THE ATTIC GUEST (continued 5)

"Oh, Gordon," I cried in protest, "you don't mean stealing, Gordon, stealing money—you don't mean that?"

"That's exactly what I mean," said Gordon, untrained to subterfuge. "I mean the peril of handling so much money."

Whereat I fell into a storm of dissent, half in excitement, half in anger, as though my son had been accused already. I fear I spoke words harsh and unreasonable, but my defense must be that I was all unstrung with sudden grief and fear. Till by and by I was as violent in my demand for his father's consent as I had been in denial of my own, so strange are the cross-currents that trouble a woman's heart.

But we might as well have all been silent, so far as any effect on Harold was concerned. He had promised and he was going—and that was the end of it. So the outcome of the whole matter was a kind of tacit agreement, before we parted for the night, that Harold was to have his way.

When Gordon and I were in our own room, the door tightly shut, I pleaded with him to accept a plan that my poor bewildered mind had conjured up. "Let me write to uncle," was the burden of my cry; "if our boy is leaving us because we're not able to support him, uncle could change all that; he could at least undertake to complete his education—and I know he will, I know he will."

But Gordon's face was like marble. In the last appeal a Scotchman is always Scotch—and I knew Gordon was thinking of that last night when he had been all but turned from uncle's door. "Not while we have a crust to eat or a hand to toil," he said, in a tone so low and resolute that I actually feared to press my argument with another word; "no child of mine shall be dependent on his father's enemy;" which language smote me to the heart—nor do I think Gordon would have uttered it in a calmer mood.

Before we put out the light, his face still white and drawn, he took me by the hand and led me towards the bed. We knelt and prayed together—but my heart was bleeding. And anyhow—it is hard to write it down—Gordon and I didn't seem so close together now, when we prayed, as we once had been. I had the phantom feeling that we prayed apart. He had beckoned me, years before, in to faith's Holy Place where the Divine Saviour waited for us both; I had faltered in, groping for the way, bringing a broken and contrite heart—and I had found my husband gone.

It was the deep dark before the dawn when I slipped noiselessly into Harold's room—and I prayed beside his bed. I loved to hear him breathing; and I wondered if God could hear me—my soul, I mean, half panting in its loneliness.

XXIII "THE VOICE OF RACHEL"

When I began this chapter it was with the purpose of telling about grandfather's home-going. But not to his beloved Scotland, of whose heathery hills he seemed to think more fondly and speak more longingly as the years went by. It never lost its charm for us, this loving talk of the old Scotch shepherd about the far-off hills and valleys of his native land; even I, who had never been near them at all, came to be quite familiar with those sunlit slopes, their glistening heather, their babbling springs, their bleating flocks that roamed from base to brow. No, not to Bonnie Scotland—as he fondly called it—but to a fairer clime, did the weary shepherd turn his face at last.

But before I come to this I must tell of something else; something I would to God might be left unrecorded, for my pen is aching while I write. But this other—what I am about to tell—had its own part, I think, in starting dear old grandfather on the long journey from which he will return no more. For it is about Harold, who was grandfather's idol, as I have already said.

Our son had gone away, grief and hope mingling with the last farewell. That memory is with me yet. Indeed, I never rise early now, around five or six, without the feeling that some one dear to me is going far away. I remember the sweet calm of the early dawn, the first glad notes of the singing birds, careless of human tears, the sparkle of the dew upon the little lilac bush before the door, as we went past it with Harold's trunk. What a hard time I had to press into Harold's hand the poor little dollar I had saved from our scanty means as my own special gift—how pathetic it was to see the care with which he tucked it away in a painfully capacious pocketbook that grandfather had given him; how lonely it looked in the infinite space around it! And I remember how poor old grandfather noticed it, and how he bewailed himself that he had not kept till then the hundred pounds he had brought with him from Scotland. But this, his only wealth, had been "invested," as he had told us over and over again for months after the investment had been made. Poor grandfather! we had heard nothing for long of the speculation that had looked so rosy to him then.

And I remember, most vividly of all, what a time I had trying to comfort Gordon when he came back from the station. After all, perhaps I must admit that a father loves his son quite as much as his first-born girl. And it seemed strange that I had to be the strong one, but so it was. When evening came, and we had family prayers, Gordon's pleading didn't comfort me at all. But I had learned long before this that the new view of prayer refuses to concede that anything can change "the course of nature"—I hate that phrase—and teaches that it is only communion, pious meditation, and not supposed to be used for asking for what you want. So Gordon had gradually given up asking for particular things, though heaven knows there was enough to ask. Higher critics are the highway robbers of the soul.

Well, everything went along smoothly enough for nearly a year. Harold wrote twice a week, and seemed delighted with his work. He expected soon to be promoted, one of his last letters said; and Gordon told me that a general manager gets twenty thousand a year—that is, after he gets the position, of course. I used to think Harold was having a pretty lively time—socially, I mean—and he seemed to spend a good deal on clothes. But he did copying, and other things, out of hours, and made almost enough to pay his way. And we knew he was asked out a great deal, as bank clerks always are—and that's enough to turn any young fellow's head. Society seems to do its very best to ruin such youths as turn their footsteps towards a bank; Gordon said himself that most of these clerks do more credit to their tailor than their schoolmaster. As for me, if I had fifty sons not one of them would ever go into that profession with my consent—unless he began as general manager, with twenty thousand a year.

By and by Harold began to get interested in sports—mostly lacrosse, I think—and that was the portal to our Gethsemane. I shall not dwell upon the sad and bitter story. But one day a letter came from Carletonville; the envelope bore the bank's name, but the address was not in Harold's hand.

"It's about his promotion, Gordon," I said exultantly; "it's about Harold—he's been raised at last. You open it."

Gordon was radiant. "No, Helen," he said unselfishly; "he owes it more to you than me—open it yourself. He gets his financial ability from his mother," and he leaned forward to hear me read the news.

I opened it so carefully; for I meant to preserve it always—till he was general manager, at least. My eye ran swiftly over the contents and I fell with a loud outcry into Gordon's arms.

I scarcely need to tell the story further. The letter was not unkind—I remember remarking that, in a numb, mechanical way, in the midst of all the agony. There was even a little stern note of sympathy in it, as the authorities outlined the piteous tragedy. I suppose they knew we had human hearts. It was the old story; debt, then betting, then petty irregularities in the hope that the deficit would soon be overtaken. Then a little more; then a false signature—I cannot write the other word; then more—and the man who wrote us used the term embezzlement. That was when I fainted in Gordon's arms.

All that night I lay awake, alone. Gordon had left by the first train to go to Harold. I pleaded with him to bring our boy home with him. And I shall remember to all eternity how white his lips were when he said he would—if he could. I knew what he meant; and I fell to trembling so that I could hardly say good-bye. Then I went to bed and lay all night staring wildly into the dark. And that night, for the first time in all my married life, I cursed poverty—out loud I cursed it with bitter emphasis—the poverty that made us so helpless now. For I fancied, poor thing, that all would be well if the money could only be replaced. I cared nothing for the tokens of poverty that were all about me, the poor and ill-furnished house, the scanty wardrobe, the meagre larder—these were but trifles to me then. But I thought bitterly of the people I knew in Hertford who had plenty of money, once friends of ours, but lost to us now; and I silently impeached the poor people of our mission, as if they were somehow responsible for it all. I blamed Gordon, too—it was all due to his wandering from the beaten path—and I breathed out threatenings and slaughter against every German theologian that ever lived.

It was a couple of hours before the dawn when my heart suddenly fell to beating wildly—some one was gently trying the front door, the knob slowly moving back and forward. I listened, trembling; a moment later all was still. Then I heard steps moving round on the walk beneath my room; I rose and crept to the open window, finally summoning strength to call out a timid challenge.

"Mother, it's me—it's Harold, mother," came a subdued voice from below.

I almost fainted for very joy. I was never so happy before in all my life; an intoxicating sense of gladness, rioting like a flood, rushed over me as I turned and flew down-stairs to the door. A moment later my arms were about my son as I led him, sometimes laughing, sometimes crying, back to my room. I remember how tight I closed the door behind us, as if we were to be shut in together forevermore. And then he crept into bed beside me, just as he had done in the dear old days when he was a little fellow; and I lay with my cheek close to his, my arms about him, no word of reproach, even of enquiry coming from my lips. A strange unreasoning joy it was that possessed me—I might have known it could not last—and I called him by all the old tender boyish names while my hands roamed among his hair, sometimes descending to trace the features of his face, just to make sure that he was there. I remember how, more than once, there flitted before me a vision of the far-off days when he had lain a babe beside me, nourished at my breast—at which I held him closer than before, my bosom aching with its load of love.

He told me all about it; about the tragedy; and I listened like one dead. I know now what they feel who stand before the Great White Throne, awaiting the word of destiny. Harold's voice grew lower as his speech went on, and as it grew nearer to the dawn. He seemed to fear the return of morning. And slowly, with ghostly outline, it was made clear to me that he could not linger—that he was not my own at all. They were likely in quest of him even now, cruel men, scornful of a mother's love; perhaps already hurrying towards his father's house. My arms were strong, I knew, infinitely strong—and they closed about him again in a passion of possession. Yet I knew how weak and powerless they would be if that other arm, the law's mighty arm, should be outstretched upon him.

So I bade him go. First with gentle entreaty, then with insistent urgency, then with vehemence of command, I thrust him from my crying heart. I arose, groping for some garments that might help the disguise he would surely need—with feeble cunning I refused to light a lamp—searching for this and that to serve our piteous purpose. With what difficulty, I remember, did I find one of Gordon's old hats, dusting it carefully, and changing its shape from one form to another to make it look more natural on Harold's head.

Soon we were at the door. The dawn was glimmering. "Go, my darling," I said hoarsely, "there will be few about when you catch the morning train. Come to me once again—put your arms around me, tight—kiss me, my son."

But he did not move, looking down shame-facedly at the ground. Again I besought him to be gone.

"How can I?" he said abruptly at last, the words like to choke him; "I have no money, mother."

This smote me like a blow. But suddenly and with a little cry of joy—such strange eddies are there in the stream of sorrow—I remembered a few dollars I had sorely saved for the purchase of the new gown I needed so. I sprang back into the house and reappeared in a moment with the scanty savings—I caught the rumble of distant wheels and knew the world would be soon astir. Harold's face fell as he glanced at the money I thrust so triumphantly into his hand; it was not enough—I might have known it could not be enough.

We stood together, bowed with disappointment. Suddenly the rumbling wheels came nearer, till, as they hove in sight around a corner, I saw it was the milkman's wagon. A quick inspiration came to me as I bade Harold slip back into the house. The milkman's ruddy face showed its surprise as his eyes fell on me, for he was accustomed to leave his wares at the back door and go upon his way. I greeted him as calmly as I could; and then, not without shame, I boldly asked him if he could lend me a little money. "A friend of mine is going away," I said, "on the morning train—and he doesn't happen to have quite enough."

The honest swain, nothing doubting, fumbled in his pockets, finally producing a good deal more than my poor savings had amounted to. I took the money from him, my heart beating wildly at the sudden deliverance. Then I went in to Harold and put it in his hand. It hurt me, beyond words to tell, to see the confusion and pain with which the poor lad took the money, though it was from his mother. Then his eyes suddenly filled with tears. "Can't I say good-bye to Dorothy?" he said brokenly; "I want to say good-bye to Dorothy."

The tenderness of his tone almost overcame me. I put my arm about him and we went up-stairs together, quickly, for the time was passing. We could hear grandfather's heavy breathing as we passed his door; Harold looked in wistfully, but I shook my head. Dorothy was sound asleep, her golden curls dishevelled on the pillow, her lips slightly parted, a much worn doll emerging from beneath one arm. My eyes only glanced at her, then turned to Harold's face, silently filling as I saw the evidences of his grief. He stood a moment above the bed, then stooped and kissed the rosy face; she stirred, smiling in her sleep, her hand unconsciously moving towards her doll. He kissed her again, unwisely—and the blue eyes opened wide.

"Harold," she murmured sleepily, "dear Harold—I knew you'd come home—I dreamed you were never going away any more."

The boy's lips were quivering, and we turned softly towards the door. But Dorothy, still only half awake, uttered a plaintive protest. "Don't go away, Harold," she mumbled, "get into your bed, Harold—your own beds," one half-opened eye indicating an unused couch beside her. "Say your prayers and then come—kneel down there, Harold," drawing the battered doll away from the side of the bed.

He looked at me. I motioned; and we knelt together, Harold's hand close beside the vagrant curls. His voice was faint and faltering:

He paused, preparing to arise. "Say the rest," Dorothy murmured, "say it all, Harold."

Again he looked at me. Then his face sank between his hands and once more the broken voice went on: "God bless father, and mother, and Dorothy—and bless Harold and make him a good boy, for Christ's sake. Amen."

The little monitor seemed satisfied, slipping back again into the stream of slumber. Harold and I went gently down the stairs. I spoke no word but held him to my bosom, aching still, with such a fierce flame of longing as I had never known before. I opened the door; even then I paused to adjust the hat, so large and serious looking, on his head. He passed out, his face averted, and started running on his way—on, on, away from home, away from his mother's empty arms.

I went back to the room where his sister lay. Long I stood above the vacant bed, wondering bitterly why I had not gloried more in those old golden days when two dear tiny heads lay upon the pillows there. A few minutes after I heard the whistling of a train; I sank beside the empty bed and tried to pray—but my lips, I know not why, could frame no words except the words of Harold's prayer.

XXIV "COME, ETTRICK; YARROW, COME"

It was two long days before Gordon returned to me. He knew the worst, of course, but had lingered at Carletonville in the hope that he might get some trace of Harold. A telegram to me, and another from me to him, told enough to send him home at once. Poor Dorothy's eyes looked wonderingly upon us as her father held me in his arms so long and so silently after he came in the door. Grandfather turned his troubled face away, pretending to gaze out of the window.

"You look so old, Gordon," I said unguardedly, as I drew back to look once more on the haggard face.

"I am old, my darling," was all his answer, as he drew me to him again.

I forget what we talked about that evening—it was a dreadsome hour. And I actually feared for Gordon. He seemed half crushed, and half defiant, sometimes breaking out into a flood of grief, sometimes sitting long in stony silence. I felt guilty in the thought that I was more composed than he; once or twice I caught myself admitting that my faith was stronger than his—but I dismissed the comparison as pharisaical. Yet that was my chief concern for my husband—I feared for the influence this sorrow would have on his secret life. I knew then, oh! how well I knew, that only one anchor could hold amid a storm like this. And the very ones who had taught me this were God and Gordon.

The gloaming was just deepening into dark when I came back to the study after telling Dorothy good-night; grandfather's chair was close beside Gordon's, the white head visible through the gloom.

"Noo's the time to use yir faith," the old man was saying softly; "naebody needs a licht till the mirk gathers roun' aboot them. An' there's ae thing, there's ae thing, my son, ye maun aye keep sayin' to yirsel': the laddie's juist as dear to God as he is to you an' Helen—if ye love him, it's because God loves us a'," and the quivering voice fell on my harrowed heart like music from some steeple far aloft. "Aye," he went on as if to himself, "Harold canna' wanner ayont the Faither's care—an' we can aye follow him wi' prayer.

"Rax Gordon the Buik, lassie," he suddenly said, after we had sat a while in silence.

I did as I was bidden and Gordon received it without a word. It seemed to me, though perhaps it was only fancy, as he held it a moment, then opened it slowly and began turning the pages over, that there was a reverent eagerness about it such as had long been wanting. I wondered, fearfully, if this new ministry were already working its blessed way. And he passed Hosea by, though he had been reading for some time from that section of the Scriptures; he had some books on those old writers that he was delving into, and he always read at family worship from the parts he was studying for himself—there was so much of this that I had really grown weary of the prophets, shameful though it may be to confess it. Gordon still turned the leaves, nor stopped till he came to the fourteenth of St. John: "Let not your heart be troubled," which he read with a trembling voice that interpreted it beyond all the power of German scholarship. It was like a great anthem to my soul that night, and I think I gloried as much in Gordon's voice as in the wonderful words.

When we knelt to pray I slipped over to Gordon's chair, and we bowed together, his hand tight clasped in mine. I prayed for Gordon all the time we were bended thus, my heart full of a kind of thankful joy that mingled strangely with the passion of loss and loneliness already there. The prayer was beautiful; and just before its close Gordon stopped, tried again, then faltered out with a kind of sob:

"And, oh, God, give us back our son—bring him back to us, oh, Father of us all." My heart leaped for joy, like one whose long night was almost past.

No word was spoken as grandfather and I slipped out a few minutes later; I went with him to his room, to see that everything was ready. "The guid Shepherd'll bring the wannerin' lamb hame yet," he said as I turned to go, the strong features struggling with emotion; "He'll bring them baith back—back till Himsel'—did ye no' tak' notice o' Gordon's prayer? He's comin' hame, thank God, he's comin' hame," and the old man's voice was touched with heavenly hope.

The next morning, grandfather was astir with the birds. The day was bright; and the weather—so long his daily care—was still a specialty of grandfather's. Indeed, he seemed to live more and more in the past, the farther it receded. For days he would talk of little else but the far-off Scottish hills, and the glint of the sun through the clouds upon the heather, and the solemn responsibilities of the lambing season, and the sagacity of his sheep-dogs, all of whose names he remembered. How often, especially, would he tell us of "Ettrick" and "Yarrow," two of his choicest collies, named for his native streams. "This wad be a graun' day for the sheep," or "there'll be mony a lammie i' the plaid-neuk the day," were frequent opinions of his when sunshine or storm provoked them.

Poor dear grandfather! Far though he was from his beloved Scotland, it was beautiful to see how deep and tranquil was the happiness of his heart. He knew, of course, how sore was our own poverty, and I think it chafed him sorely that he could not help. When he first came out to the Western world, and to his only child, I really believe he thought the hundred pounds he brought with him would make him well-to-do for life. His idea was that all investments, in this new land, break into golden harvest. So he had duly invested his hundred pounds—some eloquent agent had led him on—in some sort of mining stocks. Old-country people are so prone to think that the earth, on this new continent, and the waters under the earth, and the mountains on top of it, all turn to gold if you touch them. Well, he invested his hundred sovereigns, and that was the end of grandfather's financial career—but have I not told all about this already?

Yet he was happy in his children—for so he regarded us both—and in his children's children. But that morning, the morning after Gordon came home, he seemed collapsed with sorrow. Perhaps it was the reaction—I do not know—but it was evident, anyhow, with what absorbing love grandfather's heart had gone out to the now departed Harold. His face was thin and worn, as if he had been ill; his voice was husky and his step was slow. All through breakfast he never broke the silence except to speak of Harold, and it was pathetic to hear the various suggestions the loving heart conjured up as to the best way to get him back. He knew little about law, dear grandfather, except the law of love. Finally Gordon told him, perhaps too candidly, that Harold was doubtless by this time from under his country's flag, and that there was no absolution unless the money were refunded—not even then, he added, except by the grace of those whom he had wronged.

"He'll write to us onyway, will he no'?" grandfather asked plaintively at last.

"Oh, yes," I said quite confidently; "oh, yes, he'll write."

But Gordon seemed anxious to prepare me for possible disappointment. "He likely will, if he's getting on well," he said slowly, fearfully; "if he succeeds, wherever he is, I mean. If he doesn't, I'm—I'm afraid."

I dissented warmly from this. Harold loved his mother, I affirmed. And then I remember how Gordon said something about the change in a boy's whole nature that an experience of this kind is liable to bring about; a word or two about the moral sensibilities being blunted, or something of that sort. Whereat I flared up in warm remonstrance, breaking into eulogy of my son. It was not till afterwards that I realized how all my thought of Harold, when he came home that night, and when he went away, was always of his misfortune and never of his sin—almost as if he had been pitifully wronged. But I suppose that is the way of every woman's heart, and I cannot but think it is partly God's way too.

Early in the forenoon grandfather disappeared, sending word by a messenger that he had availed himself of an opportunity to go into the country. It was evening when he returned, but I never saw a man more changed. His face was aglow with strange enthusiasm and the signs of healing were upon him.

"I juist couldna' help it," he said apologetically as he entered, his shepherd's crook in his hand. "I was fair longin' to see the sheep, an' the hills, yince mair—my heart was sair for them. An' I got a chance wi' a mon that was gaein' oot—he was settin' up some kind o' machinnery. An' I had a graun' day on the hills," he went on delightedly; "it was fair graun'. There was a laddie mindin' some sheep—he was a fine laddie; he minded me o' Harold—and I helpit him a' the day. There wasna' ony heather, nae doot—but the hills were bonnie—and the laddie had a collie dog or twa that minded me o' hame. An' I carried yin puir wee lammie in my arms—it was ailin'—and I lilted the auld psalms yince mair aneath God's blue sky; it was maist as guid as hame," and the aged voice was all aglow with gladness.

"You had a lovely day for it, grandfather," I said, smiling.

"Aye," he answered, "it was a bonnie day—an' aboot yin or twa o'clock there cam' a wee bit rain—a Scotch mist, ye ken, and it minded me o' hame—oh, it's been a graun' day the day. But I canna' think what it was gied me sic' a longin' for the hills—it was fair fearsome—it's no' a'thegither canny, I'm dootin'," and the old man shook his head in an eerie kind of way, so characteristic of his race. "I'm gaein' to bed," he said, moving already towards the stair; "I'm fair din oot.

"What's yon black thing hangin' there?" he suddenly demanded, the keen eyes resting on the door at the back of the hall.

I paid little or no attention to the question, deeming it unimportant; we went on talking for a few minutes.

"Lassie," he suddenly broke out again, "run, lassie, an' see what's yon black thing hangin' on the door."

Dorothy went as directed. "It's mamma's rain coat," she said a moment later, returning with it in her hand.

"Aye," said the old man, apparently relieved, "aye, it's naethin' but a cloak—but it fashed me to look at it; I thocht it lookit like—like yin o' thae crape things," he added with an embarrassed little laugh. This gave me a queer creepy feeling at the time, but I thought little more about it then; it came back to us later on, however.

Grandfather went to bed immediately, and Gordon and I were not long behind him. It was about one o'clock, I think, or perhaps a little later, when I was wakened from my sleep by a strange sound, half groan, half cry. I went out at once into the hall and soon traced the sign of distress to grandfather's room. The old man was raised up in the bed, partly sitting; and the light I quickly kindled told the story in a flash as I glanced at the ashen face.

"It's my heart," he said huskily; "it's yin o' thae spells like I had lang syne. It winna' be lang, I'm dootin'."

I was terrified, for I thought I could descry the stamp of death already. There was a majestic calm, an unwonted stillness, upon the old man's face. I called Gordon at once; he evidently shared my fear, for he rushed away for a doctor. It was but a few minutes before he returned with the physician. The latter was not long in telling us the truth.

"It's simply a total collapse," he whispered to Gordon and me as we followed him out into the hall. "He can hardly live till the morning; yes, it's his heart—a case of syncope. Don't be alarmed if he grows delirious, or semi-delirious—they often do, just from sheer weakness. That roaming about the country, to-day, that you spoke of—and the excitement of it—have probably been too much for him."

"Shall we tell him?" asked Gordon, pale and trembling.

"Perhaps it would be just as well. Has he everything in order?—his will, I mean, and everything like that, you know?"

"That isn't important," said Gordon; "father had little to will—yet I think he ought to be told. But I cannot—I couldn't do it. Will you?"

The doctor nodded and turned slowly towards the room. We did not hear what he said, but a moment later grandfather faintly called for Gordon. We both went into the chamber of death.

"Rax me my wallet—you'll find it in the kist," said the old man, pointing towards a trunk in the corner of the room.

Gordon handed him a large leather case which a brief search revealed. The shaking hand fumbled a moment or two before it withdrew a somewhat bulky document. "This is what they gi'ed me for my hunnerd pounds," he said, a half-shamed smile coming over the strong features. "They ca'ed them stocks," he added, "stocks in a mine, ye ken. I got the shares for saxpence each—an' they said they was awfu' valuable—and I tuk a' they'd gie me for a hunnerd pounds." Then he named a certain mine in Northern Ontario, and I thought I saw the faintest smile on Gordon's face. He took the paper from his father's hand and laid it on the table.

"I made the shares ower to Helen, lang syne," the old man said humbly; "gin they turn oot to be worth onythin', they're for her. I didna' ken when I micht be ta'en awa'—an' it's aye weel to be ready."

I faltered some poor words of thanks which the sinking man did not seem to hear. A new, strange light came into his eyes as we waited beside his bed. The doctor had withdrawn now, powerless to do more.

"Gang an' fetch the plaidie," he suddenly directed, "the yin I used to wear at hame; an' pit it aboot my shoulders—the nicht's growin' cauld. An' I canna' find the sheep," he suddenly cried, half starting in his bed; "I hear them bleatin' on the hills—but I canna' find them a'."

Then his eyes, large and luminous with the light of the unseen, revolved slowly till they fixed themselves on Gordon. "Kneel doon, laddie," he said gently, yet with the majesty of a prophet, "kneel doon beside me."

Gordon knelt low by the bed; one trembling hand, outstretched, was laid upon his head. The dying eyes looked far beyond into the Unknown. "Gordon," he said, almost in a whisper, "I see yir mither—she's wi' us noo." I actually started and looked up, following the lifted gaze. "An' she's lookin' doon at ye, my son—an' the love is fair shinin' frae her een. It was her that made ye a minister, my laddie. When ye was a wee bit bairn, me and her gi'ed ye up to God; an' mony a night, when ye didna' ken, she bendit by yir bed an' pleaded wi' God to mak' ye a minister—a minister, my laddie, o' the Everlastin' Gospel. Div ye hear me, Gordon?"

"Yes, father, yes," and Gordon was sobbing now; "yes, I hear, father."

"An' she wants ye to keep the troth, my son. I'm gaein' to her noo—an' I'll tell her ye'll be a guid minister, Gordon, a guid minister o' the New Testament, leadin' puir sinners to the Cross. Wull ye no' bid me tell her that, my laddie?" and the dying lips paused for answer.

"Yes," faltered the broken man beside the bed, "yes, father, tell mother that."

The light of peace stole across the aged face. "I'm ready to gang noo," the gentle voice went on, "an' yir mither's beckonin'. I'm comin', mither; I'll be wi' ye soon. An' Gordon's comin' tae—an' Helen—an' they'll bring baith the bairns wi' them." Then his eyes turned slowly upon Gordon. "I'm ready to gang noo in peace," he said faintly—"but there's yin puir lammie," a troubled expression looking out from the dying eyes, "there's yin puir lammie that I canna' find. Oh, my son," the voice rising again and the prophet-like eyes fastened upon Gordon, "tak' guid care o' the sheep—it's an awesome thing to be an unfaithfu' shepherd; tak' care o' the sheep, my laddie—an' where's Harold? Is the bairn no' hame the nicht?"

Then swift delirium seemed to seize him, and he rose violently where he lay, the last eddy of life swirling in the sullen stream of death. "I canna' find the lamb that's wannered," he cried, in a voice that startled us; "I canna' find it, an' the mirk is fallin'. Ettrick, come!—ho! Yarrow. Where are ye, Yarrow? Find it, my bonnie—find it and bring it hame." Then suddenly the dying lips pressed themselves together and a faint whistle floated out on the midnight air.

I seized Gordon by the shoulder. "Hush," said my husband, his face like death itself; "hush—he's calling his dogs."

"They're breakin'," he cried despairingly; "the sheep's scatterin'—they're gaein' to wanner—where's my crook? Gordon, bide ye here, my laddie, till yir faither turns them back. Come, Ettrick—Yarrow, come!" and again the dread whistle floated from his lips.

We tried to compose him, speaking tender words. Slowly the look of peace stole back upon the old man's face. He lay with eyes almost closed. "They're a' hame noo," he murmured gently; "aye, they're a' safe in the fold, my laddie, an' they'll gang oot nae mair till the mirk is by—we can rest noo till the mornin'," as he lay back in calm content.

Suddenly the dying eyes were lifted to his son. "Lilt me a psalm," he murmured; "we'll sing afore we gang to sleep; but dinna' wake yir mither—yir mither's restin'."

"What shall I sing, father?" Gordon asked in an awesome voice.

"A psalm, my—laddie," the words coming faint and slow; "ye ken the yin I'm needin'—there's only yin psalm for a shepherd."

Gordon looked at me. One hand was in his father's; the other was outstretched to me, and I knelt beside him. Then with trembling voice, my clearer note mingling with Gordon's quivering bass, we sang together:

and just as we were midway in the majestic strain

the old shepherd passed through the valley with his Lord.

XXV A SELECT CONGREGATION

Grandfather was right. The Good Shepherd had brought Gordon back. I am quite at a loss to tell just how the change came about, or what its actual evidences were—but the great ministry in accomplishing it was the ministry of sorrow. Sorrow and love—that ever undivided pair—seemed to have conspired for their perfect work. It began, I think, with the crushing weight that fell upon our hearts in the loss of Harold and in all the shame and anguish connected with it. That was God's way, I have always thought, of teaching Gordon how much a father's heart can suffer—and the inevitable outcome of that is the Cross itself if God our Father be. How could His love escape love's inevitable pain, any more than ours? Then, besides, grandfather's home-going had been a second ordination for Gordon, and the ministry that followed was new and beautiful. So was mine, if I may designate my poor service by such a lofty word; for now I knew beyond a peradventure that God hears and answers prayer. I verily believe grandfather and I prayed him back between us.

The very day after Gordon's father entered into rest I was sitting in the gloaming, thinking of the life that had gone from us; one never knows how dear is an aged life, till the silver-haired presence is withdrawn. And I heard something that started my heart singing heavenward with gratitude.

Gordon and Dorothy were at the piano, on which our daughter now loved to show her new-found skill. And softly on the evening air there floated out to me the strains of the hymn he had asked her to play. Surely there is no music, this side of heaven, so sweet as that which a man's strong voice and a girl's fluttering note combine to make.

"We'll sing it again," I heard Gordon saying; "every word is golden, Dorothy. Come now:

and then followed some words of Gordon's which I could hardly catch. But I heard enough to know that he was teaching our little girl the great and blessed doctrine which he himself had learned by his mother's knee. How I gloried in this new theology, asserting once again its holy spell upon my husband's heart, no human tongue can tell.

The months went by. And if ever a man was happy in his work, that man was Gordon Laird. In his work, I say—for our home lay still under the shadow of its great and bitter sorrow. After one or two unsatisfactory letters, followed by a final one of despairing note, no word had come from Harold. This was what Gordon had feared. Those months stand out before me now, each one almost separate in its pain, like sombre mountain peaks robed in cloud. I know all about the anguish of those who roam some desert waste searching for a spring, or with parched lips upturned to the unsoftening skies. The slowly dying hope, the burning fever whenever I heard the postman's knock, the sickening disappointment, all surge again like a turgid flood about me when I allow my mind to dwell on those days of silence.

Yet if I suffered I believe Gordon, in a deep, silent way, suffered even more. My heart ached more for him than for myself. I almost came to change my mind as to which of the children had first place in Gordon's heart—it seemed to cry out now for Harold as for nothing else on earth. Although, and I write it gladly for the comfort of some like stricken soul, all this worked its gracious ministry upon his troubled life. Embattled long as his spirit had been with inward misgiving and silent doubt, this last dark mystery would have wrought sore havoc, I cannot but believe, had it not been so terrible. Its very fierceness of attack drove him in upon the Lord whom he had found afresh; and his soul found its comfort in simplicity of faith and childlike urgency of prayer. The songs we shall sing in the Yonderland shall give their chiefest praise for the burdens that were too heavy to be borne alone.

I have spoken of Gordon's urgency of prayer. It was he, not I, who suggested that we should have a set time, every morning, when we should pray for nothing else but this—that Harold might be brought back to us. And it was Gordon, not I, who led Dorothy to include in her evening prayer the plea that God would bring her brother home.

Yes, I think sometimes that the great Father led my husband into the wilderness for this very purpose, to make him a minister after His own heart. I said to him once, just about the time we first began to realize we weren't going to hear from Harold:

"All this won't affect your life-work, will it, Gordon—your preaching, I mean?" for it was only natural, after all that had transpired, that I should have some secret misgivings.

His answer lingers with me like a chime of bells, though it came in tones subdued and low: "No," he said; "no—I'm going to preach now to broken hearts."

"Then you'll never lack a congregation, my darling," was the response I made; and I have always thought it was given me in that hour what to speak.

XXVI THE NEWS A BROKER BROUGHT

Nor did the congregation fail to come. Gordon had wonderful powers, as everybody must know by this time—he had always had them—and now he had a wonderful message. His heart, and not his brain, was now the source of his splendid sermons; a wounded heart at that—and it is from the crushed and broken flower that the sweetest perfume breathes. So it was no wonder that his humble pulpit became like a golden fount to parched and thirsty souls; and the pathway trodden by the throng that pressed about it became ever more deep and wide.

People came to Gordon's little church from every part of Hertford. I did not wonder at this, for rich and poor alike will crowd about a spring; but little by little it became evident that not a few of our worshippers were from Gordon's old congregation in St. Andrew's. It's wonderful how everybody loves a hero—especially if the hero doesn't know he's one. I was the first to notice this; or, at least, the first to say anything about it. Gordon gave no sign of exultation, but I knew it filled his heart to overflowing. Strangely enough, one of those who by and by were most regular in attendance was Mr. Ashton himself, his first appearance almost striking Gordon dumb. But I always thought he really began to esteem my husband that night Gordon dealt so faithfully with him. Besides, he had lost his own son—by the more kindly way of death—and I attributed it partly, too, to that. It matters not.

This feature of our congregation—the attendance of St. Andrew's folk, I mean—became so pronounced at last that it began to be rumoured about the city that many of them would like to call their old minister back again, if he would return to their denomination. I spoke of it once to Gordon—my heart could not conceal its eagerness—but he received it after such a fashion that I mentioned it no more. Not then, at least. But I'm afraid I hoped and longed; for I was born a woman, and pride died hard within me.

Our means were still as meagre, our struggle as sore as ever. Besides—and how pitiful was the effort—we were trying in a poor helpless way to save a little for the payment of Harold's debt; we tried to set aside just so much as his schooling would have cost, if he had never left us. Every penny thus laid away had our hearts' blood upon it; and was, I doubt not, precious in His sight who gave those two mites their fame.

Things were at their very darkest along this line about four or five months after Harold went away. And it was just then something happened that showed conclusively which way the ruling passion of Gordon's heart was turned.

I was almost weeping over my accounts that night. These I kept in a ridiculously large scribbling book, marking down the smallest item of expenditure; for Gordon entrusted our finances to my hands, if so elaborate a term may be devoted to so scanty an exchequer. Generally I brought the account out pretty even at the close of every week—"sundries" were a great help towards this happy end. But this particular night everything seemed all "through other," to quote a favourite phrase of grandfather's. Nothing was clear except that there was a deficit—and that was dreadfully evident; but even the all-adjusting sundries could not show just how or whence it came.

So there we sat, I with the big scribbling book before me, a freshly sharpened pencil in my hand, a cloud of perplexity on my brow, gazing, a little moistly I'm afraid, at the plaintive statement of receipts and expenditure.

"Never mind, Helen," Gordon said, "you've done the best you can—and I know you've made every dollar go as far as any woman in the world could do. Don't bother any more about it—charge that deficit up to profit and loss and call it square."

"But it's nothing to laugh about," I answered gloomily; "we're going behind, Gordon—just as sure as anything, we're going behind."

"Only financially," he said lightly; "we're going ahead other ways, my dear."

"But that's a lot," I protested.

"It doesn't seem much to me," Gordon replied, the lightness all vanished now.

"What do you mean?" I said, looking up a little testily, I fear.

"Oh, only this; when anybody has a sorrow so much greater—like ours—financial troubles don't amount to much. I want Harold—oh, Helen, I want our boy back again," with which he broke out, strong man though he was, into such a storm of crying as would have done credit to the tearfullest of women.

This puzzled, almost alarmed, me. Indeed, I was beginning to fear, and not without more reasons than one, that the long tension of grief and disappointment were proving too much for Gordon's intense and sensitive nature. I looked at him a moment as he sat before me with his head bowed in his hands; then I did what I believe was the very wisest thing—I comforted him for a little as best I could in my woman's way, though my heart was just as heavy as his own; then I said we really must go on with our accounts. And in a minute or two we were both bended once again above the big scribbling book, going into every item as carefully as though we were auditing the books of the Bank of England.

Suddenly, just as I was declaring that the butcher must have sent that same bill twice, a ring came to the door. I was glad. Gordon answered the summons, as he always did at night. And, to my amazement, our visitor turned out to be a Mr. Bradwin, one of the well-known brokers of Hertford, and a prominent member of our old congregation in St. Andrew's.

"Excuse my calling at this time of night, Dr. Laird," he apologized, after he was seated and a few words of greeting had passed between us; "but the fact is I've just received some news that I think you'll find decidedly interesting"—I cannot be positive, but I really think he glanced about the shabbily furnished room as he spoke—"and I couldn't wait till to-morrow to tell you."

"I hope it's good news, Mr. Bradwin," said Gordon, a very faint smile playing on his face.

My impulsive nature got the better of my judgment. "Is it about St. Andrew's, Mr. Bradwin?" I asked in an eager voice, my eyes leaping from his face to Gordon's.

"No, it isn't," replied our caller, and my eyes fell. "But it's good news for all that—decidedly good news, I should say. It's about something a little more important—to you, at least; something that has more to do with your happiness, I fancy."

Gordon sprang to his feet and his voice rang out like a pistol-shot: "It's about Harold, sir—it's about our boy!" He was standing in front of Mr. Bradwin now, his cheeks like snow, his eyes like fire. It was almost awful to see him. "Thank God," he cried, his voice half a laugh and half a cry; "you've heard where he is, haven't you?—and you've come to tell us. Why didn't we think of it before, Helen?—we might have known that was the news that couldn't wait. Tell me, sir—tell us both," and in his eagerness he bent over and took the astonished man by the shoulders.

A moment later his withdrawn hands were clasped upon his eyes with a gesture of inexpressible grief and he was groping his way to a chair. No word had been uttered; but the denial spoke from Mr. Bradwin's face, or else he shook his head in disavowal—I could not see, but I knew that the hope glowing a moment since in Gordon's heart was in ashes now. Our visitor's news was not of Harold.

"I'm so sorry," Mr. Bradwin began confusedly; "I forgot all about that—about your son; and I really almost hate now to tell you what I was so anxious to tell a little while ago. But it's good news, at any rate—even if it's not the best." Having said this he paused, looking from one to the other of his auditors.

"What is it, Mr. Bradwin?" I asked, not a little curious.

"It's about some stocks—some shares," replied the broker, feeling a little more at ease with the familiar words; "such assets—stocks, I mean, especially mining stocks—are always springing little surprises on the people that hold them. Both ways, Mrs. Laird, you know—both good and bad," as he smiled, a little artificially I thought, at me. "But in this case I'm glad to be able to say the surprise is a pleasant one—a decidedly pleasant one, Mrs. Laird; indeed, uncommonly so, I should say. Quite beyond the ordinary, as I think you'll agree."

I stammered out something about my ignorance of all such matters. Gordon said nothing, for interest was now dead within him.

"You are aware, of course," Mr. Bradwin resumed, "you're aware, Mrs. Laird, that the shares are in your name?—they were transferred to you by Mr. Laird, your husband's father, before his death."

"Oh," I exclaimed, beginning to remember; "you mean those papers grandfather gave us?"

"Precisely, madam—at least, I presume we're thinking of the same thing. Your father-in-law invested five hundred dollars, a hundred pounds rather, in the mine—and they've just struck a fine vein of silver—the richest yet discovered in New Ontario, there's no doubt of that. The old gentleman got his shares for a song—about ten cents each, I believe—and now they've jumped to an almost fabulous price. So the profit is tremendous," as Mr. Bradwin drew his chair close up to mine, all embarrassment vanished now.

"How much are they worth?" I asked with feminine precipitancy.

Mr. Bradwin drew a pencil from his pocket and reached over to the table for a piece of paper. It did seem funny that the scrap he picked up and began to cover with figures was that wretched butcher's bill that had been giving Gordon and me so much trouble a few minutes before.

"Surely I've made a mistake," he said after a little silence; "it seems an incredibly large amount. No, that must be it," drawing in his breath in an awe-stricken kind of way after he had revised his reckoning at least three times; "yes, your shares are worth that, at the very lowest computation," and he handed the greasy butcher's bill, transfigured and glorified now, over to my shaking hand. "I'm commissioned to offer you that much, madam, for every share you hold."

I don't think I heard him. My first move was to Gordon's desk in the corner, a great womanlike fear seizing me lest the precious papers had been lost, or that they might reveal something to disturb this fairy dream. I fumbled in one of the drawers; they were there; I drew them forth. Yes, it was just as the broker had assured me. The number of shares was so plain that he who ran might read.

"Hold on to those certificates, Mrs. Laird," I think I heard Mr. Bradwin say; "there's a heap of happiness in them." But I paid no attention to his words as I moved over, my eyes so cloudy I could hardly see, to where my husband still sat in silence. I cared nothing that a stranger was looking on, thought of nothing, remembered nothing but the long years of bitter poverty and secret struggle through which poor Gordon had carried on his work so bravely. I threw myself into his arms, my whole frame shaken with the emotion that would not be repressed; I clasped him about the neck, the precious documents crushed in my fevered grasp as I drew the yielding head gently down upon my bosom, faltering out as best I could the tidings that our poverty was ended and our days of darkness past and gone. And I told him how I loved him for all the splendid courage and silent self-denial that he would never need to practice more.

"I'd advise you not to sell outright, madam—that's my advice to you as a friend," the broker's voice announced in a monotone. I looked up a moment—the man's back was turned; (wherefore I have thought more kindly of brokers ever since). "Your best way will be to sell a certain amount—and retain an interest; an interest, Mrs. Laird. They're going ahead to develop the mine—and then you're sure of both, Mrs. Laird. And I—I congratulate you, madam."

I fear my response was very scant, if indeed any came at all. At any rate, Mr. Bradwin withdrew a minute or two later, announcing his purpose to return the following day.

But it could not have been more than a minute or two after his departure when we heard the footfall of some one ascending the steps to the door. "He must be coming back," I said; "I suppose he's forgotten something."

"I don't think it's a man's step," said Gordon; "it's a boy, if I'm not mistaken."

His surmise was correct. A boy it was, and a very agitated and urgent boy at that. He was ragged too.

"I want you to come with me," the lad broke out as soon as he was admitted, fixing his earnest gaze on Gordon. "I was at Bethany Sunday-school last Sunday—and I know you—and I want you to come home with me quick," twirling his battered hat in his hand as he spoke.

"What's your name, my boy?" asked Gordon, moving over to him.

"It's Tim—Tim Rayfield—an' we live on Finner's Flats," naming the most notorious section of the city, part of it bordering on Gordon's parish.

"Do you always attend Bethany, Tim?" asked Gordon, smiling down at the desperately earnest face.

"No, sir, wasn't there only once," answered the boy; "but I learned a lot—an' won't you come, sir? There ain't no time to lose. My father's dyin', sir—an' I want you to get him in."

"What?" and Gordon's face was full of amazement; "in where?—where do you want me to get your father in?—you mean the hospital, do you, my boy?"

"No, sir—into heaven. That's what the teacher said about it last Sunday—about when folks was dyin'—an' how they get 'em in. An' dad, he's dyin'—an' I want you to get him in."

The face of the poor ignorant child was aglow with its eagerness of hope and fear. The signs of poverty and neglect were everywhere about him, and the ill-nourished frame told how severe had life's struggle been to him. But the glint of the Eternal was on the grimy face, upturned to Gordon in wistful entreaty. His plea was the plea of love, his prayer the prayer of faith; and the scene could not have been more holy if some white-robed priest had been interceding before the Throne.

Gordon's arms went out impulsively towards the lad; I believe he put them a moment about his neck.

"Yes, my boy," he said in an unsteady voice; "yes, I'll go. And we'll get your father in—yes, please God, we'll get him in."

They went out together into the darkness, the boy leading the way with such haste as stirs the feet of those who race with death. And I was left alone, the little table still littered with the relics of our financial conference. The stainful butcher's bill lay on top of all—and the magic document, with its story of our shares, was still held tightly in my hand.

I did not open it again; but I sat long looking at it—and it struck me even then how helpless it was to aid in the real tragedies of life.

XXVII WHERE GUS CAST ANCHOR

I have asked Gordon to write down for me his experiences of that night. Two considerations led me to this course: first, because the incident had so much to do with his own soul's life, his faith, his future ministry; second, because Gordon was so much more able than I, when one of life's great events was concerned, to tell it as it should be told.

When I asked him to undertake this duty—to write out the story of that midnight errand—I practically had to tell him I was putting our life experience, or a large portion of it, down in black and white. But I don't think Gordon ever suspected it was meant for other eyes than those of our own immediate dear ones—and one of the great moments of my life will be when my husband sees this book, if, indeed, it shall ever deserve a name so great.

Here is Gordon's story of that night, just as he wrote it out himself—I told him my story began with a foreword, so he said he'd have one too.

******

Foreword:

I am writing this, so personal though it seem, because Helen wants it. If it hadn't been for the children's mother, their father never could have told what he is now about to write. Some time, perhaps long after my poor day's work is done, they may read this page from the volume of their father's life. May the same grace enrich, the same truth ennoble their youthful lives: "The angel that redeemed me from all evil bless" them both, as a father's lips prayed long ago.

******

When little Tim Rayfield told me he wanted me to "get his father in," I knew one of the crucial moments of my life had come. Indeed, I felt the hour was almost as critical for me as for Tim's dying father. Why, I need not state at length. But perhaps I ought to say this much, that I felt a new sense of power as I pressed on through the night with Tim's grimy hand in mine. I use the word "new" advisedly—for I must tell, no matter whose eye may yet read the confession, that, for some years before, I had shrunk from such scenes as these in helplessness and despair; I had lost the joy of the miraculous in my ministry; I can honestly say that I always tried to be faithful to every duty, but little by little the glory and the power of a Supernatural Gospel had slipped away from me.

I have seen people smile when I use the word "supernatural" as the only fitting term to characterize a gospel. But such as smile have very smiling lives. The word—and all that is behind the word—has a very different meaning when laughter is banished from the lips, when the voice of joy is hushed, when some fateful sorrow falls and we can only stumble on through the encircling gloom. Such an hour came to me, filled with a bitterness worse than death; it was then I found my Lord anew. When the billows overswept and whelmed me I learned to pray; when the shadows closed in about me I descried the Divine Friend among them; when I lost my boy, and my father-heart was broken, I learned of One who gave His own Son, His well-beloved Son.

Let me revise my words. It was not I who "found my Lord"; but He found me—He and Helen—and they sought me hand in hand.

"That's the room," said Tim, panting from his haste, for the little fellow had led me at great speed; "there, d'ye see that light in the window—that upstairs window?"

I saw, and in a moment we were climbing a decrepit stair. Groping our way along an unlighted passage, my guide, still clinging to my hand, turned sharply into the squalid home. It consisted evidently of two rooms, the inner of which contained the couch whereon lay Tim's sinking father.

The boy never stopped till he had led me to the very edge of the bed. A few tattered covers wrapped the form of the dying man. His face, already conforming to the stamp of death, told the story of a lifetime's sin. Nobody could look upon it without reading there the tokens of a life of passion and excess. The heavy eyes looked up sullenly into my face as I stood above him.

"It's the preacher, Gus—don't," pleaded a woman who bent above him; for his lips were framing some word she evidently feared my ears would catch. "Don't, Gus—he's goin' to help you if he can; Tim fetched him—he's the preacher from the Hollow, an' Tim seen him last Sunday."

The man's set features seemed to relax a little as I took his hand. I hesitated as to how I should best begin—but he opened the way himself.

"I'm all ready for sea, boss," he broke out with a gasping laugh; "last voyage, looks like—an' nobody don't know the port. But I've got my papers, Cap'n—I've got my papers, an' I'll have to sail."

"Don't mind him, sir," his wife said in a hushed voice; "he's an old sailor, you see—only two years since he quit the sea and come here to live. He got his left foot hurt—an' that's what's killin' him now—he's got gangarene, sir."

"Goin' to be a dirty night, boss, by the looks o' things," the dying tar broke in with pitiful bravado; "the wind's risin', ain't it—better shorten sail, eh?"

I put my face close to his. "Do you want a pilot, my friend?" I asked him low.

"Don't call me that," he retorted gruffly; "call me mate—I was mate on the Dolphin when that dam crowbar fell on my foot."

"Don't you want a pilot, mate?" I asked again.

"Where to take me?" looking far through the window into the dark.

"To the harbour," I answered softly.

"I don't know where it is."

"He knows."

"Say," and the eyes were now fixed very intently on me; "I'm goin' to ask ye a question. An' I want an answer straight—no tackin' or manoeuvrin'—d'ye think I'm dyin', Cap'n?"

"Yes," I answered; "yes, you're dying, sir."

"Then get him in," broke out poor Tim with a piteous wail as he presented himself in front of me and looked up into my face; "please get him in quick, afore he dies—that's what I fetched you for, sir—oh, please get him in."

I had seen the day when I almost feared to be alone with a dying man. What I had to say, in those days, could be as well said to others as to him. But now, as Tim besought me, and as his father looked up with eyes in which a yearning hope was already to be seen, I felt that no others must be near while I sought to help his soul. So I asked Tim and his mother if they would withdraw to the adjoining room—they should be called, I said, if the summons came apace.

Then I closed the door—for this hour had more than bridal holiness—and I gave myself in love to the dying soul. The mock heroism, the banter, fell off from him like a garment, for I think he saw I believed in God. I need not tell, must not reveal, all he disclosed to me from the dark storehouse of a wasted past. But I met him, and his crimson sins, and his accusing conscience—I met them all, and at every turn, with the Cross of the Lord Jesus and with the all-atoning grace of God. How I gloried in that hour in the great evangel! And how there rolled about me, with tides ample like the ocean's, the thought of the magnitude and infinitude of the love of Christ! And how—oh, blessed memory to my long beleaguered soul—I witnessed the ancient miracle with joy, marvelling anew at the greatness and glory of the Gospel, scorning with high contempt all that would raise its feeble hand against such power as may be seen wherever a sinful soul meets with the pardoning Lord!

Over and over again I read to him from the third of John: "God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten son," its richness growing on my own soul as well as his.

"Let me see that," said the dying mate; "I want to look at it—every cap'n reads the log himself."

I gave him the book and held the lamp above him.

"Ye haven't got another of them, have ye, sir?" he asked wistfully.

"Of what?" said I.

"Of this here book—I want to read it when you're gone; or Tim—Tim could read it to me."

I told him, of course, that I would leave the book.

"Turn down the page—mark the place," he said, handing me the volume. "I'm afeared I'd soon be driftin' again if we lost it."

"I'll mark some other passages too," I suggested, "some almost equally beautiful."

"That there one's enough," he said, sinking back faintly on his pillow.

I sang him a hymn, the one that dying men should always hear; and then I had a little prayer with him. His hands were folded and his eyes were closed. When I rose from my knees he whispered something that I shall treasure while memory lasts. But it needed only a glance to see that the end was near. I opened the door to call his wife and child back to him.

"Did you get him in, sir—did you get my father in?" were the first words that greeted me as little Tim's eyes leaped to mine.

"Yes, my boy—yes, please God, your father will get in," though I could hardly speak for the tears that choked me, so full of elemental power was the pleading of the child.

"Come, Nancy," and the old tar's voice was very tender; "come close up beside me. My foot ain't hurtin', Nancy—an' my heart ain't hurtin'—nothin's hurtin' any more. I've cast anchor."

"What d'ye say, Gus?" his wife asked in a wondering voice.

"I've cast anchor—where the preacher read. You'll leave the book, sir?" his voice swelling for a moment—"an' you're sure ye marked the place?"

"Yes," I said, "I'll leave it—and it's marked."

"Call me mate," the strange impulse prompting him again.

"I marked it, mate—and I turned down the page."

"Then sing me that again—that bit about the gale."

"What gale, mate?"

"That gale—the gale of life—that's how it went before."

I knew now what he meant. Nancy's face was in her hands and little Tim's eyes were fixed lovingly on me as I began. When I came to the lines:

the dying man suddenly interrupted: "That'll do," he said, his voice barely audible, "that's the bit—that's enough—that, an' the place ye marked."

We were soon all standing by his bed. The struggle was quickly over. Suddenly his face assumed an expression of peace so deep that I thought the harbour had been really won. But his eyes opened wide and both hands went feebly out; Nancy took one in hers, the other clasped by little Tim.

"The anchor holds," he murmured; "Nancy, the anchor holds."

A moment later his wife turned from the bed, her apron to her face, groping her way with bitter outcry towards the adjoining room. Tim followed; and through the open door I could hear the boy's shaking voice:

"Don't cry, mammy; oh, mammy, don't cry so hard. Dad got in, mother—the preacher got him in."

******

I sat up till Gordon got home that night, for I had much to discuss with him. The precious document, with its wizard tidings of mining shares, was still before me as he entered; and I broke out with some word about what Mr. Bradwin had said. But when I looked up and saw the far-off look of peace on Gordon's face, I knew it was sprung from some other source than this.

"You seem so happy, Gordon," I said; "what makes it?"

He told me; but when he spoke about that last scene—he has called it the anchor scene ever since—his voice faltered so he could hardly go on.

"We'll put these away to-night," I said, picking up the papers. "But what do you intend to do with—with the money, Gordon?"

"I hadn't thought of it," he answered calmly. Then, after a pause; "but I think we'll enlarge the chapel. It needs it, you know—and this seems like a glorious chance to do it."

I wonder if my face showed my dissent. At any rate, I took the mighty charter and restored it to the desk. "There's one thing we'll do first, Gordon," I said in a voice that implied finality, "and you won't dispute it, either."

"What is it, Helen?" his words full of wonder.

"We'll pay that—that debt of Harold's," I said, my face averted as I leaned over the desk.

He was silent for long. "Yes, Helen," he answered quietly at length; "yes, we'll do that first—that's as holy as the other. Oh, Harold, my son, my son—I wonder where Harold is to-night," the words ringing with a nameless pain.

XXVIII "TO OLD POINT COMFORT, DEAR"

I shall begin this chapter, perhaps the closing chapter of my artless story, with the simple statement that we were back again in St. Andrew's Church. This restoration was effected about seven months after the incident with which the last chapter had its close. How it came about, or why, I shall not pause to tell. But there was a vacancy there—in St. Andrew's, that is—and the thought of nearly the whole congregation had gradually turned towards Gordon. He had proved his worth, had fought a fight so stern and long, and had come out of it with a faith so clear and a power so manifest, that it was only natural they should covet his ministry again.

He returned gladly enough, pride and gratitude mingling in his heart; and the Presbytery seemed rejoiced to welcome him within their fold again. He still retained Swan Hollow—this he insisted upon—as a kind of associate charge. They gave him an assistant, and Gordon selected a young minister fresh from Edinboro', for Scotchmen are the most clannish of all living things—and they worked the two places together, taking the morning and evening services alternately.

Going back to the church was gladsome enough to me. But it was the veriest trifle compared with our return to the dear old manse, where our children had been born. What memories thronged about us when the nightfall found us once again beneath the roof of St. Andrew's Manse! A few were there to welcome us; we tried to make merry with them—but my heart ached till they should be gone. And then, hand in hand as in other days, Gordon and I went up-stairs to the little room where our treasures used to lie. Only one was there that night, our lovely Dorothy, and she lay in slumbering beauty where she used to sleep before. The other bed was beside hers as in the days of yore—I had directed that it should be so—but it was empty.

Poor Gordon! All the joy, the triumph even, of his return to the scene of our former life was lost in sorrow because that bed was empty.

"I'd sooner be in the poorest hovel, Helen," he said as he stood beside the unused couch, "if Harold were only back—Harold and Dorothy. Our cup of happiness would be full, wouldn't it, dear, if both were only here?"

"But he'll come back some day," I tried to assure him; "that's why I have his bed all ready—everything has always come right, Gordon, even if it did come late."

"If we only knew where he is," Gordon went on, not seeming to hear; "but it looks as if we'd never learn. Do you know," and the strong voice was choked with tears again, "do you know, Helen, what I wonder every night before I go to sleep?"

"No, what is it, Gordon?"

"I always wonder if he's cold—or hungry. But especially if he's cold. Oh, surely there's nothing so sweet to a father as tucking his children up at night—so they won't be cold. After we left here, the home we went to was so little, and so hard to heat—but don't you remember how we used to go in and tuck them up, so warm and cozy?"

I tried my best to comfort him, though my heart had its own load to carry. For the dark mystery still hung about us; we had heard never a word from Harold. His debt was paid—as has been told, or implied, already—and nothing really stood in the way of his coming back except that we did not know where to find him. And every effort to discern his whereabouts had ended in utter failure. But we still kept the little tryst, still kept praying on, still hoping and trusting that the Great Father would staunch the wound which no human hand could heal.

The summer passed and still no tidings came.

Then I began to fear seriously for Gordon. The very splendour of his make-up was his peril; it is ever so with natures such as his. And his sorrow seemed to find expression in an ever more passionate devotion to his work, a devotion that was making him the idol of his people, even if it brought him daily nearer to collapse.

Which came at last. It was one Sabbath in early November, and Gordon had preached that morning from the text, "I will arise and go unto my father." I suppose it was the tragedy whose home was his own broken heart that inspired him; in any case, he poured his soul out that day with a passion and pathos such as none could have imagined who did not feel the torrent of his power. He seemed to interpret the very heart of a lonely and imploring God.

But what the effort took out of him nobody saw but me. That he was utterly exhausted was evident as he walked home after church, but I thought little of it; yet, even then, I noticed a strange incoherency in his speech, and a tremulousness about his voice, that boded ill. The collapse came during the afternoon; by eventide he was not my Gordon any more, his mind wandering far, voicing itself in strange plaint and heart-breaking appeal, the name of his absent Harold sounding through it all in pitiful refrain.

I don't think the physician I called in haste that day knew anything about the skeleton closet in our home—it is wonderful how soon people forget, even those who know you best—but he located the hidden wound with wonderful acuteness. "It's an utter collapse," he said; "what might be called a severe form of nervous breakdown—it generally occurs with people of strong emotional temperament. Has your husband had any great shock?—or has he been carrying any specially heavy burden, probably for months?"

I told him as much as I thought was necessary.

"Just what I surmised," he said; "he's suffering from what the German physicians call 'the sad heart'—and all this derangement is due to the sympathy between the brain and the nerves. Highly-strung organism, you see—intense emotional nature, that's evident; all this disturbance is a result of tension—the strain was simply too much for him. But he'll recover all right—only it will take time, time and rest."

A consultation followed soon; and the result of it all was that Gordon was to be removed to other scenes just as early as he would be able to travel. I watched by him night and day, and soon the first storm of emotion was succeeded by a deep and silent calm that I found almost harder to be borne than the other. He would sit by the hour poring over Harold's old school books, or gazing at some boyish photographs of the wanderer, or holding his cricket bat or butterfly net lovingly in his hands. Sometimes he spoke of him, but not often. When I told him we were going away for a little holiday he consented readily enough.

"Where shall we go, Gordon?" I asked him, with but little hope that he would choose.

"We'll go to Old Point Comfort," he answered unhesitatingly; "that's where we went before."

I had to turn away. For there came before me, with a flash of memory, the days to which I knew my husband's words referred. Old Point Comfort, of dear and blessed memory!—thither had we turned our steps the night of our wedding day, going forth by the moonlit bay on our love-bright journey, the future years, with all the thorny paths that awaited us, veiled in the mist of happiness that arose from our singing hearts. Ah me! I could see again the unseamed face, the hair untouched by time, the swimming eyes of love, when my lover was still young and joyous, unworn with toil and care.

"That's where we'll go," I answered; "we'll go to Old Point, Gordon."

The arrangements for our journey were soon complete. I do not think, even were it possible, that I would willingly forego all the discipline—and the blessing—that our years of poverty had brought me; but now I blessed the providence that had made it possible for me to take Gordon away like this. Money was not lacking now—thanks to grandfather and that blessed mine—and I joyed over it as men rejoice in harvest or as robbers that divide the spoil.

The evening before the very day we were to start, something occurred which wrung my heart as nothing, not even the loss of Harold, had ever done before. I had been compelled to leave Gordon for a little while, some detail of preparation demanding my attention. Returning to the study, our usual resort, I found it empty; and my heart chilled with fear.

"Come, Helen," I suddenly heard Gordon's voice crying from without; "oh, Helen, come, come quick." There was a strange note of excitement, even of rapture, in the voice that called me.

Hatless, coatless, I rushed out into the frosty night. And just across the way, in a large adjoining yard, I could see Gordon hurrying fast toward a little pond in the distance. Sometimes he looked back and called me, then hurried on again, the strange exultation still sounding in his voice. When I overtook him, he was clasping in his arms a wondering boy, a solitary skater on the frozen pond.

"It's our boy, mother—oh, Helen, he's come at last. It's Harold, mother"—and I noticed in the failing light that the lad was actually about Harold's size and form. "I knew you'd come back, Harold," he cried as he held the youth to his bosom; "oh, my son, I knew you'd come—but what made you stay away so long? And are you cold, Harold?—I've been so afraid you might be cold." Then he held the startled boy out before him, his eyes lingering with pitiful intentness on the face he held upturned to his own. "You've grown some," he said fondly, "but you're my own Harold yet—come, come on home now with me and mother. Your bed's all ready for you, Harold; and Dorothy will be so glad—she's lonely, she's lonely for you, Harold."

I stood transfixed and mute with grief. Then the lad made some reply, I know not what. But he broke the awful silence with a word—and Gordon's hands fell to his side like lead. He stood a moment under the trembling stars, then stooped and gazed long into the face that had filled his soul with fleeting rapture. Slowly he turned, looked a moment upward at the wintry sky, then silently moved towards me.

"It isn't Harold," he said after a long pause, his eyes searching my face with unutterable yearning; "it's somebody else's boy—let us go home again," as we started back hand in hand. The clock in an adjoining steeple struck the hour as we went our way; and its knell is with me yet.

The next day saw us off upon our southward journey, Dorothy and Gordon and I. The doctor had filled me with high hope; the change of air, and especially of scene, he said, were almost sure to do great things for my dear one. And the very features that alarmed me most were those by which he seemed to be reassured. The very acuteness of the malady, he said, was its most hopeful sign. I have often thought of this since and applied it to many things other than bodily infirmities; the acute is the transient, let all sufferers bear in mind, and all who think life's battle hard.

We arrived at Old Point in the morning, and the balmy air and genial skies seemed to help Gordon from the first. Oh, sweet Southern air and sweeter Southern skies! how unspeakably dear to me I knew not till I thus returned after all the maze of years. It was so delicious to hear again the soft Southern accent, to catch the liquid voices of the negroes, to breathe in the fragrance of the flowers that bloom in our dear Southland even in November.

I remembered—what woman would forget?—the very room that had been ours when we were there in that same hotel on our bridal tour so long ago, the dearest little room, with a tiny balcony that looked out upon the ocean. And I arranged that we should have it now—I would take no other. Not a word did I say to Gordon. But the first night we were there, after Dorothy had been safely stored away, I was sitting beside him, looking out over the moonlit harbour. The night was hushed, the ocean calm; voices of darkey stevedores floated softly up to us as they moved hither and thither with their creaking wheelbarrows on the wharf.

Suddenly Gordon turned his face full on mine in the moonlight. "Helen," he began huskily, "do you know what room this is, Helen?"

I yielded to his arms as he slowly drew me within their shelter; "it's where we were before—when you were my bride, my lovely, lovely bride," he said softly; "did you know it, Helen?"

I nodded, smiling up to his bending face. "Yes, I knew it, darling," I said; "that's why I chose it, Gordon."

I know not why it was—I suppose no one could explain it—but the dawn came to us, and the darkness rolled away, in that blessed hour. Tears came at last to Gordon; slowly at first; then in copious flow; then in a gush of feeling that wrung his whole form till it shook and sobbed like the frame of a little child. Passionately he held me, his kisses falling on my lips while he murmured such words of love as the days of courtship had never heard.

"It was like this before," he cried, pointing to the radiant sea; "the moon shone on it, just like this. And we were so happy then, darling—we didn't know of the long years, with their care and sorrow, that stretched before us. And you've been so good, Helen, so true and faithful—and so brave; whatever I've done, or been, I owe to you, my darling," and through all the gust of passion his voice had a naturalness, his eye a new-found calm, that told me the long dark night was past.

"We were so happy then, weren't we, dear?" he said again after a little stillness.

"I'm happier now," I answered, nestling in.

"Why?" he exclaimed. Then, suddenly discerning: "I know why—it's because we have the children now. Isn't that why, Helen—isn't it Dorothy and Harold?"

I told him Yes; and the fancy, if it can so be called, seemed to help and comfort him. "Yes," he said musingly, "it's wonderful, isn't it, how we could have been happy then at all—when we didn't have them. But God gave them to us, didn't He, Helen?"

"Yes," I murmured, my face hidden; "yes, God gave them."

"And they're still His to give," he went on, a great peace in his voice such as it thrilled my soul to feel; "they're still His to give. And I know—I'm almost sure—that He'll give us Harold back again. Something tells me that it's coming near; I knew it when I looked out on the water—when the dark fled before the light that flooded it. Don't you think so, my darling?"

I forget just what my answer was; but we sat long, soothing and comforting each other, drinking deep from Memory's spring. By and by Gordon fell asleep with his head resting on my arm, the moonlight still playing on the pure and lovely features as we sat by the open window. I brooded above him, thanking God for the change I could see upon the care-worn face. The tide had turned, the reaction had come at last, the strife of battle seemed spent and gone. All night long he slept the sleep of a little child; the morning found him bright and tranquil, and his first waking word was to say that he was well.

For a couple of weeks, or perhaps a little longer we lingered on in our quiet retreat, every hour blissful with its evidence of returning strength. Gordon spoke often of Harold, but always now with a sweet trustfulness that was beautiful to see; I really believe God made him well by touching his spirit with the calm of a childlike faith. It was a miracle, I have never ceased to think, let the critics say what they will. And as his strength came back his heart began to turn wistfully towards his work; I really don't believe any one ever knew how much he loved St. Andrew's, and had loved it all through the years.

I protested against his returning, but in vain. So it was all arranged that we were to start home on the following Monday. The evening before, Gordon preached for a clergyman whose acquaintance he had formed, the minister of a little Methodist church not far away. I was there, of course; and the sermon was one of the noblest I ever heard Gordon give. It was from the words: "Casting all your care upon Him," and I know every listener felt that the message was heaven-born.

After the service was finished I was going down the aisle alone, when suddenly I heard some one pronounce my name.

"Miss Helen!" said the voice, and bygone years rolled back upon me at the tone.

I swung around, wildly excited. It was a voice from home. "Mr. Slocum!" I cried, so loud that everybody stood still and looked at me; "Frank Slocum!—Oh, Frank!" and I stood gasping in the aisle. It was one of the friends of my early girlhood—the same who had been my escort to the ball that far departed night when we had first discussed the Presbytery, and the attic guest it was to bring us.

"I wa'n't right sure," he began, rosy as the dawn; "but some one told me the preacher was Mr. Laird—then I knew you were Mrs. Laird."

"Oh, Frank!" I cried, "please call me Helen," for the music of it was refreshing; "come away—come, and go home with me and Gordon."

I believe Gordon enjoyed that evening with Frank quite as much as I, which is saying a good deal. He said afterwards that I reminded him of a child running hither and thither through a flower-strewn glade, plucking whatever her hands could reach. Thus did I gather news from Frank. My questions rained in on him from every point of the compass, leaping from one subject to another like a peewee on the shore. (That's a kind of witches' dance in metaphors, I know, but they all mean the same thing anyhow.) I cross-questioned Frank about everything and everybody, while Gordon sat listening with an amused expression on his face. Particularly did I put him through his facings about my old schoolgirl friends. The first question, without exception, was as to how many children they had—till this became so chronic that Frank would begin with this himself, not waiting to be asked. It saddened me some to learn that several of them had twice as many as I. One old friend, Sadie Henderson, had exactly three times as many—but two of them came at once, so that they didn't really count. Others, moreover, had none at all, which brought Gordon and me pretty well up on the average.

Frank had little to say about Uncle Henry and Aunt Agnes except that they were getting older, which I would have surmised myself. Besides, Frank had a sensitive nature; and I suppose he remembered the stormy scene when Gordon left my uncle's house. I fancied, in a woman's instinctive way, that there was something he wanted to say to me alone. And I was right enough. For when I walked with him as far as the hotel piazza, while we were gazing out over the shimmering sea Frank told me something that proved to be a word of destiny.

"You all are going back by New York, you said?" he began, looking up significantly. The idiom sounded sweet—you all—how long since I had heard that brace of words before!

"Yes," I answered; "why?"

"Well, I'll tell you something interesting; I didn't care to say it before your husband, for fear it might affect his plans—I know how matters stand between him and your uncle, you know—but I think you ought to be told. Your uncle's in New York."

"What?" I gasped, and I felt the colour leave my cheek; "uncle's what?—he's where?"

"He's in New York," Frank repeated calmly. "I've just come from there—we were staying at the same hotel."

"And Aunt Agnes?" I asked swiftly, my eyes fixed on him in the gloom.

"No, Mrs. Lundy's at home—your uncle went up on some business, I believe. Mighty successful too, as far as I could judge," Frank added.

I cared nothing for this. "What hotel, Frank?" I demanded eagerly; "tell me the hotel."

"The St. Denis—opposite Grace Church, you know."

Little more was said and I soon bade Frank farewell. Then I walked slowly back to Gordon, trying to compose myself, struggling to subject my impulse to my judgment. But it was of no use. My heart was the heart of childhood once again; all I knew was this, that a few hours would bring us to New York, that we had intended going there anyhow—and that my uncle was within reach of one who had never ceased to love him.

I paused a moment before I opened the door and went in where Gordon was still sitting, gazing out on the ever fascinating scene.

"Well, dear, did you pump him dry?" he asked jauntily as I entered.

"Oh, Gordon," and now I was on his knee (woman's throne of power) with his face between my hands; "oh, Gordon, don't say No. Don't, Gordon—won't you do this for me, this, that I'm going to ask?"

Soon I had poured out the whole story to him. I noticed his brow darken a little at first, and the quivering lip told how much I had asked of him.

But Gordon was all gold through and through; he always was, my Gordon was, from that first hour when my eyes fell upon his face till now; and the love of this later day, although I suppose folks call us old, exceeds that early ardour as the noontide mocks the dawn.

"Yes, my wife," he said, stroking my hair and looking with almost pitying fondness on my face; "yes, brave heart and true—you were his before you were mine. And we'll go, Helen—we'll both go."

XXIX THE HOUR OF HEALING

The mighty city seemed hushed as I made my way along the corridor of the old hotel. But I suppose the hush was from my heart.

"You'll wait here, will you, ma'am?" and the bellboy opened the door of the retired little parlour as he spoke. "I'll bring Mr. Lundy in a minute. Yes, I think he's in, ma'am; his room's on this floor. Don't you want me to take him your card?"