ONLY ONE CLAIM

It always gave Brown a sense of content to enter the Macgregor cottage.

Even among the thrifty North country folk the widow Macgregor's home,

while not as pretentious as those of the well-to-do farmers, had been

famous as a model of tidy house-keeping. Her present home was a little

cottage of three rooms with the kitchen at the back. The front room

where Mrs. Macgregor received her few visitors, and where Shock did

most of his reading, except when driven to his bedroom by the said

visitors, was lighted by two candles in high, polished, old-fashioned

brass candlesticks, and by the fire from the hearth, which radiated a

peace and comfort which even the shiny hair-cloth chairs and sofa and

the remaining somewhat severe furniture of the room could not chill. It

was the hearth and mantel that had decided Mrs. Macgregor and Shock in

their purchase of the little cottage, which in many eyes was none too

desirable. On the walls hung old-fashioned prints of Robbie Burns and

his Highland Mary, the Queen and the Prince Consort, one or two quaint

family groups, and over the mantel a large portrait of a tall soldier

in full Highland dress. Upon a bracket in a corner stood a glass case

enclosing a wreath of flowers wrought in worsted, and under it in a

frame hung a sampler with the Lord's Prayer similarly wrought. On one

side of the room stood a clock upon a shelf, flanked by the Family

Bible and such books as "The Saint's Rest," "Holy Living," "The

Fourfold State," "Scots Worthies," all ancient and well worn. On the

other side stood a bookcase which was Shock's, and beside it a table

where he did his work. Altogether it was a very plain room, but the

fireplace and the shining candlesticks and the rag carpet on the floor

redeemed it from any feeling of discomfort, while the flowers that

filled the windows left an air of purity and sweetness.

"Come away, my lad, come away," said Mrs. Macgregor, who sat knitting

by the fire. "The night is chill enough. Come away up to the fire."

"Thanks, Mrs. Macgregor," said Brown, "it does me good to look at you

by the fire there with your knitting. When I'm an old man I only hope

I'll have a cozy hearthstone like this to draw up to, and on the other

side a cozy old lady like you with pink cheeks like these which I must

now kiss."

"Tut, tut, it's a daft laddie you are whatever," said the old lady,

blushing a little, but not ill-pleased. "Sit ye down yonder." Brown,

ever since his illness, when Mrs. Macgregor and Shock had nursed him

back from death's door two years ago, was one of the family, and,

indeed, he used endearments with the old lady that the undemonstrative

Shock would never have dared to use. "Ye're late, Hamish. Surely yon

man had much to say," said his mother, looking lovingly upon her great,

sturdy son.

"That he had, mother, and great it was, I can tell you."

Then Shock proceeded, after his habit, to give his mother a full share

of what he had been enjoying. Mrs. Macgregor listened intently, pausing

now and then in her knitting to ejaculate, "Well-a-well!" "Look at

that, now!" "Hear to him!" When Shock had finished, Brown broke in: "It

was truly magnificent, I assure you, Mrs. Macgregor, and the enthusiasm

of the man! And his yarns! Oh, he is truly, great!"

"And what would he be doing at the college?" enquired the old lady.

"There would not be much money there, I doubt."

"Men, mother, men," cried Shock with some excitement. "Volunteers for

the Great West, and a hard time he is having, too, what with the

foreign field, and needy vacancies in this country, and city pulpits,

and the like."

Mrs. Macgregor sat silent, her needles flying fast and her lips pressed

together.

"I wish you could have heard him, Mrs. Macgregor," said Brown,

enthusiastically. "He has a tongue like a rasp, and at times it takes

off the skin. That was fine, Shock, about the fellows who could not

give him answer till they had asked the Lord about it. 'I find a good

many men,' the old chap said, 'who, after anxiously enquiring as to the

work expected of them, remuneration, prospects of advance, etc., always

want to lay the matter before the Lord before giving their answer. And

I am beginning to think that the Lord has some grudge against the West,

for almost invariably He appears to advise these men to leave it

severely alone.' Oh, it was great!" Little Brown hugged his knee in

delight at the memory of that rasping tongue.

"But surely there are plenty of men," said Mrs. Macgregor a little

impatiently, "for there's no want of them whateffer when a congregation

falls vacant."

"That's so," replied Brown; "but you see he wants only first-class

men--men ready for anything in the way of hardship, and not to be

daunted by man or devil."

"Ou ay!" said the old lady, nodding her head grimly; "he will not be

finding so many of yon kind."

"But it must be a great country," went on Brown. "You ought to bear him

tell of the rivers with sands of gold, running through beds of coal

sixty feet thick."

The old lady shook her cap at him, peering over her glasses. "Ye're a

gay callant, and you will be taking your fun off me."

"But it's true. Ask Shock there."

"What?" said Shock, waking up from a deep study. Brown explained.

"Yes," said Shock. "The sands of the Saskatchewan are full of gold, and

you know, mother, about the rivers in Cariboo."

"Ay, I remember fine the Cariboo, and Cariboo Cameron and his gold. But

not much good did it do him, poor fellow."

"But," said Shock, gazing into the fire, "it was terrible to hear his

tales of these men in the mines with their saloons and awful gambling

places, and the men and women in their lonely shacks in the foot-hills.

My! I could see them all."

Mrs. Macgregor looked sharply into her son's face, then laying her

knitting down in her lap she turned to him and said severely, "And what

took them out yonder? And did they not know what-na country it was

before they went out?"

"Yes," said Shock, still looking into the fire, "but there they are,

Mother, there they are, and no living soul to speak a good word to

them."

"Well then," said the old lady, even more impatiently, "let them put up

with it, as better before them have done to their credit, ay, and to

their good as well."

"Meantime the saloons and worse are getting them," replied Shock, "and

fine fellows they are, too, he says."

"And is yon man wanting the lads from the college to go out yonder to

those terrible-like mines and things so far from their homes? Why does

he not send the men who are wanting places?" Mrs. Macgregor's tone was

unusually sharp. Both Shock and Brown looked at her in surprise.

"Yes, you may look," she went on, "but I say let them that's not needed

here go out yonder, and there will be plenty of them, I warrant."

"'And they'd none of them be missed,'" sang Brown.

"I doubt they wouldn't do," said Shock, shaking his head sadly.

"Well, mother," cried Brown, "you'll have a chance of hearing him

yourself to-morrow morning, for he is going to preach in your church, I

see."

The old lady shrugged her shoulders. "Indeed, and I wish our meenister

wouldn't be so ready with his pulpit for every Bill and Bob that comes

the way. He will not be needing a rest again, will he?"

Shock gazed at his mother in sheer amazement. He had never seen her

like this before. This bitter impatience was so unlike her usual calm,

dignified self-control.

"But mother," he ventured, "the cause will be needing money and the

people will need to hear about it, surely."

"Oh, as to that," she answered in a relieved tone, "it is not much that

we can give, but what we can we will, and, indeed, there are many of

them in that Kirk that would be the better of giving a little of their

money. But, lad," she added as if dismissing a painful subject, "you

must be at your books."

"Which means I must go. I know you, Mother Macgregor," said Brown,

using his pet name for the woman who had for two years been more of a

mother to him than his own.

"Ay, and within a few weeks you will be wishing, as well, that someone

had set you to your books, for the examinators will be upon you."

"And, doubtless, shear me as bare as Delilah did Samson of old. But I

am not promising you I am going to work. My physician warns me against

work on Saturday nights, so I am going to hunt up The Don."

"Indeed then, you will know well where to look for him," said the old

lady shrewdly.

"Ah, mother, you're too sharp for any of us. Not much escapes your

eyes."

"Indeed, one does not require eyes to see some things, and yon laddie

is daft enough."

"Daft's the word," said Brown, "and has been for the last three years.

Is not it astonishing and profoundly humiliating," he added solemnly,

"to see a chit of a girl, just because she has brown curls and brown

eyes with a most bewildering skill in using them, so twiddle a man? It

passes my comprehension."

The old lady shook her head at him. "Wait you, my lad. Your day will

come."

"I hear The Don has got the offer of a great appointment in connection

with the new railway in that country and I fear that means trouble for

him. There are those who would be delighted to see him out of the way

for a couple of years or so."

But the old lady would not gossip, so Brown was forced to drop the

subject with the remark, "But I'll do what I can to assist the Fates,

and I'll begin by bringing both those young ladies to hear your big gun

to-morrow if I can, Shock. They ought to know more about their own

country."

Shock glanced up quickly as if to speak, but seemed to think better of

it and poked the fire instead.

"I doubt they would be more profited in their own church," said Mrs.

Macgregor. "'Traivellin' sheep are sair tae keep,' as they say in the

South country. No, it's little enough the poor things will be getting

in yon church of theirs with their read prayers and their bit

sairmon--a sairmonette, they will be calling it. Ay, a sairmonette!"

The old lady indulged herself in a quiet chuckle of indescribable

contempt.

"Why, mother," said Shock in a reproving tone, "don't you know that

their minister is just a splendid preacher. There is no better in the

city."

"And that's not saying much," said the old lady. "But I'm glad to hear

it."

"My! mother, but you are censorious to-night. You can't expect to find

men like Candlish, Chalmers, and Macdonald of Ferintosh in every age."

"Ay," said the old lady with an emphatic shake of her head, "and that's

a true word. Men like yon are not to be found, and like McCheyae and

Burns and Guthrie and the rest of them. Oh! it iss manys the Sabbath

morning when I wass a lass that I walked with my shoes and stockings in

my hand down the glen to hear these men preach. And yon was the

preaching. Yon was the preaching. None of your puny, peeping,

fifteen-meenute sairmonettes, but preaching, terrible heart-smiting

preaching." The old lady had ceased her knitting and was sitting erect

in her chair gazing straight before her. The young men sat silent,

fearing to break the spell that was upon her, and waiting eagerly for

what they knew was coming.

"Man! man!" she continued, "those were the days! and those were the

men! I have heard such preaching as would cause your heart to quake

within you, and make you to listen with the fear of death upon you lest

it should stop."

"It must have been terrible preaching, indeed," said Brown softly.

"Terrible! ay, terrible's the word. Lad, lad," said the old lady,

turning upon Brown her piercing blue-grey eyes, "in the old Mullin

Church I have seen the very rafters throbbing, and strong men and women

swaying like the tree-tops in the glen while Burns was raging forth

upon them like the Tummel in spate, while visions of the eternal

things--the throne of God and the Judgment Day--filled our eyes." She

paused a few moments and then sinking back into her chair she went on,

"Ay, terrible preaching, yon, like the storm-blast sweeping the

hillsides and rending the firs in the Pass. Yes! yes! But gentle at

times and winning, like the rain falling soft at night, wooing at the

bluebells and the daisies in the glen, or like a mother croonin over

the babe at her breast, till men wept for love and longing after

Himself. Ay, lad, lad, yon was the preaching."

There was a long silence while they waited for her to continue.

"What was that sermon, mother, at Mullin that time upon the words 'Will

ye also go away?' you remember?" at length asked Shock cunningly.

His mother sighed. "Ay, and that was a sairmon to draw the heart out o'

you. That was the melting day, while the big men gripped their sticks

hard and the women wiped at their eyes that would never be done

running, and that man's voice soughing over them like the wind in the

pines in the evening, Yes! yes! But," suddenly recalling herself,

"come, lads, you must be off to your books."

The young men sat a few moments silently gazing into the fire, and then

Brown rose and said, "Good-night, mother. You're the greatest preacher

I know, and I would not mind a whole hour from you." His voice was

earnest and his eyes soft and tender as he stooped and kissed her cheek.

"Good-night, laddie," answered Mrs. Macgregor, patting his hand gently.

"I doubt, after all, the fault nowadays is not with the preaching so

much as with the hearing."

"Well, I'm off. You will see me to-morrow with my flock of straying

sheep. But I warn you that after you hear that man from the West you

will all be volunteering as missionaries."

The old lady took up her knitting again and after the door had closed

upon Brown sat back in her chair with a weary sigh.

"You're tired to-night, mother," said Shock gently.

"Tired? And what for would I be tired? No, no, but the day is long."

"Yes, some days, mother. But the longest pass."

She glanced quickly at her son, but save for a quivering of the lips

usually so firm, there was no sign of the pain which both knew lay at

the heart of each. Her mood of impatience had passed. She was once more

herself, calm and strong, looking with steadfast eyes into the future,

knowing well that whatever the days might bring, He who for fifty years

had been her refuge and her strength would not fail her.

The appeal for the West was the theme of conversation at the Fairbanks

home, where the usual company had assembled. The Don was describing the

Superintendent's address at the College and thrilling his listeners

with his own enthusiasm, when Brown entered.

"Hello! At it again?" cried Brown. "If he doesn't avoid that fiery

cross fellow, The Don will be off for the West first thing you know."

"Tell us," cried Betty, "was he as great as all that? Mr. Balfour here

would have us believe that this Western man is really something

wonderful."

"Well, I don't know," said Brown. "You never think of whether he is

wonderful or not, but one thing I know, he makes you see things--the

mountains and that foot-hill country, the mining camps and all that

saloon and gambling-hell business, till you can smell the brimstone and

you want to be in it."

"What? Into the brimstone?" laughed Lloyd.

"I am rather incoherent, I confess. But that old chap suits me. If I

were a Theologue, and unattached, I'd be there."

"There's no doubt it is a great country, with vast opportunities," said

The Don, glancing at Betty.

"Yes," said Mrs. Fairbanks, frowning as she noted the glance, "and

doubtless any young man who has the necessary enterprise and courage

will make his fortune with the growth of that country."

"But why unattached? What do you mean by that?" enquired Betty.

"Unattached? Why, you know, just like me--a man with no family ties to

speak of. Did you tell them that yarn, Lloyd? Well, I'll tell you. You

know the Superintendent was telling the fellows of the difficulty he

had in securing men. Well, he managed to get a man from an Eastern

College whom he appointed to the Cariboo--right sort of chap, too,

apparently--accepted the appointment--everything was

arranged--happened, however, he was engaged to a young lady brought up

in the lap of luxury, and that sort of thing. When she heard of her

young man being appointed to this outlandish place, she promptly

collapsed into a faint, sister went into hysterics, mother into a blind

rage, result--young man resigned. 'So you see, gentlemen,' said the old

chap dryly, 'when you have to consider the tastes and temperament, not

only of the young man, but of his young lady and of all her near family

relatives, the difficulty of securing men for the West is sensibly

increased."

"I think that is just horrid of him," exclaimed Betty indignantly. "The

young lady ought to be consulted. Don't you think so?" turning to Lloyd.

"Why certainly, and yet--"

"Most assuredly," said Mrs. Fairbanks. "Would you ask a young lady to

go out and bury herself alive in such a country as that, or ask her to

wait an indefinite number of years till the young man should return?

Why it is simply monstrous." And Mrs. Fairbanks fixed her glasses

firmly on her nose and gazed at Brown as if she would annihilate him.

"Why certainly I would," replied Brown, quite unabashed; "and if she

loved me," placing his hand over his heart, "she would be glad to do

either. I would simply remark, 'My love, I'm off for Greenland.' 'Wait,

my dear,' she would promptly reply, 'till I get my furs.'"

"All the same," said Lloyd seriously, "it would be a terrible life for

any woman, and a man should hesitate before asking her to share it."

"No society, nothing congenial in environment! Quite impossible!"

exclaimed Mrs. Fairbanks with great emphasis. "And quite absurd to

dream of it."

"Then," replied Brown warmly to Lloyd, "the only available men for your

Chief, apparently, are hopeless old bachelors or young men, however

worthy like myself, who are still unappropriated."

"Exactly," said Mrs. Fairbanks with an air of finality.

"But, Mrs. Fairbanks," exclaimed The Don, "what of our soldiers and

officers who go to India and other outlandish places? They take their

wives along with them, I understand?"

"That's quite a different thing, Mr. Balfour," said Mrs. Fairbanks.

"These men go out to serve their Queen and country, and it is

recognised as the proper thing, and--well, you see, it is quite

different."

"I must say," exclaimed Helen, fastening to forestall the hot answer

she knew to be at The Don's lips, "I agree with Mr. Brown. If a man's

work calls him to Greenland, his wife ought to go with him or she ought

to be willing to wait his return."

"Helen, you speak like a sentimental school-girl," replied Mrs.

Fairbanks with a touch of haughty scorn. "Of course if a man is married

and duty calls him to a foreign land, he must go. But why should a girl

throw away her prospects and condemn herself to a life of obscurity and

isolation by attaching herself to a man who chooses to take up some

fantastic mission in some outlandish place or other?"

"Why? Because she loves a man whose duty calls him there," exclaimed

Helen, her grey eyes glowing.

"Bravo!" replied Brown. "If I see a Western missionary wanting a

helpmeet--that's the proper word, I believe--I shall know where to send

him."

"Nonsense," cried Mrs. Fairbanks quite crossly, "but surely we need not

discuss the question any further."

"Well, if I may offer an opinion," said The Don in a deliberate,

strained voice, "that country is the place for men with enterprise who

believe in themselves, and I think no man is throwing his prospects

away who identifies himself with it--nor woman either, for that matter.

And what is true of other professions ought to be true of the ministry."

"I agree," cried Brown, adding wickedly, "just the spot for you, Lloyd."

"Why, I should like nothing better," said Lloyd, "if circumstances

indicated that my work lay there."

"Well, well, what's come to you all?" cried Mrs. Fairbanks, holding up

her jewelled hands in despair.

"The Occidental microbe," suggested Brown.

"And the monumental nonsense it is," said Mrs. Fairbanks, "for men of

high culture and special training to lose themselves in such a country

as that."

"But," persisted Brown, "they say that that's the very place for such

men. Why, that country is full of high-class chaps--University grads,

Lords, Dukes, and such, as well as the professional gambler, and other

highly technical experts. The Superintendent declared to-night he

wouldn't have any but high-class men hence, Lloyd!" and Brown waved his

hand toward that gentleman.

"I have no doubt," said Mrs. Fairbanks with severe deliberation, "that

Mr. Lloyd has the good sense to perceive that his special training fits

him for something quite different, and I think he will not be mad

enough to throw away his brilliant prospects in any such silly manner.

But come, let us have some music. Mr. Lloyd, you and Betty sing

something for us."

As they moved to the piano, Brown looked up at The Don. His handsome,

haughty face was set hard and in his eyes burned a light that Brown had

often seen there on the football field.

"He's going to tackle and tackle hard, too, poor old chap. Not much

chance, though, against that combination of Church and State."

"Oh, that we two were Maying," sang Lloyd in his fine tenor voice, with

Betty responding in like sentiment.

"Well, I rather hope not," muttered Brown to himself as he crossed the

room to where Helen was seated. Pausing a moment beside her he said in

a low tone, "The Don has had an offer on the new railway construction

in the West--two years' appointment. Go and talk to him about it. Looks

fierce, doesn't he?" And Helen, nodding intelligently, lingered a

moment and then moved to where The Don sat, while Brown went toward the

piano. "Must get these youngsters inoculated with the Occidental

microbe," he muttered as he took his place beside Mrs. Fairbanks, who

was listening with pleased approval to the "Maying" duet, the pauses of

which Brown industriously employed in soothing her ruffled feelings. So

well did he succeed that when he proffered the humble request that the

young ladies should be allowed to accompany him to Shock's church in

the morning, Mrs. Fairbanks gave a reluctant assent.

"Undoubtedly, I am a great strategist," said Brown to himself next

morning as he sat watching with surreptitious glances the faces of the

young ladies beside him. The preacher was at his best. The great land

where his life mission lay, with its prairies, foot-hills mountains,

and valleys, and all their marvellous resources, was spread out before

the eyes of the congregation with all the passionate pride of the

patriot. The life of the lonely rancher and of his more lonely wife,

the desperate struggle for manhood by the mean of the mine and the

railroad and the lumber camp, the magnitude of the issues at stake; the

pathos of defeat, the glory of triumph, were all portrayed with a power

that compelled the sympathy of his hearers, while the shrewd

common-sense vein that ran through all convinced their intellects and

won their confidence. Perplexity, wonder, horror, compassion, filled

their hearts and were reflected with rapid succession on their faces,

as he told his stories of the wreck of human lives and consequent agony

of human hearts.

"By Jove! they've got it," exclaimed Brown to himself. "The dear Mrs.

Fairbanks has no anti-toxine for this microbe." His eyes turned to

Shock and there were held fast. "He's got it, too, confound him," he

grumbled. "Surely, he wouldn't be beast enough to leave his old mother

alone." The mother's face was a strange sight. On it the anguish of her

heart was plainly to be seen, but with the anguish the rapt glory of

those who triumph by sacrifice.

As the congregation broke up the young ladies hurried to greet Mrs.

Macgregor. From the day of the football match they had carefully and

persistently nursed the acquaintance then begun till they had come to

feel at home in the Macgregor cottage. Hence, when Betty fell into

severe illness and they were at their wits' end for a nurse, they

gladly accepted Mrs. Macgregor's proffered help, and during the long

anxious weeks that followed, the whole family came to regard with

respect, confidence, and finally warm affection, the dignified old lady

who, with such kindly, shrewd, and tender care, nursed the sick girl

back to strength. Helen especially, who had shared the long watch with

her, had made for herself a large place in her heart. To-day, after an

exchange of greetings, Helen drew Mrs. Macgregor back and allowed the

others to go on. For some time they walked in silence, Helen holding

the old lady tight by the arm.

"Well, what do you think of that?" she said finally. "Wasn't it

wonderful? It makes one proud to be a Canadian. What a country that

must be! If I were only a man! It's too bad that men have all the good

things. Wouldn't you like to go yourself?"

"That I would," said the old lady eagerly, "that I would. But I doubt

it's not for me. But yon's a man."

"Yes," cried Helen enthusiastically, "he is a man to follow. Of course,

it was a strange sermon for a church--those stories of his, I mean, and

all those figures about coal beds and gold and cattle. I'm not used to

that sort of thing and I don't like to see the people laugh."

"Ay, he's wise," replied the old lady shrewdly. "When a man laughs he's

nearer to letting his money go. Ay, he's wise, yon man."

"Of course, I think he's extreme," said Helen. "You would think to hear

him there was no place but the West and that every young minister must

go out there and give up everything."

"There's few to go, I doubt," said the old lady in a musing tone, "and

yon are terrible-like places for those lads to live."

"Yes, but everyone can't go."

"No, no. That's it. That's just it. Not many can go and not many are

fit to go. But those that can--" the old lady paused, drawing her

breath in sharply.

"But surely a man may do his work without giving up everything he holds

dear," persisted Helen.

"'Forsaketh not all that he hath,'" quoted the old lady softly.

"Yes, but that's not for everybody," insisted Helen.

"'Whosoever,'" quoted Mrs. Macgregor again, with a stern relentlessness

in her tone. "Ay, there will be no slipping out from under yon."

"But surely," argued Helen, "it is not reasonable to think that every

young minister is bound to forsake home and friends, and all that, and

go out to these wild places."

"Not every one will be called. The application will not be easy for any

of us, I doubt. Oh, no! it will not be easy."

"But surely, Mrs. Macgregor, there are other claims upon men."

"There iss only one claim, lassie, only one claim. His claim is the

first. All other claims will just be working out that first one. Ay,

that's it," she said, as if arriving at decision, "only one claim. God

peety us! One claim," she added with a sudden break in her voice.

At that break Helen glanced at the old lady. The strong face was

working strangely. The tears were slowly making their way down the

wrinkled face.

"Oh, Mrs. Macgregor!" exclaimed Helen, "that seems an awfully hard

doctrine. Do you think God ever wants a man to leave father, mother,

wife, helpless behind?"

"No, no, lassie, not helpless. But--," she could go no further. "But,"

she continued after a moment or two, clutching Helen by the arm,

"he--will--be--going--away, lassie, he will be going away. He will be

leaving me and--it iss the will of the Lord. Oh! lassie, lassie, heed

me not. He must never see the tears on my face."

"Don't! don't!" cried Helen in a sudden anguish. She had no need of

further words to tell her what the old lady meant. "He would never do

such a thing! He could not do it!"

"Could not?" answered Mrs. Macgregor. "Ay, he could," she said proudly.

"Thank God he could. He will not be shaming his blood. But oh! it iss

himself will carry a sore heart away with him and leave a sore heart

behind."

"Oh, Mrs. Macgregor!" cried Helen, while her breath came fast and her

hand went to her own heart, "perhaps he will not think it to be his

duty. Perhaps he will not--"

"Indeed, indeed, and I saw it in hiss face last night, and clearer than

ever to-day. He hass heard the voice and it iss for him to obey--and

for us."

They were near Mrs. Macgregor's home, where the others stood waiting

for them at the gate.

"May I come to see you?" said Helen hurriedly.

"Ay, come," said Mrs. Macgregor with a keen look at her, "you will be

needing--I will be needing help."

The others they found eagerly discussing the sermon, but there was

little criticism. The Superintendent had won his volunteers. On Shock's

face sat the serenity of a great decision, in his deep blue eyes the

light of a great enterprise. As he said good-bye to Helen, she became

aware that his usual hesitating, nervous awkwardness had given place to

quiet, thoughtful dignity. A great resolve and a great sacrifice had

lifted him far above things small and common.

V

"YEA, AND HIS OWN LIFE ALSO"

When Helen entered her own room she had leisure to analyse the tumult

of emotion filling her heart. Amazement, shame, anger, dismay, grief,

were surging across her soul.

"How can he think of leaving his mother? It is a shame!" she cried

indignantly to herself. But why this hot sense of shame? "Nonsense!"

she protested vehemently to herself, "it is that poor, dear old lady I

am thinking of." She remembered that sudden stab at her heart at the

old lady's broken words, "He will be going away, lassie," and her cheek

flamed hot again. "It is all nonsense," she repeated angrily, and there

being no one to contradict her, she said it again with even greater

emphasis. But suddenly she sat down, and before long she found herself

smiling at the memory of the old lady's proud cry, "Could not? Ay, he

could." And now she knew why her heart was so full of happy pride. It

was for Shock. He was a man strong enough to see his duty and brave

enough to face what to him was the bitterness of death, for well she

knew what his mother was to him.

"He will go," she whispered to her looking-glass, "and I'd go with him

to-morrow. But"--and her race flamed hot--"he must never know."

But he did come to know, to his own great amazement and overwhelming,

humbling gladness.

Shock's determination to offer himself to the far West awakened in his

friends various emotions.

"It is just another instance of how religious fanaticism will lead men

to the most fantastic and selfish acts," was Mrs. Fairbanks' verdict,

which effected in Brown a swift conversion. Hitherto he had striven

with might and main to turn Shock from his purpose, using any and every

argument, fair or unfair, to persuade him that his work lay where it

had been begun, in the city wards. He was the more urged to this course

that he had shrewdly guessed Helen's secret, so sacredly guarded. But

on hearing Mrs. Fairbanks' exclamation, he at once plunged into a warm

defence of his friend's course.

"The finest thing I ever heard of," he declared. "No one knows what

these two are to each other, and yet there they are, both of them,

arriving at the opinion that Shock's work lies in the West."

"But to leave his mother alone!" exclaimed Mrs. Fairbanks indignantly.

"She is not to be alone," said Brown, making there and then a sudden

resolve. "By the greatest of luck for me I am turned out of my

quarters, and she is to take me in, and while I can't fill Shock's

place, still I am somebody," added Brown, fervently hoping the old lady

would not refuse him shelter.

"I am not sure that a man is ever called to leave his mother to the

care of strangers," said Lloyd, who, after long indecision and much

consultation with various friends, had determined that his particular

gifts and training fitted him for Park Church.

"Oh! blank it all!" said Brown to Helen, "I can't stand that rot!"

"I beg your pardon," said Mrs. Fairbanks, looking haughtily at Brown

through her glasses.

"I was about to say," replied Brown, in the sweetest of tones, "that if

these two who are most interested, and who are extremely sane and

reasonable persons, have come to an agreement upon a question, I'd bank

on that decision as being about the thing." At which Helen gave his arm

a quick squeeze.

"Well, mother," said Betty, "I think he's fine, and I never admired him

so much as now. You know he may never see her again, and she has the

whole of his heart."

"Not quite, I guess," said Brown in a low tone to Helen, who, blushing

vividly, replied in like tone, "You seem to be remarkably well

informed."

"I know," said Brown confidently. "But he is a mine of blind stupidity!

If some one would dig him up, explore him--blast him, in short!

Confound him!"

But when the Superintendent learned of all that Shock's decision

involved, he made a point to insert among his multitudinous engagements

a visit to the Macgregor cottage.

"It was a great scene, I assure you," said Brown, who was describing it

afterwards to the young ladies.

"Those two old Spartans, all ice and granite outside, all molten lava

within, stood up looking at each other a minute or two without the

quiver of an eyelid and then the old chief burred out:"

"'You are to be congratulated upon your son, Mrs. Macgregor.'"

"'Ay,' said she in a matter of fact tone, 'he will be doing his duty, I

warrant.'"

"'And, believe me, your mutual sacrifice has not been unnoticed.'"

"'It is not great beside His own, but it iss all we could. It iss our

life.'"

"The old chap bowed like a prince and then his voice burred like a buzz

saw as he answered, 'Remember I did not ask you for him!'"

"'No, it wass not you.'"

"'But I want to tell you,' said the chief, 'I am proud to get a son who

for the Cause can forsake such a mother, and I thank God for the mother

that can give up such a son.'"

"And then he gripped her hand with that downward pull of his,--he gave

it to me once when he heard I was Shock's friend, and nearly jerked me

off my feet,--and without more words he was gone, while I stood behind

them like a blubbering idiot."

"Oh, isn't she a dear!" exclaimed Betty, "poor thing."

"Poor thing!" echoed Helen warmly, "indeed she doesn't think so. She's

as proud of him as she can be, and feels herself rich in his love; and

so she is."

Her tone and manner struck Brown with sudden pity.

"Hang his stupidity!" he said to himself, "can't the old bloke see. But

he has not such a blamed low opinion of himself that he can't imagine

any girl, much less a girl like that, looking at him, and even if he

did come to see it he would not think of asking her to share the life

he's going to out there; and, by Jove! it would be hard enough for her.

I guess I won't take the responsibility of interfering in this

business."

But Brown had no need to interfere. Mrs. Fairbanks, of all people, did

what was necessary. On the morning of Shock's departure it was she who

declared that someone should take pity on "that dear old lady," and

should stand by her in her hour of "desertion."

"So I think I shall drive over this afternoon; and, Helen, perhaps you

had better come with me. You seem to have great influence with her."

But Helen was of quite another mind. She shrank from intruding upon

what she knew would be a sacred hour to mother and son. But when Mrs.

Fairbanks expressed her determination to go Helen finally agreed to

accompany her.

"Oh, let's all go, mother," said Betty.

"I do not think they will want you, Betty, but you may go along," and

so the three ladies proceeded in the afternoon to the Macgregor home.

But at the parting of Shock and his mother there were no tears or

lamentations, or at least none that any could witness. Through the long

night before, they each knew the other to be keeping the watch of love

and agony; yet, each alone, they drank the cup of sacrifice. It was

only when the morning was nearing that Shock could bear it no longer,

and hastily dressing he came into his mother's room and kneeling by her

bedside put his arms about her.

"Mother, mother, why have you not been sleeping?" he whispered.

His mother turned to him and took his head to her bosom in a close

embrace, but no words came from her.

"But, mother, don't be grieving like this," sobbed Shock, "or how can I

leave you at all."

"Laddie, laddie, why did you come in to me? I had minded to give you up

without tears, and this iss my hour of weakness. There now, let your

head lie there. Whist! lad, och-hone. It iss twenty-four years since

first you lay there, lad, and though grief hass come to me many's the

day, yet never through you, never once through you, and you will be

remembering that, lad. It will comfort you after--after--after I'm

gone."

"Gone, mother!" cried Shock in surprise.

"Yess, for this iss the word given to me this night, that you will see

my face no more."

"Oh, mother! mother! don't say that word, for I cannot bear it," and

poor Shock buried his face in the pillow, while his great frame shook

with sobs.

"Whist now, laddie! There now. It iss the Lord."

Her voice grew steady and grave. "It iss the Lord, and He gave you to

me for these few happy years, and, Shock, man, you will be heeding me."

Shock turned his face toward her again and laid his face close to her

cheek.

"Remember, I gave you to Himself in convenant that day, and that

covenant you will keep now and--afterwards, and I must be keeping it

too."

"Yes, mother," said Shock brokenly, while he held her tight. "But it is

only for two years, and then I will be coming home, or you to me, and

before that, perhaps."

"Yes, yes, laddie, it may be--it may be," said his mother soothingly,

"but whether or no, we will not be taking back with the one hand what

we give with the other. I had minded to give you without tears,

but--but oh, lad, you are all--all--all--I have. There is no one left

to me."

There was a long silence between them. Under cover of darkness they let

their tears freely mingle. In all his life Shock had never seen his

mother sob, and now he was heart--stricken with grief and terror.

"Whist now, mother, you must not cry like that. Surely God will be good

to us, and before long I will get a little place for you yonder. Why

should you not come to me? There are missionaries' wives out there," he

said.

"No, lad," his mother replied quietly, "I will not be deceiving myself,

nor you. And yet it may be the Lord's will. But go away now and lie you

down. You will need to sleep a bit, to-morrow will be a hard day to

you."

For twenty years and more she had thought first of her boy, and now,

even in the midst of her own great sorrow, she thought mostly of him

and his grief.

"Let me stay here, mother," whispered Shock. And so in each other's

arms they lay, and from sheer exhaustion both soon fell asleep.

The morning's sun was shining through the chink by the curtain when

Mrs. Macgregor awoke. Gently she slipped out of the bed and before

dressing lighted the kitchen fire, put on the kettle for the tea and

the pot for the porridge. Then she dressed herself and stepping about

on tiptoe prepared breakfast, peering in now and then at her sleeping

son.

It was with a face calm and strong, and even bright, that she went in

at last to waken him.

"Now, mother," exclaimed Shock, springing off the bed, "this is really

too bad, and I meant to give you your breakfast in bed to-day."

"Ay, it's myself knew that much," she cried with a little laugh of

delight.

"Oh, but you're hard to manage," said Shock severely, "but wait until I

get you out yonder in my own house."

"Ay, lad," answered his mother brightly, "it will be your turn then."

They were determined, these two, to look only at the bright side

to-day. No sun should shine upon their tears. The parting would be sore

enough with all the help that hope could bring. And so the morning

passed in last preparations for Shock's going, and the last counsels

and promises, and in planning for the new home that was to be made in

the shadow of the Rockies in the far West.

"And the time will soon pass, mother," said Shock cheerfully, "and it

will be good for you to have Brown with you. He will need your care,

you know," he hastened to add, knowing well that not for her own sake

could she have been persuaded to receive even Brown into her little

home.

"Ay, I will do for him what I can," she replied, "and indeed," she

added warmly, "he's a kind lad, poor fellow."

"And the young ladies will be looking in on you now and then, so they

said," and Shock bent low over his trunk working with the roping of it.

"Yes, indeed," replied his mother heartily, "never you fear."

And so with united and determined purpose they kept at arm's length the

heart's sorrow they knew would fall upon each when alone.

To go to the ends of the earth in these globe-trotting days is attended

with little anxiety, much less heart-break, but in those days when

Canada was cut off at the Lakes, the land beyond was a wilderness,

untravelled for the most part but by the Indian or trapper, and

considered a fit dwelling place only for the Hudson Bay officer kept

there by his loyalty to "the Company," or the half-breed runner to whom

it was native land, or the more adventurous land-hungry settler, or the

reckless gold-fevered miner. Only under some great passion did men

leave home and those dearer than life, and casting aside dreams of

social, commercial, or other greatness, devote themselves to life on

that rude frontier. But such a passion had seized upon Shock, and in it

his mother shared. Together these two simple souls, who were all in all

to each other, made their offering for the great cause, bringing each

their all without stint, without measure, without grudging, though not

without heart-break, and gaining that full exquisite joy, to so many

unknown, of love's complete sacrifice.

To none but themselves, however, was the greatness of the sacrifice

apparent. For when the carriage arrived with Mrs. Fairbanks and her

daughters there was no sign of tears or heart-break in the quiet faces

that welcomed them. And Mrs. Fairbanks, who had come prepared to offer

overflowing sympathy to the old lady "deserted" by her "fanatical" son,

was somewhat taken aback by the quiet dignity and perfect control that

distinguished the lady's voice and manner. After the first effusive

kiss, which Mrs. Fairbanks hurried to bestow and which Mrs. Macgregor

suffered with calm surprise, it became difficult to go on with the

programme of tearful consolation which had been prepared. There seemed

hardly a place for sympathy, much less for tearful consolation, in this

well-ordered home, and with these self-sufficient folk.

"We thought we would like to come over and--and--help, perhaps drive

you to the station to see your son off," said Mrs. Fairbanks, who was

readjusting her scenery and changing her role with all speed.

"That was kind, indeed," said Mrs. Macgregor, "but Hamish will be

walking, I doubt, and I will just be waiting at home."

She had the instinct of the wounded to hide in some sheltered and

familiar haunt.

"I shall be glad to remain with you, Mrs. Macgregor, if I can be of any

service," repeated Mrs. Fairbanks.

"It will not be necessary; everything is done, and there is nothing

needed."

The voice was more than quiet, as if it came from a heart whose passion

had been spent.

"It is very kind, indeed, and we are grateful," said Shock, feeling

that his mother's manner might be misunderstood.

"Yess, yess," said the old lady hastily, "it iss very good of you and

of the young ladies," turning to look at Helen with kindly eyes. "You

will not be thinking me ungrateful," she added with a suspicion of

tears in her voice. "I have been spoiled by Hamish yonder," turning her

face toward her son.

"Whist now, mother," said Hamish to her in a low tone, in which

depreciation and warning were mingled. He knew how hard the next hour

would be for himself and for his mother, and he knew, too, that they

could not indulge themselves in the luxury of uttered grief and love.

At this moment, to the relief of all, Brown entered with an exaggerated

air of carelessness.

"Here's a man for your 'settler's effect,'" he cried cheerily. "Lucky

dog, aint he," he cried, turning to Helen, "and don't I wish I was in

his place. Think of the times he will have riding over the claims with

those jolly cowboys, not to speak of the claims he will be staking, and

the gold he will be washing out of those parish streams of his. Don't I

wish I were going! I am, too, when I can persuade those old

iron-livered professors to let me through. However, next year I'm to

pass. Mrs. Macgregor is to see to that."

"Indeed, I hope so," cried Betty, "an hour's study at least, before

breakfast and no gallivanting at night. I will help you, Mrs.

Macgregor. We will get him through this time."

"Ay, I doubt I will not be much the better of your help," replied Mrs.

Macgregor, with a shrewd kindly smile.

"There now, take that," said Brown to Betty, adding ruefully to Shock,

"You see what I'm in for."

"You'll survive," said Shock.

Then he rose and lifted his coat from the peg behind the door. At the

same instant Helen rose hurriedly and with paling face said to her

mother: "Let us go now."

"Well, Mrs. Macgregor, if we cannot serve you we will be going," said

Mrs. Fairbanks; "but we would be glad to drive Mr. Macgregor to the

station."

She was anxious to justify her visit to herself and her friends.

"That's a first-rate idea," cried Brown, "that is, if you can give me a

lift, too."

"Of course," cried Betty.

"Thank you, I shall be very glad," said Shock, seeing it would please

Mrs. Fairbanks.

"Come along, then," said Betty. "I suppose we have not too much time."

"Good-bye, for the present," said Mrs. Fairbanks, offering her hand to

the old lady, who was standing erect, white but calm, facing the hour

whose bitterness she had already tasted.

"Good-bye," said Betty softly, kissing the white cheek, and trying to

hurry her mother towards the door.

At this, Helen, who had been standing with face growing whiter and

whiter, went to Mrs. Macgregor and put her arms around her and kissed

her good-bye. When she was nearing the door she came hurriedly back.

"Oh, let me stay with you. I cannot bear to go," she whispered.

The old lady turned and scrutinised steadily the young face turned so

pleadingly toward her. Slowly under that steady gaze the red crept up

into the white cheek, like the first dawning of day, till the whole

face and neck were in a hot flame of colour. Yet the grey, lustrous

eyes never wavered, but, unshrinking, answered the old lady's searching

look. At that revealing wave of colour Shock's mother made as if to

push the girl away from her, but, with a quick change of mood, she took

her in her arms instead.

"Ay, poor lassie, you too! Yes, yes, you may stay with me now."

The motherly touch and tone and the knowledge that her secret had been

read were more than Helen could bear. She clung to Mrs. Macgregor,

sobbing passionate sobs.

At this extraordinary outburst Mrs. Fairbanks came back into the room

and stood with Shock and the others gazing in utter amazement upon this

scene.

"Whist now, lassie, whist now," Mrs. Macgregor was saying, "never you

fear, he'll come back again."

"What on earth is this nonsense, Helen?" Mrs. Fairbanks' voice was

haughty and suspicious. "What does this mean?"

"It means," said Mrs. Macgregor with quiet dignity, "what neither you

nor I can help or harm."

"Helen, speak to me."

At the stern command Helen lifted her face, still hot with blushes, and

stood looking straight into her mother's eyes. Her mother turned from

her impatiently.

"Do you know what this means?" she said to Shock.

"What? I don't understand," replied Shock, gazing helplessly at the

haughty, angry face turned toward him.

"Have you dared to speak to my daughter?"

"Oh, mamma," cried Helen, in an agony of mortification, "how can you?"

"You may well be ashamed," said Mrs. Fairbanks, who had quite lost

control of herself, "throwing yourself at the head of a man so far

beneath you, with no prospects, and who does not even want you."

"So far beneath, did you say?" cried Mrs. Macgregor quickly. "Woman,

say no more. You shame yourself, let alone your child.

Whist,"--checking the other's speech--"the blood in the veins of Hector

Macgregor yonder" (pointing to the portrait of the Highland soldier on

the wall) "was as proud as that in any Lowland trader of you."

"What sort of conduct, then, is this?" answered Mrs. Fairbanks angrily.

"Have you encouraged your son?"

"Hush, mother," said Shock, suddenly awakening to an understanding of

what was happening, "let me speak."

The stern voice compelled silence. Shock was a new man to them all. He

was thinking quickly now for his mother, for himself, but most of all

for the girl he loved, who stood with face turned away and eyes cast

down in intolerable humiliation.

"Mrs. Fairbanks," said Shock, speaking slowly and with quiet dignity,

"if I have not spoken of love to your daughter, it is not because I

have not loved her well and for long, but because I could not feel

myself worthy of her. Hush, mother; I am not worthy of her, nor shall I

ever be, not by reason of any difference in blood,--for there is no

difference,--but because of what she is herself, so far above me. I

have never spoken with my lips of love, and yet for many and many a day

I have feared that my eyes, and all else that could speak, must have

told her I loved her. And if it should be--for I will not pretend to

misunderstand you--if it should be that it is possible she should ever

love me, then there has come to me a joy greater than I could have

hoped, and whatever may, come of it, this day is the happiest of my

life."

As Shock began to speak, Helen lifted her face, and as she listened her

look of grief and shame fled, and in her eyes a light of joy began to

dawn, then grew till it seemed to overflow in waves across her

beautiful face. And as Shock continued his calm, manly words pride

mingled in her joy, and her head lifted itself with a grace and dignity

that matched that of the old lady standing by her side.

Mrs. Fairbanks stood fairly speechless at Shock's words and at the look

of joy and pride she saw upon her daughter's face.

"This is absurd!" she cried at length. "It's preposterous, and it must

end now and forever. I forbid absolutely anything in the way of--of

engagement or understanding. I will not have my daughter tie herself to

a man with such prospects."

"Wait, mother," said Shock, putting his hand out toward the old lady,

who was about to speak. "Mrs. Fairbanks," he continued quietly, "far be

it from me to take advantage of your daughter in any way, and I say to

you here that she is as free now as when she came into this room. I

shall not ask her to bind herself to me, but I will be false to myself,

and false to her, if I do not say that I love her as dearly as man ever

loved woman, and come what may, I shall love her till I die."

The ring in Shock's voice as he spoke the last words thrilled everyone

in the room.

"Ay, lad that you will," said his mother proudly.

"Oh, aint he great," whispered Brown to Betty, who in her excitement

had drawn close to him. Betty responded with a look, but could not

trust herself to speak.

The moment was pregnant with possibilities.

As Shock finished speaking, Helen, with an indescribable mingling of

shy grace and calm strength, came and stood by his side. For the first

time Shock lost control of himself. He flushed hotly, then grew pale,

then with a slightly defiant look in his face, he put his arm lightly

about her.

"Time for that train," said Brown, who had slipped to the outer door.

"That is," he continued in his briskest manner, "if you're going."

With a quick gasp Helen turned towards Shock. He tightened his arm

about the girl, and putting his hand upon her shoulder, turned her face

toward him and looked down into her face.

"Good-bye," he said gently. "Remember you are free, free as ever you

were. I have no claim upon you, but don't forget that I will always

love you. I will never forget you."

"Good-bye, Shock," she replied in a low, sweet tone, lifting her face

to him. "I will not forget. You know I will not forget."

She slipped her arm around his neck, and while his great frame trembled

with emotion she held him fast.

"I'll not forget," she said again, the light in her great grey eyes

quenched in a quick rush of tears. "You know, Shock, I will not

forget." Her lips quivered piteously.

Then Shock cast restraint to the winds. "No," he cried aloud, "you will

not forget, thank God, you will not forget, and you are mine!"

He drew her close to him, held her a moment or two, looking into her

eyes, and as she lay limp and clinging in his arms he kissed her on the

brow, and then on the lips, and gave her to his mother.

"Here, mother," he said, "take her, be good to her, love her for my

sake."

He put his arms around his mother, kissed her twice, and was gone.

"He'll never get that train," cried Betty.

"Take the carriage," said Mrs. Fairbanks shortly, "and follow him."

"Come along! hurry!" said Betty, catching Brown's arm.

"The station, John!"

"Oh, I say," gasped Brown, seizing Betty's hand and crushing it

ecstatically, "may I embrace you? It's either you or John there."

"Do be quiet. It seems to me we have had as much of that sort of thing

as I can stand. Wasn't it awful?"

"Awful? Awfully jolly!" gasped Brown, hugging himself. "Haven't had a

thrill approaching that since the McGill match, and even that was only

a pale adumbration of what I've just been through."

"I'm sure I don't know what to think. It's so dreadfully startling."

"Startling!" cried Brown. "Come now, Miss Betty, you don't mean to say

you haven't seen this growing for the past six months!"

"No, truly I haven't."

"Well, that's only because you have been so occupied with your own

affairs."

"Nonsense," cried Betty indignantly, with a sudden flame of colour in

her cheeks. "You're quite rude."

"I don't care for anything now," cried Brown recklessly. "My prayers,

tears, and alms-giving haven't been without avail. The terrors and

agonies I've endured this last few days lest that old blockhead should

take himself off without saying or doing anything, no man will ever

know. And he would have gone off, too, had it not been for that lucky

fluke of your mother's. Do you mind if I yell?"

"Hush! Here, let my hand go, it's quite useless," said Betty, looking

at that member which Brown had just relinquished.

"John," gravely enquired Brown, "are you using both your hands?"

"I beg pardon, sir," enquired the astonished coachman, half turning

round.

"Here, do stop your nonsense," cried Betty in a shocked voice.

"Oh, all right, John, this will do," said Brown, seizing Betty's hand

again, as John gave his attention to the horses.

"I say, pull up beside Mr. Macgregor there, will you? Here, Shock, get

in. You'll miss your train. Here, you old bloke, come along, don't gape

like a sick duck. Get in here. You have got to get that train now."

"Mr. Brown," said Betty in a severe whisper, "mind, don't say a word to

him about this business. I can't stand it."

"Certainly not," said Brown, in a matter of fact tone. "There's nothing

to be said."

But there was one last word to be said, and that was Betty's.

"Good-bye, Shock," she whispered to him, as he stepped upon his train.

"I think--I know--I'm very glad."

Poor Shock could only grasp her hand in mute farewell. It was just

dawning upon him that he had some further offering to bring to make his

sacrifice complete.