CHAPTER I

Produced by Al Haines

THE END OF THE RAINBOW

BY

MARIAN KEITH

_Author of "'Lisbeth of the Dale,"

"Treasure Valley," "Duncan Polite," etc._

McCLELLAND AND STEWART

PUBLISHERS : : TORONTO

Copyright, 1913

BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. THE GLEAM

II. "THE GREATEST OF THE THREE"

III. LIFE'S YOUNG MARINER

IV. SIDE LIGHTS

V. FOLLOWING THE GLEAM

VI. LAUNCHING HIS VESSEL

VII. "MOVING TO MELODY"

VIII. "FLOATED THE GLEAM"

IX. "DEAF TO THE MELODY"

X. "THE LIGHT RETREATED"

XI. "THE LANDSKIP DARKEN'D"

XII. "THE MELODY DEADEN'D"

XIII. "THE MASTER WHISPERED"

XIV. "FOLLOW THE GLEAM"

THE END OF THE RAINBOW

CHAPTER I

THE GLEAM

All afternoon the little town had lain dozing under the lullaby of a

June rain. It was not so much a rain as a gentle dewy mist, touching

the lawns and gardens and the maple trees that lined each street into

more vivid green, and laying a thick moist carpet over the dust of the

highways. And the little town, ringed by forest and lake, and canopied

by maple boughs, had lain there enjoying it, now blinking half-awake in

the brief glimpses of sunlight, now curling up again and going to sleep.

In the late afternoon the silent tournament between sunshine and shadow

resulted in a conquest for the sun. His victorious lances swept the

enemy from the clean blue skies; they glanced over the lake, lodged in

every treetop, and glittered from every church spire. The little town

began to stir. The yellow dogs, that had slept all afternoon on the

shop steps, roused themselves and resumed their fight in the middle of

Main Street. Now and then a clerk ran across to a rival firm to get

change for a customer. A few belated shoppers hurried homeward. A

farmer's double-buggy backed out of the hotel yard with a scraping

sound, and went rattling up the street towards the country. Everything

seemed pervaded with an atmosphere of expectancy, a tense air of

unrest, as though the whole place were holding itself in readiness for

a summons.

And then it came: the great consummation of the day's work. From the

tower of the fire-hall burst forth the loud peal of the town bell. Six

o'clock! Like the castle of the Sleeping Beauty the town leaped into

life. The whistles of the saw-mills down by the lake broke into

shrieks of joy. The big steam pipe of Thornton's foundry responded

with a delighted roar. The flour mill, the wheel-factory and the

tannery joined in a chorus of yells. From factory and shop, office and

store, came pouring forth the relieved workers, laughing and calling

across the street to each other above the din. There was a noisy

tramp, tramp of feet, a hurrying this way and that, a confusion of

happy voices. And over all the clamour, the big bell in the tower

continued to fling out far over the town and the lake and the woods the

joyous refrain that the day's work was done, was done, was done.

Near the corner of Main Street, on a leafy thoroughfare that ran up

into the region of lawns and gardens, stood a neat row of red-brick

office buildings, with wide doors and shiny windows. Over the widest

door and on the shiniest window, in letters of gold, was the legend:

EDWARD BRIANS, Barrister, etc.

Never a man passed this door on his homeward way without saluting it.

"Hello, Ed! Coming home?"--"Hurrah, Ed! Will you be along if we wait

ten minutes?"--"Ed! Hurry up and come along!"

No one appeared in response to the summons; but from within came

refusals, roared out in a thunderous voice, each roar growing more

exasperated than the last.

The streets were almost deserted when, at last, the owner of the big

voice came to his door. He was a man of about thirty-five; of middle

height, straight, strong and alert. His fair hair had a tendency

towards red, and also towards standing on end, and his bright blue eyes

had a tendency to blaze suddenly in wrath or shut up altogether in

consuming laughter. He had practised law in Algonquin for ten years,

and as he had been brought up in the town and was related to one-half

the population, and loved by the whole of it, he was spoken of

familiarly as Lawyer Ed.

A tall man, leading a little boy by the hand, followed him slowly down

the steps. The man was not past middle age, but he was stooped and

worn with a life of heavy toil.

"Well, Angus," Lawyer Ed was saying, his deep musical voice thrilling

with sympathy, "that'll make you comfortable for a while now, until

you're better, anyway. And there's no need for me, or any one, to tell

you not to worry over it."

The older man smiled. "No, no. Tut, tut! Worry! That would be but a

poor way to treat the Father's care, indeed." His dark eyes shone with

an inner light. "If He needs my farm, He'll show me how to lift the

mortgage. And if He needs me to do any more work for Him here, He'll

give me back my health. But if not--" he paused and his hand went

instinctively to the shoulder of the little boy looking up at him with

big wondering eyes--"if not--well, well, never fear, He knows the way.

He knows."

An old light wagon and a horse with hanging head were standing by the

sidewalk. The man clambered slowly to the seat and gathered up the

lines. Lawyer Ed picked up the little boy and swung him up beside his

father. He shook him well before he set him down, boxed his ears,

pulled his hair, and finally, diving into his pockets, brought out a

big handful of pink "bull's-eyes" and showered them into his hat. The

little fellow shouted with delight, and having crammed his mouth full,

he doubled up his small fists and challenged his friend to another

scuffle.

But Lawyer Ed shook his head.

"No! That's enough nonsense to-day, you young rascal! Good-bye,

Angus, and--" his musical voice became low and soft--"and God bless

you."

Angus McRae's smile, as he drove away, was like the sun breaking out

over Lake Algonquin, and the lawyer felt as if their positions were

reversed, and he had just put a mortgage on his farm and Angus were

trying to comfort him.

He stood for a moment on the sidewalk, his bright eyes grown misty, and

watched the pair drive down the hill. Then he looked across the street

and saw Doctor Archibald Blair climbing into his mud-splashed buggy,

satchel in hand. Lawyer Ed walked across to him, his shining boots

sinking in the soft mud.

By descent Lawyer Ed was partly Scotch, by nature he was entirely

Irish. He possessed a glib tongue of the latter order and his habit

was to address every one he met, be he Indian, Highland Scot, or French

Canadian, in the dialect which the person was supposed to favour. So

he roared out in his magnificent baritone, as he picked his way among

the puddles:

"Hoot! Losh! Is yon yersel', Aerchie mon?"

Doctor Blair glared down at him from under lowering brows.

"Dear me, Ed, you're an object of pity, when you try to get that clumsy

tongue of yours, hampered as it is by a brogue from Cork, around the

most musical sounds of the most musical language under heaven. Give it

up, man! Give it up!"

"Haud yer whisht! Or whisht yer blethers!--whichever way that

outlandish, heathenish gibberish your forebears jabbered, would have

it. You see, Archie, one great advantage of being Irish--and it's not

your fault that you're not, man, I don't blame you--one great advantage

is that you can speak all languages with equal ease. Now a Scotchman's

tongue is like his sense of humour and his brains--a bit hard to

wiggle."

"_'Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung,

A heart that warmly seems to feel'_"----

quoted Doctor Blair, who was always ready with his Burns. He shoved

his black satchel under the seat, and hauled the muddy lap-robe over

his knees.

"Do you want anything in the line of common sense, or did you just come

over here to blather?"

"I came to see what you thought of Angus. Is he very sick?"

"Angus McRae? Yes he is, Ed, I'm sorry to say. I felt I ought to tell

him to quit work altogether, but he can't afford it."

"Is it anything dangerous?"

"Well, if anything should happen--a shock or strain of any kind on his

heart--he'd be laid up--maybe put out of business altogether."

"And to-day he put a mortgage on his place, to help pay the debts of

Peter McDuff and a dozen other old leeches that live on him."

The two friends looked at each other and nodded silently.

"He's a wonderful man, that Angus McRae," said Dr. Blair.

"He's the finest man living!" cried Lawyer Ed, always enthusiastic. "I

owe that man more than I can ever pay--not money, something more

valuable--nearly everything I have that's worth while."

His friend nodded. There were few men in Algonquin who were not

indebted to Angus McRae for something of value.

"Angus is rich in that sort of wealth," said Archie Blair.

"_It's no in titles nor in rank;

It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank,

To purchase peace and rest.

It's no in makin' muckle mair;

It's no in books; it's no in lear;

To make us truly blest.'_"

"But Angus knows where it is, and he's not like most people who go to

church and sing and pray one day in the week and cheat their neighbours

the other six!"

The doctor cracked his whip and drove off in high good humour, for he

had made a smart slap at the church, as he always loved to do in Lawyer

Ed's presence, and had escaped before that glib Irishman could answer.

He could catch something roared out behind him, about a man who could

stay home from church so that he might be a hypocrite seven days in the

week and half the nights too, but he pretended not to hear.

Meanwhile Angus McRae and his little son rattled away down one street

and along another and out upon the country road. Just where the town

and country met stretched a row of ragged, tumble-down buildings.

There was an ill-smelling hotel, with two or three loungers smoking on

the sagging veranda, a long fence covered with tattered and glaring

circus posters, a half-dozen patched and weather-beaten houses and a

row of abandoned sheds and barns.

Algonquin proper was a pretty little town, all orchards and gardens and

winding hilly streets smothered in trees. And the dreary wretchedness

of its back entrance, as it might be called, was all the more painful

in contrast. Willow Lane, this miserable little street was named; but

Angus McRae had long termed it, in his secret heart, the Jericho Road.

For the old tavern at the end of it had proved the downfall of many a

traveller on that highway, and many a man had Angus picked up, who had

fallen there among thieves.

Every one on the Jericho Road knew him well, and went to him for help

in time of trouble and, though they did not realise it, he was indeed

their neighbour in precisely the way his Master meant him to be.

The lane turned into the country road, and once more all was fragrance

and beauty. It curved around the southern shore of Lake Algonquin; on

one side the forest, dark and cool, its dim floor splashed with golden

light, its arches ringing with the call of the Canada bird, on the

other side the blue and white of the lake, laughing and tumbling

beneath the blue and white of the sky.

When the gleam of the water came into view, the little boy clapped his

hands and churned up and down in delight. The fresh, damp wind fanned

his face, and he shouted to the white-winged gulls dipping and soaring

out there in their free ocean of air. He looked up laughingly into his

father's face, but quickly became grave. His father's eyes were

wistful; he had not spoken for a long time. The child remembered vague

hints of trouble that afternoon in Lawyer Ed's office.

"You won't have to work when I get a big man, Daddy," he said

comfortingly. "I'll work for you. An' I'll get rich, an' you'll have

lots an' lots of money."

His father smiled down at him lovingly. "Och, indeed, it's your father

will be the happy man when Roderick grows up. He'll have nothing to do

at all at all."

"What was Lawyer Ed doing?" queried the child, after a moment's

thought. "Is he goin' to let Jock McPherson take away our house?"

"No, no, child. You must not be troubling your head with such

thoughts. It was just some business Roderick is not old enough to

understand."

The little fellow sat swinging his short legs and gazing out over the

lake, struggling with a vague sense of danger. He had been brought up

on the edge of poverty, but had been joyously unconscious of the fact.

His father, Aunt Kirsty, Collie, his dog, and the farm had been his

world, a world of love and enjoyment and plenty. But now he felt the

nearness of some unseen foe, something that had made Lawyer Ed and

Doctor Blair look so grave, and was now keeping his father quiet and

thoughtful. He had a notion that it all had something to do with money.

"If you only had a pot o' gold," he said at last, still staring out

over the lake.

"A pot of gold!" repeated his father, with a laugh. "And what would be

putting that into your foolish little head?"

"A pot o' gold would buy anything you wanted, Peter says. He told me

about it, Peter Fiddle did. Once a boy found a pot o' gold hangin' on

to the end of a rainbow. There's always one there, Daddy. Yes, there

is, Peter Fiddle says so. An' a boy travelled a long, long way to the

end of a rainbow, an' he found it--the pot o' gold. An' he was rich,

an' he gave money to all the poor people an' made them happy."

"And so Peter's been telling you more fairy-tales, eh? Well, well, it

will be a pretty one. And now, I suppose the first rainbow you see,

you'll be off to get that pot of gold."

He nodded excitedly. "Wouldn't I just!" he cried.

Angus McRae was not despondent over the mortgage which his ill health

and his extravagant expenditure for oil and wine and inn-fees had

compelled him to put on his little farm. He was one of those glad

souls, with such a perfect faith in his Father, that he could not but

believe that what might seem to be a bane was in reality a blessing.

But he was a little puzzled and thoughtful. The solution of the

problem was in his Father's hands, of course, but he could not help

wondering just how it would be worked out, and if he himself were using

his every faculty for the best ends.

The greatest part of his problem was the Lad. His boy had been the

very centre of all his thoughts since the day She had left him, with

only faith in God and the Lad's baby hands to hold him up from despair.

She had always hoped that the Lad would have an education, and Angus

had planned that he should. But if the little farm was to go, the Lad

would have to work for his father and Aunt Kirsty just as soon as he

was big enough. And She had always hoped he should be a minister some

day, or even, perhaps, a missionary to a heathen land.

And next to the Lad was his ministry to his neighbours. What was to

become of that? Ministry was not the word Angus McRae would have used

in speaking of his humble calling,--the mere working of a little market

garden farm and the selling of what it produced. And yet he had made

it a real and beautiful ministry to both God and his fellow-man. He

considered the selling of sweet turnips and sound cabbage and unspotted

potatoes to his customers as much a religious rite, as did the most

devout Israelite the offering of that which was perfect on the altar of

Jehovah. For indeed everything Angus sent off his little farm, whether

sold for a legitimate price or given away, as it so often was, to a

needy neighbour, was truly an offering to the Most High.

So he was a little puzzled, though not at all saddened, by the thought

that his ministry was to be curtailed, perhaps stopped. He had hoped

to be always able to give a bag of potatoes to a poor neighbour, or to

bring to his home any one who had fallen on the Jericho Road. But

then, if the Father wanted him to stop that, He surely had other work

for him. So he flapped his old horse with the lines and, leaning

forward, hummed the hymn that was his watchword in times of stress:

"_My soul, be on thy guard,

Ten thousand foes arise,

The hosts of sin are pressing hard,

To draw thee from the skies!_"

The Lad interrupted constantly with eager questions about this flower

and that tree, and his old horse demanded much attention, to keep her

from turning off the road and regaling herself on the green grass. He

flapped her at regular intervals with the lines, saying in a tone of

gentle remonstrance, "Tut, tut, Betsy, get up now, get up."

Betsy had had so many years' intimate acquaintance with her master that

this encouragement to greater speed had long ago lost its real meaning

to her. She had come to regard its gentle reiteration as a sort of

pleasant lullaby, and jogged along more peacefully than ever.

They slowly rounded a curve in the road and came into view of their

home, the little weather-beaten house facing the lake, with Aunt

Kirsty's garden a glory of sweet-peas, the long rows of neat vegetable

beds sloping down to the water, the straggling lane with the big oak at

the gate. And there was Collie bounding down the lane, uttering

yelping barks and twisting himself almost out of joint in his efforts

to wag his tale hard enough to express his welcome. The Lad leaped

down and ran to open the gate; Collie knocked him over in his ecstasy,

and his father smiled indulgently as the two rolled over and over on

the grass.

"Run away in to Aunt Kirsty and tell her we are home, Lad," he cried,

as he drove past to the barn. The boy put the pin in the old gate and

went frolicking along the lane, the dog circling about him. The lane

ran straight past the house down to the water, hedged by an old rail

fence and fringed with raspberry and alder bushes. From it a little

gate led into Aunt Kirsty's garden, which surrounded the house. The

boy paused with his hand on the latch of the gate, looking down at the

water. And then he gave a loud, ecstatic "Oh!" that made Collie bark,

and stood perfectly still. He could see Lake Algonquin spread out

before him, stretching away to the north in lovely curves like a great

river. Its gleaming floor was dotted with green, feathery islands. To

the west, in a silver haze, lay the town; to the east, a low, wooded

shore where the spire of the little Indian church pointed up like a

shining finger out of the green. Great masses of clouds were piled

high in the west, where the sunset was turning all the world into

glory. But it was not the beauty of the scene that was holding the

little boy spellbound. Down there, straight ahead of him, was a most

marvellous thing, the fulfilment of his dreams. Across the radiant

water, stretching from some fairy island in the heavens, far over to

the opposite shore, hung a rainbow! And more wonderful still, right

down there at its foot, just beyond Wanda Island, gleaming and

beckoning, hung the pot of gold!

The Lad's heart gave a great leap. There it was, just as Peter Fiddle

had described it! Why should he not go after it, right now, and bring

it home to his father? He went tearing down the hill, Collie leaping

at his side. Peter Fiddle had said that the reason more folks did not

get the rainbow gold and be rich and happy ever after, was because they

did not go after it right at once. For the pot of gold did not hang

there very long, and might slip into the water with a big splash any

minute, and be gone forever. So the Lad ran in frantic haste, and the

dog bounded ahead and nearly rushed into the water, in his mistaken

idea that he was to catch the gulls that came swooping so near and were

off and away before he could snap. The old green boat belonging to his

father was lying on its side half in the water; the Lad tugged at it

madly without moving it an inch. He glanced about him and spied with

delight Peter Fiddle's canoe lying upside down under the birches.

Peter worked for his father, when not away fishing or playing the

fiddle or spinning yarns; and when he went away by land his canoe was

always at home, and sometimes the Lad had paddled out in it alone. He

pulled and tugged at it manfully, and after great exertions that left

him panting, he managed to launch it. Collie, just returned from a mad

charge after the gulls, leaped in beside him. The boy seized the

paddle and pushed off hurriedly. He seated himself on the thwart and

looked out to get his direction. Yes, there it still hung, away out

there at the end of the island, gleaming bigger and brighter than ever.

The canoe was large, and the paddle clumsy, but he was filled with such

a passion to get that gold that he made wonderful progress. He leaned

far over the side, splashing the heavy paddle into, the water, until,

what with his unsteady stroke, his dangerous position on the thwart,

and Collie's mad attempts to catch the passing gulls, the wonder was

that the rainbow expedition did not come to grief as soon as it was

launched. But the Lad had been brought up on the water, and had

already had many a lesson in canoeing from Peter Fiddle, and, after the

first excitement, he realised his mistake. So he slid to his knees and

ordered Collie to the bottom of the canoe in front of him. Then,

gazing intently ahead, he paddled, in a zigzag course, out towards the

wonderful golden haze.

Somehow it had a strange, elusive way of seeming to be in one place and

then appearing in another. The canoeist grew hot, and panting with his

efforts. The perspiration stood out on his round, rosy face, and the

curls on his forehead became wet. He flung off his hat, and redoubled

his efforts. He bent his head to his task, as his paddle bumped and

splashed its way into the water. When he looked up again, he found, to

his dismay, that Wanda Island lay right between him and his shining

goal.

This little garden of spruce and cedar had heretofore marked the bounds

of his excursions. His father had often allowed him to go out alone in

the boat or Peter's canoe, but only when he was watching from the

fields or the shore, and then he was permitted to go only up and down

in the shelter of the island. But he did not hesitate to go farther,

fearing the magic gold might vanish while he lingered. He revived his

flagging energies by picturing his father's joy and wonder when he

returned and came staggering up the path with the money. And then his

father could wear his Sunday blacks every day in the week, and never

work any more, but just ride to and from town all day long in a new

buggy, a painted one like Doctor Blair's. And they would hire Peter

Fiddle and young Peter every day in the year to hoe the fields, and

they would give away everything they grew. And the people in Willow

Lane would all be good and happy ever after. Oh, there would never be

any trouble of any kind when he came home with that pot of gold!

He paddled manfully round the island, pushing through the reeds of the

little bay and just skimming the rocks at the western extremity. But

his arms ached so, that he had to pause a moment to rest. As he did

so, he heard a loud whistle, and the steamer, _Inverness_, came round a

far point and turned her long bowsprit towards the town, lying off to

the left in a shining mist. The boy grabbed his paddle again and

redoubled his efforts. Peter had gone down to Barbay that morning on

the _Inverness_, and was in all likelihood on board, and although the

young adventurer intended to reward Peter liberally for the use of his

canoe, he felt it would be safer for him to have it on shore before its

owner returned. He took one tremendous splashing stroke, and, as he

did so, he felt a strange, sharp pain in his right arm. It made him

cry out so loud that Collie turned quickly to him with a whine of

grieved sympathy. The boy dropped the paddle across his knee and

caught his arm. Gradually the pain left and he took up the paddle

again. But somehow the glory of the expedition seemed to have

vanished. He wanted Aunt Kirsty when that pain came into his arm, more

than he wanted all the gold of all the rainbows he had ever seen. He

bent to his paddle with much less vim, and slowly and painfully round

the island he came, and out into the open lake. And then,--where, oh,

where, was the pot of gold? And where was the rainbow? He seemed to

have come out with one stroke of his paddle from a world that was all

colour and light to one that was cold, grey and dreary. He looked

about him amazed. All the beauty of the lake had faded into mist. The

rainbow was gone! A chill, damp breeze fanned his hot face, coming

down from the north, where the clouds had grown black. The little

mariner sat on his heels in the bottom of his canoe and looked about

him in dismay. Surely the pot of gold had not gone. Perhaps it was

hidden away behind those dark clouds and would come gleaming out again

right in front of him. But though he sat and waited, the world only

grew greyer and darker. Collie stood up again and barked defiance at a

heron that sailed away overhead, but his little master sharply bade him

lie down. The pain in his arm gave another twinge, and slowly and

sadly he took up his paddle and turned his canoe homeward.

As he did so he felt a light breeze lift him. It came from the north,

where those dark clouds had swallowed up his rainbow. A strange, weird

thing was happening up there in those clouds, and the boy paused to

watch. Down the shimmering floor of the lake, sweeping slowly towards

him, came a great army. Stealthy, hurrying shapes, with bent,

grey-cowled heads, and trailing garments, rank on rank they stole

forward, mystery and fear in their every movement. Many a time, on an

autumn evening, the boy had watched the fog start away up the lake and

come stealing down, until the islands and the town and the forest were

covered as with a blanket. But he had never seen anything so awesome

as this. The strange shapes into which the light gusts of wind had

driven the mist made them look like an army of ghosts driven out of the

haunts of night. They were bringing night in their train, too. For as

they swept silently onward, everything in earth and lake and sky was

blotted out. One by one the islands vanished; the far-off eastern

shore was wiped away as if by some magic hand. The tower of the little

Indian church stood out for a moment above the flood and then sank

engulfed; and the next moment the great host had swept over the little

sailor and he was walled in and cut off from land and water, alone in a

cloudy sea with neither shore nor sky nor surface. The boy turned

swiftly towards his home, and when he saw that it, too, was gone, he

uttered a cry of terror. "Daddy, oh, Daddy!" he wailed. Collie came

close and licked his face and whined, then looked about him and growled

disapprovingly at the weird thing that surrounded them. The boy put

his arms tight around the dog's neck and hugged him. "Oh, Collie!" he

cried, "we're lost, and I don't know where home is and where Daddy is."

It was not the loss of gold that troubled him now. He stared about him

in the greyness, striving to make out some object. The fog was so

thick that he could see only the length of the canoe, but a big, darker

mass of shadow in a world of shadows, told him where Wanda Island lay,

and grasping his paddle, he started in what he believed to be the

direction of home. He paddled until he was out of breath, rested a

moment, then went at it again with all his might. The pain in his arm

returned, but he dared not stop. And as he worked madly in his efforts

to reach home, the gentle wind was slowly but surely carrying him out

to the open lake.

Every few minutes the thought of his father would overcome him and he

would drop his paddle and, sinking down beside Collie, would sob aloud.

Then he would rise again bravely and go at his task, but each time with

feebler efforts. The pain in his arm, which kept returning at

intervals, was sometimes so bad he had to stop and nurse it. He was

wet to the skin now, and Collie's hair was dripping. Whenever he

rested, he spent the interval calling loudly for his father, while

Collie helped him by barking, but though he listened till his ears were

strained, only the soft lap, lap, of the waves against the canoe

answered. As night came on the thick pall grew heavier and blacker,

and at last he could not see even the length of the canoe.

The sore arm became almost helpless at last, and he could paddle only a

few strokes at long intervals. He slipped down beside Collie, hugging

him close, and sobbed out on his sympathetic head his sorrow for the

rash venture. He even confessed that he wished he had left his friend

at home. "Aunt Kirsty and Daddy will be that lonesome, Collie," he

wailed, "without either of us. But I couldn't do without you at all,

Collie!" he added. And Collie licked his face again, and whined his

appreciation of the compliment. They seemed to drift on and on for

hours and hours. The boy's imagination, fed by the wild tales from

Peter Fiddle--tales of shipwrecks at sea, and dead men's bones cast

upon haunted islands--, became a prey to every terror. There were

ghosts and goblins out here, and water fairies, that might spirit you

away to a land whence there was no returning; and there were those

other creatures so terrible that Peter had not dared even to describe

them, called "Bawkins." He shivered at the thought of them, and clung

to the dog, too frightened to cry out. He had been trying to pray in

broken snatches, but now, in his extremity of fear, he felt he must put

up a petition of more force. He scrambled to his knees and tried to

get Collie to join him by bowing his head. But Collie seemed of an

altogether irreverent nature, and only licked his little master's face

all the more. So the Lad gave it up, and, putting his hands together

behind the dog's head, whispered: "Oh, dear Lord, we're lost, me and

Collie. Please send Father and Peter Fiddle with the boat to find us.

Please don't let us get drownded or don't let the Bawkins get us. And

please don't mind Collie not prayin' right, 'cause he's only a dog, but

he's lost, too; and please bring us safe home. And oh, Dear Jesus, I'm

sorry I came out alone to hunt for the pot o' gold, but I didn't know

it was so far, and please won't you make Daddy and Peter Fiddle hurry,

'cause I'm so cold and so hungry and my arm's awful sore and I can't

paddle no more. And please, if Peter Fiddle ain't home yet and has

gone off and got drunk, won't you please send young Peter with Daddy.

And please send them in a hurry." He paused, but felt he must end in a

more becoming way. It was his first extemporaneous prayer of any

length, and he scarcely knew how to close. Then he remembered how Dr.

Leslie, in the church where he went every Sabbath with his father, was

wont to bring his morning petition to a close, so he added, "Only

please, _please_, don't let Peter Fiddle get drunk to-night--world

wifout end. Amen."

There were some more tears after that, but not such bitter ones; for

Angus McRae's son could not but believe that God heard prayer, and he

waited for his answer in a child's faith. "He's sure to send Daddy

soon, Collie," he said comfortingly; and then, quaveringly, after a few

moments of intense listening and waiting, "It wouldn't be like God not

to, now, would it, Collie?"

There was another period of calling into the darkness and of silent

waiting, broken only by the wash of the little ripples against the

canoe. And then there was a spasmodic attempt at paddling, followed by

another season of prayer and a piteous plea for haste. Then the Lad

bethought himself of his father's hymn, the one he sang so often when

he was in danger; though the son often was puzzled as to what sort of

danger it was that assailed his father. There was no doubt about his

own danger just now, so the child lifted a tremulous voice and tried to

sing:--

"_My soul, be on thy guard,

Ten thousand foes arise,

The hosts of sin are pressing hard,

To draw thee from the skies!_"

But the singing was a failure. He was hoarse with crying and shouting,

and fearful that the "Bawkins" would hear, and come and carry his canoe

through the air, away, away, to the land of mists and dead people. And

the poor sounds he managed to make seemed to strike Collie as the most

grievous thing of all this disastrous voyage, for he put back his head

and howled dismally. So the Lad gave it up and took to praying again,

sure that though Father and Aunt Kirsty and Peter Fiddle were far away,

that God was near. He was wet and chilled through now, and was so

exhausted that at last his head sank on Collie's neck. He was lying

there, half asleep, when the dog suddenly gave a leap and a loud bark

that roused him in terror. He clutched Collie and held him down with

stern threats. But his terror changed to wild hope. Away behind him

was a dim yellow light making a long tunnel through the fog. And down

it a far, far voice was calling, "Roderick! Roderick, my son, where

are you?"

"Daddy! Oh, Daddy!" the boy answered with a hoarse scream. "Here I am

in the canoe with Collie!" There was no need to announce the dog's

presence, for Collie was barking madly and leaping so his little master

could hardly hold him. But he was not nearly so careful as he would

have been a few minutes before, for it did not seem to matter even if

the canoe did upset, when his father was near!

The next moment a boat swept alongside with a blinding glare of light,

and such a crowd of people!--Peter Fiddle at the oars, and young Peter

at the rudder, and Lawyer Ed! And there seemed to be lights suddenly

appearing on every side, and the whole lake was ringing with shouts!

But the boy heard only his father's voice, saw only his outstretched

arms. He fairly tumbled out of the canoe into them, and there sobbed

out all his terror and exhaustion, while Collie leaped and barked and

tried his best to upset the boat.

"Oh, Daddy," the little boy sobbed, with the wisdom born of adversity,

"I didn't get the gold--but--I--don't want anything ever--if I've just

got _you_!"