! no, mother, it will never come to
that.  But to save myself from that man, even to end all would surely be
no sin."

But these thoughts did not haunt and terrify her now, as her doubts and
dreads had done during the winter.  She had no time for brooding over
the past.  Every hour of the day was more than full with all she had to
do, and there were no long, dark evenings, when she had only her wheel
and her own thoughts for company.

And there was Marjorie.  Marjorie had something to do with her thoughts
through all the hours of the day.  She was always there to lift or to
lay down, to carry here or to carry there, to speak to or to smile upon.
And she grew sweeter and dearer every day.  Above all, the time was
hastening, and Willie would soon be free.  That thought made all the
days bright to Allison.

And so she grew, not light-hearted, but reasonable and patient in her
thoughts of all that had befallen them, and, at most times, hopeful as
to all that might lie before them.

The neighbours who, at her first coming among them, had been inclined to
resent her gloom and her silence, were ready now, for the sake of her
friendly looks, to forgive the silence which she kept still.  Even in
the kirk she was like another woman, they said, and didna seem to be
miles awa', or dreaming, or in fear.

Of this change Allison herself was conscious, when she thought about it.
The minister's words did not seem "just to go by" her as they used to
do.  She listened and took her portion with the rest of the folk, and
was moved, or glad, or doubtful, or afraid, as they were, and thought
about all she had heard afterward, as doubtless some of the rest did
also.

She was not desirous now, as she had been at first, for more than her
own turn of staying at home from the kirk.  This was partly because
little Marjorie was sometimes able to go there; and when she went she
was carried in Allison's arms, where she rested, sometimes listening to
her father's voice, and sometimes slumbering through the time.  But it
was partly, also, because there came now and then a message to Allison
there.

For some of the good words spoken must be for her, she thought, since
the minister said they were for all.  Allison was not good at
remembering sermons, or even "heads and particulars," as Robin was.  For
a long time she had heard nothing but the minister's voice, and carried
away no word of his, either for correction or instruction.  His sermons
were "beyond her," as she said.  They meant nothing to her.  But now and
then a good word reached her out of the Book; and sometimes a word of
the minister, spoken, as was the way in those days, as a comment on the
psalm that was to be sung, or on the chapter that was read, touched her,
strangely enough, more even than the words of the Book itself, with
which she had been familiar all her life.

One day in early summer she carried her wee Marjorie to the kirk with a
sad heart.  For the Sabbath-days were the worst to bear, since she had
least to do, and more time for thinking.  All the morning her thoughts
had been with "her Willie," shut in between stone walls, away from the
sunshine and the sweet air, and she was saying to herself: Would the
shame and the misery of it all have changed him, and would he come out,
angry and reckless, a lost laddie?  Oh! if she could only go to meet him
at the very door, and if they could get away together over the sea, to
that country so great and wide that they might easily lose themselves in
it, and so pass out of the sight and out of the thoughts of all who had
known them in their happy youth, before trouble had come!  Might it not
be?  And how could it be?  Might she not set Brownrig and his wicked
wiles at naught, and go with her brother to save him?

And then the minister's voice was heard: "Fret not thyself because of
evildoers."  And so on: "Commit thy way unto the Lord.  Trust also in
Him and He shall bring it to pass."

"Bring it to pass!"  In the midst of her trouble and longing, Allison
had almost uttered the words aloud, as though they had been spoken to
her alone of all the listening people, and then Marjorie stirred in her
slumber and brought her to herself again.

"Rest in the Lord.  Wait patiently for Him.  Fret not thyself because of
him who prospereth in the way, because of the man who bringeth wicked
devices to pass."

Surely those words were for her!  And she heard no more till he came to
the good man whose "steps are ordered of God."

"Though he fall, he shall not be utterly cast down, for the Lord
upholdeth him with His hand.

"I have been young, and now am old; yet have I not seen the righteous
forsaken, nor his seed begging bread."

And then Robin touched his mother's hand.  For Allison had drawn her big
black bonnet over her face to hide from the folk in the kirk the tears
which were falling fast on the bright hair of the little sleeper.  Mrs
Hume made no sign that she saw them, but she prayed silently for the
sorrowful woman who all the long winter had kept her sorrow to herself.

"Say nothing, Robin," said she, when they rose to go out together.  "She
will be the better for her tears, or rather for that which made them
flow."

To herself Robin's mother said:

"She will surely speak now, and open her heart to comfort."

She had a while to wait for that, but a change came over Allison as the
summer days went on.  She was restless sometimes, and anxious and
afraid.  She had an air of expectation as though she were waiting for
something, and sometimes she had the look of one eager to be up and
away.

One night when Mrs Hume went up to see her little daughter in her bed,
she found Allison writing.  She said nothing to her and did not seem to
see, and waited in expectation of hearing more.  But she never did.

For Allison's courage failed her and the letter was never sent.  It was
written to Dr Fleming, who had been kind to her in the infirmary, and
it told him of her brother who was in prison, and asked him to visit him
and to be kind to him, as he had been to her.  But after it was written
she was afraid to send it.

No.  She must wait and have patience.  Willie must go away alone over
the sea, as they had agreed together in the only letters that had passed
between them since he was a prisoner.  Mr Hadden would befriend him as
he had promised, and she would follow him when the right time came.

"But it is ill waiting," said Allison to herself.  "It is ill waiting."

In those days many a word came to her as she sat in the kirk or in the
parlour at worship-time, which set her thinking.  Some of them
strengthened her courage and gave her hope, and some of them made her
afraid.  For she said to herself:

"Are these good words for me?"

They we're for the minister and for the minister's wife, doubtless,
every promise of them all, and for many more who heard them spoken.  But
were they for her?

"For," said she, "`if I regard iniquity in my heart, the Lord will not
hear my prayer.'  And I'm no' sure of myself.  `Love your enemies,' the
Book says, and I doubt there's hatred in my heart to one man.

"Or maybe it is only fear of him and anger.  I think if I could only get
well away from him, and safe from the dread of him, I would hate him no
longer.  I would pity him.  I pity him now, even.  For he has spoiled
his own life as well as mine, and what with anger and shame, and the
pity of some folk and the scorn of others, he must be an unhappy man.
Yes, I _am_ sorry for him.  For the fault was partly mine.  I should
have stood fast whatever befell.  And how is it all to end?"

CHAPTER TWELVE.

  "A man may _choose_ to _begin_ love, but not to end it."

The spring passed quickly and summer came on, and then something
happened which made a little stir of pleasure in the manse, and in the
pleasure Allison shared, because of little Marjorie.  Mrs Esselmont
came home.

Mrs Esselmont had been, in former days, one of the great ladies of the
shire, and, with a difference, she was one of its great ladies still.
Marjorie had been "kirstened after her," as they used to call it in that
country.  The child was "Marjorie Esselmont Hume," and she was right
proud of her name.

But Mrs Esselmont did not come back this time to Esselmont House, which
had been the home of the Esselmonts for many a year and day.  Her
husband was dead and her sons also, and the great house, and the wide
lands which lay about it, had passed to another Esselmont, a stranger,
though of the same blood.  She came back, as indeed she had gone away, a
sorrowful woman, for she had just parted from her youngest and dearest
daughter, who was going, as was her duty, to Canada with her soldier
husband.

The acquaintance of Mrs Esselmont and the minister had commenced soon
after the coming of Mr Hume--then little more than a lad--a "missioner"
to Nethermuir.  At the bedside of one whom the lady had long befriended,
they met by chance--if one may so speak of a meeting which was the
beginning of so much to them both.  The poor woman in whom both were
interested was drawing nigh to the end of all trouble, and these two did
not meet again for years.

The next meeting was in no sense by chance.  In a time of great sorrow
Mrs Esselmont came to the minister for help, because she remembered how
his words, spoken in God's name, had brought peace to one who had sinned
and suffered, and who was sore afraid as the end drew near.  And that
was the beginning of a lasting friendship between them.

They had not met often during the last few years.  Mrs Esselmont had
lived much in England with her daughters, and had only once returned to
her own house during the summer.  Now she said she must look upon
Firhill as her permanent home, and she did not speak very cheerfully
when she said it.

For though she was a good woman, she was not of a cheerful nature, and
she had had many a trouble in the course of her life.  Some of them had
been troubles to which, at the time, it seemed wrong for her to submit,
but which it was in vain, and worse than in vain, to resent.  They were
troubles which could only be ignored as far as the world was concerned,
but which, she told herself, could never be forgotten or forgiven.  They
were all over now, buried in graves, forgiven and forgotten.  But the
scars were there still of wounds which had hurt sorely and healed
slowly, and now she was looking sadly forward to a solitary old age.

She had been long away, but Marjorie had not been allowed to forget her.
Gifts and kind wishes had come often to the child from her friend, and
her name had often been named in the household.  But her coming was a
shock to Marjorie.  What she had imagined of the writer of the letters
which she had heard read, and of the giver of the gifts which she had
received, no one could say.  But the first glimpse which she got of the
tall form, shrouded in trailing, black garments, and of the pale face,
encircled by the border of the widow's cap, and shaded by the heavy
widow's veil, struck her with something like terror, which must have
ended in tears and sobs and painful excitement, if her mother had not
seen the danger in time and carried her away.

"Poor darling!  I fear she is no stronger as time goes on," said the
lady gently.

"Yes, we think her a little stronger.  Indeed we think there is a
decided change for the better since spring opened.  She is able to stand
now, and even to walk a little in the garden.  But she is very frail
still, our poor little girl," said the mother with a sigh.

"What has helped her, do you think?"

"Nature, it must be, and Allison Bain.  The doctor has done nothing for
her for more than a year, but even he acknowledges that there is a
change for the better, though he does not give us much reason to hope
that she will ever be very strong."

"It is God's will," said Mrs Esselmont with a sigh.

"We can only wait and see what God will send her.  As it is, she is a
blessing in the house."

"Yes.  Still with your large family and your many cares, she must be a
constant anxiety to you both night and day."

"Well, we get used with even care and anxiety.  And she is a happy
little creature naturally.  Allison has helped us greatly with her.  She
is very kind and sensible in all her ways of doing for her."

"And who is Allison?"

It was on Mrs Hume's lips to say, "We do not know who she is," but she
did not say it.

"She came to fill Kirstin's place.  Poor Kirstin was called home to
nurse her mother, who is lingering still, though she was supposed to be
dying when her daughter was sent for."

And then Mrs Hume went on to speak of something else.

Allison was "coming to herself," growing "like other folk," only bonnier
and better than most.  There was no need to call attention to her as in
any way different from the rest.  Allison had been good to Marjorie, and
Marjorie was fond of Allison.  That was all that need be said even to
Mrs Esselmont.  But the lady and Allison were good friends before all
was done.

For many of Mrs Esselmont's lonely days were brightened by the visits
of the child Marjorie.  And though the pony carriage was sometimes sent
for her, and though she enjoyed greatly the honour and glory of driving
away from the door in the sight of all the bairns who gathered in the
street to see, she owned that she felt safer and more at her ease in the
arms of "her own Allie," and so when it was possible, it was in
Allison's arms that she was brought home.

If there had been nothing else to commend her to the pleased notice of
Mrs Esselmont, Allison's devotion to the child must have done so.  And
this stately young woman, with her soft voice, and her silence, and her
beautiful, sorrowful eyes, was worth observing for her own sake.  But
Allison was as silent with her as with the rest of her little world,
though her smile grew brighter and more responsive as the days went on.

Mrs Esselmont's house stood on the hillside, facing the west.  Behind
it rose the seven dark firs which had given to the place its name.  The
tall firs and the hilltop hid from the house the sunshine of the early
morning, but they stood a welcome shelter between it and the bleak east
wind which came from the sea when the dreary time of the year had come.

The house was built of dull grey stone, with no attempt at ornament of
any kind visible upon it.  All its beauty was due to the ivy, which grew
close and thick over the two ends, covering the high gables, and even
the chimneys, and creeping more loosely about the windows in the front.
Without the ivy and the two laburnums, which were scattering their
golden blossoms over the grass when Allison saw it first, the place
would have looked gloomy and sad.

But when one had fairly passed up the avenue, or rather the lane, lying
between a hedge of hawthorn on one side and the rough stone dike which
marked the bounds of the nearest neighbour on the other, and entered at
the gate which opened on the lawn, it was not the dull grey house which
one noticed first, but the garden.

"The lovely, _lovely_ garden!"  Marjorie always called it.  She had not
seen many gardens, nor had Allison, and the wealth of blossoms which
covered every spot where the green grass was not growing, was wonderful
in their eyes.

The place was kept in order by an old man, who had long been gardener at
Esselmont House, and it was as well kept in the absence of the mistress
as when she was there to see it.  The garden was full of roses, and of
the common sweet-smelling flowers, for which there seems little room in
fine gardens nowadays, and it was tended by one who loved flowers for
their own sake.

It was shut in and sheltered by a high stone wall on the east, and by a
hawthorn hedge on the north, but the walls on the other sides were low;
and sitting beneath the laburnums near the house, on the upper edge of
the sloping lawn, one could see the fields, and the hills, and a
farmhouse or two, and the windings of the burn which nearly made an
island of the town.  From the end of the west wall, where it touched the
hawthorn hedge, one could see the town itself.  The manse and the kirk
could be distinguished, but not very clearly.  Seen from the hill the
place looked only an irregular group of little grey houses, for the
green of the narrow gardens behind was mostly hidden, and even the trees
along the lanes seemed small in the distance.  But Marjorie liked to
look down over it now and then, to make sure that all was safe there
when she was away.

It was a strange experience for her to be for hours away from her own
home, and even out of the town.

Poor little Marjorie had passed more time on her couch in her mother's
parlour, during her life of eleven years, than in all other places put
together.  She was happy in the change, and enjoyed greatly the sight of
something new, and there were many beautiful things for her to see in
Mrs Esselmont's house.  But she needed "to get used with it," and just
at first a day at a time was quite enough for her strength.  The day was
not allowed to be very long, and the pleasure of getting home again was
almost as great as the pleasure of getting away had been.  But the best
of all was, that the child was getting a little stronger.

There was much besides this to make it a good and happy summer at the
manse.  The younger lads were busy at school under a new master, who
seemed to be in a fair way to make scholars of them all, Robin was full
of delight at the thought that _at last_ he was to go to college, and he
fully intended to distinguish himself there.  He said "at last," though
he was only a month or two past sixteen, and had all his life before
him.

"Ay, ye hae a' ye're life afore ye, in which to serve the Lord or the
Deevil," Saunners Crombie took the opportunity to say to him, one night
after the evening meeting, when he first heard that the lad was to go
away.

Robin looked at him with angry eyes, and turned his back on him without
a word.

"Hoot, man Saunners!  There is no fear o' the laddie," said his more
hopeful crony, Peter Gilchrist.

"Maybe no, and maybe ay.  It'll be nae haflin course that yon lad will
tak'.  He'll do verra well or verra ill, and I see no signs o' grace in
him so far."

"Dinna bode ill o' the lad.  The Lord'll hae the son o' his father and
mother in His good keeping.  And there's John Beaton, forby (besides),
to hae an e'e upon him.  No' but that there will be mony temptations in
the toon for a lad like him," added Peter, desirous to avoid any
discussion with his friend.

"John Beaton, say ye?  I doubt he'll need himsel' all the help the Lord
is like to give to ane that's neither cauld nor het.  It's wi' stumblin'
steps he'll gang himsel', if I'm no mista'en."

But to this Peter had nothing to say.  They had been over the ground
before, and more than once, and each had failed to convince the other.
Crombie went on:

"He carries his head ower-heich (over-high), yon lad.  He's nae likely
to see the stanes at his ain feet, to say naething o' being a help to
the like o' Robert Hume."

"Hae ye had ony words wi' him of late?" asked Peter gravely.

"Nae me!  He's been here often eneuch.  But except in the kirk, where he
sits glowerin' straecht afore him, as gin there was naebody worthy o' a
glance within the four walls, I havena set my een upon him.  It's inborn
pride that ails him, or else he has gotten something no' canny upon his
mind."

"His mother's no' just so strong.  It's that which brings him hame sae
often.  His heart is just set on his mother."

"It's no' like to do his mother muckle gude to be forced to leave her
ain house, and take lodgin's in a toon.  But gin _he_ be pleased,
that'll please her," said Saunners sourly.

"Hae ye ony special reason for thinkin' and sayin' that the lad has
onything on his mind?  He's dull-like whiles, but--"

"I'm no' in the way o' sayin' things for which I hae nae reason," said
Saunners shortly.  "As to special--it's nae mair special to me than to
yoursel'.  Has he been the same lad this while that he ance was, think
ye?  Gude-nicht to ye."

"Gude-nicht," said Peter meekly.  "Eh! but he's dour whiles, is
Saunners!  He is a gude man.  Oh! ay, he's a gude man.  But he's hard on
folk whiles.  As for John Beaton--I maun hae a crack (a little talk)
with himsel'."

But Peter did not get his crack with John at this time, and if he had
had, it is doubtful whether he would have got much satisfaction out of
it.

John was not altogether at ease with regard to the state of his mother's
health, but it cannot be said that he was especially anxious.  For
though the last winter had tried her, the summer "was setting her up
again," she always told him cheerfully when he came.  And she was always
at her best when her son was with her.

Her little maid, Annie Thorn, to whom she had become much attached, and
whom she had trained to do the work of the house in a neat and orderly
manner, was permitted to do many things which had until now been done by
the careful hands of her mistress.  She was "little Annie" no longer,
but a well-grown, sensible lass of sixteen, who thought: herself a
woman, able to do all that any woman might do.  She was willing even to
put on the thick muslin cap of her class if her mistress would have
consented that she should so disguise herself and cover her pretty hair.

No, John was not anxious about his mother.  He was more at ease about
her than he had been since he had been obliged to leave her so much at
home alone.  But he came home more frequently to see her.  He had more
time, and he could bear the expense better.  Besides, the office work
which he had to do now kept him closer, and made change and exercise
more necessary for him, and so he came, knowing that he could not come
too often for his mother's pleasure.

This was what he said to her and to himself, but he knew in his heart
that there was another reason for his coming; he called himself a fool
for his pains, but still he came.

He knew now that it was the thought of Allison Bain which would not let
him rest, which drew him ever to return.  For the thought of her was
with him night and day.  Her "bonny een" looked up at him from his
papers, and his books, and from the waves of the sea, when his
restlessness urged him forth to his nightly wanderings on the shore.

But even when he turned his face toward Nethermuir, he scorned himself
for his weakness.  It was a kind of madness that was on him, he
thought--a madness that would surely come to an end soon.

"Few men escape it, at one time or another of their lives, as I have
heard said.  The sooner it comes, the sooner it is over.  It has gone
ill with many a one.  But I am a strong man, and it will pass.  Yes!  It
shall pass."

This was what he said to himself, and he said also that Allison's
indifference, which he could not but see, her utter unconsciousness of
him and his comings and goings, his words and his ways, was something
for which he might be glad, for all that would help him through with it
and hasten his cure.

But he was not so sure after a while--sure, that is, that Allison's
indifference and unconsciousness of him and his feelings made it easier
for him to put her out of his thoughts.  There were times when with a
sort of anger he longed to make her look at him, or speak to him, even
though her words might hurt him.  He was angry with her, and with
himself, and with all the world; and there was truth in old Crombie's
accusation that he carried his head high and neglected his friends.

It was all that he could do sometimes to endure patiently the company of
Robert Hume or his brothers.  Even Davie, who was not exacting in the
matter of response to his talk, missed something in his chief _friend_,
and had serious misgivings about it.

And Davie's mother had her own thoughts also, and she was not well
pleased with John.  That "his time was come" she knew by many a token,
and she knew also, or guessed, the nature of the struggle that was going
on in him.  She acknowledged that his prudence was praiseworthy, and
that it might not be the best wisdom for him to yield to impulse in a
matter so important; but she also told herself scornfully that if his
love were "true love," he would never have waited for prudence or for
ambition to put in a word, but would have gladly taken his chance
whatever might befall.

"Though indeed he might have cause to repent afterward," she
acknowledged with a sigh.

And since Allison was not thinking at all about him, little ill would be
done.  The lad would get his discipline and go his way, and might never
know what a chance of happiness he had let slip out of his hands.

"For he could make her learn to love if he were to try," said Mrs Hume
to herself.  "But he must not try unless--And if he should say or do
anything likely to bring watchful eyes or gossiping tongues upon
Allison, I shall have something to say to the lad myself."

Some one else was having her own thoughts about these two.  Mistress
Jamieson had seen the lad when "his een first lichted on the lass," and
she had guessed what had happened to him.  Now she waited and watched
with interest expecting more.  She had not counted on the blindness or
long-continued indifference of Allison.

Was it indifference on her part?  Or was it prudence, or a proper pride?
And the conclusion the mistress came to was this:

"She's no' heedin' him.  Ay, ye're a braw lad, John Beaton, and a
clever; but it'll do ye nae ill to be neglecit for a wee while, or even
set at naucht.  Ye thocht to tak' her captive wi' a smile and a few saft
words!  And ye'll do it yet, I daursay, since it's the nature o' woman
to be sae beguiled," added the mistress with a sigh.

But her interest was a silent interest.  She never named their names
together in a neighbour's hearing.

It was of her brother that Allison was thinking all this time--of poor
Willie, who, as she believed, had never seen the sunshine, or even the
light of all these summer days.  Every night and every morning she
counted the days that must pass before he should be set free to go to
his own house; and she rejoiced and suffered beforehand, as he must
rejoice and suffer when that time came.

It would be November then.  She knew just how Grassie would look to him
under the grey sky, or the slanting rain, with the mist lying low in the
hollows, and the wind sighing among the fir-trees on the height.  She
could see the dull patches of stubble, and the bare hedges, and the
garden where only a touch of green lingered among the withered
rose-bushes and berry-bushes, and the bare stalks of the flowers which
they used to care for together.

She saw the wet ricks in the corn-yard, and the little pools left in the
footmarks of the beasts about the door.  She heard the lowing of the
cows in the byre, and the bleating of the sheep in the fold, and she
knew how all familiar sights and sounds would hurt the lad, who would
never more see the face or hear the voice of kith or kin in the house
where he was born.  How could he ever bear it?

"Oh!  God, be good to him when that day comes!" was her cry.

And since they had agreed that they must not meet on this side of the
sea, was there no other way in which she might reach him for his good?
She had thought of many impossible ways before she thought of John
Beaton.  It was in the kirk, one Sabbath-day, that the thought of him
came.

The day was wet and windy, and Marjorie was not there to fill her
thoughts, and they wandered away to Willie in the prison, and she fell
to counting the days again, saying to herself: "How could he ever bear
it?"

She was afraid for him.  She strove against her fears, but she was
afraid--of the evil ways into which, being left to himself, or to the
guidance of evil men, he might be tempted to fall.  Oh! if she might go
to him!  Or if she had a friend whom she might trust to go in her stead!

And then she lifted her eyes and met those of John Beaton.  She did not
start, nor grow red, nor turn away.  But her whole face changed.  There
came over it a look which cannot be described, but which made it for the
moment truly beautiful--a look hopeful, trustful, joyful.

Allison was saying to herself:

"Oh, Willie! if I might only dare to speak and bid him go to you."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

  "She wakened heavy-hearted
      To hear the driving rain,
  By noon the clouds had parted,
      And the sun shone out again.
  `I'd take it for a sign,' she said,
      `That I have not prayed in vain.'"

That night while Mrs Beaton and her son sat by the fireside, exchanging
a word now and then, but for the most part in silence, a knock came to
the door.  Allison had given herself no time to reconsider the
determination to which she had come when she met John's eyes in the
kirk, being bent on abiding by it whatever might befall.

It had not come into her mind that her courage might fail her at the
last moment.  It was not that her courage was failing, she told herself,
as she stood waiting.  It was because she had run down the lane so
quickly that her heart was beating hard.  It was like the thud of a
great hammer against her side; it frightened her, and she was tempted to
turn and run away.  But she did not.

"I would be sorry when it was too late," thought she, and knocked again.

There was a pause of a minute or two, and then the door opened, and John
Beaton appeared, carrying a light.

"I was wishing to say a word to Mrs Beaton, if she will let me," said
Allison, making a great effort to speak as usual.

"Surely," said John.  "Come in."

"Come away in, Allison," said Mrs Beaton's kind voice out of the
darkness.

When John had shut the door and come into the parlour with the light, he
was surprised to see that the two women had clasped hands, and that on
his mother's face was the look which he had hitherto believed it had
worn for him alone.  He moved a chair forward from the wall.

"Sit down, Allison," said he.

"No," said she; "I will say first what I came to say."

John set down the candle and turned to go.  But Allison put out her hand
to detain him.

"'Bide still," said she.  "I have to ask your mother to ask her son to
do something for me--something which I cannot do for myself, but which
must be done, or I think my heart will break."

"'Bide still, John," said his mother.

John moved the light again, so that it fell on Allison's face, and then
went and stood in the shadow, leaning on the back of his mother's chair.
Allison stood for a moment silent, and both mother and son regarded her
with interest and with surprise as well.

This was quite a different Allison, Mrs Beaton thought, from the one
who went up and down the street, heeding no one, seeing nothing unless
the child Marjorie was in her arms to call her attention to whatever
there might be to see.  She seemed eager and anxious, full of
determination and energy.  She had not at all the air of one who had
been accustomed to go and come at the bidding of other folk.

"It is the true Allison at last," said John to himself.

"Her gown has something to do with it," thought Mrs Beaton, and perhaps
it had.  Her gown was black, and hung in straight folds about her.  A
soft, white kerchief showed above the edge of it around her throat, and
her Sunday cap, less voluminous and of lighter material than those which
she wore about her work, let her shining hair be seen.

"A strong and beautiful woman," John said to himself.  His mother was
saying it also; but with a better knowledge of a woman's nature, and a
misgiving that some great trouble had brought her there, she added:

"May God help her, whatever it may be.  Allison, sit down," she said
after waiting a minute for her to speak.

"It is that my heart is beating so fast that I seem to be in a tremble,"
said Allison, clasping her hands on her side.

"Sit down, my dear," said Mrs Beaton kindly.  "Not yet.  It is only a
few words that I must say, I have had great trouble in my life.  I have
trouble yet--that must be met.  And it came into my mind when I was
sitting in the kirk that you might maybe help me, and--keep my heart
from breaking altogether," said she; then lifting her eyes to John's
face she asked, "Have ye ever been in the tollbooth at Aberdeen?  It is
there my Willie is, whom I would fain save."

John's mother felt the start her son gave at the words.  Even she
uttered a word of dismay.

"I must tell you more," said Allison eagerly.  "Yes, he did wrong.  But
he had great provocation.  He struck a man down.  At first they thought
the man might die.  But he didna die.  My mother died, and my father,
but this man lived.  Willie was tried for what he had done, and though
all in the countryside were ready to declare that Brownrig had gotten
only what he well deserved, they sentenced the lad to a long year and a
half in the tollbooth, and there he has been all this time.  A long time
it has been to me, and it has been longer to him.  It is near over now,
thank God."

"And have you never seen him nor heard from him since then?" asked Mrs
Beaton.

"I wrote one letter to him and he wrote one to me.  That was at the
first.  I wrote to him to tell him what I was going to do, and to warn
him what he must do when his time was over.  I dared not write again,
for fear that--and even now I dare not go to him.  When we meet it must
be on the other side of the sea.  But I _must_ hear from him before
then.  He wasna an ill lad, though ye might think it from what I have
told you.  He was only foolish and ill advised.

"And think of him all these long days and months alone with his anger
and his shame--him that had ay had a free life in the fields and on the
hills.  And there is no one to speak a kind word to him when he comes
out of that weary place--"

"And you would like my John to go and see him?" said Mrs Beaton.

"Oh! if he only would!  Think of him alone, without a friend!  And he is
easily led either for good or ill."

"Is it likely that he would listen to anything that an utter stranger
would say to him?" said John.

He spoke coldly, as his mother noticed with pain.  Allison did not
notice it.

"But you would not seem like a stranger to him if you came from me.  And
anyway, ye wouldna be strangers long.  You would like Willie, or you
would be the first one who didna, all his life.  And oh! he needs one
wise, and strong, and good like you.  The very touch of your hand would
give him hope, and would keep him from losing heart--and, it might be,
from losing himself--"

She stood, bending slightly toward him, her eyes, which in spite of his
will and his reason had all these months haunted him by night and by
day, looking into his.  She stood in utter unconsciousness of herself or
of him, save as one whose strength might help the weakness of another
who was in sore need.  No spoken words could have made clearer to him
that he--John Beaton--was not in all her thoughts, save as a possible
friend to the unknown criminal, who, doubtless, had well deserved his
fate.

And to think of the life which lay before this woman, with this weak
fool to share it--a woman among ten thousand!

"She will need strength for two, and her love will give it to her,"
thought John, a dull pain at his heart with which some self-contempt was
mingled.  But it was no time to consider himself with Allison's eyes on
his face.

"I could trust him to you," said Allison, trying to smile, "because ye
have a kind heart, though folk say ye're a wee hard whiles.  But I ken
what you have been to the lads at the manse to win them, and to warn
them, and to keep them out of _mischief_.  It would be the saving o' my
Willie if you would but take him in hand."

"I would gladly help him, or any one in trouble," said John, "but how
could I do it in secret?"

"But you needna do it in secret.  It's not Willie that needs to hide.
When the prison-door opens to him he will be free to go where he likes--
to his own house, and his own land, to bide there at his pleasure.  But
he will have a sore heart in going to a desolate house.  And the thought
of going alone to a far-off land will dismay him.  The help of such a
friend as you is what he needs, though it may seem a strange thing in me
to ask it from you."

"You have a right to all the help that I can give you, as has any one in
trouble.  But why should you not go to him yourself?"

"But that is what I cannot tell you.  I would never be suffered to go
with him if I were to be found.  I have been asking you to help my
Willie, but indeed it is myself that you will help most.  I cannot go
with him for both our sakes, but I will follow him.  He will be watched
through every step of the Way, and I would be brought back again from
the ends of the earth.  And then," added Allison her face falling into
the gloom of which John had seen but little, but which his mother had
seen often during the first days of their acquaintance, "then I should
just lie down and die."

John made a sudden, impatient movement, and then he said:

"And what am I to say to this man from you?"

"Willie his name is--Willie Bain," said Allison, smiling faintly.  "Oh!
ye'll ken what to say to him when ye see him.  And ye are not to let him
know that ye are sent from me till ye are sure of him.  He is a lad who
is moved by the first thought that comes, and his first thought when he
hears of me will be to try to see me.  And he must not try," repeated
she, "for he will be watched, and then we will be parted forever."

There was a pause, and then John said:

"I will go to him, at any rate, and do what I can.  I will faithfully
help him, if he will let me--so help me God."

"I'm not feared for him now.  You're strong and wise, and you can do
what you like with Willie."

John did not seem to see the hand she held out to him.  Allison went on:

"When he speaks of me, as he'll be sure to do, just hear him and say
nothing till you are sure that he'll listen to reason--till he promises
not to try to see me, but to have patience and wait.  I can trust him to
you, John Beaton, and I must go now."

He could not this time refuse to see the hand she held out to him.  He
took it in his and held it fast, while she looked at him with eyes full
of light and longing.  "John," said she softly, "ye'll mind what is said
in the Book: `I was in prison and ye came unto me.'"  And then she
turned to go.

It must be owned that was a sore moment to John Beaton.  He neither
spoke nor moved while she stood thus, nor when she bent down, kissed his
mother's hand, and then without a word went away.  For a time, which he
did not measure, but which seemed long to his mother, he stood leaning
on the back of her chair.  His face was hidden in his hands, but happily
she did not know that, and she waited till the first word should be
spoken by him.  In a little he "pulled himself together," and came
forward into the light, which was but dim at the best.  He snuffed the
solitary candle, and then fell to stirring the fire, which, never very
large, was in danger of disappearing under his hand.  He added a dry
peat, however, and it soon blazed up again.

"Yon's a strange story, mother," he said at last.  "I hardly see the
good of my meddling in it.  I suppose I must go and see the man,
anyway."

"Yes, ye canna do less than that," said his mother.  "I'll do more.
I'll do my best to help one who seems much in need of help, but I cannot
say that I am very hopeful as to what may come of it."

"Ye'll see when ye go what can be done.  Poor lassie.  Her heart is in
it."

"Yes," said John, "her heart is in it."  And then they sat silent till
another knock came at the door.

It was Robin Hume this time, who had been sent to ask for Mrs Beaton,
who had not been at the kirk, and no one had got a chance to speak to
John.

"My mother said I wasna to stay," said Robin.  But he came forward into
the room, now bright with firelight, and he stayed a good while, and had
much to say about various matters, and the interest with which John
seemed to listen and respond comforted Mrs Beaton concerning her son.

Of course there was something to be said about the coming winter and its
work, and some other things came in as well.  Then there was a little
sparring and laughter between them, which, with a lightened heart, Mrs
Beaton gently reproved, as not suitable for the Sabbath night.  Then
Robin rose to go, and John went with him to the door.  But he did not
linger there, or go out for a turn in the lane as he sometimes did, and
as his mother thought he would be sure to do.  He came in and fell to
mending the fire again "for a last blaze," as he said.

"And, mother, is not it near time that we were beginning to think of the
flitting that is before us?"

"It's early days yet, John," said his mother.

"And you will be loth to leave your little home, mother dear?"

"It has been home to us both, John, and I like the place.  But any place
will be home to me where you are, and if you think it wise to go I'll
soon be ready.  And so ye have made up your mind to go to the college,
John?"

"I am not sure yet, but it is likely.  Whether I do or not, I must be in
Aberdeen all the winter, and I will be happier and safer in my mother's
house than anywhere else.  But I am sorry to disturb you, mother.  Ye
have got used with the place and are happy here."

"I can be happy anywhere where it is wise and right for you to be.  But
it is only August yet, and there is time enough to think about it."

"Yes, there is no hurry.  But there are arrangements to be made.  And
mother I have been thinking, how would it do for us to have Robin with
us for the winter?  It would be a satisfaction to his father and mother,
and a safeguard to him."

"Surely, if you wish it.  It will make a difference, but only a cheerful
difference.  And it is a small thing to do for them who have been ay so
friendly."

"Well, that is settled then, and I will look out for rooms, or for a wee
house--that will be better wouldna it, mother dear?"

He did not need to ask.  Anything that would please him would please his
mother also.  But she was not so cheerful and eager about this as she
generally was about new plans and arrangements, John thought, and after
a little they fell into silence.

John woke his mother out of her morning sleep when he came to bid her
good-bye.  She had only a single word to say to him:

"Dinna be long in coming home again, John," said she.  And he promised
that he would not be long.

He kept his promise, coming even sooner than he was expected, and when
his mother saw his face she was glad.  For there was on it no sign of
either gloom or grieving.  It was John, "at his best and bonniest," she
said to herself with a glad heart, as he sat for a little while beside
her bed, for his coming was late, as usual.  She asked no questions.  It
was well with him, that was enough for her.  As he rose to go, she said:

"I hope you have good news for Allison Bain."  Then John sat down again.

There was not much to tell.  John had not seen the man himself.  He had
been set at liberty before his time was out.  As to what sort of a man
he was, John had been told that after a month or two, when he had been
first wild with anger and shame, and then sullen and indifferent, a
change had come over him.  A friend had come to visit him more than
once, and had encouraged him to bear his trouble patiently, and had
given him hope.  But he had never spoken about himself or his affairs to
any one else.  The chances were he had gone home to his own place; but
nothing, which his informant could repeat, had been heard from him since
he went away.

"Poor Allison Bain!" said Mrs Beaton with a sigh.

"Surely it will be good news to her that he has been free all the summer
days, and in his own house," said John.

"Yes, but of her he can ken nothing.  And he must go to America, if he
should go, with only a vague hope of some time seeing her on the other
side of the sea.  And she kens his weak will, and must fear for him.
She will likely be here in the Sabbath gloaming to hear what ye have to
tell."

But it was otherwise ordered.  John rose early, as was his custom,
intent on getting all the good from the country air which could be got
in a single day.  It was a fair morning, clear and still.  Only a
pleasant sound of birds and breeze was to be heard.  There was no one
visible in the street.  Most of the tired workers of the place were wont
to honour the day of rest by "a lang lie in the mornin'," and the doors
and windows of the houses were still closed.  While he stood hesitating
as to the direction he should take, out of the manse close sedately and
slowly walked Fleckie and her companions, each dragging the long chain
by which she was to be tethered; and after them limped cripple Sandy,
whose Sunday duty at all times it was to see them safely afield.

John did not quicken his steps to overtake him, as he had now and then
done at such times, for the sake of getting the news of all that had
happened while he was away.  He turned and went down the green, and
round by the lane and the high hedge which sheltered the manse garden,
and giving himself no time to hesitate as to the wisdom of his
intention, stopped at last at one of the doors of the long, low
outbuildings of the manse.  He had been in the place before with the
lads, and knew it well.  There was no one there; but the foaming
milk-buckets indicated that some one would be there soon, and he waited.

He did not wait long.  A light step came quickly over the round stones
of the causey, and Allison entered, carrying the great earthen
milk-dishes in her arms.  It was a dark little place, and she had set
them safely down before she saw the intruder.  Then she did not utter a
word, but stood looking at him with all her heart in her eyes.  John
held out his hand and took hers in a firm clasp, and "like a fool," as
he told himself afterward, said that which it had never come into his
mind to say until he saw her face.

"Allison," said he, with his eyes on hers, "why did you not tell me that
it was your brother for whom your heart was sore?"

Her look changed to one of wonder.

"Surely I told you it was my brother.  Who else could it be but my
Willie?"

She grew pale, and would have withdrawn her hand, but he held it fast.

"I did not see him, but I have good news for you.  Your brother has been
a free man for two months and more.  It must have been that they
repented of their hard sentence, and when the summer came again he
wearied, and was like to fall sick, and they let him go home.  The man I
saw had only good words to say of him.  After the first he was patient
and quiet.  It was hard on him at first."

"My poor Willie!" said Allison.

"It seems that a friend went to see him in the early summer, a year ago,
and he took heart after that and waited patiently."

"That must have been Mr Hadden," said Allison.  "It was kind of him,
and Willie would take hear when he heard that I had gotten safe away."

"You have not heard from your brother since?"

"Oh! no.  How could I hear?  He does not even know where I am."

"But you will write to him now?"

Allison's face fell.

"I darena do it.  No letter can reach him but may first pass through our
enemy's hand.  He will be on the watch more than ever now.  No, it will
be ill waiting, but we can only wait."

"Do you mean that you must wait till you see him in America?" said John
wondering.

"Yes, that must be the way.  He will go to Alexander Hadden, and I will
find him there.  Yes, it may be a long time," and Allison's eyes filled
with tears.  "But now that I have heard that he is free, and that it is
well with him, I can wait.  Oh! yes, I can wait."

Allison held out her hand, and John knew it was time to go.

"I havena thanked you yet, but--"

"You have nothing to thank me for yet.  If I only could do something for
you!"

"You have done this.  You have told me he is free and at his own home.
I have all the summer days grudged myself the sweetness of the light and
the air, because I thought of him sitting in the darkness.  And he has
had it all, and now he may be on the sea!  It has happened well, and I
take it for a sign that the Lord is on our side."

"And you will not be troubled and anxious any more?"

"I will have hope now.  And I thank you in my heart though I havena the
words ready."

And then John went away.

Allison sat in the kirk that day a happy woman.  Every one there must
have noticed the change in her looks, only she sat in the end of the
seat near the door, and the little porch hid her from a good many of the
folk, and the side of her big bonnet was mostly turned toward the rest.
Little Marjorie saw her happy look, and raised herself up to ask her
what she was thinking about that made her look so glad.  Allison was
thinking that her Willie might be sitting in the kirk at home listening
to Dr Hadden's kind, familiar voice, and that in the afternoon he might
be walking over his own land with Uncle Sandy, to see the sheep and get
the air of the hills.  She bowed her head and whispered softly, "Whisht,
my lammie"; but she "smiled with her een," as Marjorie told her mother
afterward, and the child was content.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

  "Into the restful pause there came
  A voice of warning, or of blame,
  Which uttered a beloved name."

More than once since she had first seen her, Mrs Esselmont had asked,
"Who is Allison Bain?"

Mrs Hume had not much to tell her.  Of her family and friends she knew
absolutely nothing.  Of Allison herself she knew only what she had seen
since she became an inmate of the manse, except that she had been Dr
Fleming's patient in the infirmary, and afterward for a short time a
nurse there.  Dr Fleming probably knew more of her history than he had
told to them.

"A good woman who had seen sorrow, he called her, and a good woman she
is in every way, and a good servant, now that she seems to be growing
content and cheerful.  I own that she was a weight upon my mind at
first.  She is faithful, patient, true.  Her only fault seems to be her
reserve--if it can be called a fault to keep to herself what others have
no right to ask her to disclose.  She has greatly helped our Marjorie,
and the child loves her dearly."

"Yes, that is easily seen.  As to her reserve, there are some troubles
that can be best borne in silence," said Mrs Esselmont.  "And she has
grown more cheerful of late."

"Much more cheerful.  She is always quiet, and sometimes troubled with
anxious thoughts, as one can see, but there is a great change for the
better since the spring.  It is, of late, as though some heavy weight
had been taken from her heart."

In her lonely life, with little to interest her, either in her own home
or in the neighbourhood, it was natural enough that the lady should give
some thought to the strong, gentle, reticent, young woman, who seemed to
her to be quite out of place as a servant in the manse.  She would have
greatly liked to win the girl's confidence, so that she might be the
better able to give her help and counsel if the time should come when
she should acknowledge her need of them.  Until that time came, she told
herself, she could offer neither help nor counsel.  It was not for her
to seek to enter into the secret of another woman's sorrow, since she
knew from her own experience how vain are words, or even kindest deeds,
to soothe the hurt of a sore and angry spirit.

"I might only fret the wound I fain would heal.  And she is young and
will forget in time whatever her trouble may be.  And, when all is said,
how can I think she is not in her right place, since she fills that
place so well?  God seems to be giving her the opportunity and the power
to do for the child what has long seemed beyond hope, even to the
mother, who is not one inclined to despond.  I will not meddle in her
concerns hastily, but oh!  I would like if this Allison were ever in
sore need of a friend, that she would come to me."

It was astonishing to herself when she considered the matter, how many
of the lady's thoughts were given to this stranger.

"We are curious creatures," she mused.  "It is little to my own credit
to say it, but I doubt if this Allison had been just a decent, plain
lass like Kirstin, I might have been left to overlook her and her
sorrows, though I might have helped her when I knew her need.  I will
bide my time, and when it comes I will do what I can for Allison Bain,
whatever her need may be."

Almost every week Marjorie spent a day at Firhill, and she was usually
carried there, or home again, in the arms of Allison; but there could be
no lingering there because of all that was to be done at home.  Marjorie
needed no one to stay with her.  If it were "a garden day," as she
called it when it was fair and the wind blew softly, she was content to
be quite alone for hours together.  She could be trusted to walk no
farther and make no greater exertion than was good for her.

In the house she had a book, or her doll, or the stocking she was
knitting, to pass the time.  In the garden she did not need these.  She
had the flowers first of all, the trees and the changing sky, the bees
and the birds.  The crows, which came and conversed together on the
great firs beyond the wall, had much to say to her as well as to one
another.  She put their speech into words for her own pleasure, and
looked with their eyes on the distant hilltops and into the valleys
between, and saw what they saw there.  A late laverock springing up now
and then thrilled her with his song and set her singing also, or the
cooing of the doves soothed her to peaceful slumber and happy dreams.

But there came a day when all did not go so well with the child.  The
sky was overcast and rain threatened; and Marjorie fretted and was "ill
to do with," while her mother hesitated as to the propriety of her going
to Firhill.  The coming of the pony carriage decided the matter,
however, and the child went away, a little ashamed of herself, but never
doubting that all would be as usual when she reached the garden.

But she did not have a happy day.  The weather was warm and close, and
as the afternoon wore on the sky darkened, so that it was gloomy even in
the garden, and a sudden pang of homesickness smote the child when they
carried her into the deeper gloom of the house.  She struggled bravely
against it for a while, telling herself how foolish she was, and how
ungrateful Mrs Esselmont would think her if she were to cry, or even
seem to wish to go home before the time.

Poor little girl!  She was ill and uncomfortable, and did not know it.
She thought herself only naughty and ungrateful; and when she could no
longer keep back her tears, and in spite of a determination not to do
so, cried out that she wanted her mother, she believed that the end of
her happy days had come.

Into the confusion which all this caused, Allison came, earlier than
usual, in the hope of getting the child home before the rain.  At the
sight of her, Marjorie's tears flowed faster than ever, but not for
long.  Allison's touch, and her firm and gentle words, soothed and
quieted her.  The broth which she had refused at dinner was brought her,
and was eaten, and the worst was over.

But the rain was falling in torrents by this time, and while they
waited, Marjorie fell asleep in Allison's arms.

It had not been a very good day for Mrs Esselmont.  She was not strong,
the heat and gloom had depressed her, and she sighed now and then as she
sat beside Allison and the child in the darkening room.  Allison
wondered whether she had any new sorrow to trouble her.

"She is nearly done with all sorrow now.  She must be glad of _that_,"
thought Allison.

"I hope they will not be anxious about you at home," said Mrs
Esselmont, speaking softly not to waken Marjorie.

"No, madam, I don't think it.  And Mrs Hume will be sure to send one of
the lads with a lantern if the rain should keep on."

"They know you are to be trusted with the child.  You have done her much
good, poor wee lammie."

"She has done me much good," said Allison.

"I am sure of it.  In the way of kindness done, as in other ways, `It is
more blessed to give than to receive.'  You are a good nurse, Allison."

"I love the child.  It is a great pleasure to do for her."

"It is your love for her that makes you wise and firm in dealing with
her.  And you have been a sick-nurse, I hear."

Mrs Esselmont was thinking of the time which Allison had passed in the
infirmary, but Allison had for the moment forgotten that.  Her thoughts
had gone back to her home and her mother, who had needed her care so
long.

"My mother was long ill, and there was no one but me to do for her.  I
learned to do many things to ease and help her first, and my father
afterward."

"Have they been long dead?" asked Mrs Esselmont gently.

"A long while it _seems_--but it is not so very long.  There was little
time between them, and all things seemed to come to an end when they
were gone."

Mrs Esselmont listened in wonder to the low, pathetic voice which told
her this.  Was this the girl who had never spoken of her past life in
the hearing of any one--who had never named father or mother or home,
except perhaps to little Marjorie?  Mrs Esselmont was a wise woman.
She would have liked well to hear more, but she asked no question to
startle her into silence again.  After a little she said:

"They were happy in having a loving daughter to close their eyes."  And
she sighed, thinking of her own dearest daughter who was faraway.

Marjorie stirred in Allison's arms, and there was no need to answer.  By
and by Jack came with the lantern, and it was time to go home.

After this, in their brief intercourse--during a few minutes in the
garden, or by the parlour fire, while the child was being wrapped up to
go home--Mrs Esselmont had many a quiet word with Marjorie's faithful
nurse and friend, and their friendship grew slowly but surely.
Allison's revelation of herself, and of her past life, was for the most
part quite unconsciously made.  Mrs Esselmont listened and made no
comments; but in her own thoughts, when she "put this and that
together," she owned that not often in the course of a long life had she
come into contact with one in whose character, strength and gentleness,
firmness and patience, were more happily combined.  Without being aware
of it, she was beginning to regard this strong and silent young woman
not as a mere maid-servant in the manse, who came and went, and worked
for wages like the rest, but as one who, for reasons not to be revealed,
had chosen, or had been forced by an untoward fate, to begin a new life
in a sphere in which she had not been born.  But much as she desired to
know more about her, she waited for Allison herself to speak.

Summer passed all too quickly and the "dowie fall o' the year" was
drawing on.  There was no more going through the lanes to follow or to
flit the cows for Marjorie.  The harvest was over, and the patient
creatures had the range of all the narrow fields, and cripple Sandy had
leisure to do his duty toward them without the help of any one.  But
whenever a bright day came, or even a gleam of sunshine when the day was
dark, the child had still a turn in the lanes, or round the garden in
Allison's arms.  All the days were busy days, but none of them were so
full of work or care as to hinder Allison in this labour of love, which
indeed was as good for herself as for Marjorie.

For there were times as the days began to grow dark and short when
Allison needed all the help which her love for the child could give her
to keep her thoughts from the cares and fears which pressed upon her.
No word came from Willie, though she had written to Mr Hadden to tell
him that her brother was free, and that she hoped he would soon be in
America, and that he might safely write to her now.

It was time for a letter unless Willie had lingered longer at home than
he had promised.  Was he there still? or had any ill happened to him?
She could wait with patience for the sight of him, even for years, if
she could but be sure that he was safe and well.  And she could only
strive to wait with patience whether she heard or not.

She was saying something like this to herself as she sat in the silent
house one night, when the kitchen-door opened and Saunners Crombie came
in.  The minister was not at home, and Mrs Hume, who was not very well,
was up-stairs with her little daughter.  All this Allison told him, and
asked him to sit down, with no thought that he would do so, for few
words had ever passed between them.  He sat down, however, and leaned
over the fire with his hands spread out, for "the nicht was cauld," he
said.

Allison brought dry peats and mended the fire, and then took to her
stocking-mending again.  It would not have been easy for her to begin a
conversation with Crombie under any circumstances.  It seemed impossible
to do so now, for what could she say to him?  Saunners had been in deep
affliction.  His wife was dead, and he had just returned from her burial
in a distant parish, and it seemed to Allison that it would be
presumption in her to utter a word of condolence, and worse still to
speak about indifferent things.

She stole a glance at him now and then as she went on with her work.
How old, and grey, and grim he looked!  And how sad and solitary the
little house at the edge of the moss must be, now that his wife was not
there!  His grey hair and his bowed head 'minded her of her father; and
this man had no child to comfort him, as she had tried to comfort her
father when her mother died.  She was very sorry for him.

Her sympathy took a practical turn, and she rose suddenly and went out.
The tea-kettle was singing on the hearth, and when she returned she went
to the dresser and took the teapot down.

"Ye're chilled and weary, and I am going to make you a cup of tea," said
she.  Saunners looked up in surprise.

"There's nae occasion.  I'll get my supper when I gae hame."

He made a little pause before the word, as though it were not easy to
say it.

"Ay, will ye.  But that will be a while yet.  And I must do as I am
bidden.  The mistress would have come down, but she's no' just very well
the night, and is going to her bed.  The minister may be in soon."

So the tea was made and butter spread upon the bannocks, and then
Allison made herself busy here and there about the kitchen and out of
it, that he might have his tea in peace.  When his meal was finished and
the dishes put away, she sat down again, and another glance at the bowed
head and the wrinkled, careworn face, gave her courage to say:

"I am sorry for your trouble."

Saunners answered with a sigh.

"Ye must be worn out wi' that lang road and your heavy heart."

"Ay.  It was far past gloaming o' the second day ere I wore to the end
o' the journey.  The langest twa days o' a lang life they were to me.
But it was her wish to be laid there wi' her ain folk, and I bid to gie
her that last pleasure.  But it was a lang road to me and Girzzie, too,
puir beast."

"And had ye no friend to be with ye all that time?"

Saunners shook his head.

"Peter Gilchrist offered to go wi' me.  But he was ahind with his farm
work, an' I wasna needin' him.  Twa folk may shorten a lang day to ane
anither, but it's no ay done to edification.  But the warst o' a' was
coming hame to a forsaken hoose."

The old man shivered at the remembrance and his grey head drooped lower.

"I'm sorry for your trouble," repeated Allison.  "It's the forsaken home
that at first seems the worst to bear."

"Ay, do ye ken that?  Weel, mine's a forsaken hoose.  She was but a
feckless bodie, and no' ay that easy to deal wi', but she's a sair miss
in the hoose.  And I hae but begun wi't," added Saunners with a sigh.
Then there was a long silence.  "It's a bonny place yon, where I laid
her down," said he at last, as if he was going on with his own thoughts.
"It's a bonny spot on a hillside, lying weel to the sun, wi' a brown
burn at the foot.  I got a glimpse over the wall of the manse garden.
The minister's an auld man, they say.  I didna trouble him.  He could
hae dane nae gude either to her or to me.  It's a fine, quiet spot to
rest in.  I dinna wonder that my Eppie minded on it at last, and had a
longing to lie there with her kin.  It is a place weel filled--weel
filled indeed."

Allison's work had fallen on her lap, and she sat with parted lips and
eager eyes gazing at him as he went on.

"I saw the name o' Bain on a fine new headstane there.  An only son had
put it up over his father and his mother, within a few months, they
said.  I took notice of it because o' a man that came in and stood
glowering at it as we were finishing our job.  It was wi' nae gude
intent that he cam', I doubt.  He was ane that middled with maist things
in the parish, they said.  But I could hae proved that my Eppie belonged
to the parish, and had a gude right to lie there wi' her kin.  We were
near dane ere he took heed o' us, and it was ower late to speak then.
He only speired a question or twa, and then gaed awa'."

Then there was a long pause.  Saunners sat looking into the fire,
sighing now and then, and clearing his throat as if he were ready to
begin again.  When he turned toward her, Allison took to her
stocking-darning.  She longed to ask him a question--but she dared not
do it, even if she could have uttered the words.  Saunners went on:

"I thocht it queer-like of the man, but I would hardly have heeded it
but for that which followed.  When his back was fairly turned there came
a wee wifie out o' the corner, where she had been watchin', and shook
her neive (fist) at him and ca'ed him ill names.  It was like a curse
upon him.  And she bade him go hame to his fine house, where he would
have to live his leefu' lane a' his days as a punishment for his
wickedness.  I had a few words with her after that.  She was unco
curious to hear about my Eppie, and how I came to lay her there.  We
gaed through among the stanes thegither, and she had plenty to say about
ane and anither; and whiles she was sensible enough, and whiles I had my
doubts about it.  Many a strange thing she told me gin I could only
mind."

Then Saunners sat silent again, thinking.  Allison turned her face away
from the light.

Was the terrible old man saying all this with a purpose?  Did he know
more than he told, and did he mean it for a warning?  For it must have
been in the parish of Kilgower where he had laid down the body of his
wife.  And it must have been Brownrig whom the "wee bowed wifie" had
cursed.  She grew sick at the thought of what might be coming upon her;
but she put force upon herself, and spoke quietly about other matters.
Then the old man rose to go.

"I thocht maybe I might see John Beaton the nicht.  Is he at hame, think
ye?"  Allison shook her head.

"I havena heard of his being here, but he may have come for all that."

"Ye would be likely to ken," said Saunners, and then he went away.

Allison listened till the sound of his footsteps died in the distance,
then she rose and did what was still to be done in the house.  She
barred the door, and covered the fire, and put out the lights, and went
softly up-stairs to the little room where Marjorie slumbered peacefully.
Then she sat down to think of all that she had heard.

It was not much.  Crombie had seen two names on a headstone in the
kirkyard of Kilgower.  That they were the names of her father and mother
she did not doubt.  She had been greatly startled by all she had heard,
but she had not betrayed herself; and after all, had she not more cause
to be glad and thankful than to be afraid?  Willie had put up that
stone!  Was not that enough to make it sure that he had been at home,
and that all had been well with him?  He might be at home yet, on his
own land.  Or he might be on the sea--on his way to a new country which
was to give a home to them both.  Glad tears came to Allison's eyes as
she knelt down and laid her face on Marjorie's pillow.

"I am glad and thankful," she said, "and I will not vex myself thinking
about what the old man said.  It might just be by chance that he spoke
with no thought about me, except that the name was the same.  I will be
thankful and have patience and wait.  I am sure he would not wish to
harm me.  Only if he were to speak of all that in the hearing of other
folk it might end in my having to go away again."

But the thought of having to go away did not seem so terrible to her as
it would have done a few months ago.  Her courage had risen since then.
She had "come to herself," and she was reasonable both in her fears and
her hopes, and so she repeated, as she laid her head on her pillow:

"I will be thankful and have patience and wait.  And I will put my trust
in God."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

  "She courtsied low, she spoke him fair,
          She sent him on his way;
  She said as she stood smiling there,
  You've wealth, and wiles, and wisdom rare,
          But I have won the day."

Crombie did not leave the manse with an easy mind, and the more he
thought of what he had said, and what he had not said there, the more
uneasy he became.  He was in a quandary, he told himself, putting the
accent on the last "a."  To his surprise and consternation he found
himself in doubt as to the course he ought to pursue.

He had gone to the manse with the full intention of asking the
minister's lass whether she were the wife of the man whom he had seen
"glowering at the new headstane" in the kirkyard of Kilgower, and of
putting it to her conscience whether she was not breaking the laws of
God and man by keeping herself hidden out of his way.

But he had not asked her.  He could not do it.  He had come away without
a word, and now he was saying to himself that the man who through
soft-heartedness, or through the influence of carnal affection, suffered
sin in another, thus being unfaithful to a sinful soul in danger, was
himself a sinner.  He ought to have spoken, he told himself.  He could
not be called upon to tell the story to another, but to Allison herself
he should have spoken.  If her conscience needed to be wakened, he
sinned against her in keeping silence.  It might have been to prepare
him for this very work that he had been sent to lay his Eppie down in
that faraway kirkyard.

Saunners stood still on the hillside when he got thus far.  Ought he to
go back again?  He could not be sure.  The thought of the first glimpse
he had got that night of Allison sitting quiet and busy with her work,
with a look of growing content upon her face that had once been so
gloomy and sad, came back to him, and he moved on again.

"I'll sleep on it," said he, "and I'll seek counsel."

It was a wise resolution to which to come.  Saunners was a good man,
though, perhaps, he did not always do full honour to his Master or to
himself in the sight of those who were looking on.  He was "dour, and
sour, and ill to bide," it was said of him, even by some among his
friends.

But there was this also to be said of Saunners.  It was only when a life
of struggle and disappointment and hard, wearing work was more than half
over, that he had come to see the "True Light," and to find the help of
the Burden-Bearer.  A man may forsake the sins of his youth and learn to
hate the things which he loved before, and to love the things which he
hated, and in his heart long, and in his life strive, to follow the
Perfect Example in all things.  But the temper which has been indulged
for half a lifetime cannot be easily and always overcome, and habits
which have grown through the years cannot be cast aside and put out of
sight in a moment, like an ill-fitting garment which will never trouble
more.  Life was, in a way, a struggle to Saunners still.

But though he lost his temper sometimes and seemed to those who were too
ready to judge him to fail in the putting on of that Charity which
"thinketh no evil" and which is "the bond of perfectness," he was still
a good man, honest, conscientious, just, and he could never willingly
have sought to harm or to alarm any helpless or suffering creature.  But
then neither would his conscience let him consent to suffer sin in one
whom he might, through faithful dealing, save from loss and ruin, and
whom he might bring back to the right way again.

"She doesna look like a sinfu' woman," he thought, recalling the glimpse
he had got through the open door, of Allison sitting at peace and safe
from harm.  "She is like a woman who has seen sorrow, and who is winning
through wi't.  And yon man had an evil look.

"And after a', what hae I to go upon?  A name on a headstane in a
farawa' kirkyard!  A' the rest came frae the wee wud wifie (the little
mad woman), who micht have made up the story, or only believed it true
because o' the ill-will she bore to yon dark, angry-lookin' man.  And
even if the story be true, what call have I to mak' or meddle in it?

"No' an ill word that ever I hae heard has been spoken of the lass since
she came to the manse.  She's at peace, and she's doing the duty that
seems to be given her to do, and--I'll bide a wee and seek counsel.  And
after a', what hae I to go upon?" repeated Saunners.

But there was plenty to go upon, as he knew well, if he had only been
sure that it would be wise to do anything, or meddle at all in the
matter.  He had only spoken a word to Allison; but the wee wifie, while
they sat together on a fallen gravestone, had told him, not the whole
story--she was hardly capable of doing that--but all of it that she had
seen with her own eyes.

Oh! yes.  She knew well about bonny Allie Bain.  She was in the kirk
when she was married--"sair against her will.  It was like a muckle
black corbie carrying off a cushat doo.  But the cushat got free for a'
that," said the wee wifie, with nods and smiles and shrill laughter.

But she said nothing of the brother's part in that which followed,
though she told with glee how Brownrig had gotten his deserts before all
was done, and how the bride went one way and the bridegroom went
another, "carried hame wi' sair banes in his gig."  She told how first
Allison's mother, and then her father, were put in the grave, where they
both lay with the new stone at their heads, and how "bonny Allie" had
come to say farewell to them there.  She grew eager and eloquent when
she came to her own part in the story.

"I was here mysel', as I am maist days, for it's a bonny place and
halesome, though ye mightna think it here among the dead folk.  I like
to hae a crack with them that's been awa' for mony a year and day.  My
mother lies ower in yon nook, and the man I should hae marriet.  My
father and my brother were lost at sea.

"Oh! ay--and about bonny Allie.  Weel, she lay down wi' her face upon
the sod, and lay lang there, and when she lifted it again it was white
as the snaw, but there wasna a tear upon it.  Then there came the bark
o' a dog that I kenned weel.  He was sent after me once, though Brownrig
denies it.  So I made free to go in by; and says I, `Miss Allie dear, I
hear the bark o' the black dog, Worry, and I doubt his maister's nae
farawa'.'

"She was speakin' ower the wa' to the minister's son by that time, and
after a minute or twa she came awa', put her face down on the grave
again, and then she followed me.  And when we came near to the foot o'
the brae, I garred (made) her take off her hose and shoon, and wade doon
the burn a bittie that the dog mightna follow the scent, and I laid doon
peats that she might step on them a bit o' the way between the burn and
my ain door.

"When she came in she sat still like ane dazed and spent, and never a
word spake she.  But I stirred up the fire and boiled the kettle, and
said I:--

"`Did ye break your fast afore ye came awa'?'

"`There wasna time,' said she.

"`And ye had nae heart for your supper yestreen, and ye forgot ye're
denner, and nae wonder.  But if ye're thinkin' o' winning awa' to
Aberdeen this day, or even the morn, ye'll need to tak' something to
make ye strong for the journey.'

"So she ate her bread and drank her tea, and then she lay down in my bed
and sleepit the hale day.  I was unsettled mysel' that day, and I thocht
I would gang up the brae to the Meikles and get some buttermilk that the
mistress had promised me.  So I darkened the window and locket my door.
But I didna leave my key in the thecking (thatch) as I do whiles, in
case any o' the neebors micht send a bairn wi' a sup o' milk, or a bit
from a new cut cheese.  It's weel to gie them a chance to open the
door."

"And what then?" said Crombie, fearful of another digression.  "What
happened then?"

"Oh! naething happened.  I only thocht I would be as weel awa', in case
Brownrig sent or came himsel' to see what there was to see.  So I gaed
awa' for a while, and when I cam' back I just set mysel' doon at the
door to wait for what would come next.  Allie sleepit on, and had nae
appearance o' having moved when the sun was near set, which wasna early,
for the days were near their langest.  But I made the fire burn up, and
b'iled the kettle to be ready, and made the tea.  And then wha' should I
see but Brownrig himsel', riding on his black horse and followed by his
uncanny tyke.  I had only time to draw thegither the doors o' my
press-bed ere he was upon me.

"I was feared at the sicht o' the dog, and the man saw it; but it wasna
for mysel' that I was feared, and that he didna see.

"`Ye needna gang white like that at the dog.  He'll do ye no harm,' said
he.

"`No, unless ye bid him,' said I.

"He gaed me a dark look, and said he: `I'm not like to do that, though I
hear ye have accused me of it.'

"So I saw he was gaen to speak me fair, and I cam' to the door, and a'
at once I saw the twa cups that I had set on the table for Allie and me.

"`Ye're to hae a veesitor the nicht?' said he.

"`Wha' kens?' said I.  `I'm ay ready, and it is to be you the nicht.
Come ye away in and take a cup o' tea, and maybe I'll find a drappie o'
something stronger, gin ye'll promise no' to tell the gauger.  No' that
I'm feared at _him_.  He's a frien' o' mine, and that's mair than I
would mak' bauld to say o' ye're-sel',' said I, giein' another feared
look at the dog.  `Come in by, and sit doon.'

"But it was growing late, he said, and he must awa'.  He had only a
question to speir at me.  Had I, by ony chance, seen his wife passing by
that day?  And in whose company?

"`Ye're wife?' said I, as gin I had forgotten.  I whiles do forget.

"`Ay, my wife, Mistress Brownrig--her that was Allison Bain!'

"`Oh!' said I then; `bonny Allie Bain?  Ay, I did that!  In the early,
_early_ mornin' I saw her ower yonder, lying wi' her face on the
new-made grave.'

"I spak' laich (low) when I said it.

"`And did ye no' speak to her?' said he.

"`I daured na,' said I.

"`And which way went she?' said he.

"`She stood up on her feet, and looked about her like one dazed, and
then somebody spoke to her from ower the wall.  And in a wee while I
cam' round and said a word, but she never answered me.'

"`And wha was the man?  Or was it a man?'

"`Oh! ay.  It was a man.  It was the minister's son wha has come lately
frae America.  But I heard na a word he said.'

"`Hadden?' he said.  `I'll hae a word wi' him.'  And he gaed off in a
hurry, and I was glad enow.  Then I cried after him: `Take ye're dog wi'
ye, and the next time ye come leave him at hame.'  But he never heeded,
but hurried awa'."

"And what happened then?" asked Saunners, trying to hide the interest he
took in the story, lest she should suspect that he had a reason for it.

"Doubtless Mr Hadden told him the truth.  There was little to tell.
But naething came o' it, nor of a' the search which he has keepit up
since then near and far.  It gaes me lauch when I think about it.  He
was mad wi' the love of her, and the last time he touched her hand was
when he put the ring upon it in the kirk.  Her lips he never touched--
that I'll daur to swear.  And a' this time he has been livin' in the
house that he made sae grand and fine for her.  And doesna he hate it
waur than pain or sin by this time?  Ay! that does he," said she with
her shrill laughter.  "He has had a hard year o' it.  He gaes here and
there; and when a new-comer is to be seen among us, his een is upon him
to mak' sure that he mayna hae something to say to the folk that bides
in Grassie--that's the Bains' farm.  And gin he thocht one had a word to
say about Allie, he would gar his black dog rive him in bits but he
would get it out o' him."

Then a change came over the old woman's face.

"And how did she get awa' at last?" asked Crombie, growing uneasy under
her eye.

"Oh! she won awa' easy eneuch in a while.  She was far frae weel then,
and I'm thinkin' that she's maybe dead and a' her troubles ower by this
time."

"And her name was Allie Bain, was it?"

"Ay, ay! her name was Allie Bain."

"Weel, I need to be goin' now.  I thank ye for yer story.  And if ever I
happen to see her, I'se tell her that I saw a frien' o' hers wha spak'
weel o' her.  And what may ye're ain name be?"

"My name's neither this nor that, that ye should seek to ken it.  And,
man! gin ye're een should ever licht on ane that ca's hersel' Allie
Bain, gae by her, as gin she wasna there.  It's better that neither man
nor woman should ken where she has made her refuge, lest ane should
speak her name by chance, and the birds o' the air should carry the
sound o' it to her enemy ower yonder.  Na, na!  The least said is
soonest mended, though I doubt I have been sayin' mair than was wise
mysel'.  But ye seem a decent-like bodie, and ye were in sair trouble,
and I thocht I micht hearten ye with friendly words ere ye gaed awa'.
But hae ye naething to say about Allison Bain neither to man nor woman,
for ill would be sure to come o' it."

She was evidently vexed and troubled, for she rose up and sat down, and
glanced sidewise at him in silence for a while.  Then she said:

"I daursay ye're thinkin' me a queer-like crater.  I'm auld, and I'm
crooket, and whiles my head's no richt, and there are folk that dinna
like to anger me, for fear that I micht wish an ill wish on them.  I
read my Bible, and say my prayers like ither folk.  But I'm no sayin'
that I haena seen uncanny things happen to folk that hae gaen against
me.  There's Brownrig himsel' for instance.

"I'm no' sayin' to ye to do the lass nae ill.  Ye seem a decent man, and
hae nae cause to mean her ill.  But never ye name her name.  That's gude
advice--though I havena ta'en it mysel'.  Gude-day to ye.  And haste ye
awa'.  Dinna let Brownrig's evil een licht on ye, or he'll hae out o' ye
a' ye ken and mair, ere ye can turn roond.  Gude-day to ye."

"Gude-day to you," said Saunners, rising.  He watched her till she
passed round the hill, and then he went away.

But the repentant wee wifie did not lose sight of him till he had gone
many miles on his homeward way.  She followed him in the distance, and
only turned back when she caught sight of Brownrig on his black horse,
with his face turned toward his home.

Though Saunners would not have owned that the woman's words had hastened
his departure, he lost no time in setting out.  It was not impossible
that, should Brownrig fall in with him later, he might seek to find out
whether he had ever seen or heard of Allison Bain, since that seemed to
be his way with strangers.  That he should wile out of him any
information that he chose to keep to himself, Saunners thought little
likely.  But he might ask a direct question; and the old man told
himself he could hold up his face and lie to no man, even to save
Allison Bain.

So he hastened away, and the weariness of his homeward road was
doubtless beguiled by the thoughts which he had about the story he had
heard, and about his duty concerning it.  His wisdom would be to forget
it altogether, he told himself.  But he could not do so.  He came to the
manse that night with the intention of telling Allison all he had heard,
and of getting the truth from her.  But when he saw her sitting there so
safe, and out of harm's way, he could not do it.

And yet he could not put it altogether out of his thoughts.  He would
not harm a hair of the lassie's head.  A good woman she must be, for she
had been doing her duty in the manse for nearly a year now, and never a
word to be spoken against her.  And who knew to what straits she might
be driven if she were obliged to go away and seek another shelter?
There were few chances that she would find another home like the manse.
No, he would utter not another word to startle her, or to try to win her
secret.

"But there is John Beaton to be considered.  I would fain hae a word wi'
John.  He's a lad that maybe thinks ower-weel o' himself, and carries
his head ower-high.  But the root o' the matter's in him.  Yes, I hae
little doubt o' that.  And if I'm nae sair mista'en there's a rough
bittie o' road before him.  But he is in gude hands, and he'll win
through.  I'll speak to him, and I'll tak' him at unawares.  I'll ken by
the first look o' his face whether his heart is set on her or no."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

  "Love will venture in where it daurna weel be seen."

But John had been taken by surprise before Crombie's turn came to speak.
Some one else had spoken.

It was Saturday night.  The work of the week was over Marjorie was safe
asleep, and restless with the thoughts which always came with leisure,
Allison threw a shawl over her head and went out into the lane.  It was
dark there, where the hedge was high, and the branches hung low from the
trees in the manse garden; but beyond the lane, the fields and the
faraway hills lay clear in the moonlight.  With lingering steps she
turned toward the green, along the path which skirted the cottage
gardens.  When she came to the last of them she heard her name called
softly.

It was John Beaton's voice.  She could not see him where he stood, but
he saw her clearly.  He saw on her face, as she drew near, the shadow
which told of the old sadness and gloom; and he saw it pass, like the
mist before the sunshine, as she stood still to listen.  In a moment he
had leaped the dike, and stood by her side.

"Allison!" said he eagerly, as he took her hand.

John was young, and he had had but small experience of woman and her
ways, or he never would have mistaken the look on Allison's face for the
look of love which he longed to see.  He never would have clasped and
kissed her without a word.

In the extremity of her surprise and dismay, Allison lay for a moment in
his embrace.  Then she struggled to get free.

"Allison, forgive me--because I love you.  Allison, say that you will be
my wife."

A low cry of anguish came from her white lips.

"Oh! may God pity me.  I have been sorely wrong, or this would not have
come to be my punishment."

She drew herself away from him, but she made no movement to leave him.
John hung his head before her.

"Allison, forgive my presumption, and give me a chance to win your love.
Allison, I love you dearly."

"Hush!" she whispered.  "Come with me.  I must speak to you.  I have
done wrong, but how could I ever have dreamed that you would give a
thought to me?"

She laid her hand upon his arm.

"I am in sore trouble.  Come with me somewhere--to your mother--for I
must speak to you."

"Not to my mother, if you have anything to say which will grieve her,"
said John huskily.

"It might grieve her, but she would understand.  She might be angry for
a moment; but she is kind and good, and she would not think evil of me."

They stood in silence for a minute or two.  Then she said:

"Come into the manse.  No one will be there till I have time to say what
I must say."

They moved on till they came to the lane that led thither, and passed
out of the moonlight into the shadow.

"Allison," said John, pausing, "you cannot surely mean to cut me off
from all hope?  You might come to--care for me in time."

"Care for you?  Oh, yes!  I care for you.  You are my friend, and
Willie's.  But I have done you a wrong, and with no will to do it."

Instead of going into the house they turned aside at the end of the
hedge, and entered the garden.  On the summer-seat, under the tall
fir-trees, they sat down in silence.  After a time Allison rose, and
stood before her friend.

"John," said she, "when I heard your voice to-night I was glad.  My
heart has been heavy with a great dread all the week; and when I heard
your voice I said to myself, here is a friend who will help me.  John,"
she said after a moment's silence, "it is my secret I am going to tell
you--my secret that I have kept all these long months.  I trust you,
John.  You will tell me what I must do."

"Well," said John, as she paused again.

"John--I am a wife already.  It is from--from the man who married me
against my will that I have been hiding all this time.  You must not
think ill of me, for I was like a lost creature when my father died, and
I knew not what to do.  I came away hoping that God would let me die, or
keep me hidden till my brother should get away to the other side of the
sea.  And God has kept me safe till now.  John, will you forgive me and
help me?"

The hands she held out to him trembled.  She was shaking with excitement
and the chill of the night.  He rose and wrapped her shawl close about
her.

"Allison, sit down.  Or shall we go into the house?  I will do all that
I can to help you--so help me God!" said John with a groan, fearing that
he was past help.

"No, I will not sit down.  Sometime I will tell you all my story, but
not to-night.  This is what I must tell you.  It was in our parish of
Kilgower where Mr Crombie laid down his wife.  There he heard something
of Allison Bain.  He saw the man who married me against my will--who has
sworn to find me and to take me home to his house, alive or dead.  It
was in my hearing that he took that oath.  But whether Mr Crombie
really knows about me, or whether he was only speaking for the sake of
saying something, or whether it was to find me out, or to warn me, I
cannot say.  And oh!  I have been so safe here, and I have come to
myself among these kind people."

"What do you wish me to do?" said John, as she paused.

"If Crombie should know who I am, and should speak of me to any one, you
would hear of it.  He may even speak to you.  You are his friend.  Then
will you warn me, and give me time to go away?  I should be sorry, oh!
so sorry, to leave the kind folk here and go away again among strangers.
But I will never go with that man, never."

"I will help you if I can.  I hope you may be mistaken in thinking that
Crombie knows your story.  I think, at the worst, it is only a guess he
has made."

Allison shook her head.

"He saw the names of my father and mother on the headstone that their
son has set up over their grave.  Willie may be at home still, but I
hope he has gone away to America.  Oh! if I were only sure that he were
I would go to him at once.  I could hardly be brought back so far.  And
I might hide myself in that great country so that I could never be
found."

"Allison," said John gently.  "Think of me as a friend, who will help
you whatever may happen."

"I thank you kindly, and I trust you.  I will bide still where I am
while I may, for oh!  I dread the thought of these first dark days
coming on me again."

"I do not think you need to be afraid of Crombie.  He would not
willingly injure you.  He is a good man, though his sense of duty makes
him sometimes say or do what looks hard."

"Yes.  He might think it right to betray me--not that it would be
betrayal, since I have not trusted him or any one else."

She made a great effort to quiet herself and to speak calmly.  But she
was anxious and afraid, and she grew sick at heart at the thought that
all the dreariness and misery of the first days of her stay in
Nethermuir might come back upon her again, of that she might have to go
away among strangers.

"But I will not go to yon man's house whatever befall," she said in her
heart.

The cloud which had hidden the moon for a while passed and showed the
trouble in her face, and John's heart smote him as he saw it.  To whom
might this poor soul turn in her distress?  And why should she tell her
story to any one?  Since she had kept it so long to herself, it could
not be an easy one to tell.  Why should she tell it?  Whether she had
been right or wrong in her flight and her silence, it could not be
helped now, and if she could be saved from her present fear and pain, it
would be right to help her.

"Allison," he said in a little, "you say you trust me.  I also trust
you.  You do not need to tell your story to me.  Some day, perhaps, you
may tell it to my mother.  No one can give you wiser counsel or warmer
sympathy than she will.  And I think you need not fear Saunners Crombie.
At any rate, he would speak first to yourself, or to one whom he knows
to be your friend.  He would never betray you to your--enemy."

"Well, I will wait.  I will not go away--for a while at least.  And you
will be my friend?"

"I will try to help you," said John.

But all the thoughts which were passing through John Beaton's mind would
not have made a pleasant hearing for his mother.  A sudden, strong
temptation assailed him, at which he hardly dared to look, and he strove
to put it from him.

"As to Crombie," said he, "he is an old man, and growing forgetful.  It
may all pass out of his mind again.  That would be best."

"Yes," said Allison, "that would be best."

They walked down to the gate together.

"And you will forgive me, Allison, and--trust me?"

"I will ay trust you.  And it is you who need to forgive me," said she,
holding out her hand.  "But it never came into my mind--"

John held her hand firmly for a moment.

"Allison!" said he, and then he turned and went away.

It was his mother who should befriend Allison Bain.  But how to tell her
story?  If it had to be told, Allison must tell it herself.  As to
speaking with Saunners Crombie about Allison Bain and her troubles--

John uttered an angry word, and hurried down the lane and past the
gardens and the green, and over the fields and over the hills, till he
came to himself standing in the moonlight within sight of the "Stanin'
Stanes."  And being there he could only turn and go home again, carrying
his troubled thoughts with him.

He had many of them, and the thought which pressed upon him most
painfully for the moment was one which need not have troubled him at
all.  How was he to meet his mother and speak to her about Allison Bain
with all this angry turmoil in his heart?  He was angry with himself,
with Crombie, even with Allison.

"How could I have thought--" she had said, looking at him with entreaty
in her lovely eyes.  While she had been in his thoughts by day and in
his dreams by night, he "had never come into her mind!"

"But I could have made her think of me if I had not been a fool, with my
fine plans about rising in the world!  I could make her care for me
yet," said John to himself, quite unconscious that from the window of
her room his mother's kind, anxious eyes were watching him.

"Something has happened to vex him," said she to herself.  "I will not
seem to spy upon him.  He will tell me, if he needs my help, in his own
time."

But she waited and listened long before his footstep came to the door,
and he went to his room without coming to say good-night as he passed.

"He is thinking I am asleep," said she with a sigh.

There was nothing to be said.  That was the conclusion to which John
came that night.  What could he say to his mother about Allison Bain?
If he were to speak a word, then nothing could be kept back.  His mother
had a way of knowing his thoughts even before he uttered them, and why
should she be vexed at seeing the trouble which, if he spoke at all,
could not be concealed from her?

If the story must be told to his mother, Allison herself must tell it.
But why need it be told?  If only that meddling old fool, Crombie, had
had the sense to hold his tongue.  What good could come of speaking?
Why should not the poor soul be left to forget her troubles and to grow
content?  Even his mother could only warn her and help her to get away
if it ever came to that with her.  But until then silence was best.

He would have a word with Saunners to find out what he knew and what he
only suspected, and he would do what might be done to keep him silent.

John had his word with Crombie, but it did not come about in the way
which he had desired and planned.  While he was the next day lingering
about the kirk in the hope of getting a word with him, Crombie was
asking for John at his mother's door.

"Come away in, Mr Crombie," said Mrs Beaton when she heard his voice.
"I have been wishing to see you this while."

Then there were a few words spoken between them about the sorrow which
had come upon him, and of his wife's last days, and of the long journey
he had taken to lay her in the grave.  Saunners told of the bonny, quiet
place on the hillside, where he had laid her down, and before he had
taken time to consider, the name of Allison Bain had been uttered.

"I saw the names of her father and her mother--`John Bain and Allison
his wife'--on a fine, new headstane that had been put over them by their
son.  They hae been dead a year and more.  Decent folk they seem to hae
been.  He farmed his ain land.  I heard about it from a wee bowed wifie
who was there in the kirkyard.  She had something to say o' Allison Bain
as well."

And then Crombie came to a pause.  Mrs Beaton was startled by his
words, but kept silence, for she saw that he had not meant to speak.
But in a little he went on.

"It was a queer story that she told altogether, and I hae been in a
swither as to what I was to do with it, or if I was to do anything with
it.  I cam' the day to speak to your son aboot it, but taking a' the
possibeelities into consideration, I'm no' sure but what I hae to say
should be said to a prudent woman like yoursel'.  I would be loth to
harm the lass."

"I will never believe an ill word of Allison Bain till she shall say it
to me with her own lips," said Mrs Beaton, speaking low.

"Weel, I have no ill to say o' her.  There was no ill spoken o' her to
me.  That is, the woman thought no ill, but quite the contrary--though
mair micht be said.  Ye're her friend, it seems, and should ken her
better than I do.  I'se tell ye all I ken mysel', though it was to ye're
son I meant to tell it."

"And why to my son?" asked Mrs Beaton gravely.

It is possible that Crombie might have given a different answer if the
door had not opened to admit John himself.  The two men had met before
in the course of the day, and all had been said which was necessary to
be said about the death and burial of Crombie's wife, and in a minute
Crombie turned to Mrs Beaton again.

"As to the reason that I had for thinkin' to speak to your son, there
was naebody else that I could weel speak to about it.  No' the minister,
nor his wife.  It would be a pity to unsettle them, or to give them
anxious thoughts, and that maybe without sufficient reason.  And John's
a sensible lad, and twa heads are better than ane."

John laughed and mended the fire, and asked "whether it was Robin or
Jack this time, and what was ado now?"

"It's aboot neither the one nor the other," said Saunners, with a touch
of offence in his voice.  "It's aboot the lass at the manse--Allison
Bain."

It had been a part of Crombie's plan "to take the lad by surprise" when
he mentioned Allison's name, and he peered eagerly into his face "to see
what he could see."  But the peats, which John had put on with a liberal
hand, had darkened the fire for the time, and he had taken his place
beside his mother's chair and was leaning on it, as he had a way of
doing when anything special was to be said between them, and Saunners
saw nothing.  "Begin at the beginning," said Mrs Beaton.  So Saunners
began again, and getting into the spirit of the affair, told it well.
They listened in silence till he came to a pause.

"It is a curious story," said John, by way of saying something.

"It was a curious story as I heard it," said Saunners.  "Is the wee wine
`a' there'?" asked John quietly.  "I'm by no means sure o' it.  She
looked daft-like when she shook her neive (fist) at the man Brownrig
behind his back and called him ill names.  And her lauch when she told
me that the man had never touched his wife's hand since the day he put
the ring upon it, and when she swore that _never_ had he touched her
lips, was mad enow."

John's mother felt the start which her son gave when the words were
spoken.

"And is it true, think ye?" said she.  "There seems to be truth in the
story, but where it lies I canna say.  And whether it be true or no, I
am beginning to think that I have no call to make or meddle in it."

"There is just one thing that I must say again," said Mrs Beaton--"I'll
never believe an ill word of Allison Bain till with her own lips she
gives me leave to do it!  She is a good woman, whatever trouble may have
been brought into her life by the ill-doing of others."

"What think ye, John?" said Saunners.

"I think ye did a wise thing when ye came to consult with my mother.
She kens a good woman when she sees her."

"There may be truth in the story.  It may be a' true.  But the question
for me to decide with your advice is whether a word o' mine will help or
hinder the richt thing's being done?"

"Yes, that is the question," said Mrs Beaton.  She hesitated to say
more.  For she knew that to set one side of a matter in a strong light
was the surest way to let Crombie see more clearly all that might be
said on the other side.

"She's a weel doin' lass," said Crombie.

"She is invaluable in the manse," said Mrs Beaton.

"It would unsettle them sadly to lose her, or even to have a doubtfu'
word spoken o' her," said Saunners.

"Especially just now, when Mrs Hume is not quite well," said Mrs
Beaton.

"And what say ye, John?" asked Saunners.

"Do ye feel responsible to this man--whatever his name may be--that ye
should wish to take up his cause?  I mean, had ye any words with him
about her?" added John, as his mother touched his hand in warning.

"No' me!  The wifie said he was ay waitin', and watchin', and speirin',
and there was a chance that he would have a word wi' me.  I didna bide
to be questioned.  I just took the road without loss o' time, whether it
was wise to do it or no."

"To my mind it was both wise and kind," said Mrs Beaton.  "As ye say,
there may be truth in the story; but the telling of it here will be the
same thing to Allison Bain, whether it be true or false.  She is alone
and friendless, it seems, and that a young lass should be spoken about
at all is a harm to her, and a word might be the means of sending her
out into the world without a friend.  Surely the Lord was keeping His
eye on her for good when He sent her to the manse, and into the hands of
such a woman as Mrs Hume."

"Ay, that's the truth.  And what say ye, John?"

"I say that my mother seldom makes a mistake when she lets herself speak
strongly about any matter.  I agree with her that ye took the right
course when ye made up your mind to say nothing about the matter."

Crombie fidgeted in his chair, and was silent for a minute or two.

"I said nothing to the man himsel', but I did drop a word to Allison
Bain.  She said nothing, but I saw by her face that she understood.  I
only hope I may na hae done ill in speakin'."

The others hoped the same with stronger emphasis, and not without some
angry thoughts on John's part.  But to speak the old man fair was the
wisest way.  There was no time for many words, for Annie brought in the
tea, and Saunners was prevailed upon to stay and share their meal.  When
it was over it was beginning to grow dark, and he rose to go, and John
rose also, saying he would go with him a bit of his way.

The talk between them as they went on was not of Allison, but of quite
other persons and matters, and it was kept steadily up and not suffered
to turn in that direction.  When Saunners spoke of the strange things
that might be happening under "our very een," John listened in silence,
or brought him back to the kirk, and the new members, and the good that
was being done, till they came to the little house by the side of the
moss, out of whose narrow window no welcoming light was gleaming.

"I'm no' used wi't yet," said Saunners with a groan, as he fumbled
awkwardly trying to put the clumsy key into the lock.  "It's the hardest
part of my day's work, this coming hame to a dark house.  But folk maun
bide what's sent, and be thankful it's nae waur.  Gude-nicht to be.  Ye
hae shortened my road, and mony thanks.  I winna ask ye to come in."

"No.  I must be early up and awa' in the morning, and it may be long ere
I be home again.  Ye might look in on my mother whiles, when ye're down
our way.  She's much alone."

If John had planned his best to win Saunners to friendliness, and to
silence concerning the affairs of Allison Bain, he could have said
nothing more to the purpose than that.  Saunners accepted the
invitation, and came now and then to inquire for the health of Mrs
Beaton, and "heard only good words from her," as he said.

He had something to say to most of his friends about the place where he
had laid down his wife to her rest beside her own folk, and even spoke
of the "daft wifie" that he had seen there; but he never uttered a word
as to the story she had told him, and in course of time, as he thought
less about it, it passed quite out of his remembrance--which was best
for all concerned.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

  "Fear hath a hundred eyes that all agree
          To plague her beating heart."

As for Allison, the thought of going away from Nethermuir to escape the
threatened danger, did not stay long with her.  It would be wrong to go
away now, she told herself.  For another little daughter came to the
manse about this time, and Allison's strength and skill were tried to
meet all demands upon them for a while.  Yes, it would be wrong to leave
these good friends who had been kind to her, and above all, wrong to
steal away, as in her first alarm it had come into her mind to do.

And besides, even if that which she feared were to come upon her, and if
by means of Crombie, or by any other means, she were discovered, the
times had gone by when force could be used and a woman carried away
secretly against her will.  There would be a good many words to be said
before she could be forced to go with Brownrig, even though he might, as
he had said, have "the law on his side."

She would wait patiently till Mr Hadden should answer the letter she
had sent him when she had first heard that her brother was set free, and
when she should hear that Willie was safe in America, then would be her
time to go away.

"I must wait patiently; I must not let myself fall into blackness and
darkness again.  Whether I have done wrong, or whether I have done
right, there's no turning back now."

As far as Saunners was concerned it soon was seen that she had nothing
to fear.  He had only kindly looks for her now, and though his words of
greeting were few, they were kindly also.  The words of caution and
counsel which it was "his bounden duty" to let drop for the benefit of
all young and thoughtless persons when opportunity offered, had
reference chiefly to the right doing of daily duty, and the right using
of daily privileges and opportunities, as far as Allison was concerned.

And so the days passed till November was drawing near.  Then something
happened.  Auld Kirstin came home to the manse.  "Home," it must be,
thought the neighbours, who saw the big "kist" and the little one lifted
from the carrier's cart.  And Allison, to whom Mrs Hume had only spoken
in general terms as to the coming of their old servant, could not help
thinking the same, and with a little dismay.  But her year's experience
had given her confidence in the kindness and consideration of her
mistress, and she could wait patiently for whatever might be the
decision with regard to her.

The minister's wife and the minister himself had had many thoughts about
the matter of Kirstin's coming home long before she came.  For as the
summer days drew to a lingering end, Mrs Esselmont had fallen sick and
had appealed to them for help.

She was not very ill, but her illness was of a nature which made her
residence at Firhill during the winter not altogether impossible, but
undesirable and unwise, as she told them, since she had the power to go
elsewhere.  She could spend the winter with her eldest daughter, she
said, but as her home lay in one of the cold, English counties, washed
by the same sea from which the bleak winds came moaning through the firs
on her own hill, she would hardly better herself by the change.  What
she wished was to go further south to a place by the sea, where she had
already spent more than one winter, and some of the winter days there,
she told them, might well pass for the days of a Scottish summer.  What
she could not endure was the thought of going away alone.

"I had my Mary with me when I was there last, and I dread the thought of
the long days with no kenned face near me.  Milne is growing old and
frail like myself, and I will need to spare her all I can.  And now will
you let me have your Allison Bain for a while?"

"We can tell you nothing about her except what we have seen since she
came into our house," said Mrs Hume gravely.  "It was a risk our taking
her as we did, but we were sorely in need of some one."

"But you are not sorry that you took her into your house?"

"Far from that!  She has been a blessing in our house, as doubtless she
would be in yours should she go with you."

"There is no doubt but it would be to her advantage to go with you.  And
we could not prevent her if she wished to go when her year with us is at
an end," said Mr Hume.

"Yes, it would be better for her to go.  We ought not to hinder her,"
said his wife; but they looked at one another, thinking of Marjorie.

"I thank you both gratefully for your kindness in being willing to spare
her to me," said Mrs Esselmont.  "But that is only the beginning of my
petition.  The child Marjorie!  Would it break your heart to part with
her for a while?  Wait, let me say a word more before you refuse to hear
me.  The child is evidently growing stronger as she grows older.
Allison has helped her, but there is more in the change than that.  I am
certain--at least I have hope--that she might be helped by one who has
been proved to have skill in dealing with such cases.  Let me take
Marjorie to Dr Thorne in London.  He is a great physician and a good
man.  He is my friend, and I know that whatever can be done for the
child he can do, and will be happy in doing it.  Think of your gentle,
little darling grown strong and well, with a useful and happy life
before her!"

A rush of tears came to the eyes of Mrs Hume.  The minister went to the
window and looked long on the swaying branches of the firs, which were
only just visible through the mist and the rain.  Mrs Esselmont laid
herself back on her pillow and waited.

"Well?" said she after a little.

"Well, mother?" said the minister, sitting down again.

"Speak for us both," said his wife.

"Well," said he, after a pause, "I have only this to say to-night.  We
thank you for your kind thoughts for the child.  We desire to say yes,
we long to say it.  But it is a great thing to decide, and we must ask
counsel."

"Surely.  I will wait patiently for your decision.  But the sooner we
can go, the better."

There was much more said than this, and counsel was asked before they
parted.  Mrs Esselmont's last words were these:

"It was because of the child that I first thought of Allison Bain.
Should you decide that you cannot let Marjorie go, then I will not take
Allison.  And remember, my dear," said she to Mrs Hume, "you have
another little daughter now to comfort you.  And when you have made up
your mind, whatever it may be, say nothing to Allison.  I would like
myself to ask her to go with us if you should decide to let the child
go."

There was not long time needed in which to come to a decision.  The
father and mother had taken counsel together, and had asked counsel
often.  There was only one thing to be said at the last.  Marjorie must
go; and though it was said with sorrow, it was also with thankful
gladness that they committed their darling to the care and keeping of
the Great Healer of the bodies and souls of the creatures whom He came
to save.  And they agreed with Mrs Esselmont that, the decision being
made, there was no time to lose.

Kirstin had been coming to visit them before this change was spoken
about.  The only difference that this made was, that now she came home
to stay, bringing all her gear with her.  After her coming, Allison was
not long kept in suspense as to what her own winter's work might be.

"Allison," said her mistress, "I would like you to go to Firhill this
afternoon.  No, Marjorie is better at home to-day.  And, Allison, as you
will be likely to see the lady herself, you should change your gown and
put on your bonnet."

Which Allison did, wondering a little, for she had hitherto gone to
Firhill with only her cap on her head, as she had gone elsewhere.  Other
folk wondered also.  On the stone seat at the weaver's door sat the
weaver's wife, busy with her stocking, and beside her sat her friend
Mrs Coats, "resting herself" after her work was over.

Allison did not pass by them now without a word, as used to be her way
during the first days of their acquaintance; but she did not linger to
say more than a word or two, "as would have been but ceevil," Mrs Coats
said.  Allison had a message to deliver at the school, and she did not
come back again, but went, as she liked best, round by the lanes.

"She has gi'en warning.  She was ay above the place," said Mrs Coats.

"Ye can hardly say the like of that, since she has filled the place
weel," said her friend.

"But I do say it.  She goes her ways like ane that hasna been used with
doin' the bidding o' anither."

"She doesna need to be bidden.  She kens her work, and she does it.
What would ye have?" said the weaver, who had stopped his loom to hear
through the open window what was to be said.

"That's true," said his wife; "but I ken what Mistress Coats means for
a' that."

"Ye may say that!  It's easy seen, though no' just so easy shown.  Is
she like the ither lassies o' the place?  Who ever saw her bare feet?
It's hose and shoon out and in, summer and winter, with her."

"And for that matter who ever saw her bare arms, unless it was in her
ain kitchen, or in the milk-house?  Even gaen to the well her sleeves
are put doon to her hands."

"I should like to ken the folk she belongs to."

"They're decent folk, if she's a specimen o' them.  Ye needna be feared
about that," said the weaver.

"It's no' that _I'm_ feared, but ane would think that she was feared
herself.  Never a word has passed her lips of where she came from or who
she belongs to."

"Never to the like o' you and me.  But the minister's satisfied, and
Mrs Hume.  And as to the folk she cam' o', we hae naething to do wi'
them."

"That may be; but when there is naething to be said, there's maistly
something to be hid."

"And when ye can put your hand on ane that hasna something to hide frae
the een o' her neebors, ye can set her to search out the secrets o' the
minister's lass.  It winna be this day, nor the morn, that ye'll do that
same," said the weaver, raising his voice as he set his loom in motion
again.

"Eh, but your man is unco hard on the women," said Mrs Coats, with a
look which implied sympathy with the weaver's wife as well as
disapproval of the weaver.  But her friend laughed.

"Oh! ay; he's a wee hard whiles on women in general, but he is easy
eneuch wi' me."

For some reason or other Allison had to wait a while before she saw Mrs
Esselmont, and she waited in the garden.  There were not many flowers
left, but the grass was still green, and the skilful and untiring hands
of old Delvie had been at work on the place, removing all that was
unsightly, and putting in order all the rest; so that, as he said, "the
last look which his mistress got of the garden might be one to mind on
with pleasure."

"It's a bonny place," said Allison with a sigh.  The old man looked up
quickly.  "Do ye no' ken that it's ill for a young lass to sigh and sech
like that?  Is it that this 'minds ye o' anither bonny place that ye
would fain see?"  Allison smiled, but shook her head.  "I never saw a
garden like this.  But I ay liked to care for my own--"

"And ye have none now.  Is that the reason that ye sigh?"

"Maybe I may have one again.  If I do, I would like to have your advice
about it," said Allison, wondering a little at herself as she said it.

"Oh!  I'll gie you advice, and seeds, and slips, and plants as weel, gin
ye are near at hand."  Allison shook her head.

"I doubt if I ever have a garden of my own again, it will be on the
other side of the sea."

"In America?  They have grand flowers there, I hear.  But before ye go
there ye can ask me and I'll give ye seeds to take wi' ye, and maybe
slips and roots as well.  They'll 'mind you o' hame in that far land.  I
once heard o' a strong man over yonder that sat down and grat (wept) at
the sicht o' a gowan."

"Thank you," said Allison.  There were tears in her eyes though she
smiled.

"Here's my lady," said Delvie, bending to his work again.

Mrs Esselmont came slowly toward them, leaning on the arm of her maid,
a woman several years older than herself.

"You may leave me here with Allison Bain," said she; "I will take a turn
or two and then I will be in again."

She had the minister's note in her hand, but she made no allusion to it
as they moved slowly up and down.  They spoke about the flowers, and the
fair day, and about Marjorie and the new baby for a while, and then Mrs
Esselmont said:

"You have a strong arm, Allison, and a kind heart.  I am sure of it.  I
have something to say to you which I thought I could best say here.  But
I have little strength, and am weary already.  We will go into the house
first."

So into the house they went, and when Milne had stirred the fire and
made her mistress comfortable, she went away and left them together.

"Allison," said Mrs Esselmont, after a moment's silence, "I have
something to say to you."

And then she told her that she was going away for the winter because of
her ill-health, and spoke of the plan which she had proposed to
Marjorie's father and mother for the benefit of the child.  This plan
could only be carried out with Allison's help, because Mrs Hume would
never trust her child to the care of a stranger.  The mother thought
that she would neither be safe nor happy with any other.  And then she
added:

"I could only ask them to let me take her if I could have you also to
care for her.  I cannot say certainly that she will ever be strong and
well, but I have good hope that she may be much stronger than she is
now.  Think about it.  You need not decide at once, but the sooner the
better.  We have no time to lose."

Allison listened with changing colour and downcast eyes.

"I would go with you and the child.  I would be glad to go--but--"

She rose and came a little nearer to the sofa on which Mrs Esselmont
was lying.

"But I cannot go without telling you something first, and you may not
wish me to go when you have heard."

"Allison," said Mrs Esselmont, "stand where I can see your face."

She regarded her a moment and then she said gravely:

"I cannot believe that you have anything to say to me that will change
my thoughts of you.  You have won the respect and confidence of your
master and mistress, who ought to know you well by this time.  I am
willing to trust you as they have done without knowing more of you than
they have seen with their own eyes.  I think you are a good woman,
Allison Bain.  You have not knowingly done what is wrong."

"I did not wait to consider whether I was right or wrong, but I should
have done what I did even if I had known it to be wrong.  And I would
not undo it now, even if you were to tell me I ought to do so.  I could
not.  I would rather die," said Allison, speaking low.

There was a long silence and Allison stood still with her eyes fixed on
the floor.

"Sit down, Allison, where I can see you.  Put off your shawl and your
bonnet.  You are too warm in this room."

Allison let her shawl slip from her shoulders and untied the strings of
her black bonnet.

"Take it off," said Mrs Esselmont, as Allison hesitated.

Her hair had grown long by this time and was gathered in a knot at the
back of her head, but little rings and wavy locks escaped here and
there--brown, with a touch of gold in them--and without the disguise of