Margaret M Robertson (continued 8)

“Has she not? And a very worthy person she is, I understand, and an admirable cook. She markets, too—or she did at Haughton House—and that is such a relief. She must be an invaluable servant.”

“I should think so, indeed,” said Arthur, as nobody else seemed inclined to say anything.

Graeme and Rose were speaking about Janet and her expected visit, and Fanny sat silent and embarrassed. But Nelly, busy in taking away the things, lost nothing of what was said; and Mrs Grove, strange to say, was not altogether inattentive to the changing face of the energetic table maid. An uncomplimentary remark had escaped the lady, as to the state of the overdone fowls, and Nelly “could put this and that together as well as another.” The operation of removing the things could not be indefinitely prolonged, however, and as Nelly shut the door Mrs Grove said,—

“She is out of place now, Fanny, and would just suit you. But you must be prompt if you wish to engage her.”

“Oh! there is no hurry about it, I suppose,” said Fanny, glancing uneasily at Graeme. But Graeme took no notice. Mrs Grove was rather in the habit of discussing domestic affairs at the table, and of leaving Graeme out of the conversation. She was very willing to be left out. Besides, she never thought of influencing Fanny in the presence of her stepmother.

“Oh! but I assure you there is,” said Mrs Grove. “There are several ladies wishing to have her. Mrs Ruthven, among the rest.”

“Oh! it is such a trouble changing,” said Fanny, wearily, as if she had had a trying experience and spoke advisedly.

“Not at all. It is only changing for the worse that is so troublesome,” said Mrs Grove, and she had a right to know. “I advise you not to let this opportunity pass.”

“But, after all, Nelly does very well. She is stupid sometimes and cross, but they are all that, more or less, I suppose,” said Fanny.

“You are quite right, Fanny,” said Arthur, who saw that his wife was annoyed without very well knowing why. “I daresay Nelly is a better servant—notwithstanding the unfortunate chickens of to-day, which was our own fault, you know—than the decayed gentlewoman. She will be a second Janet, yet—an institution, an established fact in the history of the family. We couldn’t do without Nelly. Eh, Graeme?”

Graeme smiled, and said nothing. Rose answered for her.

“No, indeed I am so glad Nelly will see Mrs Snow.”

“Very well,” said Mrs Grove. “Since Miss Elliott seems to be satisfied with Nelly, I suppose she must stay. It is a pity you had not known sooner, Fanny, so as to save me the trouble of making an appointment for her. But she may as well come, and you can see her at any rate.”

Her carriage being at the door, she went away, and a rather awkward silence followed her departure.

“What is it all about! Who is Mrs Tilman?” asked Arthur.

“Some one Mrs Grove has seen,” said Graeme, evasively.

“But what about Nelly? Surely you are not thinking of changing servants, Graeme?”

“Oh! I hope not; but Nelly has been out of sorts lately—grumbled a little—”

“Out of sorts, grumbled!” exclaimed Fanny, vexed that Mrs Grove had introduced the subject, and more vexed still that Arthur should have addressed his question to Graeme. “She has been very disagreeable, indeed, not to say impertinent, and I shall not bear it any longer.”

Poor little Fanny could hardly keep back her tears.

“Impertinent to you, Fanny,” cried Graeme and Arthur in a breath.

“Well, to mamma—and she is not very respectful to me, sometimes, and mamma says Nelly has been long enough here. Servants always take liberties after a time; and, besides, she looks upon Graeme as mistress rather than me. She quite treats me like a child,” continued Fanny, her indignation increasing as she proceeded.

“And, besides,” she added, after there had been a moment’s uncomfortable silence, “Nelly wishes to go.”

“Is Barkis willing at last?” said Arthur, trying to laugh off the discomfort of the moment.

Rose laughed too. It had afforded them all much amusement to watch the slow courtship of the dignified Mr Stirling. Nelly always denied that there was anything more in the gardener’s attentions, than just the good-will and friendliness of a countryman, and he certainly was a long time in coming to the point they all acknowledged.

“Nonsense, Arthur! That has nothing to do with it,” said Fanny.

“Then, she must be going to her sister—the lady with a fabulous number of cows and children. She has spoken about that every summer, more or less. Her conscience pricks her, every new baby she hears of. But she will get over it. It is all nonsense about her leaving.”

“But it is not nonsense,” said Fanny, sharply. “Of course Graeme will not like her to go, but Nelly is very obstinate and disagreeable, and mamma says I shall never be mistress in my own house while she stays. And I think we ought to take a good servant when we have the chance.”

“But how good a servant is she?” asked Arthur.

“Didn’t you hear what mamma said about her? And, of course, she has references and written characters, and all that sort of thing.”

“Well, I think we may as well ‘sleep upon it,’ as Janet used to say. There will be time enough to decide after to-night,” said Arthur, taking up his newspaper, more annoyed than he was willing to confess.

The rest sat silent. Rose was indignant, and it needed a warning glance, from Graeme to keep her indignation from overflowing. Graeme was indignant, but not surprised. Indeed, Nelly had given warning that she was to leave; but she hoped and believed that she would think better of it, and said nothing.

She was not indignant with Fanny, but with her mother. She felt that there was some truth in Fanny’s declaration, that Nelly looked upon her as a child. She had Nelly’s own word for that. She considered her young mistress a child to be humoured and “no’ heeded” when any serious business was going on. But Fanny would not have found this out if left to herself, at least she would not have resented it.

The easiest and most natural thing for Graeme, in the turn affairs had taken, would be to withdraw from all interference, and let things take their course; but just because this would be easiest and most agreeable, she hesitated. She felt that it would not be right to stand aside and let Fanny punish herself and all the rest because of the meddlesome folly of Mrs Grove. Besides, it would be so ungrateful to Nelly, who had served them so faithfully all those years. And yet, as she looked at Fanny’s pouting lips and frowning brow, her doubts as to the propriety of interference grew stronger, and she could only say to herself, with a sigh,—

“We must have patience and wait.”

And the matter was settled without her interference, though not to her satisfaction. Before a week, Nelly was on her way to the country to make acquaintance of her sister’s cows and children, and the estimable Mrs Tilman was installed in her place. It was an uncomfortable time for all. Rose was indignant, and took no pains to hide it. Graeme was annoyed and sorry, and, all the more, as Nelly did not see fit to confine the stiffness and coldness of her leave-takings to Mrs Elliott as she ought to have done. If half as earnestly and frankly as she expressed her sorrow for her departure, Graeme had expressed her vexation at its cause, Nelly would have been content. But Graeme would not compromise Fanny, and she would not condescend to recognise the meddlesomeness of Mrs Grove in their affairs. And yet she could not bear that Nelly should go away, after five years of loving service, with such angry gloom in her kind eyes.

“Will you stay with your sister, Nelly, do you think? or will you come back to town and take another place? There are many of our friends who would be very glad to get you.”

“I’m no’ sure, Miss Elliott. I have grown so fractious and contrary lately that maybe my sister winna care to have me. And as to another place—”

Nelly stopped suddenly. If she had said her say, it would have been that she could bear the thought of no other place. But she said nothing, and went away—ran away, indeed. For when she saw the sorrowful tears in Graeme’s eyes, and felt the warm pressure of her hand, she felt she must run or break out into tears; and so she ran, never stopping to answer when Graeme said:

“You’ll let us hear from you, Nelly. You’ll surely let us hear from you soon?”

There was very little said about the new order of affairs. The remonstrance which Fanny expected from Graeme never came. Mrs Grove continued to discuss domestic affairs, and to leave Graeme out, and she was quite willing to be left out, and, after a little, things moved on smoothly. Mrs Tilman was a very respectable-looking person. A little stout, a little red in the face, perhaps. Indeed, very stout and very red in the face; so stout that Arthur suggested the propriety of having the kitchen staircase widened for her benefit; and so red in the face as to induce Graeme to keep her eyes on the keys of the sideboard when Fanny, as she was rather apt to do, left them lying about. She was a very good servant, if one might judge after a week’s trial; and Fanny might have triumphed openly if it had not been that she felt a little uncomfortable in finding herself, without a struggle, sole ruler in their domestic world. Mrs Tilman marketed, and purchased the groceries, and that in so dignified a manner that Fanny almost wondered whether the looking over the grocer’s book and the butcher’s book might not be considered an impertinent interference on her part. Her remarks and allusions were of so dignified a character as to impress her young mistress wonderfully. She was almost ashamed of their limited establishment, in view of Mrs Tilman’s magnificent experiences. But the dignified cook, or housekeeper, as she preferred being called, had profited by the afflictive dispensations that seemed to have fallen upon her, and resigned herself to the occupancy of her present humble sphere in a most exemplary manner.

To be sure, her marketing and her shopping, interfered a little with her less conspicuous duties, and a good deal more than her legitimate share of work was left to Sarah. But fortunately for her and the household generally, Graeme was as ready as ever to do the odds-and-ends of other people’s duties, and to remember things forgotten, so that the domestic machinery moved on with wonderful smoothness. Not that Nelly’s departure was no longer regretted; but in her heart Graeme believed that they would soon have her in her place again, and she was determined that, in the meantime, all should be pleasant and peaceful in their family life.

For Graeme had set her heart on two things. First, that there should be no drawback to the pleasure of Mrs Snow’s visit; and second, that Mrs Snow should admire and love Arthur’s wife. She had had serious doubts enough herself as to the wisdom of her brother’s choice, but she tried to think herself quite contented with it now. At any rate, she could not bear to think that Janet should not be quite content. Not that she was very much afraid. For Graeme’s feelings toward Fanny had changed very much since she had been one of them. She was not very wise or sensible, but she was very sweet-tempered and affectionate, and Graeme had come to love her dearly, especially since the very severe illness from which Fanny was not long recovered. Her faults, at least many of them, were those of education, which she would outlive, Graeme hoped, and any little disagreeable display which it had been their misfortune to witness during the year could, directly or indirectly, be traced to the influence or meddlesomeness of her stepmother, and so it could easily be overlooked. This influence would grow weaker in time, and Fanny would improve in consequence. The vanity, and the carelessness of the feelings of others, which were, to Graeme, her worst faults, were faults that would pass away with time and experience, she hoped. Indeed, they were not half so apparent as they used to be, and whether the change was in Fanny or herself she did not stop to inquire.

But she was determined that her new sister should appear to the best advantage in the eyes of their dear old friend, and to this end the domestic sky must be kept clear of clouds. So Mrs Tilman’s administration commenced under the most favourable circumstances, and the surprise which all felt at the quietness with which this great domestic revolution had been brought about was beginning to give place, on Fanny’s part, to a little triumphant self-congratulation which Rose was inclined to resent. Graeme did not resent it, and Rose was ready to forgive Fanny’s triumph, since Fanny was so ready to share her delight at the thought of Mrs Snow’s visit. As for Will, he saw nothing in the whole circle of events to disturb anybody’s equanimity or to regret, except, perhaps, that the attraction of the McIntyre children and cows had proved irresistible to Nelly at last. And Arthur congratulated himself on the good sense and good management of his little wife, firmly believing in the wisdom of the deluded little creature, never doubting that her skill and will were equal to the triumphant encounter with any possible domestic emergency.

Chapter Thirty One.

They came at last. Arthur and Will met them on the other side of the river, and Graeme and Rose would fain have done the same, but because of falling rain, and because of other reasons, it was thought not best for them to go.

It was a very quiet meeting—a little restrained and tearful just at first; but that wore away, and Janet’s eyes rested on the bairns from whom she had been so long separated with love and wonder and earnest scrutiny. They had all changed, she said. Arthur was like his father; Will was like both father and mother. As for Rosie—

“Miss Graeme, my dear,” said Mrs Snow, “I think Rosie is nearly as bonny as her sister Marian,” and her eye rested on the girl’s blushing face with a tender admiration that was quite as much for the dead as for the living. Graeme had changed least of all, she said; and yet in a little she found herself wondering whether, after all, Graeme had not changed more than any of them.

As for Fanny she found herself in danger of being overlooked in the general joy and excitement, and went about jingling her keys, and rather ostentatiously hastening the preparations for the refreshment of the travellers. She need not have been afraid. Her time was coming. Even now she encountered an odd glance or two from Mr Snow, who was walking off his excitement in the hall. That there was admiration mingled with the curiosity they expressed was evident, and Fanny relented. What might soon have become a pout on her pretty lip changed to a smile. They were soon on very friendly terms with each other, and before Janet had got through with her first tremulous recognition of her bairns, Mr Snow fancied he had made a just estimate of the qualities—good—and not so good—of the pretty little housekeeper.

After dinner all were more at their ease. Mr Snow walked up and down the gallery, past the open window, and Arthur sat there beside him. They were not so far withdrawn from the rest but that they could join in the conversation that went on within. Fanny, tired of the dignity of housekeeping, brought a footstool and sat down beside Graeme; and Janet, seeing how naturally and lovingly the hand of the elder sister rested on the pretty bowed head, gave the little lady more of her attention than she had hitherto done, and grew rather silent in the scrutiny. Graeme grew silent too. Indeed she had been rather silent all the afternoon; partly because it pleased her best to listen, and partly because she was not always sure of her voice when she tried to speak.

She was not allowed to be silent long, however, or to fall into recollections too tender to be shared by them all. Rose’s extraordinary restlessness prevented that. She seemed to have lost the power of sitting still, and flitted about from one to another; now exchanging a word with Fanny or Will, now joining in the conversation that was going on between Mr Snow and Arthur outside. At one moment she was hanging over Graeme’s chair, at the next, kneeling at Mrs Snow’s side; and all the time with a face so radiant that even Will noticed it, and begged to be told the secret of her delight.

The truth was, Rose was having a little private jubilation of her own. She would not have confessed it to Graeme, she was shy of confessing it to herself, but as the time of Mrs Snow’s visit approached, she had not been quite free from misgivings. She had a very distinct recollection of their friend, and loved her dearly. But she found it quite impossible to recall the short active figure, the rather scant dress, the never-tiring hands, without a fear that the visit might be a little disappointing—not to themselves. Janet would always be Janet to them—the dear friend of their childhood, with more real worth in her little finger than there was in ten such fine ladies as Mrs Grove. But Rose, grew indignant beforehand, as she imagined the supercilious smiles and forced politeness of that lady, and perhaps of Fanny too, when all this worth should appear in the form of a little, plain old woman, with no claim to consideration on account of externals.

But that was all past now. And seeing her sitting there in her full brown travelling-dress, her snowy neckerchief and pretty quaint cap, looking as if her life might have been passed with folded hands in a velvet arm-chair, Rose’s misgivings gave place to triumphant self-congratulation, which was rather uncomfortable, because it could not well be shared. She had assisted at the arrangement of the contents of the travelling trunk in wardrobe and bureau, and this might have helped her a little.

“A soft black silk, and a grey poplin, and such lovely neckerchiefs and handkerchiefs of lawn—is not little Emily a darling to make her mother look so nice? And such a beauty of a shawl!—that’s the one Sandy brought.”

And so Rose came down-stairs triumphant, without a single drawback to mar the pleasure with which she regarded Janet as she sat in the arm-chair, letting her grave admiring glances fall alternately on Graeme and the pretty creature at her feet. All Rosie’s admiration was for Mrs Snow.

“Is she not just like a picture sitting there?” she whispered to Will, as she passed him.

And indeed Rosie’s admiration was not surprising; she was the very Janet of old times; but she sat there in Fanny’s handsome drawing-room, with as much appropriateness as she had ever sat in the manse kitchen long ago, and looked over the vases and elegant trifles on the centre-table to Graeme with as much ease and self-possession as if she had been “used with” fine things all her life, and had never held anxious counsels with her over jackets and trowsers, and little half-worn stockings and shoes.

And yet there was no real cause for surprise. For Janet was one of those whose modest, yet firm self-respect, joined with a just appreciation of all worldly things, leaves to changing circumstances no power over their unchanging worth.

That Mr Snow should spend the time devoted to their visit within four walls, was not to be thought of. The deacon, who, in the opinion of those who knew him best, “had the faculty of doing ’most anything,” had certainly not the faculty of sitting still in a chair like other people. The hall or the gallery was his usual place of promenade, but when the interest of the conversation kept him with the rest, Fanny suffered constant anxiety as to the fate of ottomans, vases and little tables. A judicious, re-arrangement of these soon gave him a clearer space for his perambulations; but a man accustomed to walk miles daily on his own land, could not be expected to content himself long within such narrow limits. So one bright morning he renewed the proposal, made long before, that Will should show him Canada.

Up to a comparatively recent period, all Mr Snow’s ideas of the country had been got from the careful reading of an old “History of the French and Indian War.” Of course, by this time he had got a little beyond the belief that the government was a military despotism, that the city of Montreal was a cluster of wigwams, huddled together within a circular enclosure of palisades, or that the commerce of the country consisted in an exchange of beads, muskets, and bad whiskey for the furs of the Aborigines. Still his ideas were vague and indistinct, not to say disparaging, and he had already quite unconsciously excited the amusement of Will and the indignation of Rose, by indulging in remarks indicative of a low opinion of things in general in the Queen’s dominions. So when he proposed that Will should show him Canada, Rose looked gravely up and asked,—

“Where will you go first, Will? To the Red river or Hudson’s Bay or to Nova Scotia? You must be back to lunch.”

They all laughed, and Arthur said,—

“Oh, fie, Rosie! not to know these places are all beyond the limits of Canada!—such ignorance!”

“They are in the Queen’s dominions, though, and Mr Snow wants to see all that is worth seeing on British soil.”

“Well, I guess we can make out a full day’s work in Canada, can’t we? It is best to take it moderate,” said Mr Snow, smiling benignly on Rose. He was tolerant of the young lady’s petulance, and not so ready to excite it as he used to be in the old times, and generally listened to her little sallies with a deprecating smile, amusing to see.

He was changed in other respects as well. Indeed, it must be confessed that just at first Arthur was a little disappointed in him. He had only a slight personal acquaintance with him, but he had heard so much of him from the others that he had looked forward with interest to making the acquaintance of the “sharp Yankee deacon.” For Harry had a good story about “Uncle Sampson” ready for all occasions, and there was no end to the shrewd remarks and scraps of worldly wisdom that he used to quote from his lips. But Harry’s acquaintance had been confined to the first years of their Merleville life, and Mr Snow had changed much since then. He saw all things in a new light. Wisdom and folly had changed their aspect to him. The charity which “believeth and hopeth all things,” and which “thinketh no evil,” lived within him now, and made him slow to see, and slower still to comment upon the faults and foibles of others with the sharpness that used to excite the mirth of the lads long ago. Not that he had forgotten how to criticise, and that severely too, whatever he thought deserved it, or would be the better for it, as Will had good reason to know before he had done much in the way of “showing him Canada,” but he far more frequently surprised them all by his gentle tolerance towards what might be displeasing to him, and by his quick appreciation of whatever was admirable in all he saw.

The first few days of sightseeing were passed in the city and its environs. With the town itself he was greatly pleased. The great grey stone structures suited him well, suggesting, as they often do to the people accustomed to houses of brick or wood, ideas of strength and permanence. But as he was usually content with an outside view of the buildings, with such a view as could be obtained by a slow drive through the streets, the town itself did not occupy him long. Then came the wharves and ships; then they visited the manufactories and workshops, lately become so numerous in the neighbourhood of the canal. All these pleased and interested him greatly, but he never failed, when opportunity offered, to point out various particulars, in which he considered the Montrealers “a leetle behind the times.” On the whole, however, his appreciation of British energy and enterprise was admiring and sincere, and as warmly expressed as could be expected under the circumstances.

“You’ve got a river, at any rate, that about comes up to one’s ideas of what a river ought to be—broad and deep and full,” he said to Arthur one day. “It kind of satisfies one to stand and look at it, so grand and powerful, and still always rolling on to the sea.”

“Yes, it is like your Father of Waters,” said Arthur, a little surprised at his tone and manner.

“One wouldn’t be apt to think of mills and engines and such things at the first glimpse of that. I didn’t see it the day when I crossed it, for the mist and rain. To-day, as we stood looking down upon it, I couldn’t but think how it had been rolling on and on there, ever since creation, I suppose, or ever since the time of Adam and Eve—if the date ain’t the same, as some folks seem to think.”

“I always think how wonderful it must have seemed to Jacques Cartier and his men, as they sailed on and on, with the never-ending forest on either shore,” said Rose. “No wonder they thought it would never end, till it bore them to the China seas.”

“A wonderful highway of nations it is, though it disappointed them in that,” said Arthur. “The sad pity is, that it is not available for commerce for more than two-thirds of the year.”

“If ever the bridge they talk about should be built, it will do something towards making this a place of importance in this part of the world, though the long winter is against, too.”

“Oh! the bridge will be built, I suppose, and the benefit will not be confined to us. The Western trade will be benefited as well. What do you think of your Massachusetts men, getting their cotton round this way? This communication with the more northern cotton growing States is more direct by this than any other way.”

“Well, I ain’t prepared to say much about it. Some folks wouldn’t think much of that. But I suppose you are bound to go ahead, anyhow.”

But to the experienced eye of the farmer, nothing gave so much pleasure as the cultivated country lying around the city, and beyond the mountain, as far as the eye could reach. Of the mountain itself, he was a little contemptuous in its character of mountain.

“A mountain with smooth fields, and even orchards, reaching almost to the top of it! Why, our sheep pasture at Merleville is a deal more like a mountain than that. It is only a hill, and moderate at that. You must have been dreadful hard up for mountains, to call that one. You’ve forgotten all about Merleville, Rosie, to be content with that for a mountain.”

While, he admired the farms, he did not hesitate to comment severely on the want of enterprise shown by the farmers, who seemed to be content “to putter along” as their fathers had done, with little desire to avail themselves of the many inventions and discoveries which modern science and art had placed at the disposal of the farmer. In Merleville, every man who owned ten, or even five acres of level land, had an interest in sowing and mowing machines, to say nothing of other improvements, that could be made available on hill or meadow. If the strength and patience so freely expended among the stony New England hills, could but be applied to the fertile valley of the Saint Lawrence, what a garden it might become! And the Yankee farmer grew a little contemptuous of the contented acquiescence of Canadians to the order of affairs established by their fathers.

One afternoon he and Will went together to the top of the mountain toward the western end. They had a fair day for a fair sight, and when Mr Snow looked down on the scene, bounded by the blue hills beyond both rivers, all other thoughts gave place to feelings of wondering admiration. Above was a sky, whose tender blue was made more lovely by the snowy clouds that sailed now and then majestically across it, to break into flakes of silver near the far horizon.

Beneath lay the valley, clothed in the numberless shades of verdure with which June loves to deck the earth in this northern climate. There were no waste places, no wilderness, no arid stretches of sand or stone. Far as the eye could reach, extended fields, and groves, and gardens, scattered through with clusters of cottages, or solitary farm-houses.

Up through the stillness of the summer air, came stealing the faint sound of a distant bell, seeming to deepen the silence round them.

“I suppose the land that Moses saw from Pisgah, must have been like this,” said Mr Snow, as he gazed.

“Yes, the Promised Land was a land of hills, and valleys, and brooks of water,” said Will softly, never moving his eyes from the wonderful picture. Could they ever gaze enough? Could they ever weary themselves of the sight? The shadows grew long; the clouds, that had made the beauty of the summer sky, followed each other toward the west, and rose in pinnacles of gold, and amber, and amethyst; and then they rose to go.

“I wouldn’t have missed that now, for considerable,” said Mr Snow, coming back with an effort to the realisation of the fact that this was part of the sightseeing that he had set himself. “No, I wouldn’t have missed it for considerable more than that miserable team’ll cost,” added he, as he came in sight of the carriage, on whose uncomfortable seat the drowsy driver had been slumbering all the afternoon. Will smiled, and made no answer. He was not a vain lad, but it is just possible that there passed through his mind a doubt whether the enjoyment of his friend had been as real, as high, or as intense, as his had been all the afternoon. To Will’s imagination, the valley lay in the gloom of its primeval forests, peopled by heroes of a race now passed away. He was one of them. He fought in their battles, triumphed in their victories, panted in the eagerness of the chase. In imagination, he saw the forest fall under the peaceful weapons of the pale face; then wondered westward to die the dreary death of the last of a stricken race. Then his thoughts come down to the present, and on into the future, in a vague dream, which was half a prayer, for the hastening of the time when the lovely valley should smile in moral and spiritual beauty too. And coming back to actual life, with an effort—a sense of pain, he said to himself, that the enjoyment of his friend had been not so high and pure as his.

But Will was mistaken. In the thoughts of his friend, that summer afternoon, patent machines, remunerative labour, plans of supply and demand, of profit and loss, found no place. He passed the pleasant hour on that green hill-side, seeing in that lovely valley, stretched out before them, a very land of Beulah. Looking over the blue line of the Ottawa, as over the river of Death, into a land visible and clear to the eye of faith, he saw sights, and heard sounds, and enjoyed communion, which, as yet, lay far in the future, as to the experience of the lad by his side; and coming back to actual life, gave no sign of the Divine Companionship, save that which afterward, was to be seen in a life, growing liker every day to the Divine Exemplar.

Will thought, as they went home together, that a new light beamed, now and then, over the keen but kindly face, and that the grave eyes of his friend had the look of one who saw something beyond the beauty of the pleasant fields, growing dim now in the gathering darkness; and the lad’s heart grew full and tender as it dawned upon him, how this was a token of the shining of God’s face upon his servant, and he longed for a glimpse of that which his friend’s eyes saw. A word might have won for him a glimpse of the happiness; but Will was shy, and the word was not spoken; and, all unconscious of his longing, his friend sat with the smile on his lips, and the light in his eye, no thought further from him than that any experience of his should be of value to another. And so they fell quite into silence, till they neared the streets where the lighted lamps were burning dim in the fading daylight.

That night, in the course of his wanderings up and down, Mr Snow, paused, as he often did, before a portrait of the minister. It was a portrait taken when the minister had been a much younger man than Mr Snow had ever known him. It had belonged to a friend in Scotland, and had been sent to Arthur, at his death, about a year ago. The likeness had been striking, and to Janet, the sight of it had been a great pleasure and surprise. She was never weary of looking at it, and even Mr Snow, who had never known the minister but as a grey-haired man, was strangely fascinated by the beauty of the grave smile that he remembered so well on his face. That night he stood leaning on the back of a chair, and gazing at it, while the conversation flowed on as usual around him. In a little, Rose came and stood beside him.

“Do you think it is very like him?” asked she.

“Well,” said Mr Snow, meditatively, “it’s like him and it ain’t like him. I love to look at it, anyhow.”

“At first it puzzled me,” said Rose. “It seemed like the picture of some one I had seen in a dream; and when I shut my eyes, and tried to bring back my father’s face as it used to be in Merleville, it would not come—the face of the dream came between.”

“Well, there is something in that,” said Mr Snow, and he paused a moment, and shut his eyes, as if to call back the face of his friend. “No, it won’t do that for me. It would take something I hain’t thought of yet, to make me forget his face.”

“It does not trouble me now,” said Rose. “I can shut my eyes, and see him, Oh! so plainly, in the church, and at home in the study, and out under the trees, and as he lay in his coffin—” She was smiling still, but the tears were ready to gush over her eyes. Mr Snow turned, and laying his hand on her bright head, said softly,—

“Yes, dear, and so can I, If we didn’t know that it must be right, we might wonder why he was taken from us. But I shall never forget him—never. He did too much for me, for that. He was the best friend I ever had, by all odds—the very best.”

Rose smiled through her tears.

“He brought you Mrs Snow,” said she, softly.

“Yes, dear. That was much, but he did more than that. It was through him that I made the acquaintance of a better and dearer friend than even she is—and that is saying considerable,” added he, turning his eyes toward the tranquil figure knitting in the arm-chair.

“Were you speaking?” said Mrs Snow, looking up at the sound of his voice.

“Yes, I was speaking to Rosie, here. How do you suppose we can ever persuade her to go back to Merleville with us?”

“She is going with us, or she will soon follow us. What would Emily say, if she didna come?”

“Yes, I know. But I meant to stay for good and all. Graeme, won’t you give us this little girl?”

Graeme smiled.

“Yes. On one condition—if you will take me too.”

Mr Snow shook his head.

“I am afraid that would bring us no nearer the end. We should have other conditions to add to that one.”

“Yes,” said Arthur, laughing. “You would have to take Fanny and me, as well, in that case. I don’t object to your having one of them at a time, now and then, but both of them—that would never do.”

“But it must be both or neither,” said Graeme, eagerly, “I couldna’ trust Rosie away from me. I havena these sixteen years—her whole life, have I, Janet? If you want Rosie, you must have me, too.”

She spoke lightly, but earnestly; she meant what she said. Indeed, so earnest was she, that she quite flushed up, and the tears were not far away. The others saw it, and were silent, but Fanny who was not quick at seeing things, said,—

“But what could we do without you both? That would not be fair—”

“Oh! you would have Arthur, and Arthur would have you. At any rate, Rosie is mine, and I am not going to give her to any one who won’t have me, too. She is all I shall have left when Will goes away.”

“Graeme would not trust Rosie with Arthur and me,” said Fanny, a little pettishly. “There are so many things that Graeme don’t approve of. She thinks we would spoil Rose.”

Janet’s hand touched hers, whether by accident or design Graeme did not know, but it had the effect of checking the response that rose to her lips, and she only said, laughingly,—

“Mrs Snow thinks that you and Arthur are spoiling us both, Fanny.”

Janet smiled fondly and gravely at the sisters, as she said, stroking Graeme’s bowed head,—

“I dare say you are no’ past spoiling, either of you, but I have seen worse bairns.”

After this, Mr Snow and Will began the survey of Canada in earnest. First they went to Quebec, where they lingered several days. Then they went farther down the river, and up the Saguenay, into the very heart of the wilderness. This part of the trip Will enjoyed more than his friend, but Mr Snow showed no sign of impatience, and prolonged their stay for his sake. Then they went up the country, visiting the chief towns and places of interest. They did not confine themselves, however, to the usual route of travellers, but went here and there in wagons and stages, through a farming country, in which, though Mr Snow saw much to criticise, he saw more to admire. They shared the hospitality of many a quiet farm-house, as freely as it was offered, and enjoyed many a pleasant conversation with the farmers and their families, seated on door-steps, or by the kitchen-fire.

Though the hospitality of the country people was, as a general thing, fully and freely offered, it was sometimes, it must be confessed, not without a certain reserve. That a “live Yankee,” cute, and able-bodied, should be going about in these out-of-the-way parts, for the sole purpose of satisfying himself as to the features, resources, and inhabitants of the country, was a circumstance so rare, so unheard of, indeed, in these parts, that the shrewd country people did not like to commit themselves at the first glance. Will’s frank, handsome face, and simple, kindly manners, won him speedily enough the confidence of all, and Mr Snow’s kindly advances were seldom long withstood. But there sometimes lingered an uneasy feeling, not to say suspicion, that when he had succeeded in winning their confidence, he would turn round and make some startling demand on their faith or their purses in behalf of some patent medicine or new invention—perhaps one of those wonderful labour-saving machines, of which he had so much to say. As for himself, if he ever observed their reserve or its cause, he never resented it, or commented upon it, but entered at once into the discussion of all possible subjects with the zest of a man determined to make the most of the pleasant circumstances in which he found himself. If he did not always agree with the opinions expressed, or approve of the modes of farming pursued, he at least found that the sturdy farmers of Glengarry and the country beyond had more to say for their opinions and practice than “so had their fathers said and done before them,” and their discussions ended, quite as frequently as otherwise, in the American frankly confessing himself convinced that all the agricultural wisdom on the continent did not lie on the south side of the line forty-five.

Will was greatly amused and interested by all this. He was, to a certain extent, able to look at the ideas, opinions, and prejudices of each from the other’s point of view, and so to enjoy with double zest the discussion of subjects which could not fail to present such dissimilar aspects to minds so differently constituted, and developed under circumstances and influences so different. This power helped him to make the opinions of each more clear to the other, presenting to both juster notions of each other’s theory and practice than their own explanations could have done. By this means, too, he won for himself a reputation for wisdom, about matters and things in general, which surprised no one so much as himself. They would have liked to linger far longer, over this part of their trip, than they had time to do, for the days were hastening.

Before returning home, they visited Niagara, that wonderful work of God, too great and grand, as Mr Snow told Rosie, to be the pride of one nation exclusively, and so it had been placed on the borders of the two greatest nations in the world. This part of the trip was for Will’s sake. Mr Snow had visited them on his way West many years ago. Indeed, there were other parts of the trip made for Will’s benefit, but those were not the parts which Mr Snow enjoyed least, as he said to his wife afterwards.

“It paid well. I had my own share of the pleasure, and Will’s, too. If ever a lad enjoyed a holiday he enjoyed his. It was worth going, just to see his pleasure.”

When the time allotted to their visit was drawing to a close, it was proposed that a few days should be passed in that most beautiful part of Canada, known as the Eastern Townships. Arthur went with them there. It was but a glimpse they could give it. Passing in through Missisquoi County to the head of the lovely lake Memphremagog, they spent a few days on it, and along its shores. Their return was by a circuitous course across the country through the County of Stanstead, in the midst of beautiful scenery, and what Mr Snow declared to be “as fine a farming country as anybody need wish to see.”

This “seeing Canada” was a more serious matter than he had at first supposed, Mr Snow acknowledged to the delighted Rose. It could not be done justice to in a few days, he said; but he would try and reconcile himself to the hastiness of his trip, by taking it for granted that the parts he had not seen were pretty much like those he had gone through, and a very fine country it was.

“Canada will be heard from yet, I expect,” said he, one night when they had returned home. “By the time that you get some things done that you mean to now, you’ll be ready to go ahead. I don’t see but you have as good a chance as ever we had—better, even. You have got the same elements of prosperity and success. You have got the Bible and a free press, and a fair proportion of good soil, and any amount of water-power. Then for inhabitants, you’ve got the Scotchman, cautious and far-seeing; the Irishman, a little hot and heady, perhaps, but earnest; you’ve got the Englishman, who’ll never fail of his aim for want of self-confidence, anyhow; you’ve got Frenchmen, Germans, and a sprinkling of the dark element out west; and you’ve got what we didn’t have to begin with, you’ve got the Yankee element, and that is considerable more than you seem to think it is, Rosie.”

Rose laughed and shook her head. She was not going to allow herself to be drawn into a discussion of nationalities that night.

“Yes,” continued he, “the real live Yankee is about as complete a man as you’ll generally meet anywhere. He has the caution of the Scot, to temper the fire of the Irishman, and he has about as good an opinion of himself as the Englishman has. He’ll keep things going among you. He’ll bring you up to the times, and then he won’t be likely to let you fall back again. Yes; if ever Canada is heard from, the Yankee will have something to do with it, and no mistake.”

Chapter Thirty Two.

In the mean time very quiet and pleasant days were passing over those who were at home. Fanny jingled her keys, and triumphed a little at the continued success of affairs in Mrs Tilman’s department. Graeme took no notice of her triumph, but worked away at odds and ends, remembering things forgotten, smoothing difficulties, removing obstacles, and making, more than she or any one knew, the happiness of them all. Rose sung and danced about the house as usual, and devoted some of her superfluous energy to the embellishment of a cobweb fabric, which was, under her skillful fingers, destined to assume, by and by, the form of a wedding pocket handkerchief for Emily. And through all, Mrs Snow was calmly and silently pursuing the object of her visit to Canada. Through the pleasant hours of work and leisure, in all their talk of old times, and of the present time, in all moods, grave and gay, she had but one thought, one desire, to assure herself by some unfailing token that her bairns were as good and happy as they ought to be.

The years that had passed since the bairns had been parted from her had made Janet older than they ought to have done, Graeme thought. It was because she was not so strong as she used to be, she said herself; but it was more than sickness, and more than the passing years that had changed her. The dreadful shock and disappointment of her mother’s death, followed so soon by the loss of Marian and the minister, had been too much for Janet. It might not have been, her strong patient nature might have withstood it, if the breaking up of the beloved family circle, the utter vanishing of her bairns from her sight, had not followed so close upon it. For weeks she had been utterly prostrate. The letters, which told the bairns, in their Canadian home, that their dear friend was ill, and “wearying” for them, told them little of the terrible suffering of that time. The misery that had darkened her first winter in Merleville came upon her again with two-fold power. Worse than the home-sickness of that sad time, was the never-ceasing pain, made up of sorrow for the dead, and inappeasable longing for the presence of the living. That she should have forsaken her darlings, to cast in her lot with others—that between her and them should lie miles and miles of mountain and forest, and barriers, harder to be passed than these, it sickened her heart to know. She knew it never could be otherwise now; from the sentence she had passed upon herself she knew there could be no appeal. She knew that unless some great sorrow should fall upon them, they could never have one home again; and that peace and happiness could ever come to her, being separated from them, she neither believed nor desired. Oh! the misery of that time! The fields and hills, and pleasant places she had learnt to love, shrouded themselves in gloom. The very light grew hateful to her. Her prayer, as she lay still, while the bitter waters rolled over her, was less the prayer of faith, than of despair.

And, through all the misery of that time, her husband waited and watched her with a tender patience, beautiful to see; never, by word or deed, giving token of aught but sympathy, and loving pity for the poor, sick, struggling heart. Often and often, during that dreary time, did she wake to hear, in the stillness of the night, or of the early morning, his whispered prayer of strong entreaty rising to Heaven, that the void might be filled, that in God’s good time and way, peace, and healing, and content, might come back to the sick and sorrowful heart.

And this came after long waiting. Slowly the bitter waters rolled away, never to return. Faith, that had seemed dead, looked up once more. The sick heart thrilled beneath the touch of the Healer. Again the light grew pleasant to her eyes, and Janet came back to her old household ways, seeing in the life before her God-given work, that might not be left undone. But she was never quite the same. There was never quite the old sharp ring in her kindly voice. She was not less cheerful, perhaps, in time, but her cheerfulness was of a far quieter kind, and her chidings were rare, and of the mildest, now. Indeed, she had none to chide but the motherless Emily, who needed little chiding, and much love. And much love did Janet give her, who had been dear to all the bairns, and the especial friend of Marian, now in Heaven. And so God’s peace fell on the deacon’s quiet household, and the gloom passed away from the fields and hills of Merleville, and its pleasant nooks and corners smiled once more with a look of home to Janet, as she grew content in the knowledge that her darlings were well and happy, though she might never make them her daily care again. But she never forgot them. Her remembrance of them never grew less loving, and tender, and true. And so, as the years passed, the old longing came back, and, day by day, grew stronger in her heart the wish to know assuredly that the children of her love were as good and happy as they ought to be.

Had her love been less deep and yearning she might have been more easily content with the tokens of an innocent and happy life visible in their home. If happiness had been, in her estimation, but the enjoyment of genial days and restful nights, with no cares to harass, and only pleasant duties to perform; if the interchange of kindly offices, the little acts of self-denial, the giving up of trifles, the taking cheerfully of the little disappointments, which even their pleasant life was subject to—if these had been to her sufficient tests of goodness, she might have been satisfied with all she saw.

But she was not satisfied, for she knew that there are few hearts so shallow as to be filled full with all that such a life of ease could give. She knew that the goodness, that might seem to suffice through these tranquil and pleasant days, could be no defence against the strong temptations that might beset them amid the cares of life. “For,” said she to herself, “the burn runs smoothly on over the pebbles in its bed without a break or eddy, till the pebbles change to rocks and stones, and then it brawls, and murmurs, and dashes itself to foam among them—and no help.” She was content with no such evidence of happiness or goodness as lay on the surface of their pleasant life, so she waited, and watched, seeing without seeming to see, many things that less loving eyes might have overlooked. She saw the unquiet light that gleamed at times in Graeme’s eyes, and the shadow of the cloud that now and then rested on her brow, even in their most mirthful moments. She smiled, as they all did, at the lively sallies, and pretty wilfulness of Rose, but she knew full well, that that which made mirth in the loving home circle, might make sorrow for the household darling, when the charm of love was no longer round her. And so she watched them all, seeing in trifles, in chance words and unconscious deeds, signs and tokens for good or for evil, that would never have revealed themselves to one who loved them less.

For Will she had no fear. He was his father’s own son, with his father’s work awaiting him. All would be well with Will. And for Arthur, too, the kind and thoughtful elder brother—the father and brother of the little household, both in one, her hopes were stronger than her doubts or fears. It would have given her a sore heart, indeed, to believe him far from the way in which his father walked.

“He has a leaven of worldliness in him, I’ll no deny,” said she to her husband one night, when they were alone in the privacy of their own apartment. “And there is more desire for wealth in his heart, and for the honour that comes from man, than he himself kens. He’ll maybe get them, and maybe no’. But if he gets them, they’ll no’ satisfy him, and if he gets them not, he’ll get something better. I have small fear for the lad. He minds his father’s ways and walk too well to be long content with his own halting pace. It’s a fine life just now, with folk looking up to him, and patting trust in him, but he’ll weary of it. There is nothing in it to fill, for long, the heart of his father’s son.”

And in her quiet waiting and watching, Janet grew assured for them all at last. Not that they were very wise or good, but her faith that they were kept of God grew stronger every day; and to be ever in God’s keeping, meant to this humble, trustful, Christian woman, to have all that even her yearning love could crave for her darlings. It left her nothing to fear for them, nothing to wish in their behalf; so she came to be at peace about them all; and gently checked the wilful words and ways of Rose, and waited patiently till Graeme, of her own accord, should show her the cloud in the shadow of which she sometimes sat.

As to Fanny, the new claimant for her love and interest, she was for from being overlooked all this time, and the pretty little creature proved a far greater mystery to the shrewd, right-judging friend of the family than seemed at all reasonable. There were times when, had she seen her elsewhere, she would not have hesitated to pronounce her frivolous, vain, overbearing. Even now, seeing her loved and cared for, in the midst of the bairns, there were moments when she found herself saying it in her heart. A duller sense, and weaker penetration could not have failed to say the same. But Fanny was Arthur’s wife, and Arthur was neither frivolous, nor vain, nor overbearing, but on the contrary, wise, and strong, and gentle, possessing all the virtues that ever had made his father a model in Janet’s admiring eyes, and it seemed a bold thing, indeed, to think lightly of his wife. So she mused, and pondered, and watched, and put Fanny’s beautiful face and winning manners, and pretty, affectionate ways, against her very evident defects, and said to herself, though Arthur’s wife was not like Arthur’s mother, nor even like his sisters, yet there were varieties of excellence, and surely the young man was better able to be trusted in the choice of a life-long friend than on old woman like her could be; and still she waited and pondered, and, as usual, the results of her musings were given to her attentive husband, and this time with a little impatient sigh.

“I needna wonder at it. Love is blind, they say, and goes where it is sent, and it is sent far more rarely to wisdom and worth, and humble goodness, than to qualities that are far less deserving of the happiness it brings; and Mr Arthur is no’ above making a mistake. Though how he should—minding his mother as he does—amazes me. But he’s well pleased, there can be no doubt of that, as yet, and Miss Graeme is no’ ill-pleased, and love wouldna blind her. Still I canna but wonder after all is said.”

And she still wondered. There were in her vocabulary no gentler names for the pretty Fanny’s defects, than just frivolity and vanity, and even after a glimpse or two of her stepmother, Janet’s candid, straightforward nature could hardly make for those defects all the allowance that was to be made. She could not realise how impossible it was, that a fashionable education, under such a teacher as Mrs Grove should have made her daughter other than she was, and so not realising that her worst faults were those of education, which time, and experience, and the circumstances of her life must correct, she had, at times, little hope of Fanny’s future worth or wisdom.

That is, she would have had little hope but for one thing—Graeme had faith in Fanny, that was clear. Love might blind Arthur’s eyes to her faults, or enlighten them to see virtues invisible to other eyes, but it would not do that for Graeme; and Graeme was tolerant of Fanny, even at times when her little airs and exactions made her not quite agreeable to her husband. She was patient and forbearing towards her faults, and smiled at the little housekeeping airs and assumptions, which Rose openly, and even in Arthur’s presence, never failed to resent. Indeed, Graeme refused to see Fanny’s faults, or she refused to acknowledge that she saw them, and treated her always with the respect due to her brother’s wife, and the mistress of the house, as, well as with the love and forbearance due to a younger sister.

And that Fanny, with all her faults and follies, loved and trusted Graeme was very evident. There was confidence between them, to a certain extent at any rate, and seeing these things, Janet took courage to hope that there was more in the “bonny vain creature” than it was given her to see, and to hope also that Arthur might not one day find himself disappointed in his wife. Her doubts and hopes on the matter were all silent, or shared only with the worthy deacon, in the solitude of their chamber. She was slow to commit herself to Graeme, and Graeme was in no haste to ask her friend’s opinion of her brother’s wife.

They had plenty of other subjects to discuss. All their Merleville life was gone over and over during these quiet summer days.

The talk was not always gay; sometimes it was grave enough, even sad, but it was happy, too, in a way; at any rate they never grew weary of it. And Mrs Snow had much to tell them about the present state of their old home; how the old people were passing away, and the young people were growing up; how well the minister was remembered there still, and how glad all would be to see the minister’s bairns among them again; and then Sandy and Emily, and the approaching wedding made an endless subject of talk. Rose and Fanny never wearied of that, and Mrs Snow was as pleased to tell, as they were to hear.

And when Rose and Fanny were away, as they often were, and Graeme was left alone with her friend, there were graver things discussed between them. Graeme told her more of their family life, and of their first experiences than she had ever heard before. She told her of her illness, and home-sickness, and of the many misgivings she had had as to whether it had been wise for them all to come to burden Arthur. She told her of Harry, and her old terrors on his account, and how all these had given place to hope, that was almost certainty now, that she need never fear for him for the same cause more. They rejoiced together over Hilda, and Norman, and recalled to one another their old pride in the lad when he had saved the little German girl from the terrible fate that had overtaken her family, and smiled at the misgivings they had had when he refused to let her go with the friends who would have taken her. This was all to be rejoiced over now. No doubt the care and pains which Norman had needed to bestow on his little adopted sister, had done much to correct the native thoughtlessness of his character, and no doubt her love and care would henceforth make the happiness of his life. So they said to one another with smiles, and not without grateful tears, in view of the overruling love and care visible in all they had to remember of one and all.

And Will, who seemed to be Graeme’s own more than either of the other brothers, because she had cared for him, and taught him, and watched over him from the very first, she permitted herself to triumph a little over him, in private with her friend, and Janet was nothing loth to hear and triumph too, for in the lad his father lived again to her, and she was not slow to believe in his sister’s loving prophecy as to his future. Graeme could not conceal, indeed she did not try to conceal, from her friend, how much she feared the parting from him, and though Janet chid her for the tears that fell so fast, it was with a gentle tenderness that only quickened their flow.

And now and then, in these long talks and frequent silence, Janet fancied that she caught a glimpse of the cloud that had cast a shadow over Graeme’s life, but she was never sure. It was not to be spoken about, however, nothing could be clearer than that.

“For a cloud that can be blown away by a friend’s word, will lift of itself without help in a while. And if it is no’ a cloud of that kind, the fewer words the better. And time heals many a wound that the touch of the kindest hand would hurt sorely. And God is good.” But all this was said in Janet’s secret prayer. Not even her husband shared her thoughts about Graeme.

“What a dismal day it is!” said Fanny, as she stood at the window, listening to the wind and watching the fall of the never-ceasing rain.

It was dismal. It must have been a dismal day even in the country, where the rain was falling on beautiful green things to their refreshment; and in the city street, out upon which Fanny looked, it was worse. Now and then a milk cart, or a carriage with the curtains closely drawn, went past; and now and then a foot passenger, doing battle with the wind for the possession of his umbrella; but these did not brighten the scene any.

It was dismal within doors, too, Fanny thought. It was during the time of Mr Snow and Will’s first trip, and Arthur had gone away on business, and was not expected home for a day or two, at least. A household of women is not necessarily a dismal affair, even on a rainy day, but a household suddenly deprived of the male element, is apt to become so in those circumstances, unless some domestic business supposed to be most successfully accomplished at such a time is being carried on; and no wonder that Fanny wandered from room to room, in an uncomfortable state of mind.

Graeme and Rose were not uncomfortable. Rose had a way of putting aside difficult music to be practised on rainy days, and she was apt to become so engrossed in her pleasant occupation, as to take little heed of what was going on about her, and all Fanny’s exclamations of discontent were lost on her. Graeme was writing letters in the back parlour, and Mrs Snow was supposed to be taking her after-dinner’s rest, up-stairs, but she came into the room in time to hear Fanny exclaim petulantly,—

“And we were very foolish to have an early dinner. That would have been something to look forward to. And no one can possibly call. Even Mr Green would be better than nobody—or even Charlie Millar.”

“These gentlemen would be highly flattered if they heard you,” said Rose, laughing, as she rose to draw forward the arm-chair, to Mrs Snow.

“Are you not tired playing Rose,” said Fanny, fretfully.

“By no means. I hope my playing does not disturb you. I think this march is charming. Come and try it.”

“No, I thank you. If the music does not disturb Mrs Snow, I don’t mind it.”

“I like it,” said Mrs Snow. “The music is cheerful this dull day. Though I would like a song better.”

“By and by you shall have a song. I would just like to go over this two or three times more.”

“Two or three times! Two or three hundred times, you mean,” said Fanny. “There’s no end to Rose’s playing when she begins.”

Then she wandered into the back parlour again.

“Are you going to write all day, Graeme?”

“Not all day. Has Mrs Snow come down?” asked she, coming forward. “I have been neglecting Harry lately, and I have so much to tell him, but I’ll soon be done now.”

“My dear,” said Mrs Snow, “dinna heed me; I have my knitting, and I enjoy the music.”

“Oh! dear! I wish it didn’t rain,” said Fanny.

“My dear, the earth was needing it,” said Mrs Snow, by way of saying something, “and it will be beautiful when the rain is over.”

“I believe Graeme likes a rainy day,” said Fanny. “It is very stupid, I think.”

“Yes, I sometimes like a rainy day. It brings a little leisure, which is agreeable.”

Fanny shrugged her shoulders.

“It is rather dismal to-day, however,” said Graeme. “You look cold with that light dress on, Fanny, why don’t you go and change it?”

“What is the use? I wish Arthur were coming home. He might have come, I’m sure.”

“You may be sure he will not stay longer than he can help,” said Graeme; turning to her letter again.

“And my dear, might you no’ take a seam? It would pass the time, if it did nothing else,” said Mrs Snow.

But the suggestion was not noticed, and partly because she did not wish to interfere, and partly because she had some curiosity to see how the little lady would get out of her discomfort, Mrs Snow knitted on in silence.

“Make something nice for tea,” suggested Rose, glancing over her shoulder.

“That is not necessary now,” said Fanny, shortly.

“Oh! I only suggested it for your sake—to pass the time,” said Rose.

It lasted a good while longer. It lasted till Graeme, catching Mrs Snow’s look, became suddenly aware that their old friend was thinking her own thoughts about “Mrs Arthur.” She rose at once, and shutting her desk, and going to the window where Fanny was standing, said with a shiver:—

“It is dismal, indeed. Fanny, look at that melancholy cat. She wants to come in, but she is afraid to leave her present shelter. Poor wee pussy.”

“Graeme, don’t you wish Arthur were coming home,” said Fanny, hanging about her as she had a fashion of doing now and then.

“Yes, indeed. But we must not tell him so. It would make him vain if he knew how much we missed him. Go and change your dress, dear, and we’ll have a fire, and an early tea, and a nice little gossip in the firelight, and then we won’t miss him so much.”

“Fire!” repeated Rose, looking disconsolately at the pretty ornaments of the grate with which she had taken so much pains. “Who ever heard of a fire in a grate at this time of the year?”

But Rose was overruled. They had a fire and an early tea, and then, sitting in the firelight, they had a gossip, too; about many different things. Janet told them more than she had ever told them before, of how she had “wearied for them” when they first left Merleville, and by and by Rose said,—

“But that was all over when Sandy came.”

“It was over before that, for his coming was long delayed, as you’ll mind yourselves. I was quite content before that time, but of course it was a great thing to me, the coming of my Sandy.”

“Oh! how glad you must have been!” said Rose. “I wish I had been there to see. Tell us what you said to him, and what he said to you.”

“I dinna mind what I said to him, or if I said anything at all. And he just said, ‘Well, mother!’ with his heartsome smile, and the shine of tears in his bonny blue e’en,” said Janet, with a laugh that might very easily have changed to a sob; “and oh! bairns, if ever I carried a thankful heart to a throne of grace, I did that night.”

“And would you have known him?” asked Rose, gently.

“Oh! ay, would I. No’ but what he was much changed. I wouldna have minded him, but I would have kenned him anywhere.”

Janet sat silent with a moved face for a little, and then she went on.

“I had had many a thought about his coming, and I grew afraid as the time drew near. Either, I thought, he winna like my husband, or they winna agree, or he will have forgotten me altogether, and winna find it easy to call me his mother, or he’ll disappoint me in some way, I thought. You see I had so set my heart on seeing him, that I was afraid of myself, and it seemed to be more than I could hope that he should be to me all that I desired. But when he came, my fears were set at rest. He is an honest, God fearing lad, my Sandy, and I need say nae mair about him.”

“And so clever, and handsome! And what did Mr Snow say?”

“Oh! his heart was carried captive, from the very first, with Sandy’s heartsome, kindly ways. It made me laugh to myself, many a time, to see them together, and it made me greet whiles, as well. All my fears were rebuked, and it is the burden of my prayers from day to day, that I may have a thankful heart.”

“And how did Sandy like Merleville, and all the people?”

“Oh, he liked them well, you may be sure. It would have been very ungrateful if he had not, they made so much of him—Mr and Mrs Greenleaf, especially, and the Merles, and plenty besides. He made himself very useful to Mr Greenleaf, in many ways, for he is a clever lad, my Sandy. It’s on his business that he’s West now. But he’ll soon be home again.”

“And Emily! Tell us just what they said to each other at first, and what they thought of each other.”

“I canna do that, for I wasna there to hear. Emily saw my Sandy before I saw him myself, as you’ll mind I told you before.”

“And was it love at first sight?” asked Fanny.

“And did the course of true love for once run smooth,” said Rose. Mrs Snow smiled at their eagerness.

“As for the love at first sight—it came very soon to my Sandy. I am no’ sure about Emily. As for its running smooth, there was a wee while it was hindered. They had their doubts and fears, as was natural, and their misunderstandings. But, oh! bairns, it was just wonderful to sit by and look at them. I saw their happy troubles coming on before they saw it themselves, I think. It was like a story out of a book, to watch them; or like one of the songs folk used to sing when I was young—the sweet old Scottish songs, that are passing out of mind now, I fear. I never saw the two together in our garden, but I thought of the song that begins,—”

“Ae simmer nicht when blobs o’ dew, Garred ilka thing look bonny—”

“Ah! Well, God has been good to them, and to us all.”

“And Mr Snow was well pleased, of course,” said Fanny.

“Pleased is hardly the word for it. He had just set his heart on it from the very first, and I had, whiles, much ado to keep him from seeming to see things and to keep him from putting his hand to help them a wee, which never does, you ken. Folk must find out such things for themselves, and the canniest hand may hinder, rather than help, with the very best will. Oh ay, he was well pleased.”

“And it is so nice that they are to be so close beside you. I daresay we shall hardly know our old home, it will be so much improved.”

“It is improved, but no’ beyond your knowledge of it. It was ay a bonny place, you’ll mind. And it is improved, doubtless, for her father thinks there is nothing too good for Emily.”

“And Oh! bairns, we have a reason to be thankful. If we trust our affairs in God’s hand, He’ll ‘bring it to pass,’ as he has said. And if we are his, there is no’ fear but the very best thing for us will happen in the end.”

Chapter Thirty Three.

“Who is is Mr Green, anyhow?”

The question was addressed by Mr Snow to the company generally, as he paused in his leisurely walk up and down the gallery, and stood leaning his elbow on the window, looking in upon them. His manner might have suggested the idea of some mystery in connection with the name he had mentioned, so slowly and gravely did his eyes travel from one face to another turned toward him. As his question had been addressed to no one in particular, no one answered for a minute.

“Who is Mr Green, that I hear tell so much about?” he repeated impressively, fixing Will with his eye.

“Mr Green? Oh! he is an American merchant from the West,” said the literal Will, not without a vague idea that the answer, though true and comprehensive, would fail to convey to the inquiring mind of the deacon all the information desired.

“He is a Green Mountain boy. He is the most perfect specimen of a real live Yankee ever encountered in these parts,—cool, sharp, far-seeing,—”

Charlie Millar was the speaker, and he was brought up rather suddenly in the midst of his descriptive eloquence by a sudden merry twinkle in the eye of his principal listener; and his confusion was increased by a touch from Rose’s little hand, intended to remind him that real live Yankees were not to be indiscreetly meddled with in the present company.

“Is that all you can say for your real live Yankee, Charlie, man?” said Arthur, whose seat on the gallery permitted him to hear, but not to see, all that was going on in the room. “Why don’t you add, he speculates, he whittles, he chews tobacco, he is six feet two in his stockings, he knows the market value of every article and object, animate and inanimate, on the face of the earth, and is a living illustration of the truth of the proverb, that the cents being cared for, no apprehension need be entertained as to the safety of the dollars.”

“And a living contradiction of all the stale old sayings about the vanity of riches, and their inability to give even a transitory content,” said Charlie, with laughing defiance at Rose.

“Quite true, Charlie,” said Arthur; “if Mr Green has ever had any doubts about the almighty dollar being the ‘ultimate end,’ he has nursed or combated his doubts in secret. Nothing has transpired to indicate any such wavering of faith.”

“Yes; it is his only standard of worth in all things material and moral,” said Charlie. “When he enters a room, you can see by his look that he is putting a price on all things in it—the carpet and curtains—the books and pretty things—even the ladies—”

“Yes,” continued Arthur; “if he were to come in here just now, it would be—Mrs Snow worth so much—naming the sum; Miss Elliott so much more, because she has on a silk gown; Mrs Elliott more still, because she is somehow or other very spicy, indeed, to-night; he would appreciate details that go beyond me! As for Rosie, she would be the most valuable of all, according to his estimate, because of the extraordinary shining things on her head.”

“The possibility of their being only imitations, might suggest itself,” interposed Charlie.

“Yes, to be sure. And imitation or not, they would indicate all the same the young lady’s love of finery, and suggest to his acute mind the idea of danger to the purse of her future possessor. No, Rosie wouldn’t have a chance with him. You needn’t frown, Rosie, you haven’t. Whether it is the shining things on your head, or the new watch and chain, or the general weakness in the matter of bonnets that has been developing in your character lately, I can’t say, but nothing can be plainer, than the fact that hitherto you have failed to make the smallest impression on him.”

“A circumstance which cannot fail to give strength to the general impression that he is made of cast iron,” said Charlie.

“Arthur, I am shocked and astonished at you,” said Rose, as soon as she was permitted to speak. “You have forgotten, Charlie, how kindly he cared for your brother when he was sick, long ago. And Harry says that his hardness and selfishness is more in appearance, than real. He has a very kind heart.”

“Oh! if you come to his heart, Miss Rose, I can’t speak for that. I have never had an opportunity of satisfying myself as to that particular. I didn’t know he had one, indeed, and should doubt it now, if we had not Harry’s authority and yours.”

“You see, Rosie, when it comes to the discussion of hearts, Charlie gets beyond his depth. He has nothing to say.”

“Especially tender hearts,” said Charlie; “I have had a little experience of a flinty article or two of that sort.”

“Charlie, I won’t have you two quarrelling,” said Graeme, laughing. “Rose is right. There is just a grain or two of truth in what they have been saying,” she added, turning to Mr Snow. “Mr Green is a real live Yankee, with many valuable and excellent qualities. A little hard perhaps, a little worldly. But you should hear him speak of his mother. You would sympathise with him then, Charlie. He told me all about his mother, one evening that I met him at Grove House, I think. He told me about the old homestead, and his father’s saw-mill, and the log school-house; and his manner of speaking quite raised him, in my opinion. Arthur is wrong in saying he cares for nothing but money.”

“But, who is he?” asked Mr Snow, with the air of one much interested; His question was this time addressed to Fanny, who had seated herself on the window seat close by her husband, and she replied eagerly,—

“Oh, he is a rich merchant—ever so rich. He is going to give up business, and travel in Europe.”

“For the improvement of his mind,” said Arthur.

“I don’t know what he goes for, but he is very rich, and may do what he likes. He has built the handsomest house in the State, Miss Smith tells me. Oh! he is ever so rich, and he is a bachelor.”

“I want to know?” said Mr Snow, accepting Fanny’s triumphant climax, as she gave it, with great gravity.

“He is a great friend of mine, and a great admirer of Miss Elliott,” said Mrs Grove, with her lips intending that her face should say much more.

“Do tell?” said Mr Snow.

“A singular and eccentric person you see he must be,” said Will.

“A paradoxical specimen of a live Yankee. Don’t frown, Miss Rose. Mrs Grove’s statement proves my assertion,” said Charlie.

“If you would like to meet him, Mr Snow, dine with us on Friday,” said Mrs Grove. “I am quite sure you will like and admire each other. I see many points of resemblance between you. Well, then, I shall expect you all. Miss Elliott, you will not disappoint me, I hope.”

“But so large a party! Mrs Grove, consider how many there are of us,” said Graeme, who knew as well as though she were speaking aloud, that the lady was saying that same thing to herself, and that she was speculating as to the necessity of enlarging the table.

“Pray, don’t mention it. We are to have no one else. Quite a family party. I shall be quite disappointed if I don’t see you all. The garden is looking beautifully now.”

“And one more wouldn’t make a bit of difference. Miss Rose, can’t you speak a good word for me,” whispered Charlie.

“Thank you,” said Graeme, in answer to Mrs Grove. “I have been longing to show Mrs Snow your garden. I hope the roses are not quite over.”

“Oh, no!” said Arthur. “There are any number left; and Charlie, man, be sure and bring your flute to waken the echoes of the grove. It will be delightful by moonlight, won’t it, Rosie?”

Mrs Grove gave a little start of surprise at the liberty taken by Arthur. “So unlike him,” she thought. Mr Millar’s coming would make the enlargement of the table absolutely necessary. However, she might ask one or two other people whom she ought to have asked before, “and have it over,” as she said. So she smiled sweetly, and said,—

“Pray do, Mr Millar. We shall expect you with the rest.”

Charlie would be delighted, and said so.

“But the flute,” added he to Rose. “Well, for that agreeable fiction your brother is responsible. And a family party will be indeed charming.”

Dining at Grove House was not to any of them the pleasantest of affairs, on those occasions when it was Mrs Grove’s intention to distinguish herself, and astonish other people, by what she called a state dinner. Graeme, who was not apt to shirk unpleasant duties, made no secret of her dislike to them, and caught at any excuse to absent herself with an eagerness which Fanny declared to be anything but polite. But, sitting at table in full dress, among dull people, for an indefinite length of time, for no good purpose that she had been able to discover, was a sacrifice which neither Graeme nor any of the others felt inclined to make often.

A dinner en famille, however, with the dining-room windows open, and the prospect of a pleasant evening in the garden, was a very different matter. It was not merely endurable, it was delightful. So Rose arrayed herself in her pretty pink muslin, and then went to superintend the toilette of Mrs Snow—that is, she went to arrange the folds of her best black silk, and to insist on her wearing her prettiest cap—in a state of pleasurable excitement that was infectious, and the whole party set off in fine spirits. Graeme and Rose exchanged doubtful glances as they passed the dining-room windows. There was an ominous display of silver on the sideboard, and the enlargement of the table had been on an extensive scale.

“If she has spoiled Janet’s evening in the garden, by inviting a lot of stupids, it will be too bad,” whispered Rose.

It was not so bad as that, however. Of the guests whose visits were to be “put over,” on this occasion, only Mr Proudfute, a very pleasant, harmless gentleman, and Fanny’s old admirer, Captain Starr, came. As to making it a state affair, and sitting two or three hours at table, such a thing was not to be thought of. Mr Snow could eat his dinner even in the most unfavourable circumstances, in a tenth part of that time, and so could Mr Green, for that matter; so within a reasonable period, the ladies found themselves, not in the drawing-room, but on the lawn, and the gentlemen soon followed.

It was the perfection of a summer evening, with neither dust nor insects to be a drawback, with just wind enough to make tremulous the shadows on the lawn, and to waft, from the garden above the house, the odours of a thousand flowers. The garden itself did not surpass, or even equal, in beauty of arrangement, many of the gardens of the neighbourhood; but it was very beautiful in the unaccustomed eyes of Mr and Mrs Snow, and it was with their eyes that Graeme looked at it to-night. They left the others on the lawn, the gentlemen—some of them at least—smoking in the shade of the great cedar, and Rose and Fanny making wreaths of the roses the children were gathering for them. The garden proper was behind the house, and thither they bent their steps, Graeme inwardly congratulating herself that she and Will were to have the pointing out of its beauties to the friends all to themselves. They did not need to be pointed out to the keen, admiring eyes of Mr Snow. Nothing escaped him, as he walked slowly before them, looking over his shoulder now and then, to remark on something that particularly interested him. Mrs Snow’s gentle exclamations alone broke the silence for some time. She lingered with an interest, which to Graeme was quite pathetic, over flowers familiar in her childhood, but strangers to her for many a year.

“It minds me of the Ebba Gardens,” said she, after a little. “Not that it is like them, except for the flowers. The Ebba Gardens were on a level, not in terraces like this. You winna mind the Ebba Gardens, Miss Graeme.”

They had reached by this time a summer-house, which commanded a view of the whole garden, and of a beautiful stretch of country beyond, and here they sat down to wait the coming of the others, whose voices they heard below.

“No,” said Graeme, “I was not at the Ebba often. But I remember the avenue, and the glimpse of the lake that comes so unexpectedly after the first turning from the gate. I am not sure whether I remember it, or whether it is only fancy; but it must have been very beautiful.”

“It is only fancy to you, I doubt, for we turned many a time after going in at the gate, before the lake came in sight.”

“Perhaps so. But I don’t think it can all be fancy. I am sure I mind the lake, with the swans sailing, on it, and the wee green islets, and the branches of the birch trees drooping down into the water. Don’t you mind?”

“Yes, I mind well. It was a bonny place,” said Janet, with a sigh.

“But, what a tiny lake it must have been! I remember we could quite well see the flowers on the other side. It could not have been half so large as Merleville Pond.”

“It wasn’t hardly worth while calling it a lake, was it?” said Mr Snow.

“It did for want of a bigger, you know,” said Graeme, laughing. “It made up in beauty what it wanted in size.”

“It was a bonny spot,” said Mrs Snow.

“And the birds! Whenever I want to imagine bird music in perfection, I shut my eyes, and think of the birches drooping over the water. I wonder what birds they were that sang there? I have never heard such singing of birds since then.”

“No, there are no such singing birds here,” said Mrs Snow. “I used to miss the lark’s song in the morning, and the evening voices of the cushat and the blackbird. There are no birds like them here.”

“Ain’t it just possible that the music may be fancy, too, Miss Graeme,” said Mr Snow, who did not like to hear the regretful echo in his wife’s voice when she spoke of “home.” Graeme laughed, and Mrs Snow smiled, for they both understood his feeling very well, and Mrs Snow said,—

“No, the music of the birds is no fancy, as you might know from Sandy. There are no birds like them here; but I have learnt to distinguish many a pleasant note among the American birds—not like our own linties at home, but very sweet and cheerful notwithstanding.”

“The birds were real birds, and the music was real music. Oh! I wonder if I ever shall hear it again!” said Graeme, with a sigh. “You will hear it, Will, and see the dear old place. Oh! how I wish you could take me too.” Will smiled.

“I shall be glad to hear the birds and see the places again. But I don’t remember the Ebba, or, indeed, any of the old places, except our own house and garden, and your mother’s cottage, Mrs Snow. I mind the last time we were there well.”

“I mind it, too,” said Mrs Snow, gravely.

“And yet, I should be almost sorry to go back again, lest I should have my ideas disturbed by finding places and people different from what I have been fancying them all this time. All those old scenes are so many lovely pictures to me, and it would be sad to go and find them less lovely than they seem to me now. I have read of such things,” said Graeme.

“I wouldna fear anything of that kind,” said Mrs Snow; “I mind them all so well.”

“Do you ever think you would like to go back again?” said Will. “Would not you like to see the old faces and the old places once more?”

“No, lad,” said Mrs Snow, emphatically. “I have no wish ever to go back.”

“You are afraid of the sea? But the steamers are very different from the old ‘Steadfast’.”

“I was not thinking of the sea, though I would dread that too. But why should I wish to go back? There are two or three places I would like to see the glen where my mother’s cottage stood, and two or three graves. And when I shut my eyes I can see them here. No, I have no wish to go back.”

There was a moment’s silence, and then Mrs Snow, turning her clear, kind eyes on her husband, over whose face a wistful, expostulating look was stealing, said,—

“I like to think about the dear faces, and the old places, sometimes, and to speak about them with the bairns; it is both sad and pleasant now and then. But I am quite content with all things as they are. I wouldna go back, and I wouldna change my lot if I might. I am quite content.”

Mr Snow smiled and nodded in his own peculiar fashion for reply. There could be no doubt of his content, or Mrs Snow’s either, Graeme acknowledged, and then her thoughts went back to the time when Janet’s lot had been so different. She thought of the husband of her youth, and how long the grave had closed over him; she remembered her long years of patient labour in the manse; the bitter home-sickness of the first months in Merleville, and all the changes that had come since then. And yet, Janet was not changed. She was the very same. The qualities that had made her invaluable to them all those years, made the happiness of her husband and her home still, and after all the changes that life had brought she was content. No one could doubt that. And Graeme asked herself, would it ever be so with her? Would she ever cease to regret the irrevocable past and learn to grow happy in a new way? She prayed that it might be so. She longed for the tranquil content of those old days before her heart was startled from its girlhood’s quiet. How long it seemed since she had been quite at peace with herself! Would she ever be so again? It did not seem possible. She tried in vain to fancy herself among other scenes, with other hopes, and friends, and interests. And yet, here was Janet, not of a light or changeful nature; how she had loved, and lost, and suffered! And yet she had grown content?

“What are you thinking about, Graeme?” said Will, who, as well as Mr Snow, had been watching her troubled face, Graeme started.

“Oh! of a great many things. I don’t know why it should have come to my mind just now, but I was thinking of a day in Merleville, long ago—an Indian-summer day. I remember walking about among the fallen leaves, and looking over the pond to the hills beyond, wondering foolishly, I suppose, about what the future might bring to us all. How lovely it was that day!”

“And then you came and stood within the gate, and hardly gave me a look as I passed out. I mind it, very well,” said Mr Snow.

“I was not friends with you that day. But how should you remember it? How should you know it was that day, of which I was thinking?”

“I saw, by your face, you were thinking of old times, and of all the changes that had come to you and yours; and it was on that day you first heard of one of them. That is how I came to think of it.”

“And then you came into the house, and called me from the foot of the stairs. You werena well pleased with me, either, that day,” said Mrs Snow.