ELIZABETH ELLIS KNOX KNOWLES

_*THE WEB OF TIME*_

_By_

_*ROBERT E. KNOWLES*_

_Author of "St. Cuthbert’s," "The Undertow,"_

_"The Dawn at Shanty Bay"_

_New York Chicago Toronto_

_Fleming H. Revell Company_

_London and Edinburgh_

Copyright, 1908, by

FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY

New York: 158 Fifth Avenue

Chicago: 80 Wabash Avenue

Toronto: 25 Richmond Street, W.

London: 21 Paternoster Square

Edinburgh: 100 Princes Street

To

My Daughter

ELIZABETH ELLIS KNOX KNOWLES

whose gentle hands, guided

from afar, have woven many

a golden strand into life’s

mysterious web, this book is

dedicated with unuttered fondness.

*CONTENTS*

I. The Ashes on the Hearth

II. The Wine-Press Alone

III. Love’s Labourer

IV. The Riches of the Poor

V. A Flow of Soul

VI. An Investment

VII. "Effectual Calling"

VIII. Of Such is the Kingdom

IX. A Belated Enquirer

X. Sheltering Shadows

XI. Food for Thought

XII. The Encircling Gloom

XIII. The Dews of Sorrow

XIV. The Weighing of the Anchor

XV. A Parental Parley

XVI. David the Diplomat

XVII. Friendship’s Ministry

XVIII. Voices of the Past

XIX. A Brush With Death

XX. The Restoring of a Soul

XXI. A Heated Debate

XXII. Breakers Ahead

XXIII. Ingenuity of Love

XXIV. The Victor’s Spoils

XXV. What Made the Ball so Fine?

XXVI. "The Fair Sweet Morn Awakes"

XXVII. A Brother’s Mastery

XXVIII. A Light at Midnight

XXIX. How David Swept the Field

XXX. A Journalist’s Injunctions

XXXI. The Trough of the Wave

XXXII. Harvey’s Unseen Deliverer

XXXIII. Plain Living and High Thinking

XXXIV. The Overflowing Hour

XXXV. "Into His House of Wine"

XXXVI. A Mistress Of Finance

XXXVII. The Conqueror’s Home-Going

XXXVIII. The Fleeing Shadows

_*THE WEB OF TIME*_

*I*

_*THE ASHES ON THE HEARTH*_

"No, father’s not home yet—go to sleep, dear," and the mother-hand

tucked the clothes securely about the two snuggling forms; "don’t ask

any more, Harvey, or you’ll waken Jessie—and go to sleep."

Mrs. Simmons went back to the kitchen, crooning softly to the wakeful

baby in her arms. Glancing at the clock, she marked, with an

exclamation of surprise, how late it was. "He might be in any minute

now," she said to herself as she thrust in another stick for the

encouragement of the already steaming kettle. Then she busied herself a

few minutes about the table; a brief pause, as if pondering, ended in

her moving quickly towards the pantry, emerging a moment later with some

little luxury in her hand.

"Poor Ned, this night-work seems so hard—if he’s working at all," she

thought to herself, "and he’ll be cold and tired when he comes in—hush,

baby, isn’t that your father?" as she laid a finger on the crowing lips.

The footfall came nearer, firm and steady, too—at which the anxious face

lighted up; but a moment later it was gone, and silence reigned again.

The baby seemed, in some mysterious way, to share the disappointment; in

any case, it became suddenly quiet, the big blue eyes gazing up at the

mother’s. The unfathomed depths, as such depths are prone to do, seemed

to start some hidden springs of thought in the woman’s mind; for the

anxious eyes that peered into them were now suffused with tears, then

bright again with maternal fondness as she clasped the infant to her

breast.

For she dreaded the home-coming of her husband, even while she longed

for it. The greatest of all books assures us that fear is cast out by

love—but love may still fear something in the very one it loves above

all others; some alien habit, some sin that changes the whole complexion

of a soul. And thus was it with the wife who now awaited her husband’s

coming with a troubled heart.

It had not been ever thus. Far different had it been in the happy days

with which her thoughts were busy now as she moved hither and thither,

doing what deft and loving hands could do to make all bright and cheery

before her husband should arrive. Those vanished days had been happy

ones indeed, with nothing to cloud their joy.

When Edward Simmons first crossed her path, she knew that her hour of

destiny had come. He was then a journeyman printer—and he was handsome

and chivalrous and fascinating; sensitive to the last degree, imperious

by nature, but tender in the expression of his love for her. And how

rapturously sure of the happiness that lay before them both! Passionate

in temper he undoubtedly was—but tideful natures ever are. And he was

slower to forgive himself than others.

She had been little more than a girl, a fatherless girl, when first she

met Edward Simmons—Ned, as his friends all called him—and in less than a

year after their meeting she gave herself to him forever. Then her real

life began, she thought; but before a year had passed, it was

new-quickened and enriched beyond all of which she had ever dreamed.

Her first-born son came to swell the fullness of her joy, and Eden

itself broke into flower at his coming. The anguish and the ecstasy of

motherhood had come twice again since then—and she marvelled at the new

spring of love that each new baby hand smites in the wilderness of life.

But the sky had darkened. When at its very brightest, the clouds had

gathered. Steady employment and good wages and careful management had

enabled her to garner a little, month by month; womanlike, she was

already taking thought of how Harvey should be educated. And just when

everything seemed prosperous, that awful trouble had come among the

printers—between the masters and the men. Then came strikes and

idleness—work by spasmodic starts, followed by new upheavals and

deepening bitterness—and Ned had been more with the muttering men than

with his Annie and the children.

And—this was so much worse—he had gradually fallen a victim to a sterner

foe. A tainted breath at first; later on, thick and confused utterance

when he came home at night; by and by, the unsteady gait and the clouded

brain—one by one the dread symptoms had become apparent to her. She had

known, when she married, that his father had been a drinker; and one or

two of her friends had hinted darkly about hereditary appetite—but she

had laughed at their fears. Hereditary or not, the passion was upon

him—and growing. Lack of work proved no barrier. Little by little, he

had prevailed on her to give him of her hard-saved treasure, till the

little fund in the post-office savings was seriously reduced.

But there was another feature, darker still. It had changed him so.

His whole moral nature had suffered loss. No wonder the woman’s face

bore tokens of anxiety as she waited and watched through the long

midnight hours; for drink always seemed to clothe her husband with a

kind of harshness foreign to his nature, and more than once she had

trembled before his glance and shuddered at his words. Against this,

even her love seemed powerless to avail; for—and it is often so with the

mysterious woman-heart—she seemed but to love him the more devotedly as

she felt him drifting out to sea. She could only stretch vain hands

towards the cruel billows amid which she could see his face—but the face

she saw was ever that of happier days.

Suddenly she started, her heart leaping like a hunted hare as she heard,

far-off, clear sounding through the stillness of the night, the footfall

she was waiting for. The child’s eyes seemed to fasten themselves upon

the mother’s as if they caught the new light that suddenly gleamed

within them; she held her babe close as she went swiftly to the door and

slipped out into the night. The silent stars looked down on the poor

trembling form as she stood and waited, shivering some—but not with

cold—listening for the verdict her ears must be the first to catch.

She had not long to wait; and the verdict would have been plain to any

who could have seen her face as she turned a moment later and crept back

into the house. The stamp of anguish was upon it; yet, mechanically,

the babe’s eyes still on hers, she took up the little teapot and poured

in the boiling water—the kettle went on with its monotonous melody. She

had just time to hurry up and steal a glance at the children; they were

asleep, thank God.

The baby turned its eyes towards the door as the shambling feet came up

to it and the unsteady hand lifted the latch. The mother pretended to

be busied about the table, but the eager eyes stole a quick glance at

her husband, darkening with sorrow as they looked. The man threw off

his coat as soon as he entered.

"I’m hungry," he said in a thick, unnatural voice.

"I’ve got your supper all ready, dear," the woman’s low voice returned.

She tried hard to keep it steady; "and I’ll just pour the tea. Are you

tired, Ned?"

He did not answer. Staggering towards the table, he began eating

greedily, still upon his feet. "To-day’s been the devil," he muttered;

"I can’t eat, I tell you—there’s only one thing I want, and I’ve had too

much of that. But I’ve got to have it."

"You didn’t speak to baby, Ned," she said timidly, trying to come closer

to him, yet shrinking instinctively; "see how she jumps in my arms—she

knows you, Ned."

"I wish she’d never been born," the man said brutally; "it’ll only be

another hungry mouth—how much have we left in the savings?"

"And she was trying to say ’daddy’ to-day—and once I’m sure she did,"

the mother went on, fearful of his quest and hoping to beguile him thus.

"What’s that got to do with it?" he demanded angrily, commanding his

words with difficulty. "The strikers had to give in—and we went back

to-day. An’ the bosses won’t take us on again—they’ve sacked us, damn

them, and every man of us has to come home to his hungry kids. How much

is left out o’ what we’ve saved?" he repeated, tasting a cup of tea,

only to let it fall from his shaking hand so suddenly that it was

spilled about the table.

"There’s about three hundred, Ned," she said hesitatingly. "We did have

nearly five, you know—we’ve used such a lot of it lately."

"I want some of it," he said gruffly. "I’ve got to pay into the fund

for the men—and anyhow, I want money. Who earned it if it wasn’t me?"

"Oh, Ned," she began pleadingly, "please don’t—please don’t make me,

dear. It’s all we’ve got—and it’s taken so long to save it; and if

times get worse—if you don’t get work?"

The pitiful debate was waged a little longer. Suddenly she noticed—but

could not understand—a peculiar change that came slowly over his

countenance.

"Maybe you’re right," he said at last, a leer of cunning on his face.

"There ain’t goin’ to be any quarrellin’ between us, is there? We’ll

see about it to-morrow." His whole tactics changed in a moment, the

better to achieve his purpose. "You’ve always stood by me, Annie, an’

you won’t go back on me now. Hello, baby," as he tried to snap his limp

fingers, coming closer to the two.

The child laughed and held out its arms. The father’s feet scraped

heavily on the floor as he shuffled towards it. "It knows its dad all

right," he said in maudlin merriment; "glad to see its old dad—if he did

get fired. Come, baby, come to your old dad," and he reached out both

hands to take it.

The mother’s terror was written in her eyes. "Oh, don’t, Ned—don’t,

please," she said; "she’ll catch cold—I’ve got her all wrapped up."

"I’ll keep the blanket round her," he mumbled; "come to your old dad,

baby," his voice rising a little.

But his wife drew back. "Please don’t to-night, Ned," she remonstrated;

"it’ll only excite her more—and I can’t get her to sleep," she pleaded

evasively.

His heavy eyes flashed a little. "I want that young ’un," he said

sullenly, advancing a little; "I ain’t goin’ to eat her."

The mother retreated farther, her lips white and set, her eyes leaping

from the babe’s face to its father’s. "I can’t, Ned," she said; "let us

both carry her, dear; come, we’ll make a chair of our hands, like we

used to do for Harvey—and I’ll keep my arm about her, so," and she held

out one hand, holding the baby firm with the other.

He struck it down. "Give me that young ’un," he said, his nostrils

dilating, his voice shaky and shrill.

She stood like a wild thing at bay. "I won’t, Ned, I won’t," her voice

rang out; "good God, Ned, it isn’t safe—go back," she cried, her voice

ringing like a trumpet as she held the now terrified infant to her

breast, the child rising and falling as her bosom heaved in terror.

His eyes, unsteady now no longer, never left her face as he moved with a

strange dexterity nearer and nearer to them both. The woman glanced one

moment into the lurking depths, all aflame with the awful light that

tenderness and madness combine to give, saw the outstretched hand, felt

the fumes outbreathing from the parted lips—and with a low gurgling cry

she sprang like a wounded deer towards the door. But he was too quick

for her, flinging himself headlong against it. Aroused and inflamed by

the fall, he was on his feet in an instant, clutching at her skirt as he

arose.

"Give me that young ’un," he said hoarsely; "we’ll see whose child this

is."

The woman’s lips surged with the low moaning that never ceased as the

unequal struggle raged a moment, the helpless babe contributing its note

of sorrow. Suddenly the man got his hands firmly on the little arms;

and the mother, her instinct quick and sensitive, half relaxed her hold

as she felt the dreadful wrenching of the maddened hands. With a gasp

he tore the baby from her, reeling backward as the strain was suddenly

relaxed. Struggling desperately, he strove to recover himself. But the

strain had been too much for the ruined nerves. The child fell from his

hands, the man’s arms going high into the air; an instant later he

slipped and tottered heavily to the floor, the woman springing towards

them as his outclutching hands seized her and bore her heavily down, the

man now between the two, the silent infant beneath the struggling pair.

She was on her feet in the twinkling of an eye, tearing him aside with

superhuman strength. But the baby lay in the long last stillness; its

brief troubled pilgrimage was at an end. And the little dreamers

up-stairs still slept on in uncaring slumber—nor knew that their long

rough journey was at hand. And the kettle on the stove still murmured

its unconscious song.

* * * * * *

The evil spirit had departed from the man.

It had gone forth with the destroying angel, both with their dread work

well performed. And the man knew—with preternatural acuteness he

interpreted his handiwork in an instant.

And they knelt together—that is the wonder of it—together, above the

baby form. Both noted the dimpled hand, and the rosebud mouth—both

touched the flaxen hair. No word of chiding fell—from the mother’s lips

nothing but an inarticulate broken flow, sometimes altogether still,

like the gurgling of an ice-choked brook.

But he was the first to declare that the child was dead, maintaining it

fiercely, his eye aglow now with anguished pity, so different from the

weird lustre that it had displaced. And she would not believe it,

dropping one tiny hand that she might chafe the other, lest death might

get advantage in the chase.

She was still thus engaged when he arose and looked about the room for

his hat. It was lying where he had flung it when he came in an eternity

ago.

"Good-bye—till—till the judgment day," he said huskily, standing above

her, something of the wildly supernatural in the tone. He waited

long—but she spoke no word, nor lifted her eyes from the dead face, nor

relinquished her stern struggle with the complacent Conqueror.

He went out—and was gone with steady step. She knew it not. Perhaps it

was about half an hour later when he returned, opening the door gently

and passing her swiftly by. A father’s yearning sat upon the ashen

face—he went quickly and softly up the stairs. Then he lighted a match,

shading it at first with his hands lest it should wake the shut eyes—and

while it lent its fleeting light the stricken man drank deep of his

children’s faces. Then the darkness swallowed them up, and he groped

his way down-stairs and passed out into the night.

It was still dark when she at last surrendered—but to God. And the fire

was black and the house was cold when she too went out, closing the door

carefully behind her. She groped about the little porch, feeling in

every corner; and she examined the tiny veranda, and searched through

all the neglected garden; she even noticed the fragrance of some simple

flowers—they had planted them together, and the children had helped in

turn, having one toy spade between them. But it was all empty, all

still.

"Oh, Ned," she cried softly, passionately, her hands outstretched

beneath the all-seeing stars, her face now the face of age, "oh, Ned,

come back—you didn’t mean to do it and you didn’t know. Come back, Ned,"

she cried a little louder, "come back to Harvey and Jessie—they’ll never

know. Oh, Ned," as the outstretched hands were withdrawn and pressed

quickly against her bosom. For it pained her—with its mother-burden—and

she turned to go back to her baby. Then she saw its still face in the

darkness—and her hands went out again towards the night. The silent

stars looked down, pitying, helpless; she went back to her fatherless

and her God.

*II*

_*THE WINE-PRESS ALONE*_

"The woman’s name’s Simmons, sir—an’ she took the whole o’ this half

plot. She keeps a little store, mostly sweeties, I think," said

Hutchins, as he laid his spade against the fence. "An’ there wasn’t no

funeral—just her an’ her two children; she brought the little one here

from the city—that’s where it was buried afore she came here to live."

His chief asked the labourer a question in a low voice.

"Oh, yes, that was all right," the man answered, picking an old leaf

from a geranium plant as he spoke. "She showed me the original

certificate she got in the city—or a copy of it, leastways; it said the

baby came to its death from a fall on the floor. So that was all

right—I asked the chairman. I couldn’t help feelin’ sorry for the

woman, sir; she took on as bad as if it was new. An’ the two little

shavers was playin’ hide an’ seek round the tombstones afore I got the

little grave filled in—she seemed to be terribly alone. It’s funny,

sir, how hard it is to get used to this business—I often says to my

missus as how no man with kids of his own has any license to hire here,"

and the kindly executioner went off, spade in hand, to make a new wound

in the oft-riven bosom of God’s hospitable earth.

The hired helper had told about all that was known in Glenallen

concerning their new townswoman. Indeed, rather more; for comparatively

few knew anything of the little family gathering that had stood one

early morning beside the tiny grave. The village was small—Glenallen

had not yet achieved its fond hope that it would outgrow the humiliating

state of villagehood—and its inhabitants were correspondingly well

posted in the source, and antecedents, and attendant circumstances of

all who came to dwell among them. But almost all they could ascertain

regarding Mrs. Simmons was that she had come from the city, that she had

two children living—as far as they could learn, their father was

dead—that she had some scanty means with which she had embarked on the

humble enterprise that was to provide her daily bread.

And thus far they were correct enough. For the first darkness of the

great tragedy had no sooner overswept her than she began to shrink with

an unspeakable aversion from all that was associated with the old life

that had now no memory but pain. Her heart turned with wistful yearning

towards some spot where she might live again the simple country life she

had known in the early days of childhood. The cold selfishness of the

city chilled her to the soul. She longed for some quiet country

place—such as Glenallen was—where she might make a living, and live more

cheaply; where her children might have a chance; where the beauty of

God’s world might do its share of healing.

She had known but few in the city, simple folk—and they had seemed to

care but little. Yet they had to be kept in the dark; and the careful

story of her baby’s fall had been an often crucifixion. They thought

her husband had suddenly been crazed with grief, hinting sometimes at

the cowardice of his desertion—and she made no protest, dissembling with

ingenious love for his sake and her children’s. Few were aware when she

left the city, and fewer seemed to care. She had little to bring—one

sacred treasure was her chiefest burden—and it slept now beside her. And

Harvey and Jessie must not know that their father was alive—not yet.

They would have enough to bear; and moreover, who could tell? In any

case, was he not dead to them?

She never knew exactly what was the cause of it—whether blow or

shock—nor did she care; but she trembled for her children as it became

more and more certain that her eyesight was failing. It had begun to be

impaired soon after that very night. Yet she went bravely on, clinging

to her little ones, clinging to life, clinging to hope—even to joy, in a

dim, instinctive way. And ever, night and day, she guarded the dread

secret; ever, night and day, she cherished the hope that her eyes might

look again, if God should spare their light, upon the face she had last

seen with that awful look upon it as it came nearer and nearer to her

own. So her lips were set tight, lest any revealing word should escape

to any soul on earth.

And it was not long till the curious residents of Glenallen felt that

the stranger among them was acquainted with grief—but of what sort it

was, the most vigilant never knew. Thus did she tread the wine-press

alone, pressing silently along the upward path of pain.

And thus had the years gone by.

*III*

_*LOVE’S LABOURER*_

"Cut him off another piece, mother—a bigger piece; that there chunk

wouldn’t satisfy a pigeon. Fruit-cake isn’t very fillin’—not to a boy,

leastways, and there’s nothin’ lonelier than one piece of cake inside of

a boy that’s built for nine or ten."

Mr. Borland’s merry eyes turned first upon his wife’s face as he made

his plea, then wandered towards a distant field, resting upon the

diminutive figure of a boy.

"Oh, David," answered his wife, her tone indicating a measure of shock,

"you’re so vivid with your illustrations. It isn’t artistic—I mean

about—about those inside matters," as she smiled, rather than frowned,

her mild reproof.

"That’s all right, mother; it’s true to life, anyhow—an’ it all deals

with his inner bein’; it tells of sufferin’ humanity," rejoined her

husband. "The smaller the boy, the bigger the hunk—that’s a safe rule

when you’re dealin’ in cake. Bully for you, mother—that there slice’ll

come nearer fittin’ him," he concluded jubilantly, as his wife completed

a piece of surgery more generous than before.

"Who was it hired Harvey to pick potatoes, father?" inquired Mrs.

Borland. "How can he eat this without washing his hands?" she

continued, almost in the same breath; "it’s such dirty work."

"You just watch him; that won’t trouble him much. Boys love sand. It

was me that hired him, Martha. He come right up to me on the street an’

took off his hat like I was an earl: ’Can you give me any work to do,

Mr. Borland?’ he says. ’I’m going to make enough money to make mother’s

eyes well,’ an’ the little fellow looked so earnest an’ so manly, I fair

hated to tell him the only kind of job I could give him. I just hated

to. But I told him I wanted some one to pick potatoes. An’ Harvey

brightened right up. ’All right, Mr. Borland,’ he says, ’I’ll come.

I’m awful fond of potatoes, an’ I can pick two at a time—three, if

they’re not too big,’ he says, an’ I couldn’t keep from laughin’ to save

myself."

"What’s the matter with his mother’s eyes?" asked Mrs. Borland, as she

tore the front page from the weekly paper, preparing to wrap it about

the cake.

"I didn’t like to ask him. The little fellow seemed to feel real bad

about it—an’ I never did like to probe into things that hurt," replied

her husband. "Even when I was a boy at school, I never could stand

seein’ a fellow show where he stubbed his toe," continued the homely

philosopher, reaching out his hand for the little parcel. "There was

one thing about the boy that took me wonderful," he went on; "I asked

him would he work by the day or by the bushel, an’ he said right quick

as how he’d do it by the bushel—I always like those fellows best that

prefers to work by the job. Hello, there, old sport," he suddenly

digressed as a noise from behind attracted him, "an’ where did you come

from? You’re always turnin’ up at cake time. I thought you were goin’

to ride to Branchton," glancing as he spoke at the riding whip the girl

held in her hand.

Full of merry laughter were the eyes, so like his own, that sparkled

upward towards her father’s face. The wild sweet breath of happy

girlhood came panting from her lips, half breathless with eager haste;

while the golden hair, contrasting well with the rosy tide that suffused

her cheek, and falling dishevelled on her shoulders, and the very aroma

of health and vitality that distilled from her whole form, tall and

lithe and graceful as it was, might amply justify the pride that marked

her father’s gaze.

"So I was," the chiming voice rejoined. "But I turned back. I despise

a coward." The eyes flashed as she spoke. "And Cecil Craig’s one—he’s

a real one," she elaborated warmly. "We met a threshing engine half-way

out—and of course I was going to ride past it. But he wouldn’t—he got

off and tied his horse to a tree. And it broke the lines and got away.

I was so glad—and I rode on, and Doctor threw me," rubbing her knee

sympathetically as she spoke; "that’s what made me so glad his own horse

got away," she affirmed savagely, "and the two engine men stopped and

caught Doctor for me and I got on him again—astride this time—and I made

him walk right up and smell the engine; and Cecil had to walk home. The

men told him to touch himself up with his whip and it wouldn’t take him

long—and that made him awful mad. You see, they knew he was a coward.

Who’s that fruit-cake for?" she inquired suddenly, flinging her gloves

vigorously towards the hat-stand. "I’ll just try a piece

myself—fruit-cake’s good for a sore knee," and she attacked it with the

dexterity that marks the opening teens.

"It’s for a little boy that’s workin’ in the field—little Harvey

Simmons. He’s pickin’ potatoes, an’ I thought a little refreshment

wouldn’t hurt him," her father answered, pointing fieldward as he spoke.

"I know him," the maiden mumbled, her mouth full of the chosen remedy;

"he goes to school—and he always spells everybody down," she added as

enthusiastically as the aforesaid treatment would permit. "Let me take

it out to him, father," the utterance clearing somewhat.

The father was already handing her the dainty parcel when her mother

intervened. "No, Madeline, it’s not necessary for you to take it. It’s

hardly the correct thing, child; I’ll call Julia—she can take it out."

"’Tisn’t necessary, mother," quoted her husband. "I want this here cake

to mean something. I’ll just take it myself," and in a moment he was

striding energetically across the intervening paddock, the untiring form

of the little labourer alternately rising and falling as he plied his

laborious toil.

"Your father is the best-hearted man in the county, Madeline," Mrs.

Borland ventured when her husband was out of hearing.

"He’s the best man in the world," the girl amended fervently; "and Cecil

says his father’s a member of the Church and mine isn’t," she went on

more vehemently; "he said father didn’t believe the right things—and I

just told him they weren’t the right things if my father didn’t believe

them, and I wouldn’t believe them either," the youthful heretic

affirmed. "Lally Kerr told me Cecil’s father made some poor people give

him money for rent that they needed for a stove—I didn’t want to tell

Cecil that, but when he said his father believed all the right things I

told him my father did all the good things, and he was kind to the

poor—and I told him he was kind to them because he was poor once himself

and used to work so hard with his hands, and——"

"Why, child," and the mother frowned a little, "where did you get that

idea? Who told you that?"

"Father told me," replied the child promptly. "He told me himself, and I

think I heard him telling Cecil’s father that once too—Cecil’s father

wanted not to give so much money to the men that worked for him. I

think they were talking about that, and that was when father said it,"

the unconscious face looking proudly up into her mother’s.

"You don’t need to speak about it, dear; it doesn’t sound well to be—to

be boasting about your father, you know. Now run away and get ready for

lunch; father ’ll be back in a minute."

The child turned to go upstairs, singing as she went, forgetful of the

mild debate and blissfully ignorant of all the human tumult that lay

behind it, conscious only of a vague happiness at thought of the great

heart whose cause she had championed in her childish way. Less of

contented joy was on the mother’s face as she looked with half exultant

eyes upon the luxury about her, trophies of the wealth that had been so

welcome though so late.

Prompted by the conversation with Madeline, her mind roamed swiftly over

the bygone years; the privations of her early married life, the growing

comfort that her husband’s toil had brought, the trembling venture into

the world of manufacture, the ensuing struggle, the impending failure,

the turning tide, the abundant flow that followed—and all the fairy-land

into which increasing wealth had borne her. Of all this she thought as

she stood amid the spoils—and of the altered ways and loftier friends,

of the whirl and charm of fashion, of the bewildering entrance into such

circles of society as their little town afforded, long envied from afar,

now pouring their wine and oil into still unhealing wounds. Dimly, too,

it was borne in upon her that her husband’s heart, lagging behind her

own, had been content to tarry among the simple realities of old,

unspoiled by the tardy success that had brought with it no sense of

shame for the humble days of yore, and had left unaltered the simplicity

of an honest, kindly heart.

Her husband, in the meantime, had arrived at the side of his youthful

employee, his pace quickening as he came nearer to the lad, the corners

of his mouth relaxing in a sort of unconscious smile that bespoke the

pleasure the errand gave him. Absorbed in his work, and hearing only

the rattle of the potatoes as they fell steadily into the pail beside

him, the boy had not caught the approaching footfalls; he gave a little

jump as Mr. Borland called him by his name.

"Here’s a little something for you, my boy—the missus sent it out."

Harvey straightened himself up, clapped his hands together to shake the

dust from them, and gravely thanked his employer as he received the

little package. Slowly unwrapping it, his eye brightened as it fell on

a sight so unfamiliar; in an instant one of the slices was at his lips,

a gaping wound in evidence as it was withdrawn. A moment later the boy

ceased chewing, then slowly resumed the operation; but now the paper was

refolded over the remaining cake, and Harvey gently stowed it away in

the pocket of his blouse.

"What’s the matter?" inquired Mr. Borland anxiously. "Aren’t you

well—or isn’t it good?" The boy smiled his answer; other reply was

unnecessary and inadequate.

"Goin’ to take it home?" the man asked curiously.

"No, sir. I’m just going to keep it a little while," the youngster

replied, looking manfully upward as he spoke, a little gulp bespeaking

the final doom of the morsel he had taken. "You don’t mind, sir?" he

added respectfully.

"Me mind! What would I mind for? You’re quite right, my boy—it’s a

mighty good thing when a fellow finds out as young as you are that he

can’t eat his cake and have it too; it takes most of us a lifetime to

learn that. How old are you, Harvey—isn’t that your name?"

"Yes, sir. I’m most fourteen," the boy answered, stooping again to

resume his work.

"Do you go to school?" the man inquired presently.

"Mostly in the winter, sir; not very much in the summer. But I do all I

can. You see, I have to help my mother in the store when she needs me.

But I’m going to try the entrance next summer," he added quickly, the

light of ambition on his face.

"Where is your mother’s store?" asked Mr. Borland.

"It’s that little store on George Street, next to the Chinese laundry.

It has a red door—and there’s a candy monkey in the window," he hastened

to add, this last identification proffered with much enthusiasm.

A considerable silence followed, broken only by the rattling potatoes as

they fell. "Mr. Borland, could you give me work in your factory?" the

boy inquired suddenly, not pausing for an instant in his work.

"In the factory!" echoed Mr. Borland. "I thought you were going to

school."

"I could work after four," replied the boy. "There’s two hours left."

Mr. Borland gazed thoughtfully for a moment. "’Twouldn’t leave you much

time to play," he said, smiling down at Harvey.

"I don’t need an awful lot of play," the boy returned gravely; "I never

got very much used to it. Besides, I’ve got a lot of games when I’m

delivering little parcels for mother—games that I made up myself.

Sometimes I play I’m going round calling soldiers out because there’s

going to be a war—and sometimes I play I’m Death," he added solemnly.

"Play you’re Death!" cried the startled man. "What on earth do you mean

by that? I thought no one ever played that game but once," he

concluded, as much to himself as to the boy.

"Oh, it’s this way, you see—it’s one of the headlines in the copy-book

that pale Death knocks with—with—impartial steps at the big houses and

the little cottages—something like that, anyhow. And it’s a good deal

the same with me," the boy responded gravely, looking up a moment as he

spoke. "It’s a real interesting game when you understand it. Of course

I’m not very pale," he continued slowly, "but I can feel pretty pale

when I want to," he concluded, smiling at the fancy.

Mr. Borland was decidedly interested. And well he might have been. For

there was just enough of the same mystic fire in his own heart,

untutored though it was, to reveal to him the beauty that glowed upon

the boyish face before him. The lad was tall for his years,

well-formed, lithe, muscular; dishevelled by his stooping toil, a wealth

of nut-brown hair fell over an ample forehead, almost overshading the

large blue eyes that were filled with the peculiar shining light which

portrays the poetic mind. His features were large, not marked by any

particular refinement, significant rather of the necessity—yet also of

the capacity—for moral struggle; distended nostrils, marking fullness of

life and passion, sensitive to the varying emotions that showed first in

the wonderful eyes; a deep furrow ran from nose to lips, the latter

large and full of rich red blood, but finely formed, curving away to

delicate expression at either side, significant of a nature keenly alive

to all that life might have to give—such lips as eloquence requires, yet

fitted well together, expressive of an inner spirit capable of the

firmness it might sorely need.

"Could you drive a horse, lad?" the man suddenly inquired, after a long

survey of the unconscious youth.

Harvey hesitated. "I think I could, sir, if the horse was willing.

Sometimes we play horse at school, and I get along pretty well."

Mr. Borland looked keenly, but in vain, for any trace of merriment on

the half-hidden face. "I drove the butcher boy’s horse once or twice,

too. And I managed all right, except when it backed up—I hate to drive

them when they’re backing up," the boy added seriously, with the air of

an experienced horseman.

Mr. Borland laughed. "That’s jest where it comes in," he said; "any one

can drive anything when it’s goin’ ahead—it’s when things is goin’ back

that tries your mettle. I’ll see what I can do. Some of our horses

drives frontwards—horses is pretty evenly divided between the kind that

goes frontwards and them that won’t," he mused aloud as he walked away.

"I’ve struck a heap of the last kind—they backed up pretty hard when I

was your age," Harvey could just overhear as he plucked the dead vines

from another mound and outthrew its lurking treasures.

*IV*

_*THE RICHES OF THE POOR*_

The retreating figure had no sooner gained the house in the distance

than Harvey began to cast glances, eager and expectant, towards the road

that skirted the outer edge of the field in which he was working. Once

or twice he straightened up, wincing a little with the ache that long

stooping brings, and peered intently towards the top of a distant hill

beyond which he could not see. Suddenly his eye brightened, and a

muffled exclamation of pleasure broke from his lips, for the vision he

longed for had appeared. Yet it was commonplace enough—only a coloured

sunbonnet, some four or five feet from the ground, and swaying a little

uncertainly in the noontide light. But it was moving nearer, ever

nearer, to the waiting boy, who knew the love that lent strength to the

little feet and girded the tiny hands which bore something for himself.

The girlish form was now well beyond the curving hill, trudging bravely

on; and Harvey saw, or thought he saw, the happy smile upon the eager

face, the pace quickening as she caught sight of her brother in the

distance. Harvey’s eyes filled with tenderness as he gazed upon the

approaching child; for the poor, if they love and are loved again, know

more of life’s real wealth than the deluded rich.

A few minutes more and she was at the bars, panting but radiant. Harvey

ran to lay them down, taking the bundles from her hands. "Oh, but my

arms ache so," the girl said, as she sank upon the grass; "it must be

lovely to have a horse."

"Some day we will," her brother returned abruptly. "You just wait and

see—and then you won’t ever walk anywhere. But you oughtn’t to carry

these all this way, Jessie; I could bring it in my pocket just as well."

The girl’s face clouded a little. "But then it gets so cold, Harvey—and

what’s in there ought to be nice and warm," she said hopefully, nodding

towards the pail. "Mother heated the can just when we put it in, and I

came as fast as ever I could, so it wouldn’t cool—and I held it in the

hot sun all the time," she concluded triumphantly, proud of her

ingenuity.

"That’s lovely, Jessie," replied the boy; "and you’re quite right," he

went on, noticing the flitting sign of disappointment. "I just hate

cold things—and I just love them hot," he affirmed as he removed the

lid.

Jessie bended eagerly over it and the faint steam that arose was as

beautiful to her eyes as was ever ascending incense to priestly

ministrant.

"It’s hot, Harvey! I thought it would be," she cried. "Mother was so

anxious for you to have a nice dinner—I knew that was what you liked,"

as an exclamation of delight came from the boy. "Mother said she never

saw such a boy for meat-pies as you. And there’s something further down,

that you like too—they’re under a saucer, and they have butter and sugar

both, on them. No, you’d never guess what it is—oh, that’s not fair,"

she cried, "you’re smelling; any one can guess what it is if they

smell," laughing merrily as she tried to withdraw the pail beyond the

range of his olfactory powers.

"It’s pancakes!" pronounced her brother, sniffing still.

"Yes, of course—but you never would have guessed. Mother made them the

very last thing before I started. And I cried when she was putting them

in—oh, Harvey, it was so sad," the girl burst out with trembling voice,

her hands going to her face as she spoke. "And mother cried too," she

added, looking out at her brother through swimming eyes.

Harvey halted in his attack. "What for? What were you crying about?"

he asked earnestly, the food still untasted.

"It was about mother’s eyes. You see, she put the pancakes on the table

beside the stove—and there was a pile of table mats beside them. Well,

when mother went to put them into the pail, she took up the mats

instead—never knew the difference till she felt them. And I could see

how sad it made her—she said she was afraid she soon wouldn’t see at

all; and I just couldn’t keep from crying. Oh, Harvey," the shaking

voice went eagerly on, "don’t you think we’ll soon be able to send her

to the city to see the doctor there?—everybody says he could cure the

right eye anyhow; mother thinks the left one’s gone. Don’t you think we

will, Harvey?"

Harvey looked into space, a large slice of the tempting pie still in his

hand. "I’m hoping so," he said—"I made almost thirty cents this

morning; I counted it up just before you came—and there’s the two

dollars I made picking raspberries that mother doesn’t know about—it’s

in that knot-hole in the closet upstairs, you know. And maybe Mr.

Borland’s going to give me more work—I asked him, and then——"

"I told mother I was going to sell Muffy," his sister broke in

impulsively. "But she said I mustn’t; I guess she’s awful fond of

Muffy, she cried so hard."

"I’d hate to sell Muffy," the boy responded judicially; "she’s the only

one that always lays big eggs. And then, besides, they might kill her

and eat her up—rich people nearly always do their hens that way." Two

pairs of eyes darkened at thought of a tragedy so dread.

"We wouldn’t, even if we was rich, would we, Harvey?" the girl resumed

earnestly.

"No, not with Muffy," Harvey assured her. "They’re awful rich over

there," he volunteered, pointing to the large stone house in the

distance.

"It must be lovely," mused the girl. "We could have such lots of lovely

things. Why don’t you eat your dinner, Harvey?—it’ll get so cold."

"I don’t want it much," replied her brother. "You see, I had a pretty

good breakfast," he explained cheerfully.

The loving eyes, still moist, gazed into his own. She was so young, some

years younger than he, and as inexperienced almost as a child could be;

yet the stern tuition of poverty and sorrow had given something of

vision to the eyes that looked so wistfully out upon the plaintive face

before her. She noted his shabby dress, the patches on his knees, the

boots that stood so sorely in need of impossible repairs, the grimy

stains of toil from head to foot, the furrowed channels that the flowing

perspiration had left upon his face. And a great and mysterious pity

seemed to possess her. She felt, dimly enough, yet with the sad reality

of truth, that her brother had hardly had a chance in life’s unequal

struggle. His tenderness, his unselfishness, his courage, all these she

recognized, though she could not have called them by their names. She

knew how ardently he longed to do so much that chill penury forbade; and

as she glanced at the dust-covered pile in the distance that his toil

had gathered, then back at the tired figure on the grass, all stained

and spotted, the food he so much needed untasted in his sorrow, she felt

more and more that there was only one hero in the world, however baffled

and unrecognized he might be.

"Mother’ll be so disappointed," the girl pleaded, "if you don’t eat it,

Harvey; she tried so hard to make it nice. Besides, I’ll just have to

carry it back," she suddenly urged, a note of triumphant expectation in

her voice; "and it was real heavy, too," well pleased with the

culminating argument.

The boy hesitated, then slowly raised the tempting morsel to his lips.

"I didn’t have such an awful lot of breakfast," he conceded; "I really

am pretty hungry—and it was so good of you to fetch it to me, sister,"

his gaze resting affectionately on her.

A long silence ensued, Jessie watching delightedly as the little repast

was disposed of, entertaining her brother the while with a constant

stream of talk, all fed from the fountain-head of their own little

circle, their own humble and struggling life. But however far afield

her speech, with her thought, might wander, it kept constantly returning

to the one central figure of their lonely lives, to her from whom their

own lives had sprung; and the most unobservant listener would soon have

known that the unselfish tenderness, the loving courage, of the

mother-heart that had warmed and sheltered their defenseless lives, was

reaping now its great and rich reward.

Jessie had reverted again to the dark shadow that overhung them both,

their mother’s failing eyesight; and two earnest little faces looked

very soberly one into the other, as though they must together beat back

the enemy from the gate.

Suddenly Harvey broke the silence. "I’m pretty sure she’s going to get

well," he said earnestly, holding the bottle in one hand and the glass

stopper in the other. "I had a dream last night that—that comforted me

a lot," he went on, slightly embarrassed by the fanciful nature of his

argument; he could see that Jessie had hoped for something better. "I

dreamed I was walking some place on a country road. And it was all

dark—for mother, at least—it was awful dark, and I was leading her by

the hand. I thought there was something troubling her that you didn’t

know about—nor me—nobody, only mother. Well, just when we were groping

round in the dark, a great big black cloud broke up into little bits,

and the sun came out beautiful—just like—like it is now," he described,

glancing towards the orb above them. "Of course, that was only in my

dream—but we went straight on after that and mother could see to walk

just as well as me," he concluded, smiling as hopefully as if dreams

were the only realities of life.

Jessie, holding her sunbonnet by both strings and swinging it gently to

and fro, had a curious look of interest, not unmixed with doubt, upon

her childish face. "That was real nice, Harvey," she said slowly at

length, "but I don’t just understand. You see, people always dream

their dreams at night—and the sun couldn’t come out at night; anyhow it

never does."

Harvey gazed indulgently. "It can do anything when you’re dreaming," he

said quickly, a far-off look in his thoughtful eyes. "That’s when all

the wonderful things happen," he went on, still looking absently across

the fields. "Poor folks have just as good a time as rich folks, when

they’re asleep," he concluded, his voice scarcely audible.

"But they know the difference when they wake up," retorted his sister,

plucking a clover leaf eagerly. "Only three leaves!" she exclaimed

contemptuously, tossing it aside. "Yes, it’s very different when they

wake up—and everybody’s awake more than they’re asleep," she affirmed,

as confident in her philosophy as he in his.

Her brother said nothing as he proceeded to fold up the rather generous

remains of his dinner; poor laddie, he knew the taste of bread eaten

with tears, even if he had never heard the phrase. His face brightened

a little as his hand went out to the pocket of his blouse, extracting a

parcel wrapped in paper. He held it with both hands behind his back,

uncovering it the while.

"Shut your eyes, Jessie—and open your mouth," he directed, as

enthusiastically as though the formula were being tested for the first

and only time.

Jessie obeyed with a confidence born of long experience, and her

brother, all care vanished meanwhile from his face, held the plum-cake

to her lips. "Now, bite," he said. Jessie, already faintly tasting,

made a slight incision. "Oh, Jessie, bite bigger—bite bigger, Jessie!"

he cried in dismay; "you’re just trying how little you can take—and I

kept it for you." But Jessie’s eyes were wide open now, fixed on the

unwonted luxury. "Too much isn’t good for little girls," she said

quaintly, swallowing eagerly, nevertheless; "I’ll eat one piece if

you’ll eat the other, Harvey," she said, noticing the double portion.

"I’m keeping mine for mother," said the boy resolutely.

"So’m I," the other exclaimed before his words were out. "I’d sooner

have the pancakes, anyhow," she added, fearing his protest. "Will you

take it to her, Harvey—or me?"

"I think you’d better," replied her brother, "and I’ll eat the rest of

the dinner if you’ll promise to eat your part of the cake when you get

home."

Jessie nodded her consent, and a few minutes saw Harvey’s portion of the

contract nobly executed, his sister as satisfied as he.

*V*

_*A FLOW OF SOUL*_

Good Dr. Fletcher always said a little longer grace than usual when he

dined at Mr. Craig’s. Whether this was due to the length of the ensuing

meal, or to the long intervals that separated these great occasions, or

to the wealth that provided them, or to the special heart-needs of the

wealthy, it were difficult to say. But one thing is beyond all doubt,

and that is that the good minister of the Glenallen Presbyterian Church

would no more have thought of using an old grace at Mrs. Craig’s table

than she herself would have dreamed of serving the same kind of soup, or

repeating a dessert whose predecessor was within the call of memory.

On this particular evening Dr. Fletcher’s invocation had been

particularly long, due perhaps to the aroma, more than usually

significant, that had escaped the kitchen to assure the sanguine guests;

and a sort of muffled amen broke from their waiting lips, soon to

confirm the word by all sincerity of action. This amen was doubtless due

in part to gratitude for what had ended, as well as to anticipation of

what was about to be begun. Cecil Craig, seated beside his mother, took

no part in the terminal devotion; long before the time to utter it, his

open eyes were turned towards the door through which the servants were

to enter, and from which, so far as he could reckon, all blessings flow.

Soup came first, and young Craig dauntlessly led on in the attack. His

mother tried eagerly to call to his attention, and to his alone, that he

had seized the spoon meant for his dessert; but Cecil was already in

full cry, the mistaken weapon plying like a paddle-wheel between his

plate and his mouth—and no signal of distress could reach him. The most

unfortunate feature of it all, however, was the speedy plight of one or

two timorous guests, who, waiting for the lead of any members of the

family, had followed Cecil’s; and, suddenly detecting whither he had led

them, were soon floundering sadly in such a slough of despond as they

scarce escaped from during the entire meal.

Mr. and Mrs. Borland were there, one on either side of Dr. Fletcher; and

the light of temporary peace was upon Mrs. Borland’s brow—for the

Craigs’ home was nearer to a mansion than any other in Glenallen. A

slight shade of impatience flitted across her face as she glanced

athwart Dr. Fletcher’s portly form, surveying her husband’s bosom

swathed in snowy white, his napkin securely tucked beneath his chin.

But David was all unconscious, the region beneath the napkin being

exceeding comfortable; for the soup was good, and her spouse bade fair

to give Cecil a stern chase for the honours of the finish.

Soup is a mighty lubricant of the inward parts; wherefore there broke

out, when the first course was run, a very freshet of conversation; and

the most conspicuous figure in the flow was that of Mr. Craig. He had

the advantage, of course, of an erect position, for he had risen to

inaugurate his attack upon the helpless fowl before him; an entrance

once effected, he would resume his seat.

"It beats me," he was saying, glancing towards Dr. Fletcher as he spoke,

"it beats me how any man can go and see sick folks every day—I’d sooner

do hard labour. Don’t you get awful tired of it, Doctor?"

The minister’s gentle face flushed a little—the same face at sight of

which the sad and the weary were wont to take new hope. "I don’t think

you understand it, Mr. Craig," he answered quietly; "any one who regards

it as you do could never see the beauty of it—it all depends on what you

take with you."

"Good heavens, do you have to take things with you?" cried the

astonished host. "Matters are come to a pretty pass when they expect a

poor preacher to be giving—as well as praying," he affirmed, affirmed,

savagely at the victim on the platter.

David Borland was listening intently, nabbing dexterously the while at a

tray of salted almonds that lay a good arm’s length away from him. "The

minister’s quite right," he now broke in; "you don’t understand, Mr.

Craig—Dr. Fletcher don’t mean that he takes coal an’ tea, when he visits

poor folks. But what he says is dead true just the same—any one can

carry a bag of turnips, or such like, to any one that’s willin’ to take

’em. But a minister’s got to give somethin’ far more than that; even on

Sundays—at least that’s my idea of it—even on Sundays, what a preacher

gives is far more important than what he says."

"You mean he ought to give himself," Mrs. Craig suggested, stirring the

gravy as she spoke, the dismembered turkey being now despatched to its

anointing.

"That’s it exactly," rejoined David, beaming on his hostess, her own

face aglow with the gentle light that flows from a sympathetic heart.

"Everythin’s jest a question of how much you give of your own self; even

here," his voice rising as he hailed the happy illustration, "even in

this here house—with this here bird—we ain’t enjoyin’ it because we’re

gettin’ so much turkey, but because we’re gettin’ so much Craig," he

went on fervently. "I could buy this much turkey for a quarter,"

passing a well-laden plate as he spoke, "for twenty-five cents at an

eatin’ house—but it wouldn’t jest taste the same. It wouldn’t have the

Craig taste, you see—there wouldn’t be no human flavour to it, like; an’

turkey ain’t nothin’ without a human flavour. That’s what makes

everythin’ taste good, you see," he concluded, smiling benignly around

on the assembled guests.

"I don’t believe in any such," retorted Mr. Craig; "no mixture of that

kind for mine. Turkey’s one thing, and humanity’s another—no stews for

me," he directed, smiling broadly at this flash of unaccustomed wit;

"people eat turkey—but not humanity," he concluded victoriously.

"You’re wrong there," replied David Borland quickly. "Folks lives on

humanity—only it’s got to be served warm," he added, falling to upon the

turkey nevertheless.

"What do you think about it, Doctor?" Mrs. Borland enquired absently,

for her real concern was with David; his dinner knife was her constant

terror when they were dining out. All was well so far, however, her

husband devoting it as yet to surgery alone.

"I think exactly what your husband thinks," replied the minister. "He

has said the very thing I have often wished to say. I have always felt

that what a preacher _gives_ to his people—of his heart and love and

sympathy—is far more than what he _says_ to them. If it were not so,

they’d better stay home and read far finer things than he can say; I

often feel that preparing to preach is far more important than preparing

a sermon. And I think the same holds true of all giving—all

philanthropy, for instance. What you give of yourself to the poor is

far more than what you give from your pocketbook—and, if the truth were

told, I believe it’s what the poor are looking for, far more than they

are for money." The tenderness in Dr. Fletcher’s face and the slight

quiver in his voice attested the sincerity of his feeling; they might,

too, have afforded no little explanation of the love that all Glenallen

felt for the humble and kindly man.

Mr. Craig laughed; and that laughter was the key to his character.

Through that wave of metallic merriment, as through a tiny pane, one

might see into all the apartments of a cold and cheerless heart.

"That’s mighty pretty, Doctor," he began jocosely; "but if I was poor

I’d sooner have the cash—give me the turkey, and you can have the

humanity. I believe in keeping these things separate, Dr. Fletcher," he

went on sagaciously; "no mixin’ up business with religion, for me—of

course, helping the poor isn’t exactly religion, but it comes mighty

near it. And if I give anything to the poor—I used to, too, used to

give—to give so much every year, till I found out one family that bought

a watermelon with it, and then I thought it was about time to stop. But

when I used to—to give to the poor, I always did it strictly as a matter

of business; just gave so much to—to an official—and then I didn’t want

to know how he dispensed it, or who got it, or anything about it."

"Did the—the official—did he give all his time to dispensin’ it, Mr.

Craig? Or did he just do it nights and after hours?" enquired David

Borland, detaching his napkin from his upper bosom and scouring an

unduly merry mouth with it the while.

Mr. Craig glanced suspiciously at his guest. "I didn’t wish to know,"

he replied loftily in a moment; "all I’m making out is the principle

that governed me. And I always take the same stand in my

business—always assume the same attitude towards my men," he amplified,

as proud of his language as of his attitude. "Of all the men I’ve got

hired, I don’t believe I know a half dozen except the foremen. I get

their work, and they get their pay every second and fourth Tuesday—and

that’s the end of it."

"You don’t know how much you miss," the minister ventured, quite a glow

of colour on his otherwise pallid cheek. "There’s nothing so

interesting as human life."

"You bet—that’s just it," chimed David’s robust voice; "that’s where a

fellow gets his recreation. I don’t think I’m master of my business

till I know somethin’ about my men—there ain’t no process, even in

manufacturing half so interestin’ as the doin’s of folks in their own

lives. I know lots of their wives, too, an’ half the kids—please give

me a little more stuffin’, Mrs. Craig: it’s powerful good," and David

passed his plate as cheerfully as his opinion.

"That may be your way of taking your recreation, Mr. Borland, but it

isn’t mine," retorted the host, obviously a little ruffled. "Business

on business lines, that’s my motto. Just the other day a little gaffer

asked me for work, on the plea that he wanted to fix up his mother’s

eyes—wanted to send her to a specialist, I think—and I told him that had

nothing to do with the case; if I wanted him I’d take him, and if I

didn’t, nobody’s eyes could make any difference."

"Was his name Harvey Simmons?" David enquired somewhat eagerly.

"I believe it was. Why, what do you know about him?"

"Oh, nothin’ much—only I hired him. And he isn’t goin’ to have no blind

mother if my givin’ him work will help—that’s more. She’s got a son

worth lookin’ at—that’s one thing sure. An’ he earned every penny I

ever gave him, too—what was you goin’ to say, Doctor?" For he saw the

minister had something to offer.

"I know the little fellow well," said Dr. Fletcher, evidently glad of

the opportunity. "Poor little chap, he’s had hard lines—his father was

a slave to drink, I believe, and the poor mother has fought about as

good a fight as I ever saw. I’m sure she carries about some burden of

sorrow nobody knows anything about. She has two children. Well, a long

time ago now, one of the richest couples in my church offered to adopt

the little girl—and they got me to sound her on the subject. Goodness

me! You should have seen the way the woman stood at bay. ’Not till the

last crust’s gone,’ she said. She was fairly roused; ’I’m richer than

they are,’ she said; ’I’ve got my two children, and I’ll keep them as

long as I can lift a hand to toil for them.’ Really, I never felt more

rebuked in my life—but I admired her more than I could tell. And the

wee fellow raged like a little lion. ’Did he want to take sister?—tell

him to go home, mother,’ and he was fairly shouting and stamping his

little foot, though the tears were running down his cheeks all the

while. I said she had two children," the minister added, "but I think

she lost a baby through some sad accident years ago."

David Borland’s eyes were glistening. "Bully for you, Doctor!" his

voice rang through the room. "Bully for you—I knew the lad was worth

stickin’ to. I’m proud to be mixed up with a chap like that," thumping

the table as he spoke.

"That’s what I often say to Peter," Mrs. Craig began mildly during the

pause that followed. "I often feel what you sometimes say in your

sermons, Doctor—that we ought all to be mixed up a little more together.

The rich and the poor, I mean. They need us, and we need them—and we

both have our own parts to play in the great plan."

"That’s it, Mrs. Craig," David broke in lustily again; "that’s exactly

it—last Sunday when we sang that line, ’My web of time He wove,’ I jest

stopped singin’—it struck me, like it never done before, as how God

Himself couldn’t weave much without us helpin’ Him—the rich an’ the

poor—it’s Him that designs, but it’s us that has to weave. An’ I reckon

our hands has got to touch—if they’re workin’ on the same piece," he

concluded, drinking in the approving smile with which Dr. Fletcher was

showing his appreciation of the quaint philosophy.

A considerable silence followed, the host showing no disposition to

break it. Cecil was the first to speak.

"Harvey wears patches on his knees," he informed the company. "What is

there for dessert, mother?"

Mrs. Craig whispered the important information; the radiant son

straightway published it to the world: "Plum pudding!—I like that—only I

hope it has hard sauce."

Which it ultimately proved to have—and to Mrs. Borland’s great dismay.

For David, loyal to ancient ways, yet ever open to the advantage of

modern improvement, passed back his plate for a second helping.

"I used to think the kind of gravy-sauce you slashed all over it was the

whole thing—but I believe that ointment’s got it beat," he said; whereat

Mrs. Borland laid her spoon upon her plate, the ointment and the

anointed untasted more.

*VI*

_*AN INVESTMENT*_

David Borland stood quite a little while gazing at the contents of the

window before he entered the tiny store. Rather scanty those contents

were; a few candy figures, chiefly chocolate creations, a tawdry toy or

two, some samples of biscuits judiciously assorted, a gaudy tinselled

box of chewing-gum, and a flaming card that proclaimed the merits of a

modern brand of tea.

These all duly scrutinized, David pushed the door open and entered the

humble place of business. The opening door threw a sleigh-bell,

fastened above it, into quite an hysterical condition, and this in turn

was answered by hurrying footsteps from the inner room. It was Harvey

who appeared.

"Good-morning, Mr. Borland," the boy said respectfully. "Did you want

to see mother?" he enquired a little anxiously; "she’s gone to the

market, but I think she’ll soon be back."

"That’s all right, my boy," the man responded. "No, it wasn’t your

mother I wanted; it was you—I come to do a little business."

"Oh," said Harvey, glancing hopefully towards the window.

"’Tain’t exactly shop business," David said, a little nervously, "I come

to—to buy a hen," he blurted out. Harvey’s hand went like lightning into

the glass case. Withdrawn, it produced a candy creature of many

colours, its comb showing the damage that vandal tongues had done.

"Totty Moore licked at it once or twice when we wasn’t lookin’," he

explained apologetically; "it used to be in the window—it’s a settin’

hen," he enlarged, indicating with his finger a pasty pedestal on which

the creative process was being carried on.

David grinned broadly. "’Tain’t that kind of a hen I’m wantin’," he

said. "I want the real article—a real live two-legged hen."

"Oh," said Harvey, staring hard.

"Where’s your chicken-house?" enquired David, coming to business direct.

"It’s outside," the boy replied instructively—"but there ain’t very

many."

"Let’s go and see them," said the man.

The boy led the way, David ducking his head several times en route,

bowing profoundly at the last as they entered the little house.

"This your hennery?" he asked, surveying the inmates amid a storm of

cackling; "sounds like you had hundreds of ’em."

"Just five," said Harvey, peering towards his customer through the

semi-darkness.

"I think I’ll buy that there one on the roost," David said after due

deliberation; "seems to be the highest-minded of the bunch."

"Can’t," said Harvey, "that’s Jessie’s; it’s only got just one

eye—that’s why Jessie wanted it. Can’t sell Jessie’s," he concluded

firmly.

David agreed. "Haven’t you got one called Pinky?" he enquired.

"No," Harvey replied solemnly, "she’s dead—we had her a long, long time

ago. I can show you her grave outside in the yard."

"Never mind," said Mr. Borland; "this ain’t no day for inspectin’

graves. I might have known she’d passed away—how long does a hen live,

anyhow—a healthy hen?"

"Depends on how they’re used," said the boy; "Pinky sneezed to death—too

much pepper, I think. Who told you about Pinky, sir?"

"Depends a good deal, too, on how often the preacher comes to dinner,

don’t it? It was Madeline told me about Pinky—you know my girl, don’t

you?"

"Yes," and Harvey’s face was bright; "I’m awful sorry Pinky’s dead—I

could sell you one of Pinky’s grandchildren’s children, Mr. Borland."

"What?" said Mr. Borland, turning a straw about and placing the unchewed

end in his mouth, "one of what?"

"One of Pinky’s grandchildren’s children. You see, her child was

Fluffy, and its child was Toppy—that was her grandchild; well, its child

was Blackie—and that’s her scratchin’ her cheek with her left foot.

She’s done scratchin’, but that’s her over there."

"She’s got the Pinky blood in her all right?" asked Mr. Borland.

"She’s bound to have it," the boy answered gravely; "they was all born

right in this room; besides, I’ve got it all marked down on the door."

David surveyed the descendant critically. "Does she lay brown eggs?" he

enquired presently. "Madeline said Pinky always laid brown eggs."

Harvey hesitated a moment. "They’re—they’re pretty brown," he said

after a pause. "They mostly turn brown a little after they’re laid."

"I’m terrible fond of brown eggs," remarked the purchaser.

"What for?" asked Harvey, looking full into his face.

"Well, really—I don’t know," and David grinned a little. "Only I always

fancy they’re kind o’—kind o’ better done, don’t you think? Besides,"

he added quickly, "I always like my toast brown, too—and they kind o’

match better, you see."

"Yes," said Harvey reflectively; "I never thought of that before. Of

course, there isn’t any hen can be taught _always_ to lay them brown—I

think Blackie tries to make them as brown as she can," glancing fondly

at the operator as he spoke. "If you was to feed her bran, Mr. Borland,

I think she’d get them brown nearly all the time."

"That’s a thunderin’ good idea," affirmed Mr. Borland, Harvey chiming in

with increasing assurance of success as he marked the favour with which

his theory was received.

"We’ll call it a bargain," said David.

"All right," exclaimed the boy, "just wait a minute till I get a bag."

"Don’t bother about that; I’ll just leave her here till I send for

her—she’ll earn her board. But I may as well pay you now—how much is

she worth?"

The boy pondered. "I don’t hardly know—of course the brown kind comes a

little dearer," he ventured, glancing cautiously at Mr. Borland. "She’s

an awful well-bred hen—I can show you on the door. And she’ll eat

anything—Jessie’s string of beads broke loose in the yard once and

Blackie ate them all but two; that shows she’s healthy," he concluded

earnestly.

"It’s a wonder she ain’t layin’ glass alleys," remarked David. "Well,

about the price—I’ll tell you what I’ll do with you. Here’s a bill—an’

if she keeps on at the brown business, mebbe I’ll give you a little

more."

He handed the boy a crisp note, the lad’s hand trembling as he took it.

He gave the door a push open that the light might fall on it. "Oh, Mr.

Borland," he cried, in a loud, shrill voice, "I won’t—you mustn’t, you

mustn’t. Mother wouldn’t let me—I can’t—please take it back, Mr.

Borland," and David noticed in the fuller light that the boy was shaking

with emotion, his face aglow with its eager excitement.

"Nonsense, my lad; what you going on about? I reckon I know somethin’

about the price of hens—especially the brown kind. No, I won’t take it

back. She’s worth that much to me jest to keep the yard red up o’

glass."

"Oh, Mr. Borland—I wish I——"

"Tut, tut," David interrupted; "boys should take what’s set before ’em,

an’ ask no questions—an’ don’t you tell nobody now, only your mother.

Say, isn’t that her callin’? Listen—it is, sure enough—that’s your

mother callin’ you," and David took advantage of the interruption to

unlatch an adjoining gate, slipping through to the outer lane, his face

the more radiant of the two.

*VII*

*"*_*EFFECTUAL CALLING*_*"*

"I’ll go with you as far as the door, dear—but the elders wouldn’t want

me to come in, of course." Thus spoke Mrs. Simmons to her son as the

little family were seated at their evening meal. Very humble it was,

indeed, with its strawberry jam, and bread and cheese, these themselves

carefully measured out.

"Come away, Jessie; what’s keeping you?" the mother called to the outer

kitchen.

"I’ll come in a minute, mother," the child’s cheery voice replied. "I’m

doing something," which was evident a little later when Jessie appeared,

flushed and triumphant, bearing in one hand a little plate of

well-browned toast, and in the other, her little fingers tingling with

its heat, a large brown egg, evidently an unwonted luxury.

"Jessie, my child, what have you been doing?" the mother asked, peering

rather closely at the dainties the child had laid upon her plate. "Oh,

Jessie, you shouldn’t have done it—you know we can’t afford it, dear; we

need to sell them all," she remonstrated, affection and gratitude

nevertheless mingling in her voice.

"It was cracked, mother—it got a little fall," the child explained

artfully.

"Jessie gave it a little fall; she always gets the biggest one cracked a

little when there isn’t much for supper—don’t you, sister?" Harvey asked

knowingly.

His sister blushed, but the reply she was struggling to provide was

interrupted by the tinkling of the bell above the door in the little

room without. This was a signal the mother was never slow to obey;

customers were rare enough and must not be permitted to escape. Rising

quickly, she made her way, her hands extended rather pitifully, to the

little room that did duty as a store. Jessie bore the little delicacies

back to the kitchen, lest they should cool in the interval.

The mother was back again in a minute, sighing as she resumed her seat.

"Did they buy anything, mother?" her son enquired.

"No, nothing—they wanted something we didn’t have; I sent them to

Ford’s," referring to a more elaborate establishment on an adjoining

street. "I was speaking about you going to the elders’ meeting,

Harvey—I’ll go with you as far as the church, as I said. And you

mustn’t be afraid, son; they’ll be glad you’re going to join the church.

And you must just answer what they ask you, the same as you do to me at

home."

"Will they ask me the catechism, mother?"

"Some of the questions, most likely. Be sure you know ’effectual

calling’—I think they nearly always ask ’effectual calling.’"

"I know that one all right," the boy answered. "I said it to Jessie four

times last night—do you think there’ll be others there to join the

church, mother?"

"I couldn’t say for sure, but it’s likely there’ll be some. I guess

it’s almost time to go now, dear," she said rising. "Jessie, you’ll do

the best you can if anybody comes in—I’ll not be long."

"Will it be all right about—about you finding your way back, mother?"

Harvey asked slowly, his voice full of solicitude.

"Of course, child, of course—you and Jessie are growing quite foolish

about me. I’m not so bad as that," she protested. "Why, I can tell the

day of the month, when I stand up close to the calendar—this is the

23d," she affirmed reassuringly, stepping out into the night with Harvey

clinging close beside her.

Neither spoke much as they walked on towards the village church. Often,

when she thought the boy’s eyes were not upon her, the woman lifted her

own upward to the silent stars; the night always rested her, something

of its deep tranquillity passing into the tired heart that had known so

much of battle. And yet the long struggle had left upon her face the

marks of peace rather than the scars of conflict. Of merriment, there

were traces few or none, although sufficient provocation could recall

the old-time sparkle to the eyes that had been so often dimmed; but

something noble was there instead, a placid beauty such as comes alone

from resignation, born of a heart that has found its rest in a Strength

and Tenderness which dwell beyond the hills of time. If one could have

caught a vision of that face, upturned to the radiant sky above her, the

glimpse would have disclosed features of shapely strength, marked by

great patience, the eyes full of brooding gentleness and love, conscious

of the stern battle that composed her life, but conscious, too—and this

it was that touched the face with passion—of invisible resources, of an

unseen Ally that mysteriously bore her on.

"Let us go in here a minute," the mother said when they were almost at

the church.

Harvey followed her, unquestioning. He knew whither her feet were

turned, for he had often followed that well-marked path before, often

with toddling feet. They entered the quiet churchyard, passing many an

imposing monument, threading their way with reverent steps among the

graves, careful that no disrespect should be shown the humblest sleeper.

On they pressed, the dew glistening upon their shoes as they walked,

their very breathing audible amid the oppressive silence. Gradually the

woman’s steps grew slower; and as she crept close to an unmarked grave

that lay among the untitled mounds around it, the slender frame trembled

slightly, drawing her poor shawl closer as she halted with downcast

eyes, gazing at the silent sepulchre as it lay bathed in the lonely

light of the new-risen moon. The boy stood behind her for a moment,

then crept close to her, his hand gliding into hers; the woman’s closed

about it passionately, its warmth stealing inward to her heart.

"I think I remember when baby died," Harvey began, after they had stood

long together by the grave; "I was asleep, wasn’t I, mother? I remember

in the morning."

"Yes, dear," said his mother, her voice tremulous; "yes, you were

asleep—I was with baby when she died."

"Was father there too, mother?"

"Yes, Harvey, yes—pull that weed, dear; there, at the foot of baby’s

grave."

"Did father cry when baby died, mother?—like you did, mother?"

"I don’t know, dear—yes, I think so. We’ll have to bring some fresh

flowers soon, won’t we, Harvey?" the mother’s lips trembling.

"Yes, mother, I’ll pick some pretty ones to-morrow. Did father die long

after baby, mother?" the boy pursuing the dread subject with the strange

persistence wherewith children so often probe a secret wound.

"No, my son—yes, I mean; yes, Harvey, it was the same night, I think,"

her nervous fingers roving about Harvey’s uncovered head.

"You _think_, mother?" the tone full of surprise.

"It was near the same time, Harvey," she answered hurriedly, unable to

control her voice. "I can’t tell you now, son—some day, perhaps. But

mother was so sorry about baby that she hardly knows—don’t ask me any

more about it, Harvey," she suddenly pleaded; "never any more—some day

I’ll tell you all about your father, and all you’ve asked me so often.

But don’t ask me any more, my son—it makes mother feel bad," as she bent

over to kiss the curious lips.

He could see the tears upon his mother’s cheeks, and he inwardly

resolved that her bidding should be done, silently wondering the while

what this mysterious source of pain might be.

After a long silence the boy’s voice was heard again: "Weren’t baby’s

eyes shut when she died, mother?"

"Yes, darling—yes, they were closed in death," and the unforgetting

heart beat fast at the tender memory.

"But they’re open now, aren’t they, mother?—and wasn’t it God that did

it?"

"Yes, Harvey, they’re open now—God opened them, I’m sure."

"Couldn’t He make people see all right before they’re dead, mother?

Couldn’t He do it for you?"

"Yes, child—yes, He could if He wanted to."

"And why wouldn’t He want to?" the boy asked wonderingly. "I’m sure He

could; and I’ve been asking Him to do it for us Himself—if we couldn’t

get the money for the doctor to do it. Wasn’t that right, mother?"

The moon, high now, looked down upon the lonely pair; they stood

together, they two, beside the unresponsive grave, the elder face bathed

in tears, the younger unstained by grief and wistful with the eager

trust of childhood. The insignia of poverty was upon them both, and the

boy shivered slightly in the chill air; but the great romance and

tragedy of life were interwoven there, love and hope and sorrow playing

the parts they had so often played before. The woman stooped down amid

the glistening grass and took her child into her arms, pressing him

close to her troubled bosom, her face against his cheek, while her eyes

roved still about his sister’s grave.

"We must go on," she murmured presently. "Can you see a light in the

church?"

"Did you join when you were just a girl, mother?" the boy asked, his

lips close to her ear.

"Yes," she replied, "I was very young when I joined."

"Did father ever join the church?" Harvey went on, releasing his face to

gaze about the sleeping city.

"No, dear—no, your father never was a member of the church," she said

softly.

"Wasn’t he good enough? Wouldn’t they let him?" the lad asked

wonderingly.

"They never—they never refused him," his mother faltered. "But he never

thought he was good enough."

"But he was, wasn’t he?" the boy pursued.

"Yes, dear—yes, he was once—he often was. He always meant to be good;

he loved you, Harvey. And he made me promise that some day I would tell

you why he thought—why he thought he wasn’t good enough. He was afraid

you might be the same; it was something he—something he couldn’t help

very well—I’ll tell you some day, Harvey. Who’s that?" she whispered

excitedly, pointing towards a shadowy figure that was winding its way

silently towards them.

His mother straightened up as she spoke, Harvey’s hand tight clasped in

hers again. The figure came swiftly on.

"It’s Madeline," the boy said rather excitedly. "It’s Madeline Borland—I

guess she’s going to join too."

Which proved indeed to be the case. "I knew it was you," the girl

began, almost breathless as she came up to them. "The beadle said it

was you, Harvey; Julia walked to the church with me, and she’s waiting

till I join. I thought perhaps we might go in together; I don’t want to

go in alone." Harvey could see in the dim light how eagerly the girl’s

eyes were searching his mother’s face. He did not withdraw his hand,

but unconsciously straightened himself in quiet dignity.

"This is my mother," he said simply, quite unfamiliar with the modes of

introduction; "and that’s Miss Borland, mother."

"Please don’t say that," the girl interrupted. "I think you might call

me Madeline; anyhow, I heard you call me Madeline to your mother," as

she stepped gently around the foot of the grave and extended her hand to

Harvey’s mother. The older woman was evidently struck by the girl’s

beauty, by the simple grace and kindliness of her manner. At any rate

she held the outstretched hand rather long in hers, gazing on the sweet

face upturned in the quivering light.

"And this—this is my sister’s grave," Harvey’s subdued voice added a

moment later.

The girl said nothing, turning a solemn gaze upon the lowly mound. She

had been long familiar with the quiet acre, but this was perhaps the

first time she had realized the dread personality that clothes the grave

with dignity.

"You haven’t any treasure here, have you, Miss Madeline?" the mother

asked timidly, when the pause had become almost painful.

"No, not any," the girl answered in hushed tones; "we haven’t even got a

plot—I never had a little sister," she affirmed, the moistening eyes

turning now to Harvey’s face. He looked down, then up again, and the

soulful gaze was still fixed upon him. A kind of wave, strange and

unfamiliar, seemed to bathe his soul; he did not wish to look longer,

and yet a sort of spell seemed to keep his eyes fastened on her face.

The girl’s look was eloquent of much that neither he nor she was able to

interpret, the first venture out to sea on the part of either soul.

"Doesn’t it seem strange that we should meet here—here at your sister’s

grave," she said slowly, after the gaze of both had fallen. "Of course,

we’ve often seen each other at school—but this is our first real

meeting, isn’t it?" she went on, gazing now towards the light that

twinkled feebly in the distant church.

"Yes," he answered simply, "yes, it is—I guess we’d better go. Do you

know the catechism?" he digressed, beginning to move forward, half

leading his mother by the hand.

"No, I don’t. Father doesn’t believe in catechisms,—I wanted him to

join along with me, but he said he wasn’t good enough. Only he said

he’d see—it would be just like him to come without my knowing."

"That’s what my father said," Harvey interjected quickly; "and my mother

says he was often good—only of course it’s too late now," a little sigh

escaping with the words.

"Perhaps they join them in heaven," the girl suggested in an awestruck

voice. "Father says that’s where the real joining’s done; if your

father was good, I’m sure they’d join him," she concluded earnestly,

looking into both the serious faces as she spoke.

"Don’t you think maybe they would, mother?" pleaded the boy. The habit

of a lifetime committed everything to the mother for final judgment.

"That’s in God’s hands, dear," the delicate face glancing upward through

the mist. "I’m sure God would do it if He could—we’d better hurry on;

they’ll be waiting for us in the church."

The little procession wound its way back to the humble temple, Harvey

still holding his mother by the hand, Madeline following close behind.

And the shadowy home of the little child was left alone in the silence

and the dark.

The youthful pair disappeared within the ivy-grown door. The mother,

her dim eyes still more dimmed by tears, turned upon her homeward way, a

troubled expression on her face. Why had she not told him more, she

wondered to herself—something about his father, and the cruel appetite

that had been his shame and his undoing? And her lips moved in

trembling prayer that God would save her son from the blight of his

father’s life, that the dread heritage might never wrap his life in the

same lurid flame.

*VIII*

_*OF SUCH IS THE KINGDOM*_

The predominant national type among the Glenallen folks was Scotch, and

that distinctly. David Borland was one of the few exceptions; and the

good folk about him had varied explanations for the baffling fact that

he, American-bred though he was, had been one of the most prosperous men

of the community. Some maintained that his remote ancestry must have

come from the land o’ cakes, even though he himself were oblivious to

heaven’s far-off goodness. Others contended that his long association

with a Scottish neighbourhood had inoculated him with something of their

distinctive power; while the profounder minds acknowledged frankly that

the ways of Providence were mysterious, and that this lonely spectacle

of an alien mortal, handicapped from birth and yet rising to affluence

and distinction, was but an evidence of the Omnipotence that had wrought

the miracle.

But if, in matters temporal, the historic Scotch stock of Glenallen had

been compelled to divide the spoil with those of lesser origin, the

control of affairs ecclesiastical was carefully reserved for Scottish

hands alone. This went without saying. Over every door of church

officialdom, and especially of the eldership, he who ran might read: "No

Irish need apply,"—and the restriction included all to whom heaven had

denied the separate advantage of Scottish birth or ancestry.

Wherefore it came about that the assembled elders who on this particular

night awaited the arrival of applicants for church-membership were about

as formidable to look upon as any half dozen of mere men could be. The

dignity of their office filled the little room and the sense of

responsibility sat gravely on every face. Two there were among them,

newly elected to the office—the highest office in the gift of their

fellow-men—and these two were fairly dripping with new-born solemnity.

The older men, relaxing with the years, had discarded some of the sombre

drapery that the newer elders wrapt about them with pious satisfaction.

Æneas Ramsay, one of the veterans, had ventured to ask one of the newly

ordained if they would finish the threshing at his farm to-morrow. The

question was put before the meeting had well begun, and was whispered in

the ear at that; but the shock was easily seen on the new elder’s face,

who, recovering in a moment, informed his senior that they would discuss

the matter after the "sederunt" was adjourned. Which purely

Presbyterian term rolled from his lips with the luxurious unction known

to Presbyterian elders, and to them alone.

The Session had been constituted, and good old Sandy McKerracher had led

in prayer, the other elders standing through the exercise. Most of them

had one foot upon a chair, the elbow resting on the knee and the chin

upon the hand, before Sandy had concluded. In fact, the precaution of

an adjoining chair was seldom overlooked by any when the Moderator named

Sandy for this solemn duty, his staying powers famous for fifty years.

The chief emphasis of his prayer was laid on the appeal to Infinite Love

that none of the intending communicants might eat and drink damnation to

themselves. This was a favourite request with all of them on such

occasions—excepting one elder, and good Dr. Fletcher himself—and it was

largely because of this that the Moderator was wont to see the Session

constituted before the candidates were admitted to the room.

"There’s some bringin’ their lines frae ither kirks," Robert MaCaig

began, when the Moderator asked if there were any candidates for

membership, "but there’s nae mair nor twa to join on profession o’

faith," he added, turning a despondent eye upon his brother elders. "We

used to hae a dizzen or mair."

"Twa souls is an awfu’ lot, Robert—twa never dyin’ souls!" It was

Geordie Nickle who sounded the hopeful note. He was the saintliest

elder of them all, and the saintliest are the sanguinest. "We maun be

thankfu’ for twa mair to own the Saviour’s name," he added reverently.

"But they’re only bairns," Robert urged; "there’s no’ a muckle man among

them."

"That’s a’ the better," returned Geordie; "the Maister was aye glad to

hae the bairns come—ca’ them in," he said, the slightest note of

impatience in his voice.

A moment later Harvey and Madeline were ushered in, very shy and

embarrassed, their downcast eyes fluttering upwards now and then to the

stern faces fixed upon them.

There was considerable skirmishing of a preliminary sort, the elders’

questions booming out solemnly like minute guns. Suddenly Robert McCaig

proceeded to business.

"We’ll tak a rin ower the fundamentals," he said, brandishing the

age-worn term as though he had just invented it. "What is original

sin?" he demanded; "tell the Moderator what’s original sin."

"The Moderator kens fine himsel’," Andrew Fummerton whispered to the

elder at his right, smiling grimly. But the man beside him scarcely

heard, for every mind was intent with the process under way; scores of

times had they witnessed it before, but it was again as new and

absorbing as the prowess of a fisherman landing his reluctant prize.

There was a long silence, still as death. Suddenly Willie Gillespie

fell to sneezing; he it was at whose farm the threshers had been that

day, and who had been profanely questioned by Æneas Ramsay, as already

told. Perhaps it was the day’s dust that provoked the outburst; but,

from whatever cause, the explosion was remarkable in its power and

duration, one detonation following another with heightening tumult till

the final booming was worthy of the noblest efforts of modern artillery.

As the bombardment increased in power, the elders unconsciously braced

themselves a little on their chairs, dismayed at the unseemly outbreak,

considering the place and the occasion.

Harvey, for the life of him, could not forbear to smile; this human

symptom was reassuring to him amid the statuesque solemnity of the

room—it made original sin less ghostly, somehow, and he looked almost

gratefully at the dynamic Willie. This latter worthy, recoiling like a

smoking cannon, groped frankly for his nose as if apprehensive that it

had been discharged; finding it uninjured, he repaired hastily to the

tail pocket of a black coat that had sustained the dignity of a previous

generation in the eldership, extracting therefrom a lurid

pocket-handkerchief—that is, originally lurid—but now as variously

bedecked as though the threshers had enjoyed its common ministry that

day. Whereupon there ensued a succession of reports, inferior only to

their mighty predecessors themselves, resembling nothing so much as the

desultory firing that succeeds the main attack.

"Ye was askin’ what might be original sin," Willie murmured

apologetically from behind the faithful handkerchief, swishing it back

and forward on his nose the while as though he were polishing the

knocker on a door; he glanced apologetically towards Mr. McCaig as he

spoke, anxious to repair the connection he had so violently disturbed.

"If my memory serves me," Robert returned severely, "if my memory serves

me, that is what we was dealin’ wi’—order’s a graun’ thing at a meetin’

o’ sic a kind as this," he added sternly, his gaze following the

disappearing banner now being reëntombed.

"What is original sin, laddie? Mebbe the lassie can gie me the answer,"

he suggested, Harvey’s silence impressing him as incurable.

"I’m not very sure," faltered Madeline—"was it the kind at the

beginning?"

Robert McCaig had no desire to be unnecessarily severe; therefore turned

enquiringly to his colleagues, implying that the verdict lay with them.

"Very good, child, very good," Dr. Fletcher said approvingly. "It’s

very hard to answer Mr. McCaig’s question—he’d find it difficult enough

himself. What is it, Harvey?" he asked, smiling at the boy, who seemed

to have an idea ready.

"I’m not very sure either; but isn’t it—isn’t it the kind that doesn’t

wear off?" the lad ventured timidly, rather ashamed of the description

after it was finished.

"Capital, my boy; first-rate!" the minister cried delightedly. "That’s

better than anything I learned in college. I don’t believe any one

could get much nearer to it than that—now we’ll just pass from this,"

smiling around at the elders as he made the suggestion; "there are other

things more important—has any of the elders anything else to ask?"

It was not long before two or three of them were in full cry again.

Stern questions, weighty interrogatives, suggestive of the deepest

mysteries, were propounded to the youthful pair as complacently as

though they were being asked how many pints make a gallon. One wanted

to know their view of the origin of evil, following this by a suggestion

that they should each give a brief statement of the doctrine of the

Trinity. Another urged that they should describe in brief the process

of regeneration. Still another asked if they could repeat the books of

the Bible backwards—any one, he said, could do it the old way—and one

good elder capped the climax by saying he would like to hear them tell

how to reconcile the free agency of man with the sovereignty of God.

But just at this juncture Geordie Nickle rose, his face beaming with

tenderness, and addressed the chair.

"They’re fashin’ the bairns, Moderator," he said gently. "Wull ye no’

let me pit a wee bit question or twa till them mysel’?"

The Moderator was evidently but too well pleased, and his nod gave

Geordie the right of way. The old man moved to where Harvey and

Madeline were seated, taking his stand partially behind them, his hands

resting gently on the heads of both.

"I mind fine the nicht I joined the kirk mysel’," he began; "it was the

winter my mither gaed awa, an’ I think God answered her prayer, to mak

her glad afore she went—but the elders askit me some o’ thae vera

questions—an’ I kent then hoo far they was frae the soul," he said

gravely, looking compassionately on the faces now upturned to his own.

"Sae I’m juist gaein’ to ask ye what I was wishin’ they’d ask frae me.

Div ye no’ love the Saviour, lassie—and div ye no’ ken He’s the son o’

God?" he asked reverently, tenderly. "Div ye no’ ken that, lassie?—an’

the same wi’ yirsel’, my laddie?—I’m sure ye’re baith trustin’ Him, to

the savin’ o’ the soul; are ye no’, bairnies?" and the old man’s face

shone as the great truth kindled his own simple soul.

Harvey and Madeline nodded eager assent, a muffled affirmative breaking

from their lips.

"An’ ye ken the Saicrament’s juist the meetin’-place where He breaks

bread wi’ His children, and where they say, afore a’ the folk, that they

love Him, and trust Him, an’ want to be aye leal an’ true till Him, and

show forth His death till He come—div ye no’ ken it that way?" the

kindly voice went on, his hands still resting on the youthful heads.

Harvey answered first: "That’s what I’d like to be—that’s what I want to

do," he said simply.

"I want to, too—I’m the same as Harvey," Madeline faltered sweetly.

Then Geordie Nickle straightened himself and turned towards Dr.

Fletcher. "Moderator," he said earnestly, "we canna mak the way mair

open nor the Maister made it; an’ I move that these twa be received

intil full communion, an’ their names—the Clerk kens what they are—be

added to the roll o’ communicants in good standin’ i’ the kirk."

This was carried without further protest and ordered to be done

forthwith.

*IX*

_*A BELATED ENQUIRER*_

The youthful candidates had hardly left the room when the beadle,

compared with whose solemnity the gravity of the elders was frivolity

itself, announced that a further candidate was in waiting.

"It’s Mr. Borland," he said in an awed whisper—"Mr. David Borland. He

wants to jine, Mr. Moderator," the beadle informed the court in much the

same tone as is employed when death-warrants must be read. "An’ it’ll

be on profession," he added, unable to forego the sensational

announcement, "for he never jined no church afore." Then the beadle

retreated with the mien that becomes an ecclesiastical sheriff.

An instant later he reappeared with Mr. Borland, whom he left standing

in the very centre of the room. The elders gazed wonderingly at the

unexpected man.

"Dinna break oot again," Robert McCaig whispered to the now tranquil

Willie, fearful of another explosion; "it’s no’ often a kirk session has

sic a duty to perform," and Willie responded by rising slightly and

sitting down hard upon the contents of his coat-tail pocket, as though

the fuse for the explosion were secreted there.

David looked round upon the elders, in no wise abashed; he even nodded

familiarly to two or three with whom he was more intimately acquainted.

"It’s a fine evening," he informed one nearest him, to the evident

amazement of his brethren.

The usual process began, one or two undertaking preliminary examination.

"Have you ever joined before, Mr. Borland?" one of the elders asked him

after a little.

"Never joined a church before—haven’t been much of a joiner," David

answered cheerfully; "joined the Elks once in the States when I was a

young fellow—an’ they made it pretty interestin’ for me," dispensing a

conciliatory smile among the startled elders as he turned to catch

another question.

"What maks ye want to join, Mr. Borland?" enquired one of the new

elders, hitherto silent. "What’s yir motive, like? Hae ye got the root

o’ the matter in ye, div ye think?" he elaborated formally.

David started somewhat violently, turning and looking his questioner

full in the face. "Have I got what in me?" he cried—"what kind of a

root? That’s more than I can say, sir; I don’t catch your meanin’."

Dr. Fletcher interposed. "You’re not familiar with our terms, Mr.

Borland," he said reassuringly. "Mr. Aiken only wants to know why you

feel impelled to become a member of the church—perhaps you could answer

the question when it’s put that way?"

David’s first sign of answer was to stoop and pick up a rather shapeless

hat lying at his feet. This symptom decidedly alarmed the elders,

several of them sitting up suddenly in their chairs as though fearful

that so interesting a subject might escape. But David had evidently

seized it only for purposes of reflection, turning it round and round in

his hands, his eyes fixed upon the floor.

"It was a queer kind of a reason," he began abruptly, clearing his

throat with all the resonance of a trumpet—"but mebbe it ain’t too bad a

one after all. It was Madeline," he finally blurted out, staring at all

the brethren in turn. "I knew she was goin’ to join—an’—an’ I wanted to

keep up with her. If she’s agoin’ to heaven, I’m agoin’ too—an’ I

reckon this here’s the way," he added, feeling that the phraseology was

not too ill-timed. Then he waited.

"Very good, Mr. Borland—very good," the Moderator pronounced

encouragingly. "But about—about your own soul. I’m sure we all hope

you—you—realize your need, Mr. Borland. It’s a sense of sin we all

need, you know. I’m sure you feel you’ve been a sinner, Mr. Borland?"

and the good man turned the most brotherly of faces upon the applicant.

"Oh, yes," responded David agreeably; "oh, yes, I’m all right that

way—I’ve been quite a sinner, all right. The only thing I’m afeart of

is I’ve been ’most too good a sinner. I wisht I wasn’t quite so handy

at it," he went on gravely. "I reckon I’ve been about as bad as—as any

of the deacons here," glancing towards the open-mouthed about him as he

made the comparison, "an’ some o’ them’s got quite a record, if all

reports is true. I traded horses onct with Robert there," nodding

familiarly in the direction of Mr. McCaig, "an’ the first time we

traded, he sinned pretty bad—but that’s nothin’; bygones is bygones—an’

anyhow, the second time we traded, I sinned pretty bad myself. So I’m

all right that way, Doctor," he again assured the Moderator, making a

last desperate effort to tie his hat into a knot.

"I didna ken the mare was spavined, Moderator," Mr. McCaig broke in,

gasping with emotion; "an’ a meetin’ o’ session’s no place for

discussin’ sic like matters onyway," he appealed vehemently. "Thae

week-day things has nae richt to be mentioned here—a meetin’ o’ elders

is no’ a cattle fair," and Robert looked well pleased with this final

stroke.

"That’s all right, Robert, that’s all right," David returned in his most

amiable tone; "don’t get excited, Robert—we both traded with our eyes

open. An’ all these things makes life, anyhow—they all go to the weavin’

of the web, as I say sometimes, an’ besides——"

But Robert’s blood was up.

"Onyhow, I didna swear," he exclaimed in a rising tone; "I didna say

damn, Mr. Moderator—an’ the horse-doctor tellt me as how the candidate

afore us said damn mair nor aince when he found oot aboot the spavin.

He’d mak a bonnie member o’ the kirk!" and the elder’s face glowed with

righteous indignation.

The Moderator cast about to avert the storm. "Maybe he was taken

unawares," he interposed charitably; "any one might be overtaken in a

fault. Did you, Mr. Borland—did you say what Mr. McCaig says you did?"

as he turned a very kindly face on the accused.

David was more intently employed than ever with his hat. "I won’t say

but what I mebbe did," he acknowledged, an unfamiliar confusion in his

words. "You see, sir, I should a knowed a spavin when I seen it; the

signs is awful easy told—an’ that’s what made me mad. So I said I was a

fool—an’ I said Robert here was an elder. An’ I likely said both of us

was—was that kind of a fool an’ an elder, the kind he says I said—it’s

an awful handy describin’ word," he added, nodding respectfully towards

the Moderator’s chair.

"So I have heard, Mr. Borland," the Moderator replied, smiling

reproachfully nevertheless, "though I think there are others just as

good. However, if that is the worst sin you’ve been guilty of, I

wouldn’t say you’re beyond the pale."

"Oh, there’s lots of things I’ve done, far worse than that," David

exclaimed vigorously. "I don’t allow that’s a sin at all—that’s just a

kind of a spark out o’ the chimney. I reckon nearly everybody, even

ministers, says that—only they don’t spell it just the same. I’d call

that just a kind of splutter—an’ everybody splutters sometimes. Robert

there, he says ’bless my soul’ when he gets beat on a trade—but he means

just the same as me. Oh, yes," he went cheerfully on, "there’s lots o’

worse things than that against me. There’s lots o’ little weak spots

about me; an’ I’ll tell them if you like—if the deacons’ll do the same,"

he proposed, looking earnestly around for volunteers.

There was no clamour of response, and it fell to Geordie Nickle again to

break the silence.

"These is no’ the main things, David," he began solemnly. "Tell us, div

ye trust the Saviour wi’ yir soul?"

David halted, the gravity of the question shading his face. "I think—I

think I do," he ventured after a long pause. "I wouldn’t trust it to no

one else. My mother taught me that."

"An’ div ye want to follow Him, an’ to let yir licht shine upon the

world? Div ye want to be a guid soldier, an’ wull ye try it, wi’ His

grace?" the old man asked tenderly.

David’s voice was very low. "I’m not very far on the road," he said

falteringly, "an’ I’m afeared there ain’t much light in me—but I’d try

an’ do my best," he concluded earnestly.

The venerable elder proceeded with his gentle art, leading the belated

enquirer on from stage to stage, seeking to discover and disclose the

hidden treasures of the soul. He was never slow to be convinced of

goodness in any heart that he thought sincere, and it was not long till

he turned to the Moderator, proposing, as before, that this new name

should likewise be enrolled among those of the faithful.

But one or two thought the examination hardly doctrinal enough, nor

carried sufficiently far afield.

"Perhaps Mr. Borland would give us a word or two regarding his views on

the subject of temperance," suggested Morris Hall. He was a

comparatively modern elder; in fact, he had been but recently reclaimed,

one of the first-fruits of a spring revival, himself snatched from the

vortex of intemperance and correspondingly severe upon all successors in

his folly. For largeness of charity, as a rule, is to be found only

with those who have been tempted and prevailed.

"I’m not terrible well up on temperance," David began placidly; "but I

don’t mind givin’ you my views—oh, no, not at all."

Then he sank into silence, and the Moderator had finally to prompt him.

"Very well, then, Mr. Borland, give us your views on the subject."

"Well," David began hesitatingly, "my views on the subject of temperance

is terrible simple. I really hardly ever take anything—never touch it

at all except it’s before or after meals," he assured the brethren

earnestly, the younger men frowning a little, one or two of the older

nodding approvingly. But none seemed to remark how generous was the

margin this time-table provided for a man of moist propensities.

"Sometimes, when I run acrost an old friend, if he looks kind o’ petered

out," David went on sympathetically, "sometimes then I have a view or

two—most always soft stuff, though," he enlarged, looking hopefully

towards his spiritual betters; "most generally they takes the same view

as me," he informed them gravely; "my view is to take it an’ let it

alone—I do both—only I never do them both at the same time," he added

seriously. "You see, when I’m well it doesn’t hurt me, and when I’m

sick—why, mebbe I need somethin’. That’s one o’ my views. An’, oh,

yes"—he hurried on as if glad that he had not forgotten, "I always take

a little when a new century comes in—I took a little when the clock

struck 1900; it’s been a custom for quite awhile in our family, always

to take a little when a new century comes in—a man has to be careful it

doesn’t grow on him, you see. So I confine it pretty much to them two

occasions. An’ I think them’s pretty much all my views, gentlemen, on

the subject o’ liquors. The less views a man has on them, the better.

It’s the worst plague there is—an’ I’m gettin’ more set agin’ it all the

time," and David nodded to the elders in quite an admonitory way.

But these views, simple and candid though they were, were far from

satisfactory to Mr. Morris Hall, who violently declaimed against such

laxity, and quoted statistics concerning poorhouses, jails and lunatic

asylums in much the same tone, and with the same facility, that a boy

exhibits when quoting the multiplication table. Mr. Hall concluded with

an appeal to David’s sense of shame.

This was rather much for the gentle candidate, familiar as he was with

the impeacher’s record in days that were yet hardly dry.

"There’s one thing sure, anyhow," he returned hotly, in his intensity of

feeling. "I didn’t never have to be toted home on a stone-boat—that’s

one thing certain." This was a reference to authentic history of no

ancient sort, and Mr. Hall’s relapse to silence was as final as it was

precipitate.

Whereupon Geordie Nickle again reverted to his motion that Mr. Borland

be received. He briefly reviewed the case, emphasizing the obvious

simplicity and candour that had been remarked by all, while admitting

David’s evident unfamiliarity with the formulas and doctrines of the

church.

"But there’s mony a man loves flowers wha disna ken naethin’ aboot

botany," he pleaded; "an’ there’s mony a soul luvin’ Christ, an’

trustin’ till Him, wha kens little or naethin’ aboot theology."

This view seemed to prevail with the majority, and the proposal of the

kindly elder would doubtless have been speedily endorsed, had it not

been for the protest from David himself. "I’m terrible thankful for

your kindness to a lame duck like me—but I believe I’d jest as soon wait

awhile," he said. "I’ll try an’ follow up the best I can. But Dick

Phin’s comin’ to visit me next week—Dick’s an old crony I haven’t seen

for a dog’s age. An’ besides, Robert there has kind o’ set me thinkin’;

an’ I jest minded Tom Taylor’s comin’ on Monday to try an’ trade back

the three-year-old he got in August. So I think mebbe I’d better wait.

But I’ll follow up the best I can."

*X*

_*SHELTERING SHADOWS*_

Two chestnut steeds, securely tied, looked reproachfully at the

retreating figures as Madeline and her father pressed on beneath the

shadow of the great oaks that looked down upon the merry picnickers.

For Glenallen’s Sunday-school scholars were _en fête_ beneath them.

Very gladly did these mighty guardians of the grove seem to welcome back

the happy throng as each returning summer brought the festal day. And

very tenderly did they seem to look down upon the varied

pleasure-seekers that gathered beneath their whispering branches;

children, in all the helplessness of childhood, mingling with other

toddlers whose was the helplessness of age—little tots whose toilsome

journey was at hand, and patriarchs whose weary pilgrimage was almost

past. Many were there whose fathers’ fathers, snatching a brief truce

from their struggle with the poverty and stress of early days, had

rested and rollicked as only pioneers know how; masters and men, their

respective ranks forgotten, had sat side by side about the teeming

board, or entered the lists together as they flung the bounding caber,

or raced across the meadow-sward, or heaved the gleaming quoits, or

strained the creaking cable in the final and glorious tug of war.

As David Borland and his daughter drew near to the central group of

picnickers, they found them employed in a very savoury task. They were

emptying the baskets one by one, the good things translated

promiscuously to the ample table around which all were about to take

their places. Pies of every sort there were, cakes of every imaginable

brand and magnitude, sandwiches, fruits, pickles, hams that would

waddle, fowls that would cackle, tongues that would join the lowing

choir, nevermore—all these conspired to swell the overflowing larder.

Suddenly David’s eyes fell on a face in the distance, a face for which

he had long had a peculiar liking. It was Geordie Nickle’s, the old man

sitting apart on a little mound, his kindly eyes bright with gladness at

the lively scene around him.

"You go off an’ have a swing, Madeline," he said; "I’m goin’ to have a

chat with my friend Geordie here—I’ll see you in a little while."

Madeline scarcely heard him nor did any response escape her lips. For

other words had fallen on her ears, hot and tingling now with shame and

indignation.

"Isn’t this the limit," a jibing voice was saying; "isn’t this the human

limit?—rhubarb tarts! Three of them! Who wants to buy a tin plate?"

the voice went jeeringly on. It was Cecil Craig’s voice, and he held

the humble contributions aloft as he spoke.

"There must be some awful rich folks here to-day—I guess these tarts are

meant for the minister. That’s all there is in the basket—so I guess

some one must keep a rhubarb farm; look at the size of them—big as a

full moon! I believe I’ll give them to my horse," he cried with a

contemptuous laugh. "Have you any idea who sent these, Harvey?" turning

with the question to the conscious boy who stood on the outer edge of

the circle.

A few joined in thoughtless laughter. But it was no laughing matter for

poor Harvey, trying now to steal alone and unnoticed from among the

throng. Yet not alone; for one humble little form clung close beside

him, retreating as rapidly as he, her face flushed and drawn. They had

taken but a few steps when Jessie’s hand stole caressingly into her

brother’s, the little legs trying eagerly to keep pace with his ardent

stride.

"Don’t mind, Harvey, don’t mind," she said soothingly. "He’s just as

mean as he can be. It’s all because he’s rich—an’ he thinks we’re poor.

He doesn’t know how good mother is at makin’ tarts, or he wouldn’t talk

like that."

Harvey glanced at his sister as though he scarcely saw her. His eyes,

usually so mild, were now almost terrible in their fiery anger, and his

hand closed so tightly over his sister’s that she cried out in pain.

Once he looked swiftly back and caught a glimpse of Cecil leering at him

in the distance; he fixed his teeth tight together and strode swiftly

on.

"Aren’t you goin’ back, Harvey?" Jessie enquired a little wistfully.

"I’m real hungry, Harvey—an’ I saw chickens there, an’ there was some

peaches too—they looked awful nice," she said earnestly.

"Going back!" Harvey almost shouted. "No, you bet I’m not going

back—and neither are you; I’d starve before I’d touch a bite of their

stuff. A lot of stuck-up things," he cried passionately, "and you and

me cast out everywhere because we’re poor! I’ll show them yet—you just

see if I don’t; if I can get half a chance—and to think the way poor

mother worked at them, and she thought she was making something real

nice too, and——"

"An’ she put sugar in them too, Harvey—an’ she hardly ever puts sugar in

anything now. She put lots of butter an’ sugar in, for I saw her. But

ain’t you goin’ back, Harvey?—there’s lemonade, you know, a whole boiler

full of it. I tasted it and it was lovely," she assured him, looking

wistfully up into the angry face.

"The young whelp!" Harvey muttered wrathfully; "hasn’t any more brains

than a handspike—hasn’t got anything but a rich, proud father—I’ll fix

him yet, you see if I don’t." Suddenly he stopped, standing still as

the trees around him. "Hello!" he said musingly, then began whistling

significantly.

"What’s the matter, Harvey?" asked the mystified Jessie.

"Oh, nothing—nothing at all. In fact, everything’s all right—see that

sorrel horse tied to that hemlock over there? It’s Cecil Craig’s."

"Yes," replied Jessie wonderingly; "it’s kickin’ with its legs," she

added informatively—"what’s it doin’ that for, Harvey?"

"Flies," replied the other absently. "I say, Jessie," he began in quite

a different tone, his brow clearing like a headland when the fog is

lifting, "you better go on back and get your dinner—don’t eat too much,"

he added cautiously, for Jessie, her hand still tight in his, had

already turned right about face, her radiant gaze fixed on the distant

tables; "and you know mother doesn’t want you to take any

stuffin’—you’ll have to take castor oil if you eat any stuffin’,

Jessie."

"Won’t you go, Harvey?" his sister asked eagerly, supremely indifferent

to matters medicinal; she was already pressing onward, half leading her

brother by the hand. The boy started to refuse vigorously. Suddenly,

however, he seemed to change his mind. "I’ll go back with you for a

minute, Jessie—just a minute, mind. I’ll get you a seat if I can; but

I’ll have to come right away again. I’ve got—I’ve got to do something."

The hungry Jessie asked no further information, well content, poor

child, to regain the treat she had so nearly lost. Her hurrying legs

twinkled in the sun as she led the way, Harvey following, half

reluctantly, back to the appetizing scene. The boy looked at no one as

he mingled with the excited throng; nor did many remark his return, so

all absorbed are youthful minds in one pursuit alone when that pursuit

leads to the dinner-table. This pleased Harvey well; and, confident of

their indifference, he took his place beside the three bulky tarts that

had been the text for Cecil’s scorn.

Good Dr. Fletcher’s special care, at such a fête as this, was to see

that all heads were reverently bowed while grace was being said. And so

they were on this occasion, all but Harvey’s. Availing himself of the

opportune devotion, he thrust the unoffending tarts roughly within the

shelter of his coat, buttoning it tightly over them, quite careless of

results. Then, wild chaos and savage attack succeeding the reverent

calm, while his ravenous companions fell upon the viands like starving

animals, he quietly withdrew, holding his coat carefully about him as he

went.

David Borland and the venerable Geordie Nickle were deep in conversation

as Harvey passed them by at a little distance, finding his way back to

the outer fringe of woods.

"Yon’s an uncommon laddie," Geordie remarked to David, his staff pointed

in the direction of the disappearing boy.

"Who? Oh, yes—that’s Harvey. You’re right, Mr. Nickle; the grass

doesn’t grow very green under Harvey’s feet. He works for me, you

know—does a little drivin’ between four and six."

"Did ye hear aboot the minister, David? He was sair vexed wi’ Mr.

Craig; he went till him, ye ken, to get a wee bit help for the laddie’s

mither—her eyesicht’s failin’, it seems. An’ Mr. Craig wudna gie him

onythin’."

David was busy kicking to pieces a slab of dead wood at his feet. "That

man Craig makes me mad," he said warmly—"thinks he owns the earth ’cause

he’s got a little money. He got the most of it from his father,

anyhow—he hasn’t got brains enough himself to make his head ache. An’

it looks like the young cub’s goin’ to be a chip o’ the old block; you

can see it stickin’ right out of him now," he declared, nodding towards

the blustering Cecil, who was flinging his orders here and there.

"I was thinkin’ ower the maitter, David," the old man went on quietly;

"I was thinkin’ mebbe I micht gie the puir buddy a wee bit help mysel’—I

hae a wee bit siller, ye ken, an’ I haena vera muckle to dae wi’t. Div

ye think ye cud see aboot it, David?—aboot sendin’ his mither till the

city doctor, ye ken? I cud gie the money to yirsel’, an’ naebody need

ken aboot it but us twa." Poor Geordie looked half ashamed as he made

the offer; such is the fashion of his kind.

"It’s mighty clever of you," David answered, smiling a little curiously,

"and I’d be terrible glad to fix it for you—only I happen to know it’s

fixed already. Just found that out to-day. A fellow sent the money to

them—some fellow that doesn’t want any one to know. But it’s just as

good of you, all the same, Mr. Nickle."

"Oh, aye, aye, I ken," Geordie responded enigmatically, "aye—juist

that."

"Yes, he’s a mighty smart boy," David resumed quickly, to hide a little

embarrassment. "He works like a beaver all day; steady as a clock and

bright as a dollar. It’s a darned shame he hasn’t got a better

chance—that boy’d be heard from yet if he got some eddication," he

concluded, opening the big blade of his jack-knife and beginning

operations on a leafy limb he had just broken off.

Geordie’s face was full of sympathetic interest. "Div ye ken, David,

I’ve been thinkin’ the same aboot the laddie. Dr. Fletcher tellt me

aboot him first—an’ I’ve been enquirin’, an’ watchin’ him a wee bit in a

canny kind o’ a way, since the nicht he jined the kirk. An’ I’ve got a

wee bit plan, David—I’ve got a wee bit plan."

"Yes, Mr. Nickle?" David responded encouragingly, throwing away the

leafy limb and sitting squarely round.

"It’s no’ quite a fittin’ time to mak ony promises," the cautious

Scotchman went on, seeing that David expected him to continue. "But ye

ken, David, I hae neither wife nor bairns noo; they’re a’ wi’ God," he

added, bowing reverently, "an’ yon laddie kind o’ minds me o’ wee

Airchie—Airchie died wi’ the scarlet fever. An’ I’ve been thinkin’,

David, I’ve been thinkin’ I never spent the siller that wud hae gone for

Airchie’s schoolin’. Ye ken, David, div ye no’?"

David knew not how to answer. But his heart was more nimble than his

lips. "I was awful sorry when you lost your little boy," he said, his

eyes upon the ground; "I never had a son myself—so you’re better off nor

me."

*XI*

_*FOOD FOR THOUGHT*_

One pair of eyes, at least, had watched Harvey’s unostentatious retreat

from the clamorous throng about the table. And no sooner had Madeline

noted his departure than she quietly slipped into the vacant place

beside his sister, who welcomed her with a smile as generous as the

absorbing intensity of the moment would permit. Madeline’s cheeks were

still rosy with the flush of angry resentment that Cecil’s cruel words

had started. Twice had he taken his place beside her at the table, and

twice she had moved away; even now his eyes seemed to follow her,

casting conciliatory glances that found no response.

The picnic feast was finally concluded—but not till sheer physical

inability proclaimed a truce—and Madeline and Jessie withdrew together.

"Let’s go down into the gully, Jessie," Madeline suggested, pointing

towards a slight ravine a little way in the distance; "I think we’d find

flowers there, perhaps."

Jessie was agreed. "But I wish Harvey would come," she said; "I wonder

where he is—he went away just when we began our dinner."

"Oh, he’s all right," replied the older girl. "I saw him going

away—he’ll be back in a little."

"An’ I didn’t see—I didn’t see the rhubarb tarts mother made," Jessie

continued, her mind still busy with the missing. "You don’t suppose

Cecil Craig threw them away, do you?" she asked, suddenly fearful; "he’s

so mean."

"Don’t let’s speak about him at all," Madeline interrupted. "The tarts

are all right," she went on consolingly. "I saw one boy very—very busy

with them," she concluded dexterously. "Besides," she added, the

connection not so obvious as her tone would indicate, "I’ve got

something to say to you, Jessie—sit down; sit down beside me here."

Jessie obeyed and they sank together on a mossy mound, a few stately

oaks and maples whispering welcome; for they were jealous trees, and had

begrudged the central grove its throng of happy children, the merry

scene just visible from their topmost boughs.

"I’ve got awful good news for you, Jessie," Madeline began ardently,

after a momentary struggle as to how she should introduce the subject.

"What’s it about?" Jessie asked, her eyes opening wide.

"It’s about your mother," answered Madeline.

Jessie looked gravely at the other.

"Anything about the tarts?" she enquired earnestly, her mind still

absorbed with the tragedy.

"No, no—of course it’s not about anything like that. It’s about her

eyes—I’m pretty sure they’re going to get well."