"The Inglises" (continued 5)

“If Aunt Mary will ask me, I will come to Gourlay and spend some Sunday with you,” said he. “I have a settlement to make with Master Frank. I did not think that he and Violet would have called me a dishonest person, even to clear you. I am very angry with them both.”

He did not look very angry, for he said it with laughing lips. But David was shocked.

“Violet never thought that of you. She only said that—that—”

“Well! What did she say?” demanded Philip.

“She said it was quite impossible,” went on David. “She said there was no motive—I mean—She said you were foolish, and frivolous, and thought first of your own pleasure—but—”

There was not time for another word, if David would not lose the train. He was indignant with himself. Why could he not have kept silence for two minutes longer? And yet, as he caught a glimpse of Philip’s astonished face as the train swept past him on the platform, he could not help laughing a little, and hoping that the truth might do him good. For it was true, and Philip did not hear unpleasant truths too often for his welfare.

“At any rate, I am not going to vex myself about it now,” said David. And he was quite right.

Chapter Fourteen.

And were they not glad to see David in Gourlay? Almost always something happens to mar, a little, the pleasure of a surprise that has been planned beforehand; but nothing happened to mar David’s. He travelled to Gourlay in a late train; and as he went up the familiar road, and saw the lights gleaming through the trees, as he had seen them so often in the old days, a great many thoughts crowded upon him, and, if the truth must be told, there were tears in his eyes and on his cheeks, too, when he opened the door and went in among them.

They were all there. Even little Polly, by some happy chance, was up at the unusual hour. Was there ever music so sweet, as the glad cry that greeted him? There were tears on more cheeks than David’s; but his mother did not ask if his trouble was over; she knew by his face,—though it was wet,—that he was at peace with himself, and troubles from without, do not hurt much, when the heart’s peace is undisturbed. The words that rose to Violet’s lips were kept back, as she looked from her mother’s face to David’s. But Frank could see nobody’s face, and his own was very pale and anxious, as he listened to the happy tumult of voices around him.

“Has Philip come home?” asked he, after a little. “Did he get my letter? Is it all right, Davie?”

David laughed.

“Oh, yes! it’s all right. He got your letter, but I am afraid he couldn’t read it very well. It brought him home a fortnight sooner than he meant to come, however.”

“And is it all right?” asked Frank, anxiously.

“All right! Only I am afraid he will be sorry he came, for he has taken my place in the office for ten days at least, and he will be very sick of it before that time is over. Oh, yes! it is all right as right can be. Mamma, you were right. I need never have fretted, about it at all. But Philip has something to say to you, Frank, and to Violet,” added David, laughing a little at the remembrance of his last glimpse of Philip’s astonished face.

But there was no more said then. Of course, the story of David’s troubled summer was all told afterwards, to his mother first, and then to Frank and Violet. It was told to his mother before he slept, when she went to say “good-night” and take his lamp, as she used to do, long ago, in that very room. If David had had to tell the story of Mr Oswald’s suspicions, before Philip’s return had proved their injustice, he might have grown angry as he went on with it, and indulged in bitter words, as he had sometimes indulged in bitter thoughts. He had no temptation now to do this, and he did not seek to conceal from her how angry he had been at first, and how faithless and unhappy afterwards. He ended by giving Mr Caldwell’s message to her, “that he had borne his trouble not so ill,” and his mother agreed with Mr Caldwell, though she said less than she felt with regard to the whole matter.

“You should have written to me, Davie,” said she.

“I wished you were there a thousand times, mamma, but I thought it would only make you unhappy to know about my trouble, since you couldn’t help it. And for a long time there was nothing to tell. When I got your letter, after Violet came, I was sorry I hadn’t told you before.”

There was a good deal more said before Mrs Inglis went down-stairs, but not much more about this matter. Sitting in the dark, with now and then a quiver in her voice, and tears on her cheeks, the mother told her son how it had been with her since they parted. The coming back to the old home and to her husband’s grave had not been altogether sorrowful. Indeed, after the very first, it had been more joyful than sorrowful. “The memory of the just is blessed.”

“They rest from their labours, and their works do follow them.” How clear this had been made to her during these days! The results of her husband’s teaching and influence and example were visible now, as they had not been in former days. That which then had been as the hidden seed, or the shooting germ, had in some lives sprung up to blossom, or bear fruit an hundred fold. She told David of one and another who had spoken to her of his father, blessing his memory, because of what he had done for them and theirs, in the service of his Master, and then she said—

“It is the only true and worthy life, Davie—a life of work for the Master. Is it to be yours, my boy?”

“Yes, mamma. In one way or another, it is to be mine. Whether it is to be as papa’s was, I cannot tell.”

“That may come, dear. It is so blessed to feel that our times are in His hands. It would be great happiness to know that my son might give himself to the work of preaching the Gospel as his father did. But that must be as God wills. You may be his soldier and servant, whatever may be your calling; but we gave you to His work as soon as He gave you to us, and I pray God you may yet stand in your father’s place.”

“A soldier of Christ—to gird on the armour that my father has laid down,” said David, softly. “I do wish it, mamma, if only it might be. But it must be a long time first.”

“Who knows? And it does not matter whether the time may be long or sort, if it is God’s time. And all your life till it comes may be made a preparation.”

It was not often that Mrs Inglis spoke on this subject to her son. She had not done so more than once or twice since his father died. But it was, as she told him, the cherished wish of her heart, and the burden of her prayers for him that he should live and die in the work that had been his father’s. The fulfillment of her hope did not seem very near, or possible, but David was young and she could wait, and, in the meantime, it was her pleasure and her duty to encourage him.

Afterwards, when David looked back on this time, it was of his mother and these quiet talks with her that he always thought. Not that these two had much of these pleasant weeks to themselves or many opportunities to indulge in conversation which all could not share. Once they went to the North Gore together, and oh, how vividly came back to David the many times which during the last year of his father’s life he had gone there with him! The memories awakened were sad, but they were sweet, for all the bitterness had gone out of his grief for his father, and he told his mother many things about those drives, and of all his father had said, and of the thoughts and feelings his words had stirred in his heart. And she had some things to tell as well.

Once they lingered behind the others on their way home from church, and turned aside into the grave-yard for a little while. The moonlight was brightening in the east, and the evening star shone clear in the west, and in the soft uncertain light, the white grave-stones, and the waving trees, and the whole place looked strangely beautiful and peaceful to the boy’s eyes. There were not many words spoken. There was no need of many words between these two. In the heart of the widow, as she sat there in the spot dearest to her on earth, because of the precious dust it held, was no forgetfulness of past sorrow, but there was that perfect submission to God’s will, which is the highest and most enduring happiness. There was trust for the future, such as left no room for doubt or for discouragement; and so there was peace for the present, which is better than happiness. She did not speak of all this to David, but he knew by many tokens what was passing in her heart, and he shared both the sadness and the gladness of the peaceful hour.

There was a great deal of enjoyment of another kind crowded into the time of David’s stay in Gourlay. There was only one thing to regret, and that was the absence of Jem. There were few familiar faces or places that he did not see. Sometimes Frank went with him, and sometimes Violet, and sometimes they all went together, but neither Frank nor Violet quite filled Jem’s place to his brother. Though David had generally been regarded as much wiser and steadier than his brother, when they lived in Gourlay, they had had enough interests and amusements and tastes in common to make David miss him and regret him at every turn. And he missed him and wished for him all the more that he himself was regarded and treated by the people now as a man of business and a person of consideration. Of course, he could not object to the respect and deference shown to him in this character, but they were sometimes embarrassing, and sometimes they interfered with his plans for passing his much prized holiday. Jem would have made all things right, David thought, and it would have been far more agreeable to follow his leadership in the way of seeking amusement, as he used to do, than to have to sustain his reputation for gravity and steadiness among his elders. Still they all enjoyed these weeks thoroughly, though not in the way they would have done in Jem’s company.

Miss Bethia was paying a visit to a friend in a neighbouring town when David first came to Gourlay, which was upon the whole a circumstance not to be regretted, he thought, as they had a few days to themselves just at first. He was very glad to see her, when she came, however, and she was as glad to see him. Of course, she manifested her interest in him in the old way, by giving him good advice, and reminding him of his privileges, but to his mother she very decidedly signified her approval of him, and her satisfaction in regard to his walk and conversation generally, and spoke of his future profession—of his entering upon his father’s work, as if it were a settled matter accepted by them all. But David was shy of responding to her expressions of interest on this subject. It was one thing to speak to his mother of his hopes, and quite another to listen to Miss Bethia’s plans and suggestions, especially as she did not confine the discussion to themselves, but claimed the sympathy and congratulations of friends and neighbours, in view of his future work and usefulness.

They did not fall out about it, however, and there was one matter of interest and discussion which they enjoyed entirely. This was the minister’s much valued library. It was to be David’s at some future time. That was quite settled, and in the meantime it had to be looked over and dusted and re-arranged, or rather arranged exactly as it had been left, and David handled the books “just as his father used to do,” Miss Bethia said, “just as if he liked the feel of them in his hands,” which he doubtless did. He liked them altogether, and no day of that happy month passed without at least one hour passed in the quiet of his father’s study.

David’s coming home was especially good for Frank. He had been more anxious and unhappy about David’s affairs than he had confessed, and about Philip’s possible share in them—more anxious than he was able to believe possible, after he had talked it all over with David and Violet. That he had been really afraid that Philip had done any wrong, he would not allow to himself. To the others he never spoke of what his fears had been. But it was a great relief and satisfaction that it was all past, and no one worse for it, and as far as Frank was concerned, there was nothing to interfere with the enjoyment of the days as they passed.

There had been one thing very terrible to him before he came to Gourlay to tell it to Aunt Mary—the fear of blindness. It had been all the worse for him at home, because he never spoke of his fears there—no one could bear to think of anything so sad, and fears brooded over in silence increase in power. But he could speak of it to Mrs Inglis, and the mere telling his fears had done something to allay them. Mrs Inglis’s judicious words did more. It was foolish and wrong, she said, to go half way to meet so great a trouble. And since the physicians all declared that only time and an improved state of health were needed to restore perfectly his sight, to wait patiently and hopefully was his duty.

It was easier for him to do so than it had been at home, and something better than patient waiting, better even than the hope of fully restored sight, came to Frank as the summer days went on. He and David enjoyed much, after the manner of lads of their age, in the agreeable circumstances in which they were placed; but their chief enjoyment was of a kind which lads of their age do not usually prize very much.

David was boyish in many ways still, but the discipline of the last two years had wrought well with him, and Frank saw a great difference in him in one respect, at least. He had always been thoughtful, and he had always been earnest in the grave discussions into which they had sometimes fallen during his first visit, but there was this difference in him now, Frank saw. He spoke now, not doubtfully and wistfully as they all used to do, about “the whole armour” and the Christian’s “weapons” and “warfare,” but with firmness and assurance, as of something with which he had to do; and, though he said little about himself at such times, it gradually became clear to Frank that David was no longer his own—that his name had been enrolled among the names of those whose honour and glory it is that they are the soldiers of the Lord Jesus.

It sometimes happens that young persons who have been carelessly brought up, or whose religious teaching has been merely formal, have less hesitation in speaking about personal religion than others who have had their consciences, if not their hearts, touched by the earnest and loving appeals of those who watch for their souls as they who must give account. And so, when David, sometimes unconsciously, and sometimes with intention, made it clear to him how the aim and purpose of his life were changed, and how he longed and meant to live in future as the servant and soldier of Christ, Frank listened and questioned with interest. And when David went further, and ventured on a gentle word or two of entreaty or counsel to him personally, he not only listened patiently, but responded frankly to all. And it was not always David who was first to turn the conversation to serious subjects. Frank had never forgotten the lessons learned during his first visit. He had often, in his own mind, compared the life his father was living with the life Mr Inglis had lived, and he did not think his father’s life was the wisest or the happiest. “Labour for that which satisfieth not,” told best the story of his father’s life to him. He had thought that often during the last year, for he knew a little of his sister’s exacting demands, of his brother’s careless expenditure, and of the anxieties which troubled his father’s days and nights because of them, and because of other things. And now, when in Gourlay he heard of the fruit already gathered and still to gather from the good seed sown in past years by the minister, he thought it still the more. Even for this life, the minister had had the best portion. True, he had lived and died a poor man; but, to Frank, it seemed that more was to be enjoyed in such poverty than ever his father had enjoyed from his wealth.

Frank had many unhappy thoughts about his father and the rest, and some about himself. For himself and for them he desired nothing so much as that they might all learn the secret of perfect contentment which Mr Inglis had known, which made Mrs Inglis cheerful and not afraid, though there was little between her and utter poverty—the secret which David knew and Violet. And so, when David, in his not very assured way, spoke to him of the true riches, and of how they were to be obtained, he was more than willing to listen, and pleased and surprised his friend by his eagerness to learn.

It was with no design or expectation of teaching on David’s part, but it happened because they both cared about those things, that whenever they were alone together—on their way to or from any of their many visiting-places, or in the fields or woods, or while sailing on the river, the conversation almost always turned on graver matters than young lads usually care to discuss. It was often the same when Violet was with them or the mother, and Frank had reason to remember this time; for out of all these earnest talks and happy influences, there sprang up in his heart a strong desire to be, as they were, a follower of Christ—a wish to give himself to Him and to His service—to be His in life and His in death. And by and by the desire was granted. He who never refuses to receive those who come to Him in sincerity, received him, and henceforth he and David were more than friends—they were brothers, by a bond stronger than that of blood, being joined in heart to Him, of whom it is said, “He is not ashamed to call” His people “brethren.”

Philip did not come to Gourlay, though an invitation was sent him by Mrs Inglis, and accepted by him. He was very busy in the office in David’s absence, he wrote, but he would avail himself of the first leisure to come to them. He did not come, however, and they could only suppose that he was too useful in the office to be spared. They were very sorry, of course, for his sake and theirs, but the days passed happily with them. The time to leave came only too soon. Mrs Inglis decided that it would be better for them all to return to Singleton together, as the autumn days were becoming short, and it was time to be thinking of winter arrangements in many things.

The last night came. It was not a night like the last one of Frank’s former visit; but Frank was reminded of that night all the same. Instead of the rain, and wind, and sleet, that had made that night so dismal without, and the lights and the fire so pleasant within, there was a cloudless sky, flooded with the light of the harvest moon, and the air was so still that it did not stir the leaves of the trees beneath which they lingered. And yet Frank was in some way reminded of the night when they read about Hobab, and waited so long for Mr Inglis to come home. David must have been reminded of it, too, for, by and by, they heard him speaking to Miss Bethia of old Tim, and about his going with his father when he preached his funeral sermon at the North Gore.

“And an excellent sermon it was,” said Miss Bethia. “Don’t you remember telling me about it that night when I was helping Letty to do the week’s ironing when Debby was away?”

“Yes,” said David, laughing a little, “I remember it quite well.” But, he added, gravely in a minute, “I think that must have been the very last time my father preached when he was quite well.”

“I am afraid he was not quite well then,” said Miss Bethia, “though the sermon was good enough to have been his last. The night you repeated it to me was the first time I thought you had better be a minister. You might tell it over now, if you haven’t forgotten it.”

David said to himself that he would be past remembering most things when he should forget what his father had said that day, and all that grew out of it. But he did not tell Miss Bethia so. He would not speak of the sermon, however—he would not go over it as a mere trial of memory; and, besides, it was not to be supposed that the children would listen patiently on this last night, when there was so much to be said. So, after that, the talk was mostly left to the little ones, and wandered away in various directions. Sometimes it was guided past week-day subjects by the mother, and sometimes it was gently checked, but, for the most part, this was not needed. The feeling that it was the last night was on them, and they were very quiet and a little sad.

Miss Bethia was sad, too, and said little. She did not so far forget her duty as to omit her usual words of caution and counsel to each and all; but she did not mete it with her usual decision, and very nearly broke down in the middle of it.

“Aunt Bethia, why don’t you come home with us?” said Polly. “Mamma, why don’t you ask Aunt Bethia to come home and stay with us till next summer?”

“Where should we put her? There is no room in our house,” said the practical Jessie, before her mother could answer.

“That’s so,” said Miss Bethia. “Old as I have got to be, there ain’t room for me in anybody’s house but my own. I guess Debby and I will have to get along the best way we can till next summer, and then you must all come back again.”

“We don’t know what may happen before next year,” said Jessie.

“And it is no good making plans so far ahead,” said Ned.

“And we shall hope to see Miss Bethia before summer, and then we can make our plans. Our house is not very large, Aunt Bethia, but there will always be room enough in it for such a friend as you have been to us all.”

“And you have promised to come, Aunt Bethia,” said Violet.

“If all is well,” said Miss Bethia, gravely.

“But we are poor creatures, at the best, as I don’t need to tell you; and I don’t feel as if I could count on much time or strength for my part. But it ain’t best to worry.”

“We have had a good time here this summer, whether we come again or not,” said Sarah Oswald. “I would like to stay here all winter, if Violet would stay too. It would be a great deal pleasanter than going back to Aunt Livy.”

“Only it is not quite the right thing to say so, Sally,” said Frank.

“It would be pleasant to stay for some things,” said Violet. “But I am glad we are going home now. We shall come again in the summer, if Aunt Bethia will have us.”

“You are glad you came, mamma?” said David.

“Very glad. It has been a happy summer to us all. The leaving you alone was the only thing to be regretted; but I don’t think you are really the worse for being left.”

“No,” said David, with a long breath. “But I am very glad we are all going home together. I only wish Aunt Bethia was not going to be left behind.”

In her heart Miss Bethia knew that it was quite as well for all concerned that she was to be left behind, still it pleased her to hear David’s wish. She had had a pleasant summer as well as the rest; but she was not so strong as she used to be, and needed quiet.

“Debby and I will tough it out together through the winter,” said she; “and, like as not, those of us who are spared will have to make all their plans all over again. It will be all right, whichever way it is.”

Violet and David looked at Miss Bethia and at each other in surprise, not so much at her words, as at her manner of saying them. She looked as though it needed an effort to speak calmly, and she was very pale; and when she put up her hands to gather her shawl closer about her, they both noticed that they were trembling and uncertain.

“Miss Bethia is growing old,” whispered David.

“And there is something more the matter with her than she will acknowledge, I am afraid,” said Violet.

“It is time to go into the house. The dew is beginning to fall. Come, children,” said the mother, rising.

David and Violet came last with Miss Bethia. She smiled, well pleased, when, with boyish gallantry, David offered her his arm.

“I’ve gone alone all my life,” said she, “and now I am most at the end of it. I’ve taken a great many steps, too, at one time and another, but they don’t seem to amount to much to look back upon.”

“And you have a good many more to take, I hope,” said Violet, hardly knowing how to answer her.

But Miss Bethia shook her head.

“It ain’t likely. But the next six months seem longer to look forward to than a great many years do to look back upon. It is all right, anyhow. And, children, if I should never see you again—I want you to remember to consider your mother always. You must never forget her.”

“No,” said David, wondering a little at her earnestness.

“And, David, and you too, Violet, don’t you get to thinking too much about property. It is a good thing to have, I’ll allow, but it ain’t the best thing by considerable. Some get to love it, by having too much, and some by having too little; but it ain’t a satisfying portion any way that it can be fixed, and the love of it makes one forget everything else. And be sure and be good children to your mother, if I shouldn’t ever see you again. I don’t suppose I need to tell you so; but it’s about as good a thing to say for a last word as any, except this—Follow the Lord always, and keep your armour bright.”

They answered her gravely and earnestly, as she seemed to expect, but it was with no thought that they were listening to her last words. They would see her, doubtless, many a time again; and they said so to her, as she repeated them in the morning when it was time to go. But Violet never saw her again; David saw her, when she was almost past words, and then she could only, with labouring breath, repeat the very same to him.

It would have been a very sorrowful leave-taking if the children could have known that it was their last “Good-bye” to Miss Bethia. But it never came into the minds of any of them that the next time they saw the pleasant house in Gourlay, she would be sleeping by their father’s side in the grave-yard over the hill.

Chapter Fifteen.

The next winter passed at the bridge house very much as former winters had done. Violet was in her old place at Mr Oswald’s. It was much quieter there than it had ever been before, for Selina was spending the winter with her sister, and Mr Philip had gone to a situation in the city of M—, his father hoping that the stricter and more constant attention to his duties, that would be required from him there, would tell better in his business education than irregular work in the office at home could be supposed to do. Frank’s eyes were better, but he was not permitted to use them much yet. It was part of Violet’s duty to read to him, and a judicious selection of a course of historical reading made the winter pleasant and profitable to both. Jem was at school no longer. There is no royal road to the attainment of knowledge and skill in the profession he had chosen, even when the means and appliances of wealth are at one’s disposal; and, having no money, there was nothing for Jem but to work with his hands as well as his head, and so he was adding his quota to the clamour made all day in the great engine-house at the other side of the town. Indeed, he worked a good deal more with his hands than his head for a time, and it needed some persuasion on his mother’s part, and the exercise of some authority to keep him, during a reasonable time, every evening at his books.

For Jem was a little unsettled by the new circumstances in which he found himself. His friendly ways and bright good temper made him popular among his fellow-workmen, and his popularity and his love of fun, together, the more exposed him to the power of temptations inseparable from the place, and but for his mother’s kindness and firmness, judiciously mingled, it might have gone ill with Jem that winter. But he settled down after a little, and, with Mr Anstruther’s help, devoted himself as zealously as ever to those branches of study absolutely necessary to advancement in the profession of an engineer. It was rather an anxious winter to Mrs Inglis on Jem’s account, but it was, on the whole, a satisfactory winter to look back on, as far as he was concerned.

Affairs were not going on so smoothly in the bank as they used to do. There were changes there. One clerk was removed to another branch of the concern, and the services of another were dispensed with altogether. David gained a step or two in consequence, and worked hard in acquiring the knowledge necessary for a right performance of his higher duties.

Mr Oswald was away often, and did not seem to be in good health or spirits when he was at home. In spring, he resigned his office of acting director of the bank, and another was appointed in his place. Mr Caldwell, who had come into the bank with him, left with him—not because his services were no longer required there, but because Mr Oswald needed him, and he chose to give his services to him.

For there were signs of coming trouble to the Oswalds. It began to be whispered in the town that the affairs of Mr Oswald were not in a prosperous condition, and that the resignation of his position in the bank had not been voluntary on his part, but demanded of him by those who were responsible for the successful carrying on of its affairs. Not that anything had gone wrong as yet, but he was extensively engaged in other business, and had other interests. He had to do with the quarries, and with lumbering affairs, and he had had something to do with the building of a railway, and had not prospered in all these things; and it could not be doubted that trouble was before him.

There had been some anxiety lest David’s place in the bank might not be permanent in the midst of so many changes, but no change was made in his case, and except that his work was somewhat different, and that more responsibility rested on him with regard to some matters, all went on as before. He missed Mr Oswald’s face in the inner office, and he greatly missed the comings and goings of Mr Caldwell; but all went on in the bank with the same system and order as it had ever done.

But troubles were thickening around the Oswalds. Mrs Mavor was ill and Selina was sent for to be with her. Mr Philip lost his situation in M—, and came home. Rumours had reached David, before this time, that his manner of life had not been satisfactory to his employers or to his friends, and Jem had heard more than David about him. Except to their mother, neither of them had spoken of this, but no one seemed surprised at his return.

Before his return, Mr Oswald had been taken very ill, and his inability to attend to his business involved it in difficulties, which threatened to hasten the unhappy crisis, which even Mr Caldwell acknowledged must have come sooner or later on him. There was trouble in the house, it may well be supposed. Violet had many cares, for Miss Oswald was entirely occupied with her brother in his illness, and Frank devoted himself to his father in a way that was a help and a comfort to them all.

As for Mr Philip, it was very difficult to believe that it could have come to this pass with his father. It seemed impossible to him that, after so many years of successful business-life, his father should be in danger of being left penniless; and he insisted to Frank and David, and even to Mr Caldwell, that there must have been mismanagement—probably dishonesty—on the part of some of those with whom he held business relations; and that this unhappy illness had been taken advantage of to bring matters to the painful crisis they had reached. So fully was he convinced of this, that it was, with difficulty, he could be prevented from applying to his father to obtain information with regard to certain affairs. But the doctor was imperative as to his not being disturbed by allusions to business now, or for some time to come.

“It might cost his life or his reason, Dr Ward says,” repeated Frank. “And even if he could be spoken to, it would do no good while he is unable to leave his room or even his bed. We must wait patiently. I don’t suppose it will make any real difference in the end.”

Even Frank knew more about his father’s affairs than Philip did.

“If I had only staid in the office, instead of going to M— last year,” said he.

“I don’t suppose it would have made much difference. You would have known something about the books, perhaps, and papa might not have had to pay out so much money for you. I don’t know, though. It is easy enough to spend money anywhere.”

Philip walked about impatiently.

“What I have spent is not a drop in the bucket,” said he.

But the thought of the money he had spent and the money he owed made him very miserable.

“You know best about that,” said Frank. “Here is something that Mr Caldwell left to-day. It is addressed to papa, so he opened it, but he found that it is meant for you. I am very glad papa did not see it.”

Philip glanced at the paper his brother put in his hand.

“Have you examined it?” asked he, sharply.

“I looked at the sum total, not at the items.”

“Well! a gentleman must spend something on such things, if he is in society.”

“If he have it of his own to spend, you mean. I don’t see the necessity. I’ll venture to say that some of these items did not make you more like a gentleman, but less,” said Frank.

“That is for me to decide,” said Philip, angrily.

“I don’t know that. However, you’ll have to consult Mr Caldwell about it—the paying of it, I mean. Though the chances are, he will neither be able nor inclined to help you.”

“It is no great affair, anyway.”

“The helping you? or the sum total? It is more than half of David Inglis’s yearly salary, and Aunt Mary has only that to keep house for them all—at least, she can’t have much besides. It depends on how you look at a sum of money, whether it seems large or small.”

Philip had no answer ready. He walked about the room angry and miserable. Frank went on:

“If you had not lost your situation, you might have paid it yourself, in time, I suppose. As it is you will have to fail too, or your creditor must make up his mind to wait. Are there more of them?”

Frank asked the question coolly, as though it were a trifling matter they were discussing, and his manner throughout the whole discussion seemed intended, Philip thought, to exasperate him.

“And it is not like Frank, the least in the world,” said he to himself, as he uttered an exclamation at his words.

“However,” repeated Frank, “it is only a drop in the bucket, as you say.”

Philip stood still and looked at him, vexation and astonishment struggling with some other feeling, showing in his face.

“Frank,” said he, “it isn’t like you to hit a fellow when he is down.”

“You need not be so very far down. I would not be down, if I were like you and could do anything,” said Frank, with something like a sob in his voice.

“It is precious little I can do, even if I knew what were needed.”

“Talk with Mr Caldwell.”

“Mr Caldwell! The thought of him gives me a chill; and I don’t suppose he would talk with me. He hasn’t a very high opinion of me,—in the way of business, or in any way.”

“He’d talk with you fast enough, if you would talk reasonably. Try him. He wants some one to go to Q— about the timber that has been lying there some weeks now. Papa spoke about it too. It would have paid well, if he had been able to attend to the sale of it himself. But he has not perfect confidence in Donnelly the agent, and the time is passing. It must be sold soon, and Mr Caldwell can’t be everywhere. I told him to send Davie Inglis, but he must not take him from the bank he thinks; and, besides he is so young and so boyish-looking. You would do quite as well, I dare say. At any rate, you would be better than no one.”

Philip looked as though he thought he was being “hit” again, but he said nothing.

“One thing is certain,” continued Frank, “if you are going to do any good in our present fix, you can only do it by knuckling down to old Caldwell. Nobody knows so much about papa’s affairs as he does.”

Whether Philip “knuckled down” to Mr Caldwell or not, he never told Frank, but he did tell him that he was going in a day or two to Q—, to make arrangements for the sale of timber accumulated there for ship-building purposes, or for exportation. He did not know much about the matter and did not speak very hopefully. The sting of it was that he might have known if he had done as his father had had a right to expect him to do. However, Mr Caldwell sent him away none the less willingly because of his low spirits.

“You will do better than nobody,” said he, as Frank had said before. “You can have an eye on the books and on all the papers. Don’t let Donnelly be too much for you.”

It would not do to enter into all the particulars of Philip’s first business venture. It is enough to say, he was successful in circumstances where failure would not have been surprising; and the very first time he saw his father after he was a little better, he had the satisfaction of hearing Mr Caldwell telling him of the successful termination of the sale of the timber. He had the greater satisfaction of prompting that slow-spoken gentleman where his memory or his information failed, and of giving all details to his father, who was both relieved and pleased with the turn this affair had taken.

But success in this his first independent attempt at doing business could not avert the troubles that had been long hanging over his father. If Mr Oswald had been in perfect health, it might have been different. With time granted to continue his business relations, or even to settle up his own affairs, he might have been able to give every man his own. But his health came very slowly back, and affairs in the meantime wrought to a crisis. Philip strove hard to obtain time, and pledged himself to the full payment of all his father’s liabilities within a limited period. Even Mr Caldwell was influenced by his earnestness and hopefulness, and by the good sense and business ability manifested by him in several transactions with which he had had to do, and joined with him in representing Mr Oswald’s affairs to be in such a condition that care and time, and close attention alone were needed to set them right, and to satisfy all just claims at last. But Philip was young and inexperienced, and those of his father’s creditors who knew him best, knew nothing in his past life to give them confidence either in his principles or his judgment, and they could not be induced to yield to him in this matter.

So it only remained for Mr Oswald to give up all that he possessed, to satisfy as far as possible all just demands. It was a very bitter experience for him to pass through, but he was in a state of health too weak and broken fully to realise all that it involved. For the time it was worse for his sons than for him. Frank devoted himself all the more earnestly to his father’s care and comfort, and his doing so made this time of trouble more endurable for both. Philip saw little of his father. His place was to act for him wherever he could do so, so as to spare him as much as possible the details of the painful business.

It was a very miserable time to him. He made up his mind to get away as soon as possible to California or British Columbia, or anywhere else, so that it was far enough away. But he did not go. He did far better than that would have been. He staid at home, not very willingly, still he staid, and tried to do his duty as he had never tried before, and there were times when it was not easy to do.

Mr Caldwell, as one in whom the creditors had perfect confidence, both as to his conscientiousness and his knowledge of affairs, was appointed by them to settle up Mr Oswald’s business, and with their permission Philip Oswald was requested to act as his assistant for the time. It was not the thing he would have chosen for himself, but if he had gone away now, it must have been without his father’s consent, and if he staid at home it was absolutely necessary that he should earn money for the payment of his own debts. There was nothing better offered for his acceptance, and Mr Caldwell’s terms were such as even Philip considered liberal.

“Though I know quite well he would much rather have had Davie Inglis,” said he to Frank, when it was quite settled that he was to stay. “I don’t believe he thinks I shall be much good. However, I must take it and make the best of it.”

“You are quite wrong. Davie wouldn’t suit him half so well as you in this business, though of course he has perfect confidence in Davie, and you have to be tried yet. But he knows you will make it a point of honour to do your best in the circumstances.”

“If these people in M— had not been such fools as to force matters on, there might have been some inducement to do one’s best in straightening out things. And it would have been better for them and for us too. I wish I were a thousand miles away from it all.”

“No, you don’t, unless you could take the rest, of us out of it too. For my part, I think you have a grand opportunity to exercise courage and patience, and to win honour and glory as a true hero. Just you go down and speak to Aunt Mary and Violet about it.”

“I think I see myself doing it!” said Philip, as though it were a thing utterly impossible and not to be considered for a moment.

However, before many days were over, he found himself at the bridge house, enjoying Mrs Inglis’s kindly sympathy, and the delighted welcome of the children, more than he would have imagined possible. He had seen very little of any of them for a long time, and was ashamed of his defection, conscious as he was of the cause. It was not comfortable for him to talk with Mrs Inglis, or to share in the pursuits and amusements of her young people, with the consciousness of wrong-doing upon him. Wrong-doing according to their standard of right and wrong, he meant, of course. According to his standard, there were many things he could do, and many things he could leave undone, quite innocently, of which they would not approve. Several of such questionable incidents had occurred in his manner of life about the time of their return from Gourlay last year, and he had kept away from them. He had been too busy since his coming back from M— to see much of any of his friends, and this was his first visit to the bridge house for a long time.

“Why did you not come before?” said little Mary.

“I have been very busy. Are you glad to see me now?”

“Yes, very glad, and so is mamma and all of us. I want to show you something.” And the child went on to make confidences about her own personal affairs, into which Mr Philip entered with sufficient interest, as his manner was. He had only time for a word or two with the mother before Jem and David came in.

“Your father is really improving, I am glad to hear,” said Mrs Inglis when the children left them.

Philip’s face clouded.

“Is he better? It hardly seems to me that he gains at all. He is very much discouraged about himself.”

“Frank thinks him better. It is a great relief to him, he says, that you are here.”

“I ought never to have gone away,” said Philip, sighing.

“But your father wished it, did he not? Perhaps it would have been better had you been here. However, you are here now. Frank says he begun to improve the very day you consented to assist Mr Caldwell in the settlement of his affairs.”

Philip hung his head.

“Don’t be hard on me, Aunt Mary.”

“Am I hard on you? I am sure I don’t know how. That is Frank’s idea of the matter.”

“Aunt Mary! if you only knew what a good-for-nothing fellow I have been! I am sure I cannot see why my father should have confidence in me.”

“In whom should he have confidence, if not in you?” said Mrs Inglis, smiling.

Philip had nothing to answer. A feeling of shame, painful but wholesome, kept him silent. Even according to his own idea of right, he had been undutiful in his conduct to his father. He had accepted all from him, he had exacted much, and he had given little in return, except the careless respect to his wishes in little things, which he could not have refused to any one in whose house he was a guest. They had been on friendly terms enough, as a general thing, but there had been some passages between them which he did not like to remember. That his father should have had any satisfaction in him or his doings, except indeed in the case of the transaction of the timber at Q—, was not a very likely thing. The very supposition went deeper than any reproaches could have gone and filled him with pain and regret.

“Frank is a good fellow, but he does not know everything,” said he, dolefully.

“I think he must know about your father, however, he is with him so constantly, and he says he is better. It will be some time before he is able for business again, I am afraid. In the meantime he has perfect confidence in Mr Caldwell and in you, which must be a comfort to him.”

Philip shook his head.

“Aunt Mary, the business is no longer his, and what we are doing is for the benefit of others. He has lost everything.”

“He has not lost everything, I think,” said Mrs Inglis, smiling, “while he has you and Frank and your sisters. He would not say so.”

Philip rose and came and stood before her.

“Mrs Inglis, I cannot bear that you should think of me as you do. It makes me feel like a deceiver. I have not been a good son to my father. I am not like your Davie.”

Mrs Inglis smiled as though she would have said, “There are not many like my Davie.” But she looked grave in a minute and said—

“There is one thing in which you differ. Davie is an avowed servant of the Lord Jesus Christ. He professes to desire to live no longer to himself, but to Him.”

“And you think that is everything, Aunt Mary?”

“I think it is the chief thing.”

“Well, I am not like that. I am very far from that.”

“But this ought to be the chief thing for you as well as for David, ought it not?”

“I have not thought about it, Aunt Mary.”

“You have not taken time. You have fallen on easy days hitherto. It would have been difficult to convince you that, to be a servant of God, a follower of the Lord Jesus is the chief thing—the only thing, while each day brought with it enough to satisfy you. This trouble, which has come upon you all, may have been needed—to make you think about it.”

Philip answered nothing, but sat gazing at the clouds, or at the leaves which rustled at the window, with his cheek upon his hand. There is a time to keep silence and a time to speak, and Mrs Inglis could not be sure on which of these she had fallen. She longed to say just the right word to him, but hitherto her words had fallen like water on the rock, which, in the first gleam of sunshine, disappears. He always listened, grave or smiling, as the occasion seemed to demand. He listened with eagerness, pleased at her interest in him, pleased to be treated like one of the children, to be praised or chidden, and, for all that she could see, as well pleased with the one as with the other. As she sat watching him in silence, Mrs Inglis thought of Violet’s complaint against him. “He is not in earnest. He cares only for his own pleasure.”

“Ah! well! The Master knows how to deal with him, though I do not,” she said to herself. Aloud, she said, “You must not suppose that I mean that religion is for a time of trouble, more than for a time of prosperity. It is the chief thing always—the only thing. But, in a time of trouble, our need of something beyond what is in ourselves, or in the world, is brought home to us. Philip, dear lad, it is a wonderful thing to be a soldier and servant of the Lord Jesus. It is a service which satisfies—which ennobles. All else may fail us, or fetter us, or lead us astray. But, belonging to Christ—being one with Him—nothing can harm us truly. Are you to lose all this, Philip? Letting it pass by you—not thinking about it?”

She had no time to add more, nor had he time to answer her, even if he could have found the words. For first David came in, and then Jem, all black and dirty from the forge, and, proud of it, evidently. His greeting was rather noisy, after the free-and-easy manner which Jem affected about this time. David’s greeting was quiet enough, but a great deal more frank and friendly, than his greetings of Philip had usually been, his mother was pleased to see. Jem made a pretence of astonishment at the sight of him, meaning that he might very well have come to see his mother sooner; but David fell into eager discussion of some matter interesting to both, and then Jem went away to beautify himself, as he called the washing off the marks of his day’s work. When tea-time came, Philip hesitated about accepting Mrs Inglis’s invitation to remain.

“You may as well,” said Ned; “for I saw Violet up-town and I told her you were here, so they will be sure not to wait.”

So he staid, and made good his place among them after his long absence.

Something had been said in the early spring about Mrs Inglis and the children going to spend the summer in Gourlay again. But there was not the same necessity for a change that there had been last year, and the matter was not at once decided. While Mrs Inglis hesitated, there came tidings that decided it for her. There came, from Miss Bethia, a letter, written evidently with labour and difficulty. She had been poorly, “off and on by spells,” she said, all winter; and now, what she had long feared, had become evident to all her friends. A terrible and painful disease had fastened upon her, which must sooner or later prove fatal. “Later,” she feared it might be; for, through long months, which grew into years before they were over, she had nursed her mother in the same disease, praying daily that the end might come.

“I am not afraid of the end,” she wrote; “but remembering my poor mother’s sufferings, I am afraid of what must come before the end. It would help pass the time to have you and the children here this summer; but it might not be the best thing for them or you, and you must judge. I should like to see David, but there will be time enough, for I am afraid the end is a long way off. I am a poor creetur not to feel that the Lord knows best what I can bear. It don’t seem as though I could suffer much more than I used to, seeing my mother’s suffering. And I know the Lord is kind and pitiful, though I sometimes forget.”

Mrs Inglis’s answer to this letter was to go to Gourlay without loss of time. At the first sight of Miss Bethia, she did not think her so very ill. She thought her fears had magnified her danger to herself. But she changed her opinion when she had been there a day or two. The Angel of Death was drawing near, and all that made his coming terrible was that he came so slowly. At times she suffered terribly, and her sufferings must increase before the end.

The coming of the children was not to be thought of, Mrs Inglis could see. She would fain have staid to nurse her, but this could not be while they needed her at home. She promised to return if she were needed, and begged to be sent for if she could be a comfort to her. All that care and good nursing could do to alleviate her suffering, Miss Bethia had. Debby Stone was still with her, and Debby’s sister Serepta, whose health had much improved during the year. The neighbours were very kind and considerate, and Mrs Inglis felt that all that could be done for her would be done cheerfully and well.

So she went home; but through the summer they heard often how it was with their old friend. But first one thing and then another hindered Mrs Inglis from going to see her till September had well begun. Then there came a hasty summons for David and his mother, for there were signs and tokens that the coming of the King’s messenger was to be “sooner,” and not “later,” as she had feared. So Violet came home because they could not tell how long the mother might have to stay, and their departure was hastened.

But the King’s messenger had come before them. They saw his presence in the changed face of their friend. They did not need her whispered assurance, that she need not have been afraid—that it was well with her, and the end was come.

“David,” she said, brokenly, as her slow, sobbing breath came and went, “you’ll care for your mother always, I know; and you must follow the Lord, and keep your armour bright.”

She fell into a troubled sleep, and waking, said the same words over again, only with more difficult utterance. She spoke to his mother now and then in her painful whisper, sending messages to Violet and Jem and all the rest; and once she asked her if she had a message for the minister, whom she was sure so soon to see. But the only words that David heard her speak were these, and he answered:

“I will try, Aunt Bethia;” but he had not voice for more.

It was like a dream to him to be there in the very room where he had watched that last night with his father. It seemed to be that night again, so vividly did it all come back.

“Mamma,” he whispered, “can you bear it?”

By and by they went up-stairs, and into the study, which was still kept as they had left it two years ago.

“Mamma,” said David, again, “it is like a dream. Nothing in the whole world seems worth a thought—standing where we stood just now.”

“Except to keep one’s armour bright, my David,” said his mother. “Happy Miss Bethia! She will soon be done with all her trouble now.”

They watched that night and the next day, scarcely knowing whether she recognised them, or whether she were conscious of what seemed terrible suffering to those who were looking on; and then the end came.

It was all like a dream to David, the coming and going of the neighbours, the hush and pause that came at last, the whispered arrangements, the moving to and fro, and then the silence in the house. He seemed to be living over the last days of his father’s life, so well remembered—living them over for his mother, too, with the same sick feeling that he could not help or comfort her, or bear her trouble for her, or lighten it. And yet, seeing her there so calm and peaceful in every word and deed; so gentle, and helpful, and cheerful, he knew that she was helped and comforted, and that it was not all sorrow that the memory of the other death-bed stirred.

When he went out into the air again, he came to himself, and the dazed, dreamy feeling went away. It was their good and kind old friend who had gone to her rest, and it would be wrong to regret her. There were many who would remember her with respect and gratitude, and none more than he and his mother and the children at home. But her death would leave no great gap, that could never be filled as his father’s had done. She had been very kind to them of late years, and they would miss her; and then—it suddenly came into David’s mind about his father’s books, and about the sum that had three times been paid to his mother since they had been in Miss Bethia’s care. He was ashamed because of it; but he could not help wondering whether it would be paid still, or whether they would take the books away or leave them where they were. He did not like to speak to his mother. It seemed selfish and ungrateful to think about it even; but he could not keep it out of his mind.

There was another day of waiting, and then the dead was carried away to her long home.

There were none of her blood to follow her thither. The place of mourners was given to Mrs Inglis and David, and then followed Debby and her sister. A great many people followed them; all the towns-folk joined in doing honour to Miss Bethia’s memory, and a few old friends dropped over her a tear of affection and regret. But there was no bitter weeping—no painful sense of loss in any heart because she had gone.

David sat in the church, and walked to the grave, and came back again to the empty house, with the same strange, bewildered sense upon him of having been through it all before. It clung to him still, as one after another of the neighbours came dropping in. He sat among them, and heard their eager whispers, and saw their curious and expectant looks, and vaguely wondered what else was going to happen that they were waiting to see.

Debby and her sister were in the other room, seemingly making preparations for tea; and once Debby came and looked in at the door, with a motion as if she were counting to see how many places might be needed, and by and by Serepta came and looked, too, and David got very tired of it all. His mother had gone up-stairs when she first came in, and he went in search of her.

“Mamma, I wish we could have gone home to-night,” said he, when, in answer to his knock, she had opened the door.

“It was late, dear, and Mr Bethune said he would like to see me before we went away.”

“About the books, mamma? I wish I knew about them.”

“You will know soon. I have no doubt they will be yours, as Miss Bethia intimated before we left them here. There may be some condition.”

“I wonder what all the people are waiting for? Are you not very tired, mamma? Debby is getting tea ready.”

Debby came in at the moment to make the same announcement.

“Tea is ready now,” said she. “I’d as lief get tea for the whole town once in a while as not. But it ain’t this tea they’re waiting for, and if I was them I’d go.”

“What are they waiting for?” asked David.

“Don’t you know? Oh, I suppose it’s to show good-will. Folks generally do at such times. But I’ll ring the tea-bell, and that’ll scare some of them home may be. Some of them’ll have to wait till the second table, if they all stay, that’s one thing. And I hope they’ll think they’ve heard enough to pay them before they go.”

They did not hear very much, certainly. Mr Bethune from Singleton was there, but the interest of the occasion was not in his hands. Deacon Spry had it all his own way, and opened and read with great deliberation a paper which had been committed to him. It was not Miss Bethia’s will, as every one hoped it might be, but it was a paper written by her hand, signifying that her will, which was in Mr Bethune’s keeping, was to be opened just a year from the day of her death. In the meantime Deborah Stone was to live in her house and take care of it and what property there was about it. Her clothes and bedding were in part for Debby, and the rest to be divided among certain persons named. Mrs Inglis was requested to leave her late husband’s library where it was for one year, unless she should see some good reason for taking it away. And that was all.

Everybody looked surprised, except Debby, who had known the contents of the paper from Miss Bethia.

“I suppose it’ll be Mr Bethune’s business to look up Bethia’s relations within the year. Folks generally do leave their property to their relations, even if they don’t know much about them. But I rather expected she’d do something for the cause among us,” said Deacon Spry, in a slightly aggrieved tone.

“I thought she’d at least new paint the meeting house,” said Sam Jones.

“Or put a new fence round the grave-yard.”

“Well! may be she has! We’ll see when the year’s out.”

“No, folks most always leave their property to their own relations. They seem nearest, come toward the end.”

“I don’t suppose she’s left a great deal besides the house, anyway. I wonder just how much Debby Stone knows?”

It was not pleasant to listen to all this. Debby had nothing to tell, not knowing anything; nor Mr Bethune, though he doubtless knew all. So there was nothing better to do than just wait till the right time came.

“I suppose we may count upon the books, mamma, or she would not have asked you to leave them here?” said David.

“Yes, I think so. She never called them hers, you know. She will have explained it to Mr Bethune, I suppose. I think you may count on the books.”

Chapter Sixteen.

Another year passed quietly over the Inglis household. Jem and David both did good service, each in his special calling, and made some progress in other things besides. David kept the plan of his life steadily before him, but this year did not, to all appearance, bring its fulfillment any nearer. It did not seem impossible to him that their life should go on in the same quiet routine, without break or change, for a long time, nor did this seem impossible to his mother.

There was this difference in their thoughts, however. While Davie, with the impatience of youth, grew anxious now and then, as though the sowing time were passing with no seed being put in, his mother knew that there was nothing lost to his future work as yet, that the discipline of early care and self-denial, the constant and willing giving of himself to work, which in itself was not congenial, was a better preparation than he knew. She felt that if the Master had a special work for him to do, He would provide a way for special preparation, and that His time was best. David knew this too, and was on the whole content to look forward a good way yet, for the change that must come, when his wish with regard to this one thing should be granted. He was more than content. Life went very quietly and happily with them this year, and it was a profitable time in many ways.

Jem’s work agreed with him, it seemed, for he was growing tall and strong. His gay and careless temper brought him into some difficulties this year, and being at that age when a young lad making his own way is apt to become tenacious about little things which concern his dignity, and impatient of the open exercise of restraint acknowledged to be lawful and right, he needed to be gently and carefully managed. But happily this uncomfortable period did not last long with Jem. He grew manly in character as well as in appearance, and grew more, rather than less, open to home influence as he grew older.

David’s fair face and quiet manner gave Jem an appearance of advantage over him as far as manliness was concerned, and strangers often took Jem to be the eldest of the brothers. Jem himself, in a laughing way, claimed to be beyond him in a knowledge of the world—on its hard side—and made merry pretence and promise of advising and protecting him in certain supposed circumstances of difficulty or danger. But in his heart he deferred to his brother, as in all things far wiser and better than he.

As to David’s plans and their carrying out, Jem saw neither doubt nor difficulty. In a few years—not very distinctly specified—Jem was to become the head and bread-winner of the house, and David was to go his own way to honour and usefulness. Jem was still to be the rich man of the family, though the time and manner of winning his wealth he could not make very clear; and David laughed and accepted his freedom from care and his brother’s gifts very gratefully, and professed to have no scruples as to his future claims upon him.

When Mr Oswald’s household was broken up, Violet returned home. But happily an opportunity occurred for her to obtain what she had long secretly coveted, a chance to improve herself, in some branches of study, under better masters than Singleton could afford. She passed the greater part of the year as pupil-teacher in a superior school in M—, and returned home in the end of June. The year was of great advantage to her in many ways, though the children at home could not see it. She “was just the same as ever,” they said, which was a high compliment, though not intended as such.

She had not changed, but she had made advances in several directions her mother was pleased to discover. Her return was a great pleasure to her brothers, but Jem was critical now and then, and spoke of “airs and graces,” and “fine manners,” as though she were not quite innocent of those on occasion. David was indignant, but Violet laughed at them both, and proved that whatever change had come to her manners, none had come to her temper, “which was a blessing,” Jem acknowledged.

Mr Oswald’s household was broken up about the time of Miss Bethia’s death. Selina remained with her sister, and the little girls went with their aunt to her former home. Mr Oswald had been induced to take the sea voyage, and the entire rest from business, which his physicians declared absolutely necessary to his entire restoration to health. Frank accompanied him to England, where they both remained during the year. His health had improved, and there was some expectation that they would return at the close of the summer.

His house had been sold, and was now used as a hospital for the poor and sick of the town. The extensive grounds around it had been cut up by the opening of several new streets in that direction, and one could scarcely have recognised the place that used to be so beautiful in the eyes of the Inglis children. However, the only Oswald left in Singleton took the sale of the house, in which he had been born and brought up, very philosophically. The opening of the new streets had increased the value of the land immensely, and under the careful hands of Mr Caldwell, that and all other property belonging to Mr Oswald was being so disposed of that his creditors had a good prospect of losing nothing by him.

Philip Oswald still asserted, that but for the faint-heartedness which illness had brought upon his father, and the untimely pressure of the creditors because of it, there needed have been no failure. He asserted it indignantly enough some-times, but he did not regret the disposal of the house or the spoiling of the beautiful grounds as he might have been supposed to do.

The sudden change in the circumstances of the family had not hurt Philip. The year’s discipline of constant employment, and limited expenditure, had done him good, and, as he himself declared to Jem and David, not before it was time. The boyish follies which had clung to him as a young man, because of the easy times on which he had fallen, must have grown into something worse than folly before long, and but for the chance of wholesome hard work which had been provided for him, and his earnest desire to work out the best possible result for his father’s good name, he might have gone to ruin in one way or other. But these things, with the help of other influences, had kept him from evil, and encouraged him to good, and there were high hopes for Philip still.

He had not been in Singleton all the year, but here and there and everywhere, at the bidding of the cautious, but laborious and judicious, Caldwell, who had daily increasing confidence in his business capacity, and did not hesitate to make the utmost use of his youthful strength. When he was in Singleton, his home was in Mr Caldwell’s house. He had gone there for a day or two, till other arrangements could be made. But no other arrangements were needed. He stayed there more contentedly than he could at the beginning of the year have supposed possible, and it grew less a matter of self-denial to Mr and Mrs Caldwell to have him there as time went on. He had a second home in the house of Mrs Inglis; and this other good had come to him out of his father’s troubles, and the way he had taken to help them, that he made a friend of David Inglis. He had supposed himself friendly enough with him before, but he knew nothing about him. That is to say, he knew nothing about that which made David so different from himself, so different from most of the young men with whom he had had to do.

“In one thing he is different,” Mrs Inglis had said, “He is a servant of God. He professes to wish to live no longer to himself.” With this in his thought, he watched David at home and abroad, at first only curiously, but afterwards with other feelings. David was shy of him for a time, and kept the position of “mere lad,” which Philip had at first given him, long after his friendship was sought on other terms. But they learned to know each other in a little, and they did each other good. Mrs Inglis saw clearly how well it was for David to have some one more ready and better fitted to share his pleasures and interests than Jem, because of his different tastes and pursuits, could possibly do. And she saw also that David’s influence could not fail to have a salutary effect on his friend, and she encouraged their intercourse, and did all in her power to make it profitable to them both. Violet and the children spent a month in Gourlay; but Mrs Inglis, not liking to leave David and Jem alone, only went for a day or two. They returned early in August. Mr Oswald and Frank were expected soon. Mr Philip’s spirits did not rise as the time of their coming drew near. He dreaded for his father the coming back to find no home awaiting him. He consulted with Mrs Inglis as to the preparations he should make for him; but, when it was talked over among them, it was found that he did not know enough about his father’s future plans to make it possible for him to make arrangements for more than a day or two. He did not even know whether he was to remain in Singleton. He did not even know whether he should remain in Singleton himself. He could decide nothing till they came. He was altogether too anxious and troubled, Mrs Inglis told him; he had not been like himself for some time.

“Well, it ought to be all the more agreeable to the rest because of that,” said he, laughing.

“It has not been. And you must let me say that I think you are troubling yourself more than enough with regard to the coming of your father.”

“But it is about myself, partly, you know.”

“Well, I think the trouble is uncalled for in either case. It will not be so bad for your father as you fear.”

“Do you know what is the news in town to-day, Philip?” asked Jem. “That you and old Caldwell are going into the produce business together. A queer team you would make!”

“We have drawn very well together for the last year,” said Philip.

Jem shrugged his shoulders, and made a grimace.

“Singleton might suit Mr Caldwell to do business in, but I wouldn’t fix myself in Singleton if I were you.”

“Nonsense, Jem,” said David. “There is no better place than Singleton for that business, everybody knows.”

“And, besides, Philip is well-known here,” said Mrs Inglis.

“I am not sure that it is a better place for me because of that, Aunt Mary; but it is as good a place as any, I suppose, in which to begin with a small capital.”

“Pooh! about capital! The only men in the country worth their salt began life without a dollar. Which of us has capital? And we are all bound to be rich men before we die,” said Jem.

“Yes, I dare say. If I were a boy of fifteen, I might say the same,” said Philip, with a sigh.

“Hear him! You would think him fifty, at least. And if you mean me,” said Jem loftily, “I am nearly seventeen. I only wish I were twenty-three, with the world before me.”

They all laughed at his energy.

“There is no hurry, Jem. You will need all the years that are before you. Violet, put away your work, and play, and the children will sing.”

Violet rose and opened the piano, and there was no more said at that time. While the children were singing, David went out, and, in a little, called Philip from the window. Philip rose and went out also, and they passed down the garden together. By and by they had enough of music, and Violet shut the piano, and sat down beside the window with her work again. Jem had the grace to wait till the children went out, and then he said:

“Mamma, you said I was to tell you the next time, and here it is. You must have noticed yourself—Violet’s manner, I mean. Philip noticed it, I could see. She was as stiff and dignified as Mrs Mavor herself. I wouldn’t put on airs with Phil, when he is down as he is to-night, if I were you.”

Violet looked from him to her mother in astonishment.

“Do you know what he means, mamma?”

“You don’t need mamma to tell you.”

“Tell me, then, Jem. What did I say or do?”

“You didn’t say or do anything. You were stiff and stupid. Mamma must have seen it.”

“No, Jem, I did not. If you mean that Violet’s manner to Mr Philip is not the same as to you and Davie—why, you know, it can’t quite be that.”

“No, because Violet made up her mind long ago that Philip Oswald was a foolish young man—‘not in earnest,’ as she used to say. Letty can’t bear people that are not quite perfect,” said Jem.

Letty laughed, and so did her mother.

“Thank you, Jem. That is as much as saying that I consider myself quite perfect.”

“Oh! you may laugh,” said Jem, loftily; “but if Phil, hasn’t proved himself steady enough by this time, I don’t know what you would have! There are not many would have staid it out, under old Caldwell, and have done as he has done. To say nothing about the business not being a very pleasant one.”

“He has improved very much,” said Mrs Inglis.

“And, now, when he and Davie are such friends,” went on Jem, who did not know when he had said enough. “I think if Davie approves of him, that ought to be enough for Violet.”

“Quite enough, I acknowledge, Jem,” said Violet. “I wonder where Davie has gone;” and she rose and went to the door as if to see.

She did not find him, if she looked for him, for David and Philip, after walking up and down the railway track for some time, went down to David’s favourite seat on the stones of the abutment of the bridge close by the water. They were silent for some time after they went there. David sat gazing at the bright clouds that lingered after the sunset, while his friend moved up and down and flung stones into the water. By and by he sat down by David’s side, saying—

“And so I am all at sea again.”

“I don’t see why you should be ‘at sea again,’ as you call it,” said David. “Mr Caldwell’s offer was made without any reference to me, and my refusal can make no real difference.”

“It will make all the difference in the world to me.”

“Philip, promise me one thing. Don’t decide till your father comes and Frank. I don’t know when I was so glad. See how pleased your father will be.”

“Nonsense, Davie! It is no such great thing as all that—a partnership with old Caldwell.”

“Hear what your father will say. I can’t say how fine a thing it will be to be his partner, but your father will think it a high compliment that he should have wished it. It will be good for you—and for him too. I don’t know which I congratulate most.”

David was growing enthusiastic.

“It would do, I think, if you were coming with us. A clerkship now, and a partnership afterwards. There is no hope of making you change your mind, Davie?”

“Would you wish me to change my mind, Philip?” said David laying his arm over his friend’s shoulder, in a way that would have satisfied Violet of his interest and affection.

“I don’t know. I am not sure. I don’t understand it.”

“Yes, you do, Philip—or you will sometime. I mean, you will understand why this should be the best thing for me to do. You cannot quite understand all I feel about it, because you never knew my father.”

“Tell me about him,” said Philip.

“It is not what I could tell you that would make you understand. But—we speak about aspirations and ambitions, Philip; but if I had my choice what I should do, or what I should be, I should choose the life, and work, and character of my father.”

David’s voice faltered.

“Since when has that been your choice?” asked Philip.

“Always! I mean, always since he died. And, before that, he was my ideal of wisdom and goodness, though I did not particularly wish or try to be like him then?”

“And it was his wish that you should choose his profession, and live his life, and do his work?”

“He wished it,—yes. And now I wish it, not merely because of his wish, but because—I love my Lord and Master, and because I wish to honour Him as His soldier and servant—”

David did not find it easy to say all this to Philip, and there was silence for a minute or two.

“But haven’t you been losing time?” said Philip.

“No. Mamma does not think so. Time should try a decision so important, she thinks. I am young yet, and I have been keeping up my reading pretty well. And, besides, she thinks the care, and the steady work, and our life altogether,—having to manage with just enough, you know,—has been good discipline for me, and a sort of preparation.”

“I see! And when is the other sort of preparation to begin?”

“I don’t know. The way will open, mamma always says. When we came here first, mamma and Violet meant to keep a school; but, after Violet went to teach your sisters, we could get on without it, and it was so much better for us to have mamma all to ourselves. She may think of it again, and Violet is better able to help her now.”

“It is a slave’s life.”

“No; I don’t think mamma objects to it on that ground. But there is no haste about it. I always remember what mamma said to me once—‘If your master has a special work for you to do, He will provide the means for special preparation.’”

“What a wonderful woman your mother is!” said Philip.

David laughed, such a happy laugh.

“Is she? She does not think so.”

“I wonder if she would be on my side if I were to tell her all about old Caldwell’s plans, and how much good you could do with us—and a future partnership, and all that. Why, Davie, you might, when you are a rich man, educate any number of ministers. Wouldn’t that do as well as to be one yourself?”

“That will be something for you to do. No; I don’t think mamma would be on your side.”

“But you are her bread-winner, as I have heard her say. How can she spare you?”

“And I shall always be so while she needs me. I can wait a long time patiently, I think. But I cannot give it up now. It would be ‘looking back,’ after putting my hand to the plough.”

They were silent for a good while, and then Philip said:

“Tell me about your father.”

David doubted whether he had anything new to tell, for, as they had come to care more for each other’s company, he had often spoken to Philip of his father. But if he had nothing new to tell, he told it all over in a new way—a way that made Philip wonder. He told him all that I have told you, and more,—of his father’s life and work—how wise and strong he was—how loving and beloved. He told him of his love for his Master, of his zeal for His service. He told him of his own lessons with him, of how he used to go with him to the North Gore and other places, and of what he used to say, and how happy the days used to be. He told him of his last days, and how, when it came to the end, he was so joyful for himself and so little afraid for them, though he was going to leave them alone and poor—how sure he was that God would care for them and keep them safe until they all should meet again. Sometimes he spoke with breaking voice, and sometimes, though it had grown dark by this time, Philip could see that his cheeks flushed and his eyes shone as he went on, till he came to the very last, and then he said:

“He told me then, at the very last—even after he had spoken about mamma, that I was to take up the armour that he was laying down. And, God helping me, so I will,” said David, with a sob, laying down his face, to hide his tears, on the shoulder of his friend. But, in a little, he raised it again, and said, quietly:

“I couldn’t go back after that, Philip.”

“No,” said Philip; and he said nothing more for a long time, nor did David. Philip spoke first:

“And so it must be ‘Good-bye,’ Davie?”

“Good-bye?” repeated David. “I don’t understand?”

“You are to take one way and I another; so we part company.”

David was silent from astonishment.

“As our fathers did,” said Philip. “They were friends once, as we are, Davie, but their paths divided, as ours must, I fear.”

“It need not be so.”

“It is curious to think of it,” went on Philip. “If my father were to die to-night, he would leave his children as poor as your father left his when he died. Not that it would matter; but then my father has lost his whole life, too. No, Davie, I fear the end will be that we must go different ways.”

“Dear Philip,” said David, standing before him, and speaking with much earnestness, “there is only one thing that can separate us—your serving one master and I another; and that need not be. Your work may be as much for Him as mine. Philip, dear friend—is He your Lord and Master, as He is mine?”

Philip shook his head.

“I do not know. I fear not, Davie. What am I saying? I know He is not. I have never done a stroke of work for Him, or for any one at His bidding, or for His sake, and that is the whole truth, Davie.”

“But that is not to be the end! His soldier and servant! There is nothing in all the world to be compared with that! Have you offered yourself to Him? Will you not offer yourself to Him? Oh, Philip! there is nothing else.”

“Davie,” said Philip, hoarsely, “you don’t begin to know what a bad fellow I have been.”

“No; nor do you. But He knows, and the worse you are the more you need to come to Him. Have you never asked Him to forgive you and take you for His own? It is for Him to do it. Ask Him now!”

David threw his arms round the neck of his friend. It was a sudden act, boyish and impulsive—not at all like David. Philip was much moved.

“Ask Him, Davie,” said he, huskily.

Kneeling beside him on the stone, David did ask Him, using simple words and few—such words as Philip never forgot—words that he uttered in his own heart many a time afterwards, and not in vain.

They lingered a good while, but there was not much said between them after that, and when David went into the house, where his mother and Violet were waiting for him, he told them that Philip had gone home. By and by he said:

“The story Jem heard was true, mamma. Mr Caldwell wants Philip to become his partner in a new business. It seems he has saved something, and he is willing to put his capital against Philip’s youth and energy and business talents. It will be very good for Philip and for Mr Caldwell too.”

“It shows great confidence on Mr Caldwell’s part,” said Mrs Inglis.

“Yes; but, mamma, you said it as if you were surprised, as if his confidence might be misplaced.”

“I am surprised, dear, but the other idea I did not mean to convey. My surprise was because of Mr Caldwell’s well-known deliberation and caution.”

“Yes; the offer, even if it go no further, is a feather in Phil’s cap,” said Jem. “But Mr Caldwell is a shrewd old gentleman, though he be a little slow. He knows what he is about.”

“You look as though you expected to be contradicted, Jem,” said Violet, laughing.

“Is Philip pleased with the prospect? Will the thing go on?” asked Mrs Inglis.

“I think so. I hope so. It will be decided when Mr Oswald returns. Philip would have liked me to go with them—into their service, I mean, with the prospect of something better by and by.”

“And what did you say to him?” asked his mother.

“Of course you refused?” said Violet.

“I don’t know about that,” said Jem. “Davie had better think twice before he refuses such an offer. But Davie never did appreciate Philip.”

David laughed at Jem, and answered his mother.

“I told him all about it, mamma. He was disappointed, but he understood, I think.”

There was no more said that night. Jem would gladly have entered into a discussion of the subject, but David did not stay to listen, and Violet would not respond, and what he had to say would not have been the best thing to say to his mother, so he kept his opinion for the hearing of Philip against the time he should see him again.

When Philip came, which was not for a day or two, the first words he said to Mrs Inglis were—

“I think you ought to be a very happy woman, Aunt Mary.”

“I think so too. But what has given you new light on the subject?” asked Mrs Inglis, smiling.

“And you ought all to be very happy children,” said Philip, lifting little Mary, who was not so very little now, to his knee.

“And so we are,” said Violet.

“And you ought to be very good, too.”

“And so we are,” said Jem.

“Well, then, no more need be said on the subject at present, except that I wish that I were one of you.”

“Tell us about the new partnership,” said Jem.

“It is not to be spoken of yet. It is a secret.”

“Davie told us,” said Violet.

“Oh, I don’t mean it is to be a secret here! But it is not to be decided till my father comes home. Though I suppose he will let me do as I like.”

“If you are quite sure that you know what you would like.”

“I am quite sure I know what I would like, but I am not to have that, it seems.”

“Is it Davie?” said Violet. “But you don’t mean that you would like him to change his mind and his plans, I hope?”

“It would be selfish, wouldn’t it, and wrong? No, upon the whole I wouldn’t like Davie to be different, or to do differently. But I should like to be more like him.”

“But you are pretty good now, aren’t you,” said Mary. “Davie is very fond of you and mamma and all of us. I suppose you are not quite so good as our Davie.”

They all laughed.

“I will try to be good, indeed I will, Polly,” said Philip.