"This God is our God for ever and ever. He will be our guide, even unto
death," seemed like the triumphant ending of a song of praise.
Then there was a momentary hush and pause. Never since the mother's
voice had grown silent in death had the voice of song risen at worship
time. They had tried it more than once, and failed in bitter weeping.
But Janet, fearful that their silence was a sin, had to-night brought
the hymn-books which they always used, and laid them at Arthur's side.
In the silence that followed the reading Graeme looked from him to them,
but Arthur shook his head. He was not sure that his voice would make
its way through the lump that had been gathering in his throat while his
father read, and he felt that to fail would be dreadful, so there was
silence still--
There was a little lingering round the fire after worship was over, but
when Arthur went quietly away the boys soon followed. Graeme would fain
have stayed to speak a few words to her father, on this first night of
his return. He was sitting gazing into the fire, with a face so grave
that his daughter's heart ached for his loneliness. But a peevish voice
from the cradle admonished her that she must to her task again, and so
with a quiet "good-night, papa," she took her little sister in her arms.
Up-stairs she went, murmuring tender words to her "wee birdie," her
"bonny lammie," her "little gentle dove," more than repaid for all her
weariness and care, by the fond nestling of the little head upon her
bosom; for her love, which was more a mother's than a sister's, made the
burden light.
The house was quiet at last. The boys had talked themselves to sleep,
and the minister had gone to his study again. This had been one of
Rosie's "weary nights." The voices of her brothers had wakened her in
the parlour, and Graeme had a long walk with the fretful child, before
she was soothed to sleep again. But she did sleep at last, and just as
Janet had finished her nightly round, shutting the windows and barring
the doors, Graeme crept down-stairs, and entered the kitchen. The red
embers still glowed on the hearth, but Janet was in the very act of
"resting the fire" for the night.
"Oh! Janet," said Graeme, "put on another peat. I'm cold, and I want
to speak to you."
"Miss Graeme! You up at this time o' the night! What ails yon cankered
fairy now?"
"Oh, Janet! She's asleep long ago, and I want to speak to you." And
before Janet could remonstrate, one of the dry peats set ready for the
morning fire was thrown on the embers, and soon blazed brightly up.
Graeme crouched down before it, with her arm over Janet's knee.
"Janet, what did your mother say? And oh! Janet, Arthur says my
father--" Turning with a sudden movement, Graeme let her head fall on
Janet's lap, and burst into tears. Janet tried to lift her face.
"Whist! Miss Graeme! What ails the lassie? It's no' the thought of
going awa', surely? You hae kenned this was to be a while syne. You
hae little to greet about, if you but kenned it--you, who are going
altogether."
"Janet, Arthur is to bide in Scotland."
"Well, it winna be for long. Just till he's done at the college. I
dare say it is the best thing that can happen him to bide. But who told
you?"
"Arthur told me after we went up-stairs to-night. And, oh! Janet! what
will I ever do without him?"
"Miss Graeme, my dear! You hae done without him these two years already
mostly, and even if we all were to bide in Scotland, you would hae to do
without him still. He could na' be here and at the college too. And
when he's done with that he would hae to go elsewhere. Families canna
aye bide together. Bairns maun part."
"But, Janet, to go so far and leave him! It will seem almost like
death."
"But, lassie it's no' death. There's a great difference. And as for
seeing him again, that is as the Lord wills. Anyway, it doesna become
you to cast a slight on your father's judgment, as though he had decided
unwisely in this matter. Do you no' think it will cost him something to
part from his first-born son?"
"But, Janet, why need he part from him? Think how much better it would
be for him, and for us all, if Arthur should go with us. Arthur is
almost a man."
"Na, lass. He'll no' hae a man's sense this while yet. And as for his
goin' or bidin', it's no' for you or me to seek for the why and the
wherefore o' the matter. It might be better--more cheery--for you and
us all if your elder brother were with us, but it wouldna be best for
him to go, or your father would never leave him, you may be sure o'
that."
There was a long silence. Graeme sat gazing into the dying embers.
Janet threw on another peat, and a bright blaze sprang up again.
"Miss Graeme, my dear, if it's a wise and right thing for your father to
take you all over the sea, the going or the biding o' your elder brother
can make no real difference. You must seek to see the rights o' this.
If your father hasna him to help him with the bairns and--ither things,
the more he'll need you, and you maun hae patience, and strive no' to
disappoint him. You hae muckle to be thankful for--you that can write
to ane anither like a printed book, to keep ane anither in mind.
There's nae fear o' your growin' out o' acquaintance, and he'll soon
follow, you may be sure. Oh, lassie, lassie! if you could only ken!"
Graeme raised herself up, and leaned both her arms on Janet's lap.
"Janet, what did your mother say?"