corner of the field, to a point where cups could be conveniently filled
and distributed at the tables.

But from the midst of the pleasant confusion that reigned supreme in
this department, Davie suddenly disappeared, leaving the zealous, but
less expert Ben to take his place.

"He's got something else to do, I expect, Aunt Betsey, and you'll have
to get along with me somehow, for I saw him tearing down toward the
river like sixty, and there would be no catching him even if I was going
to try."

"There was nothing the matter, was there, Ben?" asked Katie; but so
little did she think it possible, that she did not even wait for the
answer which Ben was very ready to give.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

POOR DAVIE.

It was not that Davie thought anything serious was the matter that, as
Ben said, "he went tearing" down the hill toward the river, but that he
feared there might be before all was done, unless there was some way of
preventing it.

"Where are them boys?" he heard one mother say to another, as he passed
with his empty pitcher in his hand, and the answer was--

"They've gone down to the river, I expect.  But I don't suppose there's
any danger--not to Gershom boys, who swim there every summer day of
their lives."

But there were many boys and girls also on the grounds who did not
belong to Gershom, and to some of them a river big enough for a boat to
sail on, would have a charm which must certainly draw them to its banks,
and it would have been a good plan to appoint a committee to see to
such, Davie thought.

"I'll just have a look down there," he said to himself, and as soon as
he was over the fence and out of sight, he ran rapidly toward the river.
There were all sorts of children there, some of whom had wandered down
to the mill-pond.  There were two boats on the river, but there were
grown people as well as children in them, and there were grown people
walking on the bank who might justly be considered responsible for the
safety of those who could not take care of themselves, and Davie was
about to turn up the hill again, when a little fellow hailed him.

"I say, Davie, what do you suppose Dannie Green and Frankie Holt and two
more boys are doing?  They have taken your raft and are going to have a
sail on the Black Pool--so they said."

"They could never do it," said Davie, with a sudden fear rising.

There was no turning up the hill after that.  He ran across the two
fields to the point where the raft had been left.  It was gone sure
enough, and he hastened on, stumbling over the stones and timber which
Jacob Holt had last winter accumulated on the Varney place.  Then he
went through the strip of woods, and round the rocky point beyond,
thinking all the time that such little fellows never could have pushed
the raft so far up the stream, and that it was foolish for him to run.

But he was not a minute too soon.  He could never tell afterward,
whether he saw the raft, or heard the frightened cry first, but he knew
that a boy had overbalanced and fallen into the water while trying to
reach bottom with his pole in the deeper waters of the pool; and the
next moment he had thrown off boots and coat, and was striking out
toward the spot where he had disappeared.  The boy would rise in a
minute, he thought, and he could get hold of him.

But he did not rise for what seemed to Davie a very long time, and might
never rise of himself.  There was not a particle of risk, Davie knew, in
diving to search for him, and if there had been, he would hardly have
considered it in the excitement of the moment.  It would have been the
last of little Frank Holt if he had considered it long.  The little
fellow had fallen head foremost, and possibly had struck his head on one
of the roots or sticks that had accumulated in the bottom of the pool,
for when Davie brought him to the surface, he seemed quite insensible,
and he struck out for the Ythan side of the pool.  He did what he could
for the boy, letting the water flow from his mouth and ears, and rubbing
him rapidly for a time.

He caught sight of the other lads as they reached the opposite shore
with the raft, and saw them running at full speed in the direction of
the Grove.  But he felt that he must not wait for the help they would be
sure to send, and gently lifting the boy in his arms, he went with him
with all speed through the wood and up the hill to the house.

A single sentence told the story, and in a minute little Frank was in a
warm bath and then in a warm bed.  He soon showed such signs of life as
encouraged them to hope that there was not much the matter with him; and
then Davie thought of the consternation which the other lads would cause
when they carried the tale to the Grove.

"I doubt you'll need to go as quick as you can, Davie.  Think of the
poor father and mother if they should hear."

"Ay, lad, make what haste you can," said his grandfather, and neither of
them were the less urgent that the child was the son of their "enemy."

So Davie went down the field again in his wet clothes, but that mattered
the less as he had the river to swim, the raft being on the other side.
He put on his dry coat over his wet garments, and no one seemed to
notice as he entered the Grove.  No rumour of the accident had as yet
spread through the crowd, and Davie spoke only to Miss Elizabeth, as he
met her on the way home with her father.  Happily the father and mother
knew nothing of the matter, till by and by the boy, wrapped in one of
Mrs Fleming's best blankets, was carried and set with his bundle of wet
clothes in the hall.  It was his uncle Clifton who took him home, and
all that he could tell about the matter was that he had fallen into the
Black Pool, and somebody had taken him out.

Dan Green kept his own counsel, running straight home and putting
himself to bed.  After his first sleep, however, he woke in such a
fright that he could keep the tale no longer, but told it to his mother
with many sobs and tears.  His mother soothed and comforted him,
believing that he had been startled out of a troubled dream.  But the
next day the story was told in Gershom at least a thousand times; and
when Davie went into the post-office for his grandfather's weekly paper,
he heard, with mingled amazement and disgust, extravagant praises of his
courage in saving the boy's life.

"Courage?  Nonsense!  Risk?  Stuff!"  He never bathed in Black Pool that
he did not dive in at one side and come out at the other.  Why, his
little brother could do that.  There was no more danger for them than
for a musk-rat, and Davie hurried away to escape more words about it,
and to avoid meeting Mr Maxwell and his friends, who were coming down
the street.  In his haste he nearly stumbled over Jacob Holt, who held
him fast, and that was worse than all the rest.  For Jacob could not
utter a word, but choked and mumbled and shook his hand a great many
times, and when David fairly got away, he vowed that he should not be
seen at the post-office again for a while, and he was not, but it was
for a better reason than he gave to himself then.

For Davie went about all next day with a heavy weight upon him, and a
dull aching at his bones, as new as it was painful.  He refused his
dinner, and grew sick at the sight of his supper; and tossed, and
turned, and muttered all night upon his bed, longing for the day.  But
the slow-coming light made him wish for the darkness again, for it
dazzled his heavy eyes, and put strange shapes on the most familiar
objects, and set them all in motion in the oddest way.  A queer sort of
light it seemed to be, for though he closed his eyes he did not shut it
out, and the changes on things and the odd movements seemed to be going
on still within the lids.

So in a little he rose and dressed, and roused his brothers to bring the
cows into the yard, meaning to help as usual with the milking.  But the
milking was done and the breakfast over, and worship, and no one had
seen Davie.  He was lying tossing and muttering on the hay in the big
barn, and there at last, in the course of his morning's work, his
grandfather found him.  He turned a dull, dazed look upon him as he
raised himself up, but he did not speak.

"Are you no' well, Davie?  Why did you no' come to your breakfast?"

"I'm coming," said Davie, but he did not move.

His grandfather touched his burning hand and his heart sank.

"Come awa' to your grandmother."

"Yes, we'll go to grannie," said Davie.

Blinded by the sunlight, he staggered on, and his grandfather put his
arm about him.  Mrs Fleming met them at the door as they drew near.

"What can ail the laddie?" asked his grandfather, with terror in his
eyes.

They made him sit down, and Katie brought some cold water.  He drank
some and put some on his head, and declared himself better.

"It is some trash that he has eaten at that weary picnic," said grannie.

"No, grannie, I hadna a chance to eat."

"And you have eaten little since.  Well, never mind.  You'll go to your
bed, and I'll get your mother to make you some of her herb tea."

"And I'll be better the morn, grannie," said Davie, with an uncertain
smile.

He drank his mother's bitter infusion, and tossed and turned and moaned
and muttered, all day and all night, and for many days and nights, till
weeks had passed away, and a time of sore trial it was to them all.

He was never very ill, they said.  He was never many hours together that
he did not know those who were about his bed, and young Dr Wainwright,
who came every day to see him, never allowed that he was in great
danger.  But as day after day went on, and he was no better, their
hearts grew sick with hope deferred.  Grannie alone never gave way to
fear.  She grew weak and weary, and could only sit beside him, little
able to help him; but he never opened his eyes but her cheerful smile
greeted him, and her cheerful words encouraged him.  His mother waited
on him for a while, but she was not strong, and had no spring of hope
within her.  Katie worked all day and watched all night, and scorned the
idea of weariness, but the Ythan water that trickled around her
milk-pans in the dairy, carried daily some tears of hers down to the
Black Pool.

"It is grandfather I'm thinking about," said she one day when she burst
out crying in Miss Betsey's sight.  "I am afraid I shall never be able
to keep from thinking that God has been hard on grandfather, if anything
should happen to Davie."

"But God is not hard on your grandfather and there is nothing going to
happen to Davie," said Betsey, too honest to reprove the girl for the
expression of thoughts which she had not been able to keep out of her
own mind.  It was the plunge into the Black Pool and the going about
afterward in his wet clothes that had brought on this illness, and that
it should be God's will that David Fleming's grandson, his hope and
stay, should lose his health, perhaps his life, in saving the son of
Jacob Holt, looked to Miss Betsey a terrible mystery.  She did not say
that God was hard on him, as poor Katie was afraid of doing; but when,
now and then, there came a half hour when it seemed doubtful whether
Davie would get through, the thought that God would not afflict His
servant to the uttermost helped her to still hope for the lad.  As far
as words and deeds went, she showed herself always hopeful for him, and
did more than even the doctor himself in helping him to pull through.

In country places like Gershom, where professional nurses were not often
to be found, when severe sickness comes into a family necessitating
constant attention by night as well as by day, the neighbours, far and
near, might be relied upon for help, as far as it could be given by
persons coming and going for a night or a day.  The Flemings had had
severe sickness among them more than once, but they had never called on
their neighbours for help, and they could not bring themselves to do so
now, even for night-watching.  That she should trust Davie to any of the
kind young fellows who night after night offered, their services, was to
grannie impossible.  She did not doubt their good-will, but she doubted
their wisdom and their power to keep awake after their long day's work.
"And it is no' our way," said Mrs Fleming, and that ended the
discussions, as it had ended them on former occasions.

"But they never can get through it alone this time," said Miss Betsey,
"and I don't know but it is my duty to see about it, as much as
anybody."

It was just in the hot days in the beginning of August when Betsey was
wont to give up butter-making and set to the making of cheese, the very
worst time of the year for her to get away from home.  But she saw no
help for it.

"You must do the best you can, mother, you and Cynthy, and Ben will give
what help you need with the lifting.  If I should never make another
cheese as long as I live, I can't let Mrs Fleming wear herself out, and
maybe lose her boy after all."

So Miss Betsey went over one morning "to inquire," she said, and some
trifling help being needed for a minute, she took off her bonnet, and
"concluded to stay a spell," and that night Ben brought her bag over
which she had packed in the morning, and she stayed as long as she was
needed, to the help and comfort of them all.

As for the grandfather, it went hard with him these days.  He was
outwardly silent and grave as usual, giving no voice to the anxiety that
devoured him.  But at night when his wife slumbered, worn out with the
day's watching, or when she seemed to slumber, and in Pine-tree Hollow,
which in the time of his former troubles had become to him a refuge and
a sanctuary, his cry ascended to God in an agony of confession and
entreaty.  He, too, wondered that it should be God's will that the child
of his enemy should be saved, and his child's life made the sacrifice;
but he did not consciously rebel against that will.  It was God's doing;
Davie had not even known whose child it was whom he tried to save.  This
was God's doing from beginning to end.

Far be it from him to rebel against God, he said to his wife when,
fearing for him and all that he might be thinking, she spoke to him
about it.  It was a terrible trouble, but it did not embitter him as
former trouble had done, and his enemy had fewer of his thoughts at this
time than might have been supposed.

But he had not forgiven him.  He knew in his heart that he had not
forgiven him.  When Jacob came with his wife, grateful and sorry, and
eager to do something to express it, he kept quiet in a corner of
Davie's room, into which they were not permitted to enter.  Mrs Fleming
said all that was needful on the occasion, and when Jacob broke down and
could not speak of his boy who had been given back to them almost from
the dead, she laid her hand gently upon his arm and said, "Let God's
goodness make a better man of you," and even Mrs Jacob did not feel
like resenting the words.  But there was no one who could help them in
their present trouble, she repeated, as they went sorrowfully away.

No one except Miss Betsey, grannie felt gratefully, as she turned into
the house again--Miss Betsey, who seemed made of iron, and never owned
to being tired.  She slept one night in three, when Katie and her mother
kept the watching, and at other times she took "catnaps" in the
rocking-chair, or on Mrs Fleming's bed, when grannie was at her
brightest and could care for Davie in the early part of the day.

And poor Davie tossed and muttered through many days and nights, never
so delirious as to have forgotten the summer's work, but never quite
clear in his mind, and always struggling with some unknown power that,
against his will, kept him back from doing his part in it.  Till one day
he looked into his grandfather's face with comprehending eyes, and said
weakly, but clearly:

"It must be time for the cutting of the wheat, grandfather; I have been
sick a good while, surely?"

"Ay, have you; a good while.  But you are better now, the doctor says.
But never heed about the cutting of the wheat.  Mark Varney has done all
that, and more.  We have had a good harvest, Davie."

"Have we, grandfather?" said Davie, looking with surprise and dismay at
the tears on his grandfather's face.

"God has been good to us, laddie," said Mr Fleming, trying to speak
calmly, and then he rose and went out.

"So we've had a good harvest, have we?  And Mark Varney!  I wonder where
he turned up.  Oh, well! it's all right I daresay--and--I'm tired
already."  And he turned his head on the pillow and fell asleep.

Yes, Mark Varney had taken Davie's work into his own hand.  He came over
with Mr Maxwell as soon as he heard the lad was ill.  He made no formal
offer of help, but just set himself to do what was to be done.  He had
all his own way about it, for Mr Fleming was too anxious to take much
heed of the work, since some one else had taken it in hand; and no one
knew better how work should be done than Mark.  He had all the help he
needed, for the neighbours were glad to offer help, and give it, too, in
this time of need.  The harvest was got through and the grain housed as
successfully as the hay had been before Davie, lank and stooping, crept
out over the fields of Ythan.

It was Sunday afternoon again when Katie and he went slowly down the
brae toward the cherry-trees.  Their grandfather and grandmother looked
after them with loving eyes.

"The Lord is ay kind," said Mrs Fleming, and then she read the 103rd
Psalm in the old Scottish version, which she "whiles" liked to do.  She
paused now and then because her voice trembled, and on some of the
verses she lingered, reading them twice over, seeking from her husband
audible assent to the comfort they gave:

  "`The Lord our God is merciful,
      And He is gracious,
  Long-suffering, and slow to wrath,
      In mercy plenteous.'

"Ay is He! as we ken well this day.  And again:--

  "`Such pity as a father hath
  Unto his children dear,
  Like pity shows the Lord to such
  As worship Him in fear.'

"`Such pity as a father hath.'  We ken well what that means, Dawvid; a
father's pity; such pity and love as we felt for our Davie, when he lay
tossing in his bed, poor laddie.  And--as we felt for--him that's
gone--"

She could say no more at the moment, even if it would have been wise to
do so.  But by and by she rose and came toward him, and standing half
behind him, laying her soft, wrinkled old hand on his grey head, she
said softly:

"If I could but hear you say that you forgive--Jacob Holt!"

Then there was a long silence in which she did not move.

"Because--I have been thinking that the Lord let our laddie do that--
good turn for His--to put us in mind--" Again she paused.  "And I would
fain hear you say it, for His sake who has loved us, and forgiven so
much to us."

"I wish him no ill.  I wouldna hurt a hair of his head.  I leave him in
God's hands."

He spoke huskily, with long pauses between the sentences.  Whether he
would have said more or not she could not tell.  There was no time for
more, for the bairns came in with their mother from the Sunday-school,
and quiet was at an end for the moment.

It was a long time before the subject was touched upon between them
again, and it was he who spoke first.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

POOR GRANNIE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Not unless she has money of her own.  And if she has--well, ministers'
folks are pretty much so, wherever they be, or whatever they've got; and
such articles of luxury are not the thing for ministers' wives--not in
_this_ wooden country."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And they never told me, grannie," said he, indignantly.

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

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

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

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

"Is she no', think you, Katie?  She says it, but oh, my heart fails me."

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

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

"But, grandfather; He never does, and He hurts to heal--as I have heard
you say yourself."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The old man rose hastily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, my lassie?"

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

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

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

"Wandering?" repeated Mr Fleming drearily.

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

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

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

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

She opened her eyes and smiled.

"Oh, ay!  I'll take it.  And I could take a bit of bread, I think."

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

"I think I'm better, if I were only stronger a bit," said grannie.

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

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

"She is wandering," whispered Katie's mother.

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

Katie followed her mother from the room.

"It is not far away now."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well?" said Davie.

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

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

"Are you no' coming to your bed, Dawvid?  It is time surely."

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

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

"But I might disturb her--and I might fall asleep."

But he yielded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

POOR OLD SQUIRE.

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

"There will be nights when you will need me more cousin," said she, "and
I think--"

But Elizabeth's face made her pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, I hope he will, and I guess he'd better stay a spell next time he
comes."

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

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

"And so you may, with no _if_ about it, only there is a better place to
lay it, as you don't need me to tell you by this time.  She thinks she
knows what trouble is, and perhaps she does," continued Betsey as she
followed Elizabeth with her thoughts.  "For trouble is just as folks
take it, and she has been pretty tenderly dealt with hitherto.  But I
guess she is not one that trouble can do any real harm to.  The Lord
sees it all, and she is in His hand, and I needn't worry about her.
She'll be kept safe through it all."

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

"No!  When is Clifton coming back?" asked he.

"To-morrow, I hope," said Elizabeth.

"He must not go away again."

"No.  Not for a time."

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

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

Elizabeth looked up startled.

"I don't think I rebel, but--"

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

"He is all I have got."

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

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

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

Elizabeth made a movement of dissent.

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

Elizabeth raised herself up and looked at her in amazement.

"How you talk, Cousin Betsey!" said she.

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

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

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

Elizabeth said nothing to this.

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

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

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

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

Elizabeth looked at her startled.

Betsey went on:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Some time you will tell me," said Elizabeth.

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

"I think I know," said Elizabeth.

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

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

"Betsey," said the squire's voice from the other room.

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

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

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

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

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

"I feel rested.  It won't hurt me, Lizzie.  Better go now, and have it
over with--"

Elizabeth looked at her cousin.

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

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

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

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

"That is it.  I ought to look them all over myself.  But you'll have to
do it, Lizzie."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It is Hughie Fleming's writing!  I know it well," said Betsey.

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

"Who knows?  It is possible he never did."

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

Betsey shook her head.

"It isn't likely he'd remember it, and it might trouble him.  It is
about that old trouble likely."

"Perhaps I should drop it into the embers?"

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

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

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

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

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

Betsey still hesitated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They were greatly at a loss what to do.

"If we could consult some one."

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

Elizabeth opened it with trembling fingers.

"I hope it is not wrong."

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

A single glance was enough.

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

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

"And he never saw his father again."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr Maxwell read it in silence.

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

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

"He can't be so cold-blooded as people suppose," thought she.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I will go too," said Jacob, rising.

"Had you better?"

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

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

"Amen!" said Betsey, solemnly.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

FORGIVENESS.

The longed-for dawn came to Katie with a sudden chill and sinking of the
heart that felt for a minute like the utter failure of bodily strength.
When she put the lamp out, and put aside the curtain so that the
daylight fell on the two grey old faces lying on the same pillow, her
heart beat hard with sudden fear.

How wan and sunken and spent they looked!  What if they were both to
die?  The little gleam of red that had now and then, through all her
illness, showed itself on grannie's cheeks was quite gone now, and she
would never be whiter, Katie thought, as she bent down to catch the
sound of her breath coming and going so faintly.  The two wrinkled,
toil-worn hands still clasped each other in sleep.

"They should go together," said Katie, with a sob, "but oh! not yet."

She was not experienced enough to know whether this motionless sleep, so
different from the fitful, broken slumbers of the last few weeks, was a
hopeful sign or not; if her strength could be kept up, the doctor had
said, and so had Miss Betsey--and perhaps she ought to wake her and give
her something.  As she stood looking at her, her grandfather opened his
eyes.

"Grannie's better, I think," said she, with a quick impulse to give him
comfort.  "She has been sleeping quietly, and her hand is cool and
moist.  If you'll bide still beside her, I'll go and get a drop of warm
milk from Brownie, to be ready when she wakes."

If she had stayed a minute longer she must have cried at the sight of
the old man's face as he raised himself up and bent over that other face
so white and still.  She did cry a little when she went out, and
shivered in the chill of the September morning, but she did not linger
over her task.  When she came in she found her grandfather risen, and
standing by the bed.  Her grandmother was awake now.

"Are you there, Katie?  Is your tea masket?  Give a cup of tea to your
grandfather now; it will refresh him; and I think I could take a cup
myself."

"All right, grannie dear," said Katie, cheerfully; "and in the meantime
take a little milk," and she held the cup to her lips.  "And now, if you
should fall asleep, it will be all the better till the tea be ready."

Katie smoothed the pillows and put the bedclothes straight, and touched
her lips to the white cheek; then it was turned to rest on the thin hand
and grannie fell asleep.  Davie rose up at Katie's bidding, and went to
get wood to kindle the fire.  Katie let the curtain fall again over the
open window, and softly closed the door, as she followed her grandfather
out of the room.

"We'll let her sleep," said the old man, and he went out with slow,
languid steps into the sunshine.

It was hardly sunshine yet, for though the light lay clear on the
hill-tops, all the valley was in shadow, and the mist lay low along the
course of Beaver River in great irregular masses, white, but with great
"splatches" of colour here and there where the sun touched it.  The dew
lay heavy on the grass, and the garden bushes and the orchard trees, and
on Katie's flowers, and the sweet breath of green things came pleasantly
to his sense as he sat down on his accustomed seat by the door.

Birds were chirping in the orchard trees, and there was the scarcely
less pleasant sound of barn-door fowls near at hand.  The sheep behind
the pasture-bars sent their greeting over the dewy fields, and the cows
in the yard "mowed" placidly as they stirred one another with soft, slow
movements.  How fair and peaceful the place looked!  How full of calm
and quiet, yet strong life!

The old man closed his eyes on it all.  He was not thinking, he was
hardly feeling.  The night had brought broken slumbers, but not rest,
and he was very weary.  A wondering question, whether she could be going
to die on such a day as this, passed through his mind.  It did not seem
possible.

"And besides, she and he said she could not die till I had forgiven my
enemy."

But he was too weary to go over it all again--the long heart-breaking
story.  He could only sit still with closed eyes, waiting.

And it was thus that the minister and Jacob Holt found him.  They had
said little to one another as they passed through the dewy fields, and
under the long shadows of the wayside trees together.  Mr Maxwell at
first had said a word as to the mission they had undertaken, and asked a
question or two as to how they had better make it known, but Jacob had
answered in monosyllables, or not at all.

The last part of their walk had been over the fields again, and they
came suddenly upon Mr Fleming sitting at the door.  Katie had seen them
coming, and was standing at her grandfather's side, her hand laid on his
shoulder, and she looked at them as they drew near with questioning,
almost angry eyes.  Mr Maxwell held out his hand to her.

"Is he sleeping, Katie?"

But as he spoke Mr Fleming looked up.  He did not see Jacob for the
moment.  He held out his hand and tried to rise.

"No; sit still," and Mr Maxwell sat down beside him.

"It is kind of you to come so early.  Katie thinks her--no worse this
morning.  But you must think her dying to come so soon again, and at
this hour."

"No.  I am glad she is no worse.  It was not that I thought her dying.
I came for another reason."

"Well, you are kindly welcome anyway."

"I went to see Squire Holt this morning.  No--he is not dying, though it
cannot be long now."

"Ay! ay!  Well, he is an old man, and he is ending a useful life."

He spoke dreamily in his utter weariness, looking away over the fields
to the sunshiny hills beyond.

"I have something to give you, Mr Fleming," said the minister gently,
"something which Miss Holt found among her father's papers."

"Well, well," said the old man, waiting quietly, almost indifferently,
for what might be said.

"It is a letter, written long ago by one dead and gone, who was very
dear to you."

A change came over her grandfather's face, but whether it was because of
what Mr Maxwell had said, or because he saw Jacob Holt standing before
him, and quite near him, Katie could not tell.  Jacob moistened his dry
lips, and tried twice to speak before a sound came.

"It is a letter--and before you read it--I beg you to forgive me for any
harm I may ever have done--to you or yours."

The little Flemings had gathered about the door, but their mother drew
them away into the house.  Katie kept her place by her grandfather, and
so did Davie, but he was out of sight in the porch.  Mr Fleming rose,
and stood face to face with his enemy; but when he spoke it was to Mr
Maxwell that he turned.

"She said, she could never go--up yonder--till I have forgiven him--and
I am an old man, now."

He tottered a little as he turned to Jacob, but he held out his hand:

"God forgive you.  And God help me to forgive you.  And God forgive me
too, for I doubt it has been rebellion with me all this time."

"Amen," said Jacob, and then he moved away, and Mr Fleming sank down on
the seat again.  He seemed to have forgotten that there was anything
more to be said, and after a moment's hesitation, Mr Maxwell put the
letter into Katie's hand.

"The letter, grandfather," said she softly.

"Ay, the letter."

He took it, holding it out at arm's length that he might see, but when
his eye rested on the familiar characters he uttered a sharp,
inarticulate cry and let it fall.  The blood rushed to his face till it
was crimson, and then receding, left him pale as death.

"Grandfather, come into grannie," said Katie, putting her arms about
him.  "Davie, come and help our grandfather."

"Grannie's better, grandfather," said Davie; "come."

"But the letter," said the old man, faintly.  "Oh, ay!  Grandmother will
like to see the letter!"

But he did not rise.

"The letter.  Where's the letter?"

Jacob Holt stooped and lifted it from the grass where it had fallen, and
Davie looked at him with amazed and angry eyes, as he opened it and
taking out the folded slip of paper, offered it to him, while he kept
the squire's letter and the money in his hand.

"Read that first," said Jacob hoarsely, and then he went away round the
corner of the house out of sight, and Mr Maxwell followed him.

"Read it, Katie, lassie."

With trembling fingers Davie opened the letter and gave it to his
sister.  Kneeling beside him, Katie read:

"Father, I have sinned against heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more
worthy to be called thy son."

There was more written, but she got no further, for a cry burst from his
lips--whether of joy or pain they could not tell--and his head fell on
Katie's shoulder.

"Whisht, Davie.  Lay him down gently, and get a little water.  Be quiet,
man.  Grannie will hear you."

For Davie had cried out in his terror at the sight of his grandfather's
deathlike face.  The cry brought out his mother, and Mr Maxwell and
Jacob hurried back again.  He was better in a minute, and they led him
into the house, and made him lie down.  In a little while Katie brought
him some tea.

"Grannie bade me, grandfather, and you must take it you ken."

She knelt beside him, holding the cup for him, and by coaxing and
entreating made him take a little food.

"And now you must just rest a while."

They had brought him into the front room "for quiet," Katie said, as he
looked round in surprise; "rest and think about it," she whispered,
hardly venturing to say more.  Gradually it came back to him that
something had happened.  By this time breakfast was over, and worship,
and Katie brought Mr Maxwell in and left him there.

Jacob Holt would not stay to breakfast, though Davie and his mother had
asked him to stay.  Before he went he gave the squire's letter to Davie.

"Give it to your grandfather, but do not read it," said he.

He had something to say to Mr Maxwell also.

"I don't know just how much Mr Fleming knows of what happened long ago.
Hugh Fleming, after much entreaty from several of us, signed my
father's name where he ought not.  He alone had the skill to do it.  It
was to save--some of us from much trouble.  He was not in the scrape.
He was not to be benefited personally by it, except that he was
persuaded that some foolish deed of his could be more easily kept from
his father's knowledge if he helped to screen the rest by yielding.  If
he had stayed at home and met it, it would have been well; my father
made no trouble about it.  But he went away--and died.  And you must
tell his father--"

Jacob turned his back upon the minister for a full minute, and then
without another word went away.

It was Mr Maxwell who read the letter to Mr Fleming after all.  There
were only a few lines more than Katie read: "I trust God has forgiven
me, and that He will keep me safe from sin.  Forgive me, dear father and
mother and James."

And then his name and another line: "I will make up to you, dear father,
for all you suffer now for me."

"And He has kept him safe," said the minister, "all these years."

Katie came now and then, and looked in, but she did not speak, except
once to say that grannie was sleeping still.  Even Katie never knew how
the minister and her grandfather passed the long morning.  It was noon
when she went in and told them that dinner was nearly ready, and that
grannie was awake and asking for them.  Afterward Mr Maxwell told Miss
Elizabeth something about it.

How as it gradually became clear to the father that his dear son's light
had not gone out in darkness, but that he had repented of his sin, and
confessed it, and had been as he trusted forgiven, his grief and shame
and penitence were even deeper than his joy.

"To think that I should have been misdoubting the Lord all this time, as
though He had broken His promise to me!  And how patient He has been--
long-suffering and full of compassion.  I have been hard on Jacob Holt.
If God had dealt with me as I have in my heart dealt with him!"

The minister did not always know whether he was speaking to him, or to
himself.  By and by, when he got calmer, and "better acquainted" with
the thought of the new joy, he told the minister, in broken words, the
story of his love for his son, and the bitterness of his loss, and his
wonder and sympathy grew as he listened.

What depths of woe the old man had sounded!  With what agonies of
bitterness and anger which had grown to be hatred almost, as the years
went on, had he struggled.  And he had sometimes yielded to the misery
of doubt of God's care.  He had thought the struggle vain.

He had never been quite at peace with himself through it all.  God had
never left him to an easy conscience, where Jacob Holt was concerned,
even at his quietest time, and when things were at their best with him.
He had never left him to himself, and now the evil spirit was cast out.

"The patience He has had with me.  It is wonderful!" he said again and
again.  "And now I ask nothing but that He may do His will with me and
mine," he added, as Katie came in.

"I think grannie is no worse, though she is very weak and cannot bear
much," was Katie's gentle caution, lest she should be excited overmuch.

He did not answer her, but turned to Mr Maxwell and repeated his words:

"I ask nothing but that God may do His will with me and mine."

"That is always best," said the minister.

Katie looked from one to the other.

"Come, grandfather," said she.

He went slowly out, touching the door and the walls to steady himself
by, and when he went in to grannie, Katie softly shut the door.  There
was no one to tell what was said there between the two.  If Mr Fleming
had needed anything utterly to break his heart with loving shame, and
thankfulness, and sorrow, the glad serenity and trust of his dear old
wife would have done it.  He put restraint upon himself lest he should
excite her beyond her strength, but she smiled at him.

"Joy seldom does harm, and I am better, though I am but weak and
feckless.  I'll soon mend now."

"And are you really better?  I could almost find it in my heart to let
you go to Him, nay, I canna say gladly, but God's will be done, whether
you be to stay or go."

"Surely.  And in His good time He'll take me, but no' just yet.  You
canna spare me yet."

The old man laughed a glad, tremulous laugh, but the tears were not very
far from his eyes, and he patted gently the wrinkled hand, grown thin
and limp.

"And you'll just go to your dinner with the minister and the bairns, and
I'll rest myself a wee while, for, oh!  I have little strength.  But
I'll soon have more."

After dinner Mr Maxwell came in to say a few words to Mrs Fleming, and
"to give thanks," as she said, and then the old people were left alone
together again.  Whether they slept or not, grannie could not tell.

"But we didna think long, my dear," said she to Katie, with her faint,
glad smile.

Mr Maxwell would have liked to lie all the afternoon on the orchard
grass, with Davie and his mother sitting near, and Katie and the rest
coming and going, as the work permitted, for it was sweet and restful
there.  But the old squire might wish to see him.  He had visited him
almost daily for a while, and so after a little he rose and said he must
go.

"And grannie is better, but Miss Elizabeth will have no glad morning.
Oh, if we could comfort her," said Katie, gravely.

"And don't you think that all that has comforted you all to-day, will
comfort her also?" said Mr Maxwell.

"Miss Elizabeth has always rejoiced with the joyful, and sympathised
with those who were in sorrow," said Katie's mother.

"And that is why she is loved so dearly," said Katie.

"And she was ay fond of grannie," said Davie.

"She will be comforted," said the minister.

And Miss Betsey had her wish.  One day her mother and Cynthia came down,
and Ben went over for Mr Fleming, and old Mrs Wainwright, and Deacon
Stone, and two or three others, and the minister, and they all
remembered their Lord together.  The "cup of blessing" was passed from
the trembling hands of Mr Fleming to the hands of Jacob Holt, which
trembled also, and so the very last drop of bitterness passed out of the
old man's heart forever.

The end was drawing near now, and the old squire, looking glad and
solemn too, held his daughter's hand, and welcomed them all by name as
they came, and bade them farewell as they went away, "hoping to see them
again," he said, but knowing, as did they all, that it must be on "the
other side."  Mr Fleming stayed when the others went away, and
Elizabeth gave him her seat by her father for a little while.  They had
not much to say to one another.  In all their intercourse the squire had
been the talker, but he was past all that now.  But he was not past
noticing the peaceful look that had already come to the face of his
friend.

"You feel better, don't you?  It has done you good?" meaning doubtless
the communion they had enjoyed together with their Lord and Master.

Mr Fleming hardly knew what he meant, but he said gently, "Ay, it has
done me good."

For a moment it came into his thoughts to speak to the squire about the
letter, and the joy it had brought to him at last.  But he was tired and
his thoughts were beginning to wander, and he doubted whether he could
make him understand.

"He'll ken where he is going," said he to himself, but to the dying man
he said nothing but "Fare ye well; and the Lord be with you in the
valley."  And then he went away.

But not without a word from Elizabeth.

"Dear Mr Fleming," said she, holding his hand when they were at the
door, "you must let me say how glad I am for you and for his mother."

"Ay, that you are, I am very sure."

"If only it had come--long ago," said Elizabeth.

A momentary shadow passed over his face.

"Ay.  It seems strange to us.  There is only one thing sure--His time is
best."

Then Elizabeth sent her love to Mrs Fleming and to Katie, and her
mother, and then she touched with her lips the old man's furrowed cheek,
and some who saw him leave his old friend's house could not but wonder
at the peaceful brightness of his face that day.

There was another day of watching and waiting, and then a few days of
silence in the darkened house, and then the old squire was laid in his
grave with such marks of honour as his fellow-townsmen could give.
People from other towns, and from all the country round, came to Gershom
that day, and many a kindly word was spoken of the dead, and many a tale
told of good deeds done in secret, of friendly help and counsel given in
time of need, and all agreed that a good man and true had gone to his
rest from among them, and that not many like him were left behind.

And though all that great multitude could not see the open grave and
Elizabeth and Clifton and Jacob at the head, and Betsey and her mother
and Ben and all the rest standing near, no man left Gershom that day who
had not heard how, when the first clods fell on the coffin-lid, and
Jacob shuddered and grew white as death, old David Fleming, one of the
bearers, went forward and gave him his arm to lean upon till the grave
was filled and the last word spoken.  Of course these strangers did not
know all that this implied to both these men, but every one in Gershom
knew and was glad for them both.

And then when all was over, and Mr Maxwell, in a voice that was not
quite firm, had, in the name of the mourners, thanked the assembled
friends for their presence and sympathy on the solemn occasion,
Elizabeth and Clifton and Jacob went home with the feeling strong upon
them that the old life was at an end forever, and it was truer for them
all than either of them knew.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

BUSINESS.

It would have been no longer possible for Clifton Holt to refuse all
active interest in the business that had hitherto been carried on by
Jacob in the name of himself and father.  The brothers had long known
the arrangements made by their father with regard to the division of his
property among his children after his death, and this division made it
necessary that Clifton should give both time and pains to a right
understanding of how affairs stood.

Elizabeth was to have the house in the village and the home farm,
together with a certain sum of money, part of which was invested in the
business.  She was not to be a partner in the business.  It would be
wrong, her father said, at least it would be uncomfortable for her to be
made in that way responsible for risks of which she knew nothing.  If
all should agree that her money should be retained in the business, then
of course her brothers would give her the same security that they would
give to any one else who intrusted property to them.  The sum was a
large one, but, had all things been going well with them during the last
few years, not larger than was right as her share of her father's
wealth.

For the rest, the business was to be equally in the hands of the two
brothers, and the real estate equally divided between them.  All this
had been arranged at the time when Jacob was formally received as his
father's partner.  It was a just arrangement, giving the younger brother
no undue advantage, though it might seem to do so, for Jacob had before
that time spent a large part of the share of the property to which,
according to Canadian law, he had a claim at his father's second
marriage.  He had acknowledged the arrangement to be just at the time it
was made, and still acknowledged it, although the fact that his brother
had not, as was expected, come to take his share of the work and risks
of the business when he came of age might have given him some cause to
complain.

He might have complained if all this time he had been prospering in his
management of their affairs; but as it was, he said little, and allowed
Clifton to come gradually to a knowledge of how it was with them.

Up to a late date Clifton's plan had been, either to remain as a sort of
sleeping partner in the business, thus securing a certain income to
himself without trouble; or to claim a division of the property, and
take his share, leaving Jacob to carry on the business in his own name.
This was the course which his sister foresaw and feared, knowing that
such a course must bring trouble and loss to them all.

But within the last few months Clifton's idea and plans had undergone a
change.  By the way in which he set himself to work, intent on mastering
the details of the business in all its branches, it became evident that
before many years were over he would stand fair to take his father's
place as the first man in that part of the country.

The more Clifton looked into the state of their affairs, the less
satisfaction he felt with regard to them.  When, in the course of his
investigation, he discovered the extent of the sacrifice of real estate
which had attended the settling up of the mining operations, it is
scarcely too much to say that he was for the moment utterly appalled.
He was, upon the whole, moderate in his expression of surprise and
vexation at the state of things, and whatever he said which went beyond
moderation, his brother did not often resent, at least he rarely
answered otherwise than mildly.  But Jacob's cool way of answering
questions and suggesting expedients that might serve for a time, as
though he had been freed by his brother's presence from any special
responsibility with regard to their present straits, amazed and provoked
Clifton.  Of course he could not now abandon the concern without
dishonour to the name, and without the sacrifice of plans and projects
to which he had of late been giving many of his thoughts.

No, there was nothing to be done but to make the best of matters as they
stood.

"If you had come into the firm two years ago, as you should have done,"
said Jacob one day, returning, as his manner was, to matters discussed
and dismissed too often already, in his brother's opinion; "if you had
thrown yourself right into it, you might have made the Gershom
Manufacturing Company go.  I hadn't the time to give to it.  And I
haven't the power of talking folks over to see a thing, as you have.  It
was all square with us then, as far as folks generally knew, and if the
company had been formed, and the mills put right up and set a-going, it
would have made all the difference in the world to us."

"It's too late to talk now," said Clifton, shortly, and he rose and left
the room.

But he recognised the fact.  If he had been in the business for the last
two years, he knew that he would now have been in a far better position
for carrying out the plans, which more than anything else had brought
him back to Gershom; and it was toward the forming of such a company--
or, rather, it was toward the commencing and carrying on of the work
which such a company might be expected to do, that all his plans now
pointed.

Business had not been a secondary consideration with Mr Langden when he
paid his visit to Gershom.  The success which had been almost the
uniform result of his undertakings during the last ten years had been
very pleasant to him, and had made it difficult for him to resist the
temptation to engage in still other enterprises which offered fairly for
the making of money.  It was not that he loved money for its own sake,
or for the sake of what it might bring.  He parted with it readily
enough, and held himself responsible for more liberal giving in
proportion as his means increased.

There was nothing added to the enjoyment of his life by the luxurious
appliances which wealth can command.  He took a certain pride in being
regarded as a man who had built up his own fortune, and who had
benefited his native place and the community generally, by his
increasing wealth.  But the highest enjoyment he had was in the actual
doing of work--in the beginning and carrying on to a successful end any
enterprise which it required skill and will and a strong hand to guide.

It was not the passion for speculation--the passion of the gambler--
which may take possession of the man of business as of the man of
pleasure.  He made no daring ventures and took no special risks.  He
investigated patiently and saw clearly, and then he acted.  His
weakness, if it could be called weakness, lay in this, that he found it
difficult to refrain from entering into new schemes when opportunity
occurred.

A less clear-sighted man than he might during a ten days' visit to
Gershom have seen enough of the state of affairs there, and enough of
Jacob Holt himself, to prevent him from entering into any serious
business relations with him.  He had disappointed Jacob by his apparent
indifference to the evident advantages offered for the establishment of
new industries, and the opening of new sources of wealth to himself, and
of prosperity to Gershom.  But he was not indifferent in the matter.  He
saw the opportunity clearly enough, but he did not see in Jacob Holt, or
in any other man he met in Gershom, the right sort of agent by whom to
make the opportunity available.

He changed his opinion as to this, however, when he came to know more of
Clifton.  Their long sail together, down the Saint Lawrence, and up the
Saguenay, gave time for much talk between them.  Jacob was right when he
said that Clifton had his father's head for business, and the shrewd and
observing Mr Langden was not long in discovering his powers.  Squire
Holt had been engrossed with business during the boyhood of his younger
son, and Clifton had been on too familiar terms with him, not to have
acquired much knowledge with regard to the details of business matters
without any effort on his part.  His views and opinions, modified and
enlarged by contact with others during the two years' residence in the
city of Montreal, commended themselves to the judgment of his new
friend, and Mr Langden expressed surprise that he should not have
preferred entering on such a business as that left by his father, rather
than to take a new and untried path.

From one thing they went to another, till the capabilities of the Beaver
River as a water-power, and the chances of Gershom as a manufacturing
town, were fully discussed between them.  The result was that Clifton
almost decided to give up for the present his legal studies, and take up
his abode in Gershom as Mr Langden's partner in such a business as it
had been Jacob's hope that the Gershom Manufacturing Company might
establish.  Such an enterprise need not prevent him from going on as
Jacob's partner.  On the contrary, his position in such a case would be
an advantage to him, and from his share of his father's wealth he
expected to obtain the means necessary as his part in the investment of
which Mr Langden was to supply the larger part.  And so, to the
surprise and joy of Elizabeth, and of Jacob as well, Clifton came home
for good.  Mr Langden did not see, or did not seem to see, one of the
chief motives that had influenced the young man in considering this
step.  Clifton at first did not acknowledge to himself that his interest
in Mr Langden's daughter had much to do with the decision.  There were
good reasons enough for it to fall back upon without this, and these
were so clearly and earnestly dwelt on in his talks with his sister,
that he went far toward convincing himself that to settle in Gershom and
do as his father had done before him was the most reasonable course to
take.

He had greatly admired Miss Langden everybody saw, and a good many
people had seemed to see that the admiration was mutual.  But if their
intercourse had ended when they left Gershom, it would hardly have gone
further than admiration between them.  Up to that time Clifton had
shared the general opinion that Miss Essie would at some future day
probably become a resident of the parsonage, and he had his doubts, as
some others in Gershom had, whether that might prove the most suitable
place for the dainty little lady.

But the sail together down the Saint Lawrence changed his opinion, and
set his doubts at rest.  Mr Maxwell was almost her dearest friend, as
his mother had been the dearest friend of her Aunt Martha.  He was like
a cousin or an elder brother, she said, admiring and praising him quite
openly, as no young lady would be likely to speak of her lover.  And as
for the parsonage, well, the intimations, quite frankly given, as to
what she meant to see and to do in the future, did not point that way.
And Clifton told himself, as he listened to her, that having seen them
so much together, he might have known from the nature of their
intercourse that there was nothing but friendship between them.

In the comparative isolation of the sail on the two great rivers, these
young people became more intimate than they could have become in so
short a time in almost any other circumstances, and Miss Essie was a
pretty and winning little creature.  She was very frank and friendly
with him, and an occasional touch of shyness and reserve made her
frankness and friendliness all the more charming.  What with the one way
and the other, she bewitched the happy young fellow, and she had
bewitched several others since the Thanksgiving visit of Mr Maxwell.

Clifton scarcely knew what had happened to him till he stood in the
desolate station in Montreal, watching the train that carried her and
her friends to meet the upward-bound boat at Lachine.  After that there
came with the thought of the pretty, bright little girl, the thought of
her father, who was a rich man, and who would not, he feared, be easily
approached in any matter that had reference to his daughter.  Clifton
forth with came to what was probably the wisest resolution that he could
have taken in the circumstances, to keep silence at present, and to do
what might be done, at least to put himself in the way of becoming a
rich man also.

A good deal had passed between the gentlemen as to possible future
business relations, but nothing had been definitely settled while Mr
Langden was in Canada.  That is, Clifton had not fully decided whether
he should change his plans and settle in Gershom.  But there had been a
full discussion of all that was to follow should he do so.

The unsatisfactory state into which their own affairs had fallen under
his brother's management was doubly vexing to him, because of the
difficulties which were thus thrown in the way of the new enterprise.
Not only must there be delay, there must be a new plan of operations.

There was far more than enough of property of one kind or another in
their possession still to cover all the liabilities of the firm, but
money was needed and the banks were pressing.  An honourable settlement
might be made, and their good name preserved, and even their fortunes
retrieved to some extent--provided that time should be given them, and
provided also the settlement of their affairs should be left in their
own hands.  An extensive and varied country business like theirs might
be carried on through years of ill-success without an utter breakdown,
and years of care and labour would be required, if the sacrifice of much
valuable property was to be avoided, and this care and labour he saw
must fall on him.  He could no longer hope for a partnership with Mr
Langden in the new enterprise.  It seemed even doubtful whether,
occupied as he must be with their own affairs for the next year or two,
Mr Langden would consider the question of making him his agent in
carrying out his plans.

"You can but lay the matter before him," said his sister Elizabeth.

To her alone had Clifton permitted himself to speak of Mr Langden's
plans, and of the disappointment that threatened his own hopes because
of the losses that had come upon them.

"That is easily said," said he, impatiently.  "A statement of our
affairs; such as it would be necessary to put before him, would be
almost impossible at the present moment, at least in writing."

"Why don't you go and see him, then?"

Clifton looked at her a moment in silence.

"The matter ought to be settled in one way or another, at once," said
his sister.  "You would feel quite differently about Jacob's troubles
and your own if you were not in suspense."

And so it came about that Clifton found his opportunity, and went.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

CHANGES.

A surprise awaited the people of Gershom--indeed a series of surprises.
But the greatest of all was this, David Fleming not only sold that part
of his farm which bordered on the Black Pool and lay beyond it, higher
up the river, but he sold it to the Holts.  He sold it on such terms
that the longstanding debt to them was more than cancelled, and in so
doing did well for himself and for the Holts also.

When the winter had fairly set in, and there was snow enough for good
winter roads, the stones and timber which Jacob Holt had accumulated on
the Varney place last year were all removed higher up the river, and
preparations on a larger scale than ever Jacob had attempted, commenced
for the making of the new dam, at the point long ago decided upon as the
best on the river for such a purpose.  And the building of the dam was
to be but the beginning of what was to be done.

Clifton Holt did not say much to any one, except his sister Elizabeth,
of all that was to be undertaken soon in Gershom.  But the good people
took too much interest in him and his undertakings not to give much time
and talk to them.  Clifton Holt's undertakings, they were always called,
though he was but the agent of Mr Langden, the complications in the old
business with which he had still to do making it wiser for him to occupy
that position for the present.  But that he was to be at the head of all
that was to be done, as far as buildings were concerned, was easily
seen.

And Mark Varney was to be one of his right hands.  It was Mark who had
the immediate oversight of the numerous workmen who were employed during
the winter collecting the materials required.  It was he who, when the
spring opened, superintended the digging and levelling, the cutting and
carting that were being carried on, on a scale and with a rapidity that
surprised even Jacob Holt, who in imagination had seen something like it
done a hundred times over.  It was in Mark's pastures, once again his
own, that the horses and oxen used in the work found rest when it was
needed, and it was he who had all to say that was to be said of them,
and of much besides.  And the surprise, as far as he was concerned, was
that he should be capable of taking all this in hand, and that being
trusted with it he should so quickly and clearly show that he was
capable of doing it all well.

No one was surprised at Clifton.  He had the old squire's head for
business, they said, as Jacob had said before, and he had such an
education as the squire had never had, which must tell in the long run.
Then he had so good an opinion of his own powers, that he would never
think any work too great to undertake, and being "backed" by Mr
Langden, and by several other rich men, both at home and at a distance,
to whom Mr Langden's movement in the matter of the new mills had given
confidence, the chances were, everybody said, that he would do what he
had set out to do.

And so he did, as far as the new dam on the Beaver River, and the mills
and workshops, and many other works besides, which he put his hand to
for the benefit of Gershom and his own benefit, were concerned.  And so
he did in the course of years in his own business--that is, he and Jacob
together did much to recover that which had been lost, and to make once
more the name of the firm a power in Gershom, and in all the
countryside.  But a good many years passed before all that was brought
about.

Mr Fleming parted with a portion of his farm, not without regret,
indeed; but with none of the bitterness of feeling which in former days
had always risen within him at the thought of possibly having to do so;
and Davie was triumphant.  Katie grieved over the prospect of having the
"bonny quiet place" spoiled with mills and shops and other folks'
houses, and the clatter of looms and factory-bells.  Grannie thought as
Katie did, and would have grieved over this also if anything except a
fear of the wrong-doing of any of the bairns could have moved her from
the sweet content which, since the joyful ending of her long illness,
had rested in her heart, and made itself evident in every word and deed.

But still grannie found much that was to be rejoiced over in that which
made Katie grieve.  It was a fine thing to be free of debt, and it was
well that since they must part with the land it was to be put to a good
use.

As for grandfather there was no sign of grumbling in him.  Indeed, when
the spring opened, and the work at the Pool made progress, he began to
take much interest in all that was going on there, and his evening walk
often took him in that direction.  It was a silent, and not always an
approving interest.  But there was neither bitterness nor anger in his
thoughts now.  He was content, like his dear old wife, to let the world
move on and take its way, since he had so nearly done with it all.

There was for Davie a constant fascination in the skill and power
displayed by those employed in directing the work that was going on.  He
haunted the place at every spare moment, and even did a day's work
there, at leisure times, for the sake of getting an insight into the
principles of things of which he had read, but which he had never had an
opportunity of seeing applied.  The engineer employed about the dam, a
scientific man, capable of doing far higher work than fell to him in
Gershom, well pleased with the lad's eager interest, gave him many a
hint that went beyond the work in hand, and lent him books, and
encouraged him in various other ways to educate himself in the direction
toward which his tastes and inclinations seemed to lead.  He claimed his
help on occasions when intelligence and skill rather than strength were
needed, and Davie, well pleased, did his best.  The end of it all was,
that the lad's vulgar wishes for other work and another kind of life
than that which had fallen to him on the farm, took a definite form, and
as usual his confidence was given to his sister, and as usual, also,
Katie's first thought was:

"But, Davie, think of grandfather."

"Oh, there is no special hurry about it, and we'll break it to him
easily.  And you must mind that there is less land now, and Sandy and
Jamie are coming on.  There is not room for so many of us here, Katie.
And I'll be first to slip out of the nest, that is all."

"But that you should be so glad to think about it, Davie," said Katie
mournfully.

"Oh, as to that, I'm no' awa' yet.  You needna fear that I'll do
anything that grandfather will take to heart.  And besides, Katie,
grandfather is different now."

Davie said these last words with a little hesitation, because he had
been taken up rather sharply on a former occasion when he had said
something of the same kind.  Katie seemed to have forgotten her old
unhappy thoughts about her grandfather and Jacob Holt, and how hard it
had been for her grandfather to forgive his enemy, and it almost seemed
like reflection on his past life when it was said how greatly he was
changed.

"It is not so much that he is changed," said Katie; "it is just the
`shining more and more unto the perfect day.'  It is that he is becoming
more like the `little child' our Lord speaks about, and so more fit for
the kingdom of heaven as the time draws nearer.  For grandfather is
growing an old man now, Davie," said Katie, not without tears.

"Yes, that's so.  Well, I'll never grieve him, Katie, you needna fear.
There is no hurry, and I am not losing time while Mr Davenport is here.
And I don't despair of being a civil engineer, as good as the best of
them yet."

"Shining more and more unto the perfect day."  Yes, that was so.  Mr
Fleming was almost as silent in these days as had been his way all his
life, but it was a different silence--a silence serene and peaceful,
that told better than words could have done, of the joy and confidence
with which he was waiting for all that life had to bring him, and for
all that lay beyond.

One Sabbath-day in the beginning of the winter, when Mrs Fleming had
gathered a little strength after her illness, grandfather and she, with
Davie and Katie and their mother, went to the village church and sat
down together at the table of our Lord.  Jacob Holt was there too, and a
good many more who had sympathised with one or the other of them when
trouble was between them, and every one who saw the old man's bowed
head, and the childlike look on his face as he sat there among them all,
knew that all hard feelings had passed out of his heart forever.

Jacob Holt's head was bowed also, but his face did not tell of peace as
yet.  That might come later, but Jacob was now in the midst of his
troubles, and was having a hard time.  But there was peace between him
and Mr Fleming.  In former days the old man's eyes had never lighted on
his enemy, either in church or market, as all the world knew.  But
to-day it was Jacob who tied old Kelso in the shed, Davie not being at
hand.  He helped Mrs Fleming up the steps too, Cousin Betsey and a good
many other people being there to see, and then the two men walked up the
church aisle together.

"It was as good to Jacob as Mr Fleming's name to a note for a thousand
dollars," Mr Green said afterward.  And that was quite true.  For a
thousand dollars, more or less, would have made little difference to him
in the present state of affairs, and the open friendliness of the man
who had so long shunned and slighted him, was good and pleasant to him
to-day.

"And it was done on purpose," Betsey told her mother afterward, for Mr
Fleming was not accustomed to say much to any one by salutation on
Sunday, and had passed several of his friends, Betsey herself among the
number, without a word or even a nod of recognition.  But he seemed glad
of the chance to say a word to Jacob before them all.

"And it was a good day for Gershom," people said.  There was no longer
any question as to union now in church matters, and in other matters as
well.  No one had said less about union and brotherly love and a
Christian spirit among brethren than Mr Fleming; but his silent
influence had always been stronger than most men's loudly-spoken
reasons, either for or against the union so much desired, and now his
open adherence to the church in the village did much to decide those who
had long hung back, and it was acknowledged to be a good day by them
all.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

CLIFTON'S SUCCESS.

Jacob Holt was having a hard time, and it did not for the moment make
his troubles any lighter that his younger brother seemed likely, by and
by, to show him a way out of them all.  Indeed, it was rather an
aggravation to his troubles to see Clifton's success.  He was carrying
out with apparent ease an enterprise on which he had spent time and
strength in vain, and with fewer drawbacks than would have been likely
to come to him had the Gershom Manufacturing Company been formed when he
moved in the matter years ago.

Of course success was for Jacob's benefit, and by and by he would be
able to appreciate and take advantage of it.  But in the meantime it was
not a pleasant thing to find himself superseded--left on one side--as he
said to himself often.  It was not pleasant to be second where he had so
long been first.

On the whole, Clifton carried himself with as much moderation as could
have been expected toward his elder brother, and he made him useful in
various ways that told for the good of both.

Elizabeth rejoiced greatly, as each month passed over, that her brother
not only showed himself equal to the duties of the position in which he
was placed, but that he seemed to enjoy them, and would, therefore, not
be likely to be tempted to seek other work elsewhere.

Of his work and his plans, and all he meant to do and be in the future,
Clifton said more to his sister than to all the rest of Gershom put
together.  He was as frank and free in his talk, and as eagerly claimed
her sympathy and approval as ever he had done in his boyish days about
less important matters, and the chief interest of her life now, as then,
was in throwing herself heartily into all his plans and prospects.

But on one subject he was for the most part silent, and his sister could
only guess at the motives that had chiefly decided him in returning to
Gershom, and at the hopes he might be cherishing with regard to Miss
Langden, and of both motives and hopes she was afraid.  She was afraid
that disappointment awaited him, and that the end of it would be to
unsettle him again, and to disgust him with the life he had chosen.

Elizabeth's knowledge of the tacit engagement existing between Miss
Essie and Mr Maxwell made her anxious and unhappy about her brother,
and at the same time it made it difficult for her to say anything that
might incline him to speak more freely to her.  For Clifton's first
successful visit to Mr Langden had by no means been his last.  Business
took him southward several times during the year, and more than one
visit united business with pleasure.  Once he had seen Miss Langden in
her aunt's house in New York, and once he had turned aside to one of the
fashionable summer resorts in the mountains where she was staying with
her aunt's family.  He enjoyed both visits, as may be supposed.  Miss
Essie was as bright and sweet as ever, and doubtless enjoyed them also.

Even Mrs Weston, who had seen a good deal more of society, and of the
world in general, than her niece, acknowledged that the young Canadian
carried himself well, and held his place among the idle gentlemen who
were helping them and their friends to spend their summer days
agreeably.  Mrs Weston would have been as well pleased if he had not
carried himself so well, or made himself so agreeable, as far as her
niece was concerned, though she did not allow him to suspect any such
feelings, and had self-respect enough to say nothing to her niece till
after their visitors had departed.

She did not say much to her even then.  She laughed a little at her and
the conquest she had made, declaring that if she were determined to
spend her life in the far North, it would be wise to give up all
thoughts of the parsonage, and make good her claim to be the great lady
of Gershom.  Mrs Weston had always laughed at the idea of the
parsonage, and had no thought of allowing her pretty niece to betake
herself to the far North in any circumstances.  But she did not express
herself very openly with regard to this.  For, with all Miss Essie's
gentleness and sweetness, and her willingness to submit to guidance when
nothing of particular importance to herself was depending upon it, she
had a mind and will of her own, and did not hesitate to assert herself
on occasion, and her aunt had seen enough of this to make her cautious
in dealing with her when their opinions differed.  Upon the whole,
however, she thought she had reason to congratulate herself on the
success that had hitherto attended her efforts on her niece's behalf.

Miss Langden, who could "hold her own" among the scores of fine people--
the fashionable and elegant ladies and gentlemen who formed the circle
in which they moved at present--was a very different creature from the
quaint and prudish little school-girl whom her father had brought to New
York a year and a half ago.

"Improved!  Yes, indeed," she said to herself, and Mr Langden agreed
with his sister in the main, but on all points was not so sure.
However, he doubted nothing less than that in all essential respects his
good and pretty daughter would come out right in the end.  Whether that
might mean the parsonage and the far North, either or both, he did not
say to himself or any one else.  He had exchanged no words with his
daughter on the subject, though they had been at Gershom together.

Mrs Weston was not afraid of Mr Maxwell and the parsonage, but, after
his summer visit, she was a little afraid of Clifton Holt.  She knew how
high he stood both as to character and capabilities in the opinion of
Essie's father, and though he had not liked the idea of his daughter's
marriage with the minister, she thought it possible that he might not
object seriously a second time, should Essie indeed prefer the new
aspirant to her favour.

But all the same her aunt did not intend that either of them should have
her pretty niece if she could manage matters so as to prevent it.

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

CONCLUSION.

Clifton went southward again not long after his summer visit to the
mountains, and on his return he had more to say about what he had seen
and done and enjoyed than was usual with him.  Whether he was led into
doing so by the fact that Mr Maxwell had come in for the evening, and
took pleasure in hearing about old friends and familiar scenes, or
whether he spoke with intention, Elizabeth could not afterward decide.

He had not seen Miss Langden at this time.  She was paying a visit to
friends at a distance.  If she had been visiting her Aunt Maltha, he
would have gone there to see her, he said, as though it were quite his
right to do so, and a matter of course.  Elizabeth listened to all this
with much discomfort, and glanced at Mr Maxwell now and then to see how
it was taken.  The minister met her glance frankly and smilingly, and
certainly did not seem to have any thought of resenting the young man's
tone and manner.

"He is sure of his ground," thought Elizabeth; "and he can wait; but, my
poor Clifton, I fear he has disappointment before him."

She knew that such a disappointment might be got over, and he be none
the worse, but rather the better, for what he might have to pass
through.  But it hurt her beforehand to think of his suffering, and to
think that it must come to him through his friend.  Even as the talk
went on between them, she was trying to bring her courage to the point
of asking Mr Maxwell to tell her brother how matters stood between him
and Miss Langden.  It was only that they were waiting for the end of the
two years of probation, she supposed, and they were nearly over now.
She came out of her own thoughts in time to hear Mr Maxwell say:

"Yes, I mean to get away for a week or two by and by, and I mean to pass
Thanksgiving either there or with Miss Martha at New B--.  If I cannot
get away at that time I shall certainly go later, but I should like to
be there on Thanksgiving Day for various reasons."

Elizabeth looked from one to the other with some surprise.  Mr Maxwell
spoke, and Clifton listened, with faces that were grave enough, but the
eyes of both were smiling as they met hers.

"Mr Maxwell ought to tell him," thought she, with a touch of anger at
her heart.

But he did not need to be told.  When Mr Maxwell was gone, and Clifton
had returned from seeing him to the gate, he said to his sister:

"Did you know, Lizzie, that Mr Maxwell had once asked Miss Langden to
marry him?"

Elizabeth was moving about the room, putting things in order, as was her
way before going up-stairs for the night.  She removed the lamp to the
side-table, and sat down before she answered him.

"Yes, I have long known it.  I have often, often wished to tell you, but
I did not feel at liberty to do so."

"And why not, pray?  One may surely repeat a rumour of that kind without
a breach of confidence."

"But I did not hear it as a rumour, and I had no permission to repeat
it.  And besides, it was Mr Maxwell who told me."

"Rather queer--his telling you, wasn't it?"

"No.  In the circumstances it was natural enough.  I knew it, or I had
guessed it before he told me."

And then she went on to tell of the first note that Miss Essie had sent
her, because she was one of the Gershom friends of her friend "Will
Maxwell," as she called him.  "But it is a long time now since one of
her pretty notes has come to me.  But they correspond, and have always
done so, since he came to Gershom."

Clifton said nothing, and his sister was silent for a time.  Then she
asked:

"Who told you of their engagement?"

"Engagement!  There is no engagement," said Clifton shortly.

"No formal engagement, but that was only because her father thought Miss
Essie too young; but the time of waiting is nearly over now."

"Lizzie, if I had been asked who had been most in Mr Maxwell's thoughts
for the last year I should not certainly have said it was Miss Langden."

"Well, your penetration would have been at fault, that is all."

"And I should not have said that Miss Langden had been giving many of
her thoughts to him, for the last year at least."

"Of that I can say nothing.  But who told you of the proposal?  Not Mr
Maxwell?"

"No.  Mr Langden told me."

"Mr Langden!" exclaimed Elizabeth, and by and by she added: "Is that
all I am to hear, brother?"

"It is all I have to tell at present.  Perhaps I may have more by and
by."

"Or perhaps it may be Mr Maxwell who may have something to tell," said
Elizabeth gravely, "when he comes home from Thanksgiving."

Clifton laughed.

"Possibly he may--but--"

"Clifton, I cannot bear to think that Mr Maxwell and you may not always
be friends."

"Well, you needn't fret about it beforehand, need you?" and then he rose
and went away.

They both had something to tell before Thanksgiving Day, but it was not
just what Elizabeth had expected to hear.  Clifton did not tell his part
before Thanksgiving, however.  Indeed, he never told it.  He was away a
good deal about that time; and was so much occupied when he was at home,
that Elizabeth saw less of him, and heard less from him than had ever
been the case before during the same length of time, and she could only
wait till it should be his pleasure to speak.  But Mr Maxwell lost no
time in saying to his friend what he had to say.

One fair September morning, about a year after her father's death,
Elizabeth saw the minister coming in at the gate with an open letter in
his hand, and though she could give no reason for the thought, she told
herself at once to prepare for tidings.  Her first impulse was to go
away, so as to gain time, for a sharp and sudden pain, which she could
not but fear was not all for her brother, smote her heart as she caught
sight of Mr Maxwell's moved and smiling face.  But she felt that it was
better not to go, so she rose and met him at the door.

"Well," she said, smiling and preparing to be glad for him, at least.

Her face was moved out of its usual quiet too, as Mr Maxwell could not
but see, and he said:

"Have you heard anything?  Has your brother anything to tell?"

"Clifton is not at home; I have heard nothing."

"Ah, well!  All in good time, I suppose."

Mr Maxwell did not sit down, though Elizabeth did, but walked about the
room, looking out first at one window and then at the other in a way
that startled her.

"Well," she said after a little, "I am waiting for your news."

"News?  I have no news--yes, I have something to say.  I have been
waiting these two years to say it--may I speak, Elizabeth?"

And then he sat down on the sofa beside her.  To that which he had to
say Elizabeth listened with a surprise which would have been painful to
her friend if something more than surprise had not soon appeared.

In a few words he told her of the discovery he had made soon after his
return home two years ago, and how he had thought nothing else right or
possible but to wait patiently till the two years of probation were over
to see what might befall.  He had not always waited patiently, he
acknowledged.  He had had little hope that Miss Holt had more than
friendship to give him, and believed himself to be content with that for
the present, till he had known how, after her father's death, some one
else was asking for the hand for which he had no right to ask, and then
it had gone hard with him.

He had not been blind to Clifton's hopes and pretensions, and he had
been for some time quite aware that whatever Miss Langden might have to
give to Clifton, she had only friendship to give to him.  But he had
remained silent because he believed himself bound not to speak to
Elizabeth till the two years were over.  And now they were over.