Margaret Murray Robertson (continued 4)

Squire Holt had bought and held for many years large tracts of wild lands in various parts of the country, content to sink the purchase-money and to pay the taxes for the present, in the certain knowledge that as new settlers came in, and the country was opened up by the making of roads and the building of bridges, the value of the lands would be greatly increased. Many of these tracts Jacob was at this time obliged to sacrifice. He rather ruefully congratulated himself on the fact that the transfer of such property to other names might be done quietly, so that his difficulties need not be fully known or discussed in the community, but it was a terrible blow to him, and the necessity of keeping the knowledge of it from his father made it all the harder.

For the squire had given his voice against all operations in mining matters. He was conscious that he was no longer equal to a contest with younger men in a new field of action, and his advice to his son, whose powers he had measured, had been “to let well alone,” and leave to those who had less to lose, the chance of being winners in the new game. It would have been well if his words had been heeded, Jacob owned to himself; and partly for his own sake and partly for the sake of his father, he said little about his losses. He was willing to have him and others believe that railroad matters were not prospering as he would have liked, which indeed was true. “The Hawkshead and Dunn Valley” railroad, which he had been chiefly instrumental in starting, and the stock of which he held largely, had promised well for a time, and would doubtless pay well in the end; but in the meantime, the big men of Fosbrooke, who had been allowed to say less than they wished to say as to the location of the road, were agitating the subject of another road to connect more directly with the Grand Trunk, and with other lines on the south side of the border, and “Hawkshead and Dunn Valley” stock had gone down.

So Jacob candidly acknowledged that “the banks were crowding a little,” whenever he found it necessary to ask for the use of a fellow-townsman’s name to his paper. He found it necessary a good many times these days, and he was not very often refused. For there were few of the old settlers whom he or his father had not obliged in the same way at one time or the other, as he took occasion to tell the sons of some of them now and then. And besides this, giving one’s name was a mere form, very convenient in the way of business, which in those days was supposed to be done more rapidly than had been the way in old times.

That any of the signers, “joint and several,” ever imagined that they might, in the course of untoward events, be called upon to make good the promise to pay that stood over their names, is not likely. Nor did Jacob himself ever contemplate so painful a possibility. Serious as he saw his difficulties to be, he saw a way out of them—or he would have done so, he said to himself bitterly, if the will of an unreasonable old man had not stood in his way.

In the establishment and success of the new Company, so long the subject of discussion in the town, lay his best chance of freeing himself from his present embarrassment. If he might have had his way as to the site, so that the building might have been commenced, there would have been no trouble about the Company. A few good names with his own, and a moderate amount of capital, with the dam and the buildings commenced, there would have been no trouble about the rest. He felt that he would then have been master of the situation. Every cottage needed for the Mill hands and their families must be built on his land; and the chances were that by judicious management as to building, every one of them might become his tenant; and he had already in view certain arrangements by which most of the materials for building, and many of the supplies for the work-people, should be made to pass through his hands. By these means, and by the combination of other favourable circumstances, which he foresaw, he did not doubt that he could not only escape from present embarrassments, but recover much of what he had been obliged to sacrifice.

It is possible that he was quite mistaken in all this, but he believed it all, and no wonder that his indignation grew and strengthened as he thought of Mr Fleming.

Chapter Sixteen.

Jacob’s Experience.

Jacob spoke wonderfully little of all this, considering how much it was in his mind. He sometimes spoke to his wife, but even to her he said nothing of the losses that had fallen upon him, or of the fears that were weighing him down; but he did allow the bitterness which was gathering in his heart toward old Mr Fleming to overflow, once in a while, in her hearing. He knew it was not a wise thing to do, for she could only listen and add a word or two, which did no good, but harm. She dropped bitter words to other people too, nay, poured them forth to Elizabeth, and to Clifton when he came home, and to Miss Betsey, even, when a rare opportunity occurred.

It did not matter much as far as they were concerned, for they knew the value of her words, and did not repeat them; but she uttered them to other people as well, and they were repeated, as all village talk is repeated, and commented upon, and exaggerated, and no one did more toward the stirring up of strife, and the making of two parties in Gershom, than did Mrs Jacob. She did her husband no good, but she did him less harm than she might have done had she been a woman of a higher and stronger nature. He did not have perfect confidence in her sense and judgment, and was apt to hesitate rather than yield to her suggestions even when he would have liked to do so. But her intense interest and sympathy were very grateful to him, and all the more that he neither asked nor expected sympathy from any one else.

He often longed to ask it; there were several men in Gershom with whom he would have liked to discuss his grievances, but he hardly dared to enter upon the subject, lest in confessing how great a matter a six months’ delay was to him, he should betray how serious his losses had been. He did not intend to make his wife aware of his embarrassments, but she could not fail to see that all his anxiety could not spring from doubts as to the company or indignation toward Mr Fleming. She could not bring herself to speak of his losses while he remained silent, but she was all the more bitter in speaking of the old man’s obstinacy.

“And there are people who call him a sincere and exemplary Christian! The hard, selfish, sour old man!”

“Well,” said Jacob, after a pause of consideration, “I guess he is a Christian—as Christians go. There are few Christians who live up to their light in all respects, I’m afraid.”

“That’s so; but then there is a difference between failings and shortcomings, or even open yieldings to sudden temptations, and this keeping up of anger and uncharitableness, as he has been doing, year in and year out, since ever I can remember, almost.”

“We cannot judge him; he has had great troubles, and he is an old man,” said Jacob, rising. Any allusion to Mr Fleming’s disapproval of him fretted him more than it used to do, and once or twice lately he had allowed himself to say more than he would have liked to reach the ears of his neighbours, and so he rose to go.

“He has never done me any hurt that I know of, and I don’t suppose he’ll do enough to speak of now. It will come all round right I guess, and then if I can do him a good turn I will.”

If he had stayed a minute longer, his wife would have told him that he at least was showing a Christian spirit in thus saying, but being left alone, it came into her mind that no better revenge could be taken upon the hard old man than that his enemy should heap kindness upon him.

“Not that such a thought was in Jacob’s heart,” she said to herself, “but I guess he’s got some new notion in his head. I never can tell just what he means by what he says; it will be queer if he doesn’t get his own way first or last.”

It was no great stretch of charity on Jacob’s part to allow that the people who believed in the Christianity of Mr Fleming might be right, notwithstanding the old man’s unreasonable antipathy to himself. He had never doubted it, and his wife’s words had startled him.

“If he is not a Christian, I am afraid some of the rest of us had better be looking to our little deeds. I guess he has as fair a chance as the most of us.”

He did not get rid of his thoughts when he sat down in his office and began the work of the afternoon. The remembrance of some things that he would gladly never have remembered came back to him even while he was busy with his writing, and he said to himself that if the controversy between him and Mr Fleming were to be decided according to his character, it would go hard with him, and for a moment it seemed as if the sins of his youth were to be remembered against him, and that his punishment was coming upon him after all those years. But he pulled himself up when he got thus far, saying he was growing foolish and as nervous as a woman, and then he rose and took his hat and went down to the mill.

He met his father on the way, and the old man turned back with him down the street again. There was always something the squire wanted to say to his son about business, and Jacob owed more than he acknowledged—and he acknowledged that he owed much—to the keen insight of his father. He seemed to be able to see all sides of a matter at once, and though Jacob liked to manage his affairs himself, and believed that he did so, yet there had been occasions when a few words from his father had modified his plans, and changed the character of important transactions to his profit. At the first glimpse he got of him to-day, a great longing came over him to tell him all his trouble and get the help of his judgment and advice.

It was possibly only a passing feeling which he might have acted on in any circumstances. But his father’s first querulous words made it evident that he could not act upon it to-day. It is doubtful whether any of Jacob’s friends or acquaintances, whether even his wife or his sister, would have believed in the sudden, sharp pain that smote through Jacob’s heart at the moment. He himself half believed that it was disappointment because he could not get the benefit of his father’s experience and counsel at this juncture of affairs, but it was more than that. He really loved his father and honoured him. He had been proud of his abilities and his success, and of the respect in which he was held by the community, both as a man of business and as a man. He had tried since his manhood to atone to him for the sins of his youth, and had striven as far as he knew how to be a dutiful son, and on the whole he had satisfied his father, though doubtless a son with a larger heart and higher capabilities would have satisfied him better. But they loved one another, and the squire respected his son in a way, and they had been much more to each other than people generally, knowing the two men, would have supposed possible.

When Jacob saw his father so feeble and broken that afternoon, and heard his querulous lament over this thing and that which had gone wrong in the mill, the thought came home to him that he was failing fast, and that the end could not be very far away, and the pain that smote him was real and sharp. A sense of loss such as had never touched him, though he had long known that his days were numbered, made him sick for the moment, and left a weight of despondency on him that he could not shake off. He spoke soothingly to him, and walked with him over the mill, telling him of changes that might be made, and asking him questions till he grew cheerful again, and more like his usual self; then taking possession of Silas Bean’s sleigh that was “hitched” at the mill-door, he proposed to drive him home, because the March sun had melted the new-fallen snow, leaving the street both slippery and wet, as he took care to explain, so that he need not suspect that he was more careful than usual about him.

When Elizabeth, a little startled, came to meet them at the door, he repeated all this to her in cheerful tones, but when his father went in, the look of care came back to his face as he said that he had been afraid to let him try the long walk up the hill.

“I was just thinking of going down to meet him,” said Elizabeth. “It was very kind of you to bring him home.”

“Kind!” repeated Jacob, and then he pulled his hat over his eyes and went away.

Elizabeth looked after him a moment in surprise. Even Elizabeth, who thought more kindly of him than any one, except perhaps his father, did not imagine how much the sight of the old man’s increasing weakness had moved him.

Jacob went to a prayer-meeting that night, and, as his custom was, sat on a back seat near the door. The rich man of the village was not a power in the church when one looked beyond material things—the regular subscription-list, the giving of money, the exercise of hospitality—and except in regularity of attendance, he was certainly not a power in the prayer-meeting. But regularity of attendance is something, and on nights when winter storms, or bitter cold, or domestic contingencies of any sort, kept the “regular stand-bys” at home, he could and did fill the place of one or other of them by “taking a part.” But he had no “gift” in that way, and knew it, and kept himself in the background. His neighbours knew it too, and some of them said sharp things, and some of them said slighting things of him because of this. But “the diversity of gifts” was pretty generally acknowledged, and people generally were not hard on him because of silence.

To-night there was no call on him. The school-room was well filled, as there was a prospect of the winter roads breaking up early, so that people from a distance could not come for a while. Besides, it was not the usual prayer-meeting, but the preparatory lecture before the communion, and Mr Maxwell had the meeting altogether in his own hands; and perhaps there were others there as well as Jacob, who took the good of the thought that there was no special responsibility resting upon them for the night.

If it had been the regular meeting, it is possible that Jacob might have sat in his corner as usual, supposing himself to be attending to the words of Deacon Scott and old Mr Wainwright, and all the rest of them, and through habit and the associations of time and place, he might have fallen into old trains of thought which did not always exclude a glance over the business of the day, or a glance toward the business of to-morrow; and so the unwonted stir of fears and feeling which had moved him in the afternoon might have been set at rest, and the cloud of care and pain dissolved for the time. But Mr Maxwell had the word, and still moved and troubled, Jacob could not but listen with the rest.

It was not the minister’s usual way to give one of his elaborate written discourses on such an occasion as the present. There might be a difference of opinion among the people now and then, as to whether he gave them something better, or something not so good. But to-night the greater part of them did not remember to make any comparisons of that kind, but found themselves wondering whether anything had happened to the minister, so earnest and solemn was he both in word and manner to-night.

The words he spoke from were these, “If ye then be risen with Christ, seek those things which are above, where Christ sitteth on the right hand of God.” I could not give the discourse, even if it would be wise to do so. It was such an one as his hearers could not but listen to.

As he went on to tell them some of the wondrous things implied in being “risen with Christ,” the Head, crowned and glorious of the Church, “His body,” of which they were “the members,” and to insist on the seeking the “things above” as the result and sole evidence of this life from the dead, none listened more intently than did Jacob. And perhaps because of the unusual experience of the afternoon, he did not listen, as he was rather apt to do on common occasions, for the rest of the congregation, this for Deacon Scott, that for Mr Wainwright, the other for some one else, for whom it seemed a suitable portion; he listened for himself, with his father all the while in his mind. And when it came to the “result and evidence,” he had not, for the moment, a word to say for himself.

As for his father—well, his father had never made a public profession of faith in Christ. He had “kept aloof,” as the village people said, whatever had been his reasons. But it came into Jacob’s mind—moved and stirred out of its usual dull acceptance of things as they seemed—that to eyes looking deeper than the surface, his father’s life might count for more as “evidence” than his own profession could do. And as the minister put it, would even his father’s life count for much as “evidence” of his being “risen with Christ?” Whose life would?

“Mine would amount to just nothing!” was Jacob’s decision as he left the house, when the meeting was over, and having got thus far it might naturally be supposed that he would not rest until he got farther. He had got thus far many a time before, but the cares of this world and the deceitfulness of riches had done their part in the past to put the thought away, and they did the same again.

But not so readily this time. For Jacob was unsettled and anxious, longing for the help and counsel which his father could never give more—longing also, but not always, for the help which he knew his younger brother was capable of giving him if he would; and he asked himself often, whether it paid even for this world, to wear one’s self out for the making of money which one might lose, as he had done, and which all must leave, as his father was about to do.

But the day’s work had to be done, and the day’s cares met, and Jacob found himself after a little moving on in the old paths, not altogether satisfied with himself or his life, but pretty well convinced that though it might be well to take higher ground as to some things, both in his business and his religion, now was not the time for the change. And besides, he also believed in “the diversity of gifts,” as they were pleased to term it in Gershom. If he could not lead a meeting, or speak a word in season in private, as some of the brethren could do, he tried to use his influence on the right side in all moral and religious questions; and though he knew that there were several among the brethren who, if they could have seen their way clear, would perhaps have called in question the character of certain business transactions with which his name had got mixed up, he set over against the unpleasant fact the other fact, that no three of these men gave so much to sustain the cause of religion in the place as he did.

It might be considered doubtful whether the church itself would have been built, if he had not taken hold of it as he did. That had helped the coming in of the North Gore people, and that with other things had brought Mr Maxwell to them as their minister. Gershom would have been a different place, as to the state of morality and religion, if it had not been for the Holts—and when Jacob said the Holts in this connection, he meant himself, as far as the last ten years were concerned.

Of course he did not say, even to himself, that any amount of giving or doing could make a man safe, either for this world or the next; but he did say that doing and giving to the good cause must count for something as evidence of one’s state. And though he was not satisfied that he was all that he ought to be, he thought that, taking all things into account, he was as good as most of his neighbours, and with this for the present he contented himself.

A visit from his brother Clifton gave him about this time something to think about, and something to do as well. Clifton had heard, though their father had not, of Jacob’s mining speculations, and he had heard of several transactions of so serious a nature that he could not but be curious, not to say anxious, as to results. It cannot be said that he got either information or satisfaction from his inquiries. Jacob, never communicative, was altogether silent to his brother as to the extent of his loans, and as to the property he had been obliged to sacrifice to satisfy pressing claims.

To tell the truth, Clifton was disposed to take matters easily. The Holts must expect their turn of reverses, as well as other people, and they were better able to meet them, he imagined, than most people. If Elizabeth at this time had pressed upon him the propriety of his making himself aware of the exact state of their affairs, he might have inquired to better purpose. As it was, he returned to his more congenial pursuits in Montreal, not quite satisfied, but with no very grave misgivings as to the state of their affairs.

His visit was not without result, however. Though Jacob had only given him the vaguest kind of talk as to mining matters, and had blamed his unfortunate railroad ventures for such pressure as to money as could not be concealed, he had much to say about the new mills, which at some future time must be a source of wealth to the Holts, and to the town. He did not succeed in making his brother believe all that he promised from them should they be built and in running order within the year, but he did succeed in getting more of his sympathy than ever he had got before, as to his loss through the obstinacy of old Mr Fleming. As Jacob put it, it did seem a pity that so much should be lost to the Holts, and the town through him, when so much might be gained to Mr Fleming and his family, by yielding the point at once. Of course it must come to Jacob’s having the land in the end, he acknowledged, and he had never acknowledged so much before.

“As it seems to be personal spite that keeps him to his resolution—for of course a shrewd man like him must see the advantage that the building of the mills so near his land must be—you should get some one else to treat with him.”

But that had been tried. The Gershom Manufacturing Company had as little prospect of success as a company as Jacob had had as an individual, and Clifton could only suggest that everybody concerned should wait patiently for another year for the chance of getting rich by the mills, which was easy for him to say, but hard for Jacob to hear. The hint which renewed his hope, and gave him another chance, was thrown to him over his brother’s shoulder when he rose to go away.

“What about this Mr Langden, whose name I hear mentioned by Mr Maxwell and others as a rich man? Why don’t you suggest to him that he might do a good thing for himself by putting some of his money into the new mills? It would be a better investment than this mining business which our neighbours on the other side of the line seem so eager about. If he were to offer the money down to Mr Fleming, ten to one he would not refuse to sell. You need not appear in the business.”

Jacob shook his head.

“You might try it, anyway. It would not be a bad speculation for him. It is up to-day and down to-morrow with some of these men over there, and he might so manage it, that anything he put into mills in Canada might be made secure to him in case of a smash on the other side. It might be done, I suspect. If I were you I would make a move in that direction.”

And then with a smile and a nod for good-bye, he went away, never suspecting that he left his brother in a very different state of mind from that in which he had found him. Jacob was not, as a general thing, quick at taking up new ideas or in acting upon them, but this ought not to have been a new idea to him, he said almost angrily to himself after his brother was gone. Why had he not thought of Mr Langden and his money before?

Some correspondence had passed between them with regard to certain mining operations in which Mr Langden had, or hoped to have, an interest. At the time Jacob had been much occupied with similar transactions, and had hoped, through Mr Langden’s means, to advance their mutual interests. But things had gone wrong with him beyond hope of help, and later he had with a clear conscience advised him to have nothing to do with any venture in mining stock within the area of which he had any personal knowledge, and then the correspondence had ceased. Now he greatly regretted that he had not thought of proposing the other investment to him.

After much consideration of the subject, and some rather indirect discussion with Mr Maxwell as to Mr Langden’s means, opinions, and prejudices, he came to the conclusion that he could make the whole matter clearer to him and more satisfactory to both if they were to meet face to face, and so his plans were made for a visit to him. But spring had come before this was brought about. He went south in May, and was away from Gershom several weeks. When he returned nothing transpired as to his success. Even to Clifton, who had come to Gershom to accompany his father and sister to C. Springs, where the squire was to spend a month or two, he only spoke of his intercourse with the rich man as one of the pleasant circumstances attending his trip, and Clifton took it for granted that there was not much to tell.

Nor was there; but the rich man had spoken of a possible visit to Canada during the summer, and he had promised that if this took place he should come to Gershom and discuss the matter of the mills on the spot, and though Jacob said little about it, he permitted himself to hope much from the visit.

Chapter Seventeen.

Sugaring-Time.

The season opened cheerfully at Ythan Brae. It had been a peaceful winter with them; there had been less frequent communication with the village than usual. Davie had been both master and man for the most part, and had had little time for anything else. Katie had been now and then for a visit to Miss Elizabeth, and to other people too, for Katie confessed to being fond of visiting, and above most things disliked the idea of being called odd or proud, or whatever else one was liable to be called in Gershom who “set out to be different from her neighbours.” The younger children were not yet considered to be beyond such teaching as they had at the Scott school-house, so that there had been little coming and going to the village, and all the talk that had been indulged in there as to their affairs had hurt no one at Ythan.

They had their own talks, that is, Davie and Katie had. Their grandfather was as silent at home as elsewhere as to the ill that his enemy meditated toward him, so silent that even hopeful grannie grew first doubtful and then anxious, fearing more than she would have feared any outburst of bitterness, this silent brooding over evils that might be drawing near. She dropped a cheerful word now and then as to the certainty that they would never be left in their old age to anxiety and trouble; but though he usually assented to her words, it was almost always silently.

“It is all in God’s hands,” he said once, and he never got beyond that.

But as for the young ones, there was no end to the talk they had as to Jacob Holt and his plans, not that they knew much about them, or were in the least afraid of them. Katie was troubled sometimes, but Davie made light of her fears, and the rest followed Davie’s lead. Davie was of Mr Green’s opinion:

“It will never amount to anything, all that he’ll do to my grandfather. He’ll stop before he gets to the end. Mind, I don’t say that he won’t be as great a rogue as he knows how to be, but he is a small man, is Jacob, and he’ll make a muddle of it. He couldn’t do his worst with the eyes of all Gershom on him. He hasn’t pluck to take even what is his own against the general opinion.”

But Katie thought him hard on Jacob.

“He is not a fool, Davie; and surely he’s not a rogue altogether. But I’m not caring for him; I’m only thinking of grandfather.”

And though Katie did not say it, she was thinking that her grandfather’s silence and gloom might do him more harm than even the loss of half of Ythan. But Davie did not know her thoughts, and he answered the words a little scornfully:

“Of course it is grandfather that we all think of. Who thinks of Jacob, or what may happen to him? And where is your faith, Katie lass? What do you suppose the Lord would be thinking of to take sides with Jacob Holt against such a man as our grandfather? ‘He will not suffer his feet to be moved.’ That’s what the Psalm says, and after that we’ll just wait and see.”

“But, Davie,” said Katie, her eyes wide with surprise and something that felt like dismay, “I doubt that it is not what it means. The Lord doesna take sides that way. And do you think that grandfather would let go his hold—of the Lord even if—even if—and what would become of him then?” added Katie, appalled.

“But that is just what I am saying can never happen. We’ll wait and see.”

Katie was not satisfied.

“But, Davie, even if trouble should come—the worst that could come, it would not be the Lord taking sides against us. The Lord has let trouble, great trouble, fall on grandfather already. And you mind the other Psalm:—

“‘Therefore, although the earth remove, We will not be afraid.’”

“We’ll just wait and see,” repeated Davie.

“But, Davie, do you think it would be a sign that the Lord was against grandfather if He should let Jacob Holt do his worst? I cannot bear to hear you say such things, as though we were just trying him.”

“Well, and is not that just what we are bidden do? It’s no’ me that is saying grandfather is to be forsaken in his old age.”

“And I’m sure its no’ me. Grandfather forsaken! Never. And, Davie, the loss of Ythan even wouldna mean that to grandfather. Do you no’ mind: ‘Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him.’ What is Ythan, and what are any of us to grandfather, in comparison to having the Lord Himself?” said Katie, with rising colour and shining eyes.

“Well, it is no’ me that say it. There are plenty of folk in Gershom just waiting to see how it will turn—to see which is going to beat—the Lord or—or the other side. I wouldna say that grandfather himself is not among the number.”

“Davie,” said Katie solemnly, “my grandfather kens how it must end. Do you think he puts his trust in God on a venture like that? You little ken.”

Davie made no reply at this time. But they were never weary of the theme, and sometimes went so far as to plan what it would be best to do should they have to leave Ythan. Grannie sometimes watched with sad eyes the shadow on the old man’s face, but no one was more ready than grannie to laugh to scorn the idea that any real harm could happen to them.

So the season opened cheerfully to them all. Davie was indeed the chief dependence now, and went about his work in a way that must have gladdened his grandfather’s heart, though he said little about it. There was no other man about the place. They got a day’s work now and then from a neighbour, and later they must have a man to help, or perhaps two, when the heaviest of the work should come on. But in the meantime, Davie and his brothers did all that was to be done in the sugar-place, and sometimes Katie helped them.

Indeed, as far as sugaring-time was concerned, they might have had help every day and all day. There was not so much sugar made in the vicinity of Gershom as there used to be, and the idle lads of the place enjoyed being in the Ythan woods, in the sweet spring air and sunshine, even on days when working hard at carrying in the sap was all that could be done. But there was always this drawback to Davie’s pleasure in their help or their company, that his grandfather did not like either the one or the other. It was partly his own reserved nature that made the presence of strangers distasteful to him, and it was partly, too, because of painful remembrances of the time when one like Davie had been led astray by the influence of such lads. So Davie did not encourage his friends of the village to come, as he might have done in other circumstances.

On “sugaring-off” days there were usually plenty of visitors. Sugaring-off is the final process of sugar-making, when the syrup into which the sap has been made by long boiling down, is clarified and skimmed and boiled still until it is clear as amber, ready, when cooled, to become a solid mass of glittering sweetness. It is astonishing what a quantity of the warm brown liquid can be consumed with pleasure, and without satiety, and on sugaring-off days not even the half-acknowledged dread of Mr Fleming and his stern looks and ways prevented a gathering of young people larger than would have been welcome to less open-handed folk. But the consumption of a few pounds of warm sugar, more or less, was a small matter in the opinion of the old people, provided all behaved themselves as they ought; and whatever might have been likely to happen in Mr Fleming’s absence, his presence was a sufficient check on the most foolish among them. And even the wild young lads of the village found the old man less grim and stern in the spring woods, with the sunshine about them, than they had learned to think him as they watched him sitting in the meeting-house on Sundays.

Sugaring-time is a time of hard and unpleasant work, and this was a more favourable year than usual. Davie had been too busy with other things all the winter to be able to do much in the way of improving the tools and utensils necessary in the making of sugar. By another year there would be a change, he told Katie in confidence. But in the meantime, the three great iron kettles that had been in use during his father’s lifetime made the only boiling apparatus; they hung over a fire of great logs, on a strong pole the ends of which rested on the “crotch” of two great logs or ports set up fifteen or twenty feet apart, and there was no roof above them.

The “camp” or “shanty” used for shelter if it rained, was close by the fire, made of boards, one end of which rested in the ground, while the other end was raised to rest on a pole extended between the boughs of two overhanging trees; but the young people rarely cared to enter it. It held the syrup tubs and such stores of food as were needed from day to day, but it was small and low, and “out of doors” suited them better, even at night when their work detained them.

Into the great maple trees, scattered over an area of many acres, small scooped spouts of cedar were fastened, and out of a tiny cutting, made by a common axe above it, the sap flowed over these into a primitive bucket of cedar, or a still more primitive trough placed beneath. This sap was carried from all parts of the place in pails sustained by a rough wooden yoke placed on the shoulders of the carrier, and emptied into great wooden sap-holders beside the kettles. This part of the work, to be done well, and with the smallest amount of labour, had to be done in the early morning, before the sun had melted the crust which the night’s frost had made on the snow. For even when the open fields were bare, the snow still lingered in the hollows of the wood, and to carry full pails safely, when one’s feet were sinking into the mass made soft by the sunshine, was a feat not to be accomplished easily.

This carrying of the sap and the cutting of the wood for fires, was the hard part of the work; the boiling of the sap and all the rest of it was considered by Davie and his brothers as only fun. When there was a great run of sap, as usually happens several times in the season, the boiling had to be carried on through the night, as well as during the day, and when the weather was fine, this only made the fun the greater. At such times Davie usually secured the companionship of a friend, and the chances were the friend brought another friend or two with him; and there were few things happening in Gershom or elsewhere that were not freely discussed at such times.

Katie had less to do with sugar-making this year than ever she had before, and was inclined to murmur a little because of it. But she was less needed in the wood now, her grandmother said, when the other bairns were growing able to help their brother, and Katie was needed in the house. Early as it was, there were calves to be fed and milk to be cared for, and this year it was understood that Katie was to be responsible for all that was done in the dairy. There was plenty to do; Katie’s mother was not strong, and grannie confessed that she was feeling herself not so young as she used to be, and Katie was the main stay now.

And, besides, Katie was too nearly a grown woman now to play herself with the bairns in the wood, grannie went on to say, and it was far better for Davie to get Ben Holt or some other lad to help, when help was needed, than to take his sister from her work at home to do work for which she was not fit. Of course Katie assented, and yielded her own pleasure, as she always did at any word of grannie’s; but grannie herself felt a little uncomfortable about it. For it was not her thought that Katie should be kept, as a general thing, out of the wood, but Davie’s. Between indignation and amusement, she had had some difficulty in keeping her countenance when the lad had spoken.

“I dinna need her, grannie, and she’s better at home. Help! There’s no fear but I’ll get help enough. Jim Miller will be over, and Moses Green, and more besides, very likely, and I’m no’ wanting Katie.”

“You’re well off for helpers, it seems, Davie, my lad. But as for Katie’s going—”

“Grannie, she’s no’ going. As for helpers, they may come and go, and help or not help, as suits themselves. But the less they have to say about our Katie in the town, the better. Helpers! Do you suppose, grannie dear, that they all come to help me?”

His grandmother looked at him in amazement.

“I doubt, laddie, you hardly ken what you are saying.”

“I ken fine, grannie. If they want to see Katie, they must come to the house here, to my mother and you. I’m no’ to have the responsibility.”

“Davie, lad,” said grannie solemnly, “if you kenned what you are saying, you would deserve the tawse. Responsibility, indeed! A laddie like you; and my bonnie simple-hearted Katie.”

“I’m saying nothing about Katie, grannie. I’m speaking about other folk. Jim to-day and Moses to-morrow, and maybe young Squire Holt—no less, the next—with their compliments and their nonsense. And as for Katie, she likes it well enough, or she might come to like it; she’s but a lassie after all.”

“Oh, laddie, laddie!” was all his astonished grandmother could say.

“I’m no’ needing her to-day,” repeated Davie.

“Davy, you are to say nothing of all this to your sister. I wouldna for much that she would hear the like of that from you.”

“I thought it better to speak to you, grannie,” said Davie with gravity.

Grannie would have liked to box his ears.

“Grannie, you needna be angry at me. I’m no saying that Katie is heeding; but other folk call her bonnie Katie as well as you, and she’s almost a woman now, and it canna be helped.”

“Whisht, Davie. Well, never mind; I’m no’ angry. But say nothing to Katie to put things in her head. A laddie like you.” And grannie laughed in spite of her indignation. But she kept her “bonnie Katie” at home for the most part, unless there was some special reason for her going with the rest.

There were many other visitors at the sugar-place—visitors whom even Davie could not suspect of coming altogether for Katie’s sake. Most people who had a chance to do so, liked to go at least once into the woods when the sugar-making was going on, and the Flemings’ place was not very far from the village, and lay high and dry and was easy of access, so that few days passed without a visit from some one.

Sometimes they were visitors to mind and sometimes they were not, but the laws of hospitality held good in the woods as in the house, and they were welcomed civilly at least. Once or twice, when particular friends of his came on sap-boiling days, Davie ventured on an impromptu sugaring-off on his own responsibility. He made use of a small kettle for the purpose, so that the important matter of boiling down the sap need not be interfered with. He told himself that he was not disobeying his grandfather, but he knew that probably it had never come into his mind that such a thing would be attempted, and he did not enjoy it much, though his visitors did. He acknowledged afterward to Katie, that never in the course of his life had he “felt so mean” as he did on the last occasion of the kind. The sugar was just coming to perfection, when the eager barking of the dog proclaimed the approach of some one, and Davie never doubted that it was his grandfather. It was all that he could do to prevent himself from snatching the sugar from the fire and putting it out of sight. He did not do it, however, and it was not his grandfather. But Davie’s feeling of discomfort stayed with him, though he had no reason to suppose that any one of the party had noticed his trouble.

But in this he was mistaken. The very last person to whom he would have liked to betray himself had observed him. Mr Maxwell had only been a few minutes at the camp, and was not one of those for whose entertainment Davie had prepared. Of course he knew that whoever came to the place on regular sugaring-off days, was made welcome to all that could be enjoyed on the occasion, but even with his knowledge that the Flemings were open-handed on all occasions, he did feel somewhat surprised that such special pains should be taken for the entertainment of chance comers. But it was the anxious look that came over Davie’s face that struck him painfully.

That Davie, whose character for straightforwardness and courage no one doubted—his grandfather’s right hand, the staff and stay of the whole household—that Davie should be found turning aside, ever so little, from what was open and right, hurt the minister greatly. He loved the lad too well to forbear from reproof, or at least a caution, so he stayed till the others had left the wood to say a word to him. This was not his first visit to the camp, for Davie and he were friends, and Mr Maxwell had proved his friendship in a way that the boy liked—by lending him books, and by helping him to a right appreciation of their contents. He had a book in his hand now, as he waited while Davie filled the kettles and stirred the fire, and it troubled him to think that he was going to prove his friendship this time in a way the boy would not like so well. He did not know what to say, and had not decided, when Davie, perhaps surprised at his unwonted silence, looked up and met his eye.

“Davie, lad, was it your grandfather that you expected to see when Collie barked a little while ago?”

Davie reddened and hung his head, and then looking up, said with a touch of anger in his voice:

“You are thinking worse of me than I deserve, Mr Maxwell.”

“Well, I shall be glad to be set right, Davie.”

“You don’t suppose my grandfather would grudge a few pounds of sugar in such a year as this? Why, there has been no such season since I can remember, at least we have never made so much.”

“No, I did not suppose that. It would not be like him.”

“And there was no time lost; I was helped rather than hindered. And anybody would do the same in any sugar-place in the country, only—” Davie hesitated.

“It was not the sugar I thought of, it was the look that came over your face when you thought your grandfather was coming, that accused you. You accused yourself, Davie.”

After a moment’s silence, Davie said:

“My grandfather is not just like other folks in all things, and there were two or three here that he does not like—and he might have spoken hastily—being taken by surprise, and—I didn’t like the thought of it.”

The hesitation was longer this time.

“The chances are, he would—have given me—a blowing up, and that is not so pleasant before folks.”

“Well,” said the minister again.

“Well, he might have been uneasy at the sight of Hooker and Piatt, and he might have thought I was not to be trusted. And then it would have vexed grannie and them all. My grandfather is queer about some things—I mean he is an old man, and has had trouble in his life, with more ahead, if some folks get their way and so I would have been sorry to see him just then.”

“And, Davie, should all this make you less careful to do his will, or more, both as to the spirit and the letter?”

“But, Mr Maxwell, it was not that I thought I was doing wrong, only I hoped grandfather might not come; and even grannie has whiles to—to—No, I won’t say it. Grannie is as true as steel. And I was wrong to do anything to encourage Hooker and Piatt to stay, and I am sorry.”

“Davie,” said the minister kindly and solemnly, “be always loyal in word and deed, as I know you are in heart, to your grandparents. You are everything to them. I know of no nobler work than you have been doing all winter. I beg your pardon if I have been hard on you; but it hurt me dreadfully to see that doubtful look on your face. I did not mean to be hard.”

Davie told all this to Katie a few nights afterward, as they were going home through the fields together. But he did not tell her that he made an errand round behind the camp lest Mr Maxwell should see the tears that came rushing to his eyes; nor did he tell her anything that was said after that.

Indeed, there was but a word or two about the Lord and Master, whose claims to a loving loyalty are supreme, words which Davie never forgot, and only alluded to long afterward, when he and Katie found it easier to talk together about such things. And that the minister had not put their friendship in jeopardy, Katie plainly saw.

Chapter Eighteen.

Mr Fleming’s Troubles.

A few days after the minister’s talk with Davie, the squire and Miss Elizabeth came to pay a visit at Ythan Brae. The squire’s visits were rare now, and his coming gave them all pleasure; and as the day was fine, and the old man expressed a wish to go to the sugar-place, they lost no time after dinner in setting out.

The squire and Mr Fleming went in Mr Holt’s buggy, as far as it could be taken, but Mrs Fleming went, with Miss Elizabeth and Katie, the near way through the fields. It was an afternoon long to be remembered. Katie could not tell which she liked best, the walk up the hill with these two, or the walk home again with Davie when he told her of Mr Maxwell’s talk with him in the wood. It was pleasant sitting in the sunshine too, and listening to the old squire, and grannie, and them all, and if there had been nothing else to delight her, it would have been enough to see Davie behave so well. For Davie did not think so much of Miss Elizabeth’s friendship as Katie did, and did not as a general thing take so much pains as she thought he ought to do to be polite to her friend. But to-day Davie, in his sister’s opinion, was kind and “nice” to them all. They heard the sharp ring of his axe as they went up through the pasture, and when they came in among the trees they heard him singing merrily to himself. He made much of grannie, whose first visit it was for the season, and when he heard that his grandfather and Mr Holt were coming by the road, he went off with great strides, like a young giant, to meet them before they should reach a certain hole in the wood road which was deeper than it looked, and where possibly they might have to alight and leave the buggy. By and by he came back with them, carrying the squire’s great coat, which he had found heavy in coming up the hill. Then with some boards and an old buffalo-skin and quilt from the camp, he hastened to make comfortable seats for them all.

“I think, grandfather,” said he, “since the squire and Miss Elizabeth have come so far—to say nothing of grannie—we should make it worth their while. If Katie will wash out the little kettle, while I make a place for it on the fire, we will have a sugaring-off in an hour or two. If you had come to-morrow, Miss Elizabeth, you would have seen us turning off a hundredweight and more.”

“If there will be time for it,” said Mr Fleming doubtfully.

“Plenty of time, grandfather. I will set it a-going, and Katie can attend to it, for there are some buckets east yonder that I have not seen to-day, and I must gather the sap and make an end of it to-night, if I can.”

“I think I might be trusted to set it a-going myself, Davie,” said Katie, laughing and turning up her sleeves.

Davie had made his morning porridge in the kettle, having been busy very early in the woods, and there were traces of former sugar-making on it also, but of this Katie said nothing. It was pretty to see her quick, light movements, as she busied herself with the work. Even the washing of a porridge pot may be done in a way to interest on-lookers, and well-pleased eyes followed her movements.

A tub of syrup which was to form part of to-morrow’s “batch” stood in the camp, and from this a portion was carefully taken that the grounds need not be disturbed, a beaten egg and a cup of sweet milk were added for clarifying purposes, and it was placed on the fire. As it grew hot a dark scum rose to the top, which Katie with her skimmer removed, and by and by there was nothing to be done but to see that the clear, amber-coloured liquid did not boil over. All the help that her brother gave her was by way of advice, and of this she made as much use as suited her, and Miss Elizabeth listened to them much amused.

But neither Miss Elizabeth nor Katie lost a word of the quiet talk that was going on between the old people. The squire and Mrs Fleming had most of it to themselves, Mr Fleming putting in a word now and then. Their talk was mostly of old times. If the squire had heard anything new of his friend’s trouble as to his debt to Jacob he had forgotten it, as he forgot most things happening from day to day now. It was of the old times in Gershom, even before Mr Fleming’s coming, that he was speaking; most of what he said he had said to them often before. He called Davie Hughie, and did not notice that Elizabeth looked anxious and tried to change the talk.

Davie did his part in setting things right by bringing up the question which Ben and he had been discussing lately, as to the salmon fishing on the Beaver River, before the building of the saw-mills had kept the fish away. Then Davie went to his sap-gathering, and after that the talk fell upon graver matters; and though all took part, it was grannie who had most to say, and Elizabeth liked to think afterward of the eager, childlike way in which her father had listened and responded to it all.

He was very fond of telling of his early days, and of his success in life, poor old man, but to-day he acknowledged that this life, if it were all, would be but a poor thing.

“I might have done differently in some things, and I wish I had, though I don’t know that it would have amounted to much, anything that I could do.”

“And it is well that it is not our ain doings we have to trust to when life is wearing over,” said Mrs Fleming, gravely. “I doubt the best of us would find but poor comfort in looking back over our life, when the end is drawing on; it is to Him who is able and willing to save to the uttermost that we have, one and all, to look.”

“Yes, I know, there is no one else. And my life is most done, but I haven’t never confessed Him, not before men.”

“But it’s no’ too late for that even yet,” said Mrs Fleming, gently; “and you have confessed Him in a way, for you have fed the hungry and clothed the naked, and all men trust your word, which, God forgive them, is more than can be said of some who have His name oftenest on their lips.”

“Folks ought to get religion young, as Lizzie did here, and Jacob. I hope it’s all right with Jacob. I’ve seen the time when I would have been glad to come forward and confess Him and do my part in the church, before Lizzie’s mother died. But when a man gets on in years it isn’t easy for him to come out before the world and do as he ought. I hope it will be all right, and as I told Jacob the other day, when the time does come for me to be judged I’d full as lief be standing on the same platform with old David Fleming as with most any of the professors in Gershom.”

“Eh, man! It would be but a poor place to stand in,” said Mr Fleming, with a startled movement. Mrs Fleming looked from one to the other a little startled also.

“It is just this,” said she, quickly and softly. “Do we love Him best, and honour Him most? No professing or doing will stand to us instead of that, either now or afterwards. And it is our life rather than our lips that should have the telling of our love. Though they should both speak,” added she, gravely.

“Ay! that should they,” said her husband.

“And if we love Him best and honour Him, that is so far an evidence that we are His, and we need fear no evil.”

“I love Him; I know I love Him,” said the squire gravely. “As to having honoured Him before the world all these years—I have little to say about that. And now my life is most gone—most gone—”

Davie came back for the last time with his full pails, and Miss Elizabeth was glad that the talk should come to an end, for her father was showing signs of weariness and weakness. There was a little discussion about the propriety of boiling all the sap down to-night, so that the morning’s “batch” of sugar should be the larger. That was Davie’s plan, but his grandfather objected, and to Katie’s intense delight Davie yielded to his decision cheerfully enough. So he set to work to build up the fires, that the process of boiling to syrup what was now in the kettle might be hastened, for it must be taken from the fire and strained and put safely into the camp before they went home.

Katie’s sugar was by this time pronounced ready to be tested, and Davie hastened to bring from some distant hollow a bucketful of the snow which still lingered in shady places. Over this a spoonful or two of the clear brown liquid from the kettle was spread, and as it stiffened, and after a little became solid, it was pronounced to be sugar—though to unaccustomed eyes it would have seemed only a brown syrup still. But by the time it cooled it would be mostly solid sugar, and when the remaining moist part should be drawn off, it would be maple sugar of the very best, Squire Holt declared, and no one knew better than be.

It is not to be supposed that the old people had cared much to have the sugar made for them, or that they tasted it very freely now that it was done. But they had enjoyed seeing it made, and had had a pleasant afternoon. They did not fall into much talk after this. It was nearly sunset, and time for the squire to be at home. So he and Elizabeth did not return to the house, but took the buggy at the point where it had been left, and went straight to the village. Mr and Mrs Fleming went home together over the fields, and Katie was left to help Davie with the straining of the syrup, which was nearly ready now.

“We have had a pleasant afternoon,” said Katie; “I only wish the minister had been here, and Miss Betsey, and Mr Burnet. If we had known we might have sent for them.”

“It is better as it was. Grandfather liked it better,” said Davie. “The minister was here the other day.”

“And you didna tell us!”

“Well—I’m telling you now.” And in a little he had told the whole story, shamefacedly, but quite honestly. Katie did not say that she thought the minister had been hard on him—thought it for a while. However, Davie did not think he had been hard, she could see, and no harm was done.

In Katie’s opinion Davie had been wonderfully good and thoughtful all winter. He had very rarely laid himself open to his grandfather’s doubts or displeasure. But after this time there was a difference that made itself apparent to eyes that were less watchful than Katie’s. “Loving loyalty,” that was just the name for it. In great things and small, after this, the lad laid himself out to please his grandfather.

He was captious with his sisters “whiles,” she acknowledged in secret; he was arbitrary with his little brothers when they neglected tasks of his giving; and tried his mother and his grandmother, now and then, as young lads always have, and always will try their mothers and grandmothers, until old heads can be put on young shoulders.

But with his grandfather he was gentle, patient, and considerate, to a degree that surprised even Katie, who had been gentle, patient, and considerate with him all her life. She used to wonder whether her grandfather noticed it. He never spoke of it, but he found fault less frequently, and was less exacting as to times and seasons for work, and as to the lad’s comings and goings generally.

Mr Fleming had for a long time said little either of past troubles or future fears, and it was on the past rather than the future that his thoughts dwelt. The future looked dark enough in some of its aspects, but it was by no means hopeless. Davie was more nearly right than Katie was willing to believe, when he said that his grandfather, as well as a good many others in Gershom, were waiting to see “what the Lord was going to do about it,” whether it was to be a case of “the righteous never forsaken,” or whether this time “the race was to be to the swift, and the battle to the strong.”

It may be said of the old man, that on the whole he waited hopefully, or, rather, he looked forward without any special anxiety as to what might be the result of his long controversy with his enemy. Nothing so terrible could happen as had come to him in the past, when his boy had gone down to a dishonoured grave, beyond the reach of hope. Nothing so terrible could happen to the bairns. Every summer and winter passing over their heads, made them more able to meet hardship, if hardship lay before them. Of Katie he had long been sure, and of Davie he was growing surer every day. The rest were healthy, wholesome bairns, with no special gift of beauty or cleverness to lay them open to special temptation. They would do well by their mother, and by one another, and God would guide them, the old man said.

As for himself and his Katie, his dear old wife, their time was nearly over, and they would soon be at peace. At peace! That was the way he put it to himself always. He did not dwell at this time on all that has been promised of the glory to be revealed. He never said that he shrank from the thought of entering through the gates into the heavenly city, out of which his boy must be shut. That would have been rebellion against God, and he would not rebel.

But he was walking in darkness. His eyes were turned away from His face who is the light of the world, and even when he strove to lift them up, there were clouds and shadows between, that grew darker for a while.

All this had come upon him gradually. After the utter darkness of the winter that followed his son’s death, he might have ceased to think so constantly of his loss and his son’s ruin if it had not been for the sight of Jacob Holt. If Jacob had never returned, or if he had gone on in his old ways till the end came to him also, he might have forgiven him, at least he might have outlived the bitterness of his anger, and in time might have been comforted for his son, and as other fathers are comforted.

But Jacob came home, and had another chance, and became a changed man, or so it was said of him. As years passed he did well for himself, and had power and influence in the town, as his father had had before him. And when James Fleming died, and the old man fell into his enemy’s hand, as he thought, his whole life was made bitter to him.

It was not that he grudged to Jacob anything either of wealth or consideration that he had won for himself. But with every thought of him was joined the thought of the son who, in his father’s eyes, had been as much above him as one human being could well be above another, in goodness, in cleverness, in beauty, in all that makes a man worthy of love and honour from his fellows, and he grew sick sometimes with the thought of it all.

But he never spoke much of all this even to his wife. It was years before the old squire knew that it was not all right between Mr Fleming and Jacob, and he never knew all the bitterness of the old man’s feelings. Gershom people generally knew that there was no love lost between them, but even Mrs Fleming hardly knew how utterly her husband had become possessed of the feelings which embittered his life.

All this hurt Jacob far less than it hurt himself. Indeed, it cannot be said that it affected Jacob at all, in the way of making him ashamed or remorseful. It affected in some measure the opinion of a few of his fellow-townsmen, and gave to those who had a grudge against him for other reasons, an opportunity of saying hard things against him. But Jacob cared little for all this, and until he had been thwarted by him in the matter of the land on the bank of the river, had given few of his thoughts to Mr Fleming.

But who can say what the stern old man had endured all these years while his silent anger, which was almost hatred, was living and rankling in his heart? Even while he believed that it was the sin that he hated, and not the sinner, it had been like a canker within him. His conscience permitted the stern avoidance of this man, but it was not always silent as to the neglect or the positive avoidance of duties, which the presence of this man made distasteful, and at times even impossible to him.

When Jacob, according to the hopeful verdict of his friends, became a changed man, and cast in his lot with the people of God, it had needed the utmost exercise of the strong restraint which he imposed on himself, as far as outward acts were concerned, to keep him from crying out against what seemed to him to be a profanation of God’s ordinances. After old Mr Hollister’s death, when others fell in with the new order of things, and one after another of his old friends found his place in the church, he kept back and remained a spectator, even when he would gladly have gone with them.

It was only his strong sense of the duty he owed to his family, that took him to the new church at all, and it was to be feared that had it not been for his personal interest in Mr Maxwell, and his real love for the word of truth as presented by him to the people, he would, during the winter which saw the work at Varney’s farm commenced and carried on at Jacob Holt’s bidding, have absented himself from the house of God altogether.

He went, but he did not derive the good from it he might have done in other circumstances, as he longed to do. He was like one bound or blinded; like one striving vainly to reach a hand held out to him, to see clearly a face of love turned toward him, indeed, but with a veil between.

“Thou art a God that hidest Thyself,” was his cry. And when this word followed to his conscience, “Your sins have hid His face from you that He will not hear,” he laid his hand on his mouth, acknowledging that it might well be so; but it was not the sin of his anger against Jacob Holt that came home to him. He told himself that it was the man’s daily hypocrisy that he hated. And if he could not always separate the sinner from the sin in his thoughts, he yet could quiet himself, taking refuge in the knowledge that never by word or deed had he pleaded his own cause against him. He left it to God to deal with him.

But having waited long, and seeing many troubles drawing near, he asked in moments of darkness whether God had indeed forgotten him.

And so the days went on through the spring, and Mrs Fleming watched and waited, saying little, but growing sad at heart to see how rapidly the signs of old age were growing visible upon him.

Chapter Nineteen.

Katie’s Word.

Grannie’s brave heart did not fail her. She had much to comfort her at this time of trouble.

Seldom had there been a more favourable spring for the getting in of the crops, and never even at Ythan Brae had the spring work been done better, or in better time.

Davie was far enough from being perfect yet in many respects, and his grandmother did not consider it her duty, or for his good, to let him forget his faults. But she made amends to herself, if not to him, by rejoicing over him and his steadiness and goodness to his mother and Katie. None of her rebukes or cautions were needed where his grandfather was concerned, and she could not but wonder sometimes at the lad’s forbearance, for the old man’s burden of care made him weary and irritable often.

Katie’s dairy, so long talked of and planned for, was in use now, though it was not quite finished to her mind yet. Davie made use of his spare minutes on rainy days to add to its conveniences. In the meantime it was clean and cool. The Ythan burn rippled softly through it, and with a free use of its limpid waters, and a judicious use of the limited treasure of ice which they had secured during the last winter months, Katie made such butter as bade fair to win her a reputation which might in course of time rival that of her grandmother. They had two more cows in the pasture than ever they had had before; but ambitious to do much, and to make much money for their possible time of need, and being perfectly healthy and strong, Katie laughed at the idea of having too much to do, and could have disposed, in the village, of twice as much of her delicious butter as her dairy could produce.

Everything seemed to promise a profitable summer, and a pleasant summer too, notwithstanding the knowledge that whatever evil was to come on them through Jacob Holt could not be long averted now.

“Katie,” said Davie, “do you ken what they are saying about grandfather now? They say that—”

“But who are saying it? If you tell me who they are, I’ll soon tell you what they are saying. Though it matters little anyway.”

“Well, you needna fly out at me. I’m no’ saying it,” said Davie, laughing. “And as for they, I might as well say he, or maybe she. It was Ben Holt who told me. He heard his Aunt Betsey telling his grandmother. But it came from Mrs Jacob in the first place. She says that poor old Mr Fleming is not right in his mind, and that something will have to be done about it.”

“Davie!” gasped Katie, “how dare you?”

Davie looked up startled. Katie’s face crimsoned first, and then went very white.

“Oh, Davie, Davie! How could you say it?” and her tears gushed forth.

“But, Katie—such nonsense! I didna say it. Do be reasonable. I shouldna have told you. But why should we heed what they say?”

It took Katie a good while to get over the shock she had received, and Davie sat watching her a little shamefaced and sorry, saying to himself what queer creatures girls were, and what an especially queer creature Katie was, and he wished heartily that he had said nothing about it.

But Katie was not shocked in the way that Davie supposed. It was not that she was indignant at Mrs Jacob for saying such a thing of her grandfather. That there should be anything in her grandfather’s words or ways to make the saying of such things possible made the pain. For a terrible fear had come upon Katie. Or rather, by the constant watching of her grandmother’s looks and words, she had come to the knowledge that she feared for the old man something which she had never put into words.

It was Sunday afternoon, a lovely June day, and they were sitting at the foot of the little knoll under the birch-tree, where the two Holts had found them on that Sunday morning long ago. The rest of the bairns had gone with their mother to the Sunday-school at the Scott school-house as usual, and their grandfather and grandmother were sitting together in the house. Davie had been sitting there too, with his book in his hand, but he had not enjoyed it much; he had nodded over it at last and dropped asleep, and then grannie had bidden him go out to the air for a while and stretch himself, adding to his grandfather as he went:

“He’s wearied with his week’s work, poor laddie, and canna keep his eyes open, and it will do him good to stroll quietly down the brae to the burn. And Katie, lassie, you can go with him for a little till the bairns and your mother come home.”

So, her grandfather saying nothing, Katie went well pleased, and the two soon found themselves at their favourite place of rest, at the point where the Ythan begins to gurgle and murmur over the stones at the foot of the birch knoll.

They had both changed a good deal since the day the Holts found them sitting there. There seemed a greater difference in their ages than there had seemed then, for Katie, as bonnie and fresh as ever, was almost a woman now. Davie was a boy still, long and lank, and not nearly so handsome as he used to be, but there was promise of strength and good looks too, when a few years should be over. He had worked constantly and hard for the last year, and he stooped a little sometimes when he was tired, and Katie was beginning to fear lest he should become round-shouldered and “slouching,” and was in the way of giving him frequent hints about carrying himself uprightly, as he went about the farm. But he was as fine a young fellow as one could wish to see, and his looks promised well for the manhood that did not lie very far before him.

They were silent for a good while after Katie’s outburst. She sat on the grass, her hands clasped round her knees, and her eyes fixed on the rippling water of the burn. Davie lay back on the grass with his head on his clasped hands regarding her. She turned round at last with a grave face.

“I cannot understand it, Davie. I suppose Jacob Holt is not a good man, and grandfather thinks he did him a great wrong long ago, and that he is only waiting for an opportunity to do him still another. But yet it seems strange to me that grandfather should care so much, and be so hard on him. It should not matter so much to him, for Jacob Holt is but a poor creature after all.”

Davie looked at her in astonishment.

“Is that the way you look at it? Do you know what happened long ago?”

“I don’t know, nor do you; but we can guess. And even grannie thinks him hard on Jacob. Oh, Davie; it is a terrible thing not to be able to forget.”

Davie said nothing, and Katie went on:

“I hate myself for thinking that grandfather may not be right in everything, so good as he is, so upright and so true. He never did a mean or unjust deed in all his life. If he is not one of God’s people, who is? And yet, Davie, the Bible says, ‘If ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father in heaven forgive your trespasses.’ And to think that one like Jacob Holt should have the power to harden a good man’s heart like that!”

“What do you suppose grannie would think if she were to hear you?” said Davie in amazement.

“Of course I wouldna speak to grannie, or to any one else but you. And whiles I think that grannie herself is feared at his silence, and—and at his unchangeableness,” said Katie, with an awed look. “And grandfather is growing an old man now, and what will it matter to him in a little while about Jacob Holt or any other man?”

Davie got up and walked about restlessly for a while, and when he came and stood before her on the other side of the burn, Katie want on again:

“Grandfather must ken that the Lord knows about it all, and that it is sure ‘to work for good’ to him, as the Bible says it must. ‘All things,’ it says. And the Lord knew grandfather’s trouble long ago, and grandfather knows that He knew it, and it is a wonder that he should never be comforted.”

“It is something that we canna understand,” said Davie gravely. “But, Katie, grandfather is not ay dwelling on it as you suppose. Did he ever do an ill deed to Jacob Holt, or say an ill word of him? He canna be friendly with him, because he canna trust him or respect him. But as to not forgiving him—that is not likely.”

“But, Davie, he hasna spoken a word to Jacob Holt for years. He has not heard his name spoken—unless by the old squire, who forgets things whiles. None of us name him in his hearing, nor the neighbours. And all this about the land and the site for the mills is not natural, is it, if he has forgiven and forgotten? And it is not Christian, if he has not,” added Katie with a sob.

“And what you mean by all this is, that—that something is the matter with him—as Mr Jacob said,” and Davie turned angry eyes on his sister.

“Davie, I whiles think grannie is feared. She is ay longing for his home-coming when he is away. And I hear her speaking softly to him when they are alone. And I hear him often praying in the night; last night it was for hours, I think. Oh, Davie! and then grannie went to him, and he went back to his bed again, and grannie looked, oh, so white and spent in the morning.”

“And he was at Pine-tree Hollow the other night,” said Davie.

“Yes! And grannie went to meet him, and my mother was waiting for them at the gate, and she burst out crying when she saw them coming home together through the gloaming.”

They sat for a long time silent after that. Indeed, there was not another word spoken till they heard the children’s voices, and knew that it was time to go to the house again. Then Katie stooped and laved the water on her tear-stained face before she turned to go.

“It will all work for good, Katie, you may be sure of that,” said her brother huskily, as they went up the brae together.

“Yes, to those who love Him. So the promise is good for grannie and him—and, oh, Davie! if we were only sure for us all.”

There were smiles on Katie’s face when she said this, and tears too, and it was doubtful which of them would have way, till her grandfather’s voice settled it. She had only smiles for him, as he came out at the door with his staff in his hand, and looking as if he needed it to lean upon, but looking, at the same time, brighter and more like himself than Katie had seen him for a while. She turned and went with him toward the pasture-bars, his favourite walk. They went slowly on together, speaking few words, content to be silent in each other’s company.

It was a bonny day, the old man said, and the grass was fine and green; and Katie bade him look at the barley turning yellow already, and at the purple shadows on the great hay-field as the wind passed over it.

“I like to watch them,” said Katie, “and, grandfather, doesna it mind you of the waves of the sea?”

Her grandfather shook his head.

“It’s a bonny sight, but it is no like the waves of the sea.”

And thus a word dropped here and there till they came to the pasture-bars. The sheep and the young lambs crowded together close to the bars over which they leaned, expecting the usual taste of salt from their hands, and old Kelso and her colt neighed their welcome. It was a peaceful, pleasant scene, and would do her grandfather good, Katie said to herself joyfully. But in a minute her heart gave a sudden throb, as with a look at her face, from which neither the water of the burn, nor the mild sweet air had quite effaced the traces of tears, he said gravely:

“And what was it that Davie was saying to you as you came up the brae?”

Katie gave a quick look into his face, and her eyes fell, and she could not utter a word.

“Was he vexing you with his nonsense? Was he scolding you, my lassie?”

“Davie! Oh, grandfather! I would never heed Davie. And besides, it is I who scolded Davie,” added she with a laugh, much relieved.

“I dare say he’s no’ out of the need of it whiles, though he maybe needs it less than he once did.”

“Yes, indeed! grandfather. Is he not steady now? As good as gold?”

“As gold? Well, gold is good in its place, if it could be kept there. And what were you two discoursing about, down yonder by the burn?”

It never came into Katie’s mind that she could answer him otherwise than indirectly.

“We were speaking—about you, grandfather, and about—Jacob Holt.”

“Well?”

“And Davie was saying how impossible it was that anything that that man can do could hurt you, grandfather.”

“He thinks he kens, does he?”

“But he says everybody kens that, though Jacob is a greedy man, he is but a poor creature, and wouldna dare to harm you, because all Gershom would cry out against him if he were to do his will.”

“I’m no’ sure of that. But, indeed, I think he has done his worst on me already.” And the look, the dark look, that always brought the shadow to grannie’s eyes came over his face as he said it. Katie’s heart beat hard, but her courage rose to the occasion, and she said softly and reverently:

“It was God’s will, grandfather, and surely Jacob must be sorry now.”

The old man uttered a sound between a groan and a cry.

“Was it God’s will? It was a great sin, and God has never punished him for it. Lassie, you little ken.”

“No, grandfather, but God kens. And it was His will,” repeated Katie, not knowing what to say.

“God’s will! Ay, since He permitted it; we can say nothing else. But that it should be God’s will that yon man should have a name and a place here—and it may be, hereafter—passes me.”

Except to his wife, Mr Fleming had never spoken such words before, and the pain and anger on his face it was sorrowful to see.

“Grandfather, don’t you mind how, at the very last, our Lord said, ‘Father, forgive them’?”

He had been sitting, with his face averted from her, but he turned now with a strange, dazed look in his eyes:

“Ay. And He said, ‘Love your enemies,’ and ‘Forgive and ye shall be forgiven.’ And Katie, my bonny woman, I canna do it.”

Katie slid down to the ground beside him, and laid her wet face on his knee without a word. What was there to be said, only “God comfort him, God comfort him?” and she said it many times in the silence that came next.

By and by the clouds drifted toward the west and hid the sun, and it seemed to grow dreary and chill around them.

“We’ll go to the house to your grandmother,” said he at last in a voice that to Katie seemed hard and strange.

Was he angry with her? Ought she not to have spoken? She dared not ask him, but she touched his hand with her lips, and wet it with her tears before she rose. He took no notice, but said again: “We’ll go home to your grandmother;” and no word was spoken till they reached the house, and then Katie slipped away out of sight, lest her grandmother should see her tears.

But as the days went on she knew that he was not angry. He was very grave and silent, and grannie was never quite at rest when he was long out of sight. But summer wore on, and nothing happened to make one day different from another till haying-time came.

Chapter Twenty.

A Demonstration.

Mr Fleming’s failing strength, and the high rate of wages paid for farm labour, had for several years made it necessary for him to depart from what seemed to him the best mode of farming, in order to save both strength and wages. So there was a larger part of the place in hay and pasture-land than there had been at first, a larger proportion than there ought to be for really good farming on such land as his, he was willing to acknowledge. Haymaking was, therefore, the most important part of summer work at Ythan.

There was much to be done, both in the house and in the fields. Several men were required to help for a month or more, and if they were not of the right stamp, both as to character and capabilities, the oversight of them became a trouble to the grandfather, and that, of course, troubled them all. No choice could be exercised in the matter. They were usually men who came along from the French country, either before or after their own narrow fields were cut, in order to make a little money by helping their English-speaking neighbours, and those who hired them must take their chance.

As a general thing the men were good workers, and did well when their employers worked with them. But they were for the most part eye-servants, who took things easy when it might be done, and with eye-service Mr Fleming had less patience than with most things.

But the “good luck” that had followed Davie and his doings on the farm all the summer, followed him still. One night there came to Ythan a stranger, who introduced himself as Ira Hemmenway, an American, sole agent in Canada for the celebrated Eureka mowing-machine, and he “claimed the privilege” of introducing this wonderful invention to the notice of the discriminating and intelligent farmers of Gershom. He asked nothing better for his own share of profit than a chance to show what he could do with it on some of the smooth fields of Ythan.

If he had been aware of Mr Fleming’s distaste for all things untried, or “new-fangled,” it is likely he would have carried his request elsewhere. But, greatly to Davie’s surprise, his grandfather listened to the proposition of Mr Hemmenway with no special signs of disfavour, and he could only hope that the wonderful eloquence of their Yankee friend might not hinder rather than help his cause.

“With a fair start in the morning we calculate, with a middlin’ span of horses, to get over by noon as much ground as six men would get over, if they worked from sunrise to sundown, if they didn’t have to stop to eat or drink or take a resting-spell. We cut clean and even. There’ll be a little clipping, maybe, round the stumps and stone piles, but you don’t seem to have many of them. You just see me go once round your big field there with my team, and you’ll never want to touch a scythe again. Only give me the chance. The first day sha’n’t cost you nothing but my victuals and good feed of oats for my team. Now come, what do you say?”

Mr Fleming listened with patience and with some amusement, Davie thought.

“That is cheap enough surely,” said he.

“And nothing risked,” continued Mr Hemmenway. “It’ll be good for you and good for me, and it doesn’t often happen that both sides get the best of the bargain. Say yes, and I’ll be along by sunrise, and if I don’t make this young man here open his eyes first time round, I shall be some surprised.”

The only difficulty seemed lest there might be too much grass cut to be properly cared for, since they had not as yet engaged help.

“Don’t you fret about that. You’ll have the whole neighbourhood here looking on, and I don’t suppose they’ll stand still and do it. I’ll risk the making of the hay that’ll be cut to-morrow.”

The idea of the whole neighbourhood looking on, or even helping to make hay, was not so agreeable to Mr Fleming as Mr Hemmenway might have supposed, and Davie hastened to suggest that Ben Holt and two or three others who had not yet commenced in their own fields might give help for one day, and so the matter was arranged. Mr Hemmenway lost no time. The machine was brought to Ythan that night, and when Mr Fleming came out in the morning operations had long been commenced in Mr Hemmenway’s best style, and Davie was occupying his place on the high seat of the machine, and driving “the team” steadily round the great square, which was growing beautifully less at every turn.

Not quite the whole neighbourhood came to look on, but a good many did. Among the rest was Deacon Scott, who was almost as much averse to “new-fangled” notions as was Mr Fleming. But he engaged the machine for the next day, and paid a good price for it—which was all clear gain, Mr Hemmenway admitted to Davie in confidence. Going about from field to field for a few days in a neighbourhood was the company’s way of advertising. If it did not pay this year it would next, for half the farmers in the country would have a machine by another year.

“And I don’t say it is any way among the impossibles that we should conclude to give your little town a lift, by establishing a branch factory in it. You’ve got a spry little stream here, and some good land, and there’ll be some handsome fields for the Eureka to operate upon when the stumps get cleared out. But you are considerably behind the times in the way of implements. You want to be put up to a dodge or two, and we are the folks to do it, in the way of machinery,” and so on.

Two more days of the Eureka at Ythan laid low the grass in every field, and within eight days of the time when Mr Hemmenway made his appearance there, all the hay was well made and safely housed, without a drop of rain having fallen upon it.

Davie was tired, but triumphant. “Providence is ay kind,” said grannie softly, and grandfather’s assent, though silent as usual, was pleased and earnest, and he was “in better heart” than he had been for a while.

Davie had some good hard work in other hay-fields in return for the help they had had at Ythan, and it was done gratefully and heartily.

And when most of the hay-fields in Gershom were bare and brown, waiting for the showers that were to make them green and beautiful for the fall pasture, in the short “resting-spell” that usually comes in this part of Canada between the hay and grain harvest, thoughts of pleasure seemed to take possession of young and old in Gershom.