It was worship time, and the bairns had gathered round the table with
their books, to wait for their father's coming. It was a fair sight to
see, but it was a sad one too, for they were motherless. It was all the
more sad, that the bright faces and gay voices told how little they
realised the greatness of the loss they had sustained. They were more
gay than usual, for the elder brother had come home for the summer,
perhaps for always; for the question was being eagerly discussed whether
he would go back to the college again, or whether he was to go with the
rest to America.
Arthur, a quiet, handsome lad of sixteen, said little. He was sitting
with the sleepy Will upon his knee, and only put in a word now and then,
when the others grew too loud and eager. He could have set them at rest
about it; for he knew that his father had decided to leave him in
Scotland till his studies were finished at the college.
"But there's no use to vex the lads and Graeme to-night," he said to
himself; and he was right, as he had not quite made up his mind whether
he was vexed himself or not. The thought of the great countries on the
other side of the globe, and of the possible adventures that might await
them there, had charms for him, as for every one of his age and spirit.
But he was a sensible lad, and realised in some measure the advantage of
such an education as could only be secured by remaining behind, and he
knew in his heart that there was reason in what his father had said to
him of the danger there was that the voyage and the new scenes in a
strange land might unsettle his mind from his books. It cost him
something to seem content, even while his father was speaking to him,
and he knew well it would grieve the rest to know he was to be left
behind, so he would say nothing about it, on this first night of his
home-coming.
There was one sad face among them; for even Arthur's home-coming could
not quite chase the shadow that had fallen on Graeme since the night a
year ago while she sat dreaming her dreams in the firelight. It was
only a year or little more, but it might have been three, judging from
the change in her. She was taller and paler, and older-looking since
then. And yet it was not so much that as something else that so changed
her, Arthur thought, as he sat watching her. The change had come to her
through their great loss, he knew; but he could not have understood,
even if it had been told him, how much this had changed life to Graeme.
He had suffered too more than words could ever tell. Many a time his
heart had been ready to burst with unspeakable longing for his dead
mother's loving presence, her voice, her smile, her gentle chiding, till
he could only cast himself down and weep vain tears upon the ground.
Graeme had borne all this, and what was worse to her, the hourly missing
of her mother's counsel and care. Not one day of all the year but she
had been made to feel the bitterness of their loss; not one day but she
had striven to fill her mother's place to her father and them all, and
her nightly heartbreak had been to know that she had striven in vain.
"As how could it be otherwise than vain," she said often to herself, "so
weak, so foolish, so impatient." And yet through all her weakness and
impatience, she knew that she must never cease to try to fill her
mother's place still.
Some thought of all this came into Arthur's mind, as she sat there
leaning her head on one hand, while the other touched from time to time
the cradle at her side. Never before had he realised how sad it was for
them all that they had lost their mother, and how dreary life at home
must have been all the year.
"Poor Graeme! and poor wee Rosie!" he says to himself, stooping over the
cradle.
"How old is Rosie?" asked he, suddenly.
"Near three years old," said Janet.
"She winna be three till August," said Graeme in the same breath, and
she turned beseeching eyes on Janet. For this was becoming a vexed
question between them--the guiding of poor wee Rosie. Janet was a
disciplinarian, and ever declared that Rosie "should go to her bed like
ither folk;" but Graeme could never find it in her heart to vex her
darling, and so the cradle still stood in the down-stairs parlour for
Rosie's benefit, and it was the elder sister's nightly task to soothe
the fretful little lady to her unwilling slumbers.
But Graeme had no need to fear discussion to-night. Janet's mind was
full of other thoughts. One cannot shed oceans of tears and leave no
sign; and Janet, by no means sure of herself, sat with her face turned
from the light, intently gazing on the very small print of the Bible in
her hand. On common occasions the bairns would not have let Janet's
silence pass unheeded, but to-night they were busy discussing matters of
importance, and except to say now and then, "Whist, bairns! your father
will be here!" she sat without a word.
There was a hush at last, as a step was heard descending the stairs, and
in a minute their father entered. It was not fear that quieted them.
There was no fear in the frank, eager eyes turned toward him, as he sat
down among them. His was a face to win confidence and respect, even at
the first glance, so grave and earnest was it, yet withal so gentle and
mild. In his children's hearts the sight of it stirred deep love, which
grew to reverence as they grew in years. The calm that sat on that
high, broad brow, told of conflicts passed, and victory secure, of weary
wandering through desert places, over now and scarce remembered in the
quiet of the resting-place he had found. His words and deeds, and his
chastened views of earthly things told of a deep experience in "that
life which is the heritage of the few--that true life of God in the soul
with its strange, rich secrets, both of joy and sadness," whose peace
the world knoweth not of, which naught beneath the sun can ever more
disturb.
"The minister is changed--greatly changed." Janet had said many times
to herself and others during the last few months, and she said it now,
as her eye with the others turned on him as he entered. But with the
thought there came to-night the consciousness that the change was not
such a one as was to be deplored. He had grown older and graver, and
more silent than he used to be, but he had grown to something higher,
purer, holier than of old, and like a sudden gleam of light breaking
through the darkness, there flashed into Janet's mind the promise, "All
things shall work together for good to them that love God." Her lips
had often spoken the words before, but now her eyes saw the fulfilment,
and her failing faith was strengthened. If that bitter trial, beyond
which she had vainly striven to see aught but evil, had indeed wrought
good, for her beloved friend and master; need she fear any change or any
trial which the future might have in store for her?
"It will work for good, this pain and separation," murmured she. "I'm
no' like the minister, but frail and foolish, and wilful too whiles, but
I humbly hope that I am one of those who love the Lord."
"Well, bairns!" said the father. There was a gentle stir and movement
among them, though there was no need, for Graeme had already set her
father's chair and opened the Bible at the place. She pushed aside the
cradle a little that he might pass, and he sat down among them.
"We'll take a Psalm, to-night," said he, after a minute's turning of the
leaves from a "namey chapter" in Chronicles, the usual place. He chose
the forty-sixth.
"God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.
"Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed, though the
mountains be cast into the midst of the sea."
And thus on through the next.
"He shall choose our inheritance for us, the excellency of Jacob, whom
he loved."