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Title: The Silver Maple

Author: Mary Esther Miller MacGregor

Release date: May 4, 2009 [eBook #28688]
                Most recently updated: January 5, 2021

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Al Haines


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SILVER MAPLE ***




Produced by Al Haines










The Silver Maple


by

Marian Keith



Author of "Duncan Polite"




TORONTO

THE WESTMINSTER COMPANY LIMITED

1905




CONTENTS


CHAPTER

    I.  IN THE VALLEY OF SHADOWS
   II.  A NEW NAME
  III.  WINNING HIS SPURS
   IV.  "CAPE CANADA"
    V.  THE REFORMATION
   VI.  AN IGNOMINIOUS TASK
  VII.  THE AVENGING OF GLENCOE
 VIII.  THE END OF THE FEUD
   IX.  RALPH STANWELL AGAIN
    X.  IN THE REALMS OF GOLD
   XI.  THE WEAVER'S REWARD
  XII.  A WELL-MEANT PLOT
 XIII.  THE VOICE IN THE WILDERNESS
  XIV.  THE VOYAGEURS
   XV.  THE SECRET OF THE NILE
  XVI.  RE-VOYAGE
 XVII.  THE PROMISED LAND




THE SILVER MAPLE



I

IN THE VALLEY OF SHADOWS

  Like the great rest that cometh after pain,
    The calm that follows storm, the great surcease,
  This folding slumber comforts wood and plain
    In one white mantling peace.
          --WILLIAM WILFRED CAMPBELL.


The storm was over, the snow had ceased falling, and under its muffling
mantle, white and spent with the day's struggle, lay the great swamp of
the Oro.  It seemed to hold in its motionless bosom the very spirit of
silence and death.  The delicately traced pattern of a rabbit or weasel
track, and a narrow human pathway that wound tortuously into the
sepulchral depths, were the only signs of life in all the white
stillness.  Away down the dim, cathedral-like aisles, that fainted into
softest grey in the distance, the crackling of an overburdened twig
rang startlingly clear in the awesome hush.  The tall firs and pines
swept the white earth with their snow-laden branches, the drooping
limbs looking like throngs of cowled heads, bent to worship in the
sacred stillness of a vast temple.  For the forest was, indeed, a place
in which to wonder and to pray, a place all white and holy, filled with
the mystery and awe of death.

But suddenly into this softly curtained sanctuary came a profaning
sound; a clear, joyous shout rang through the sacred aisles; and, down
the narrow pathway, leaping over fallen logs, whipping aside the laden
branches and scattering their snow-crowns in a whirling mist about him,
destroying, in his ruthless progress, both the sanctity and the beauty
of the place, came a human figure, a little figure, straight and
sturdy, and as lithe and active as any other wild, forest-creature.
His small, red-mittened hands, the scarlet woollen scarf about his
neck, and his rosy cheeks made a bold dash of colour in the sombre
gloom, as his abounding life disturbed the winter death-sleep.

On he came, leaping from log to log like a hare, and setting the
stately forest arches ringing to a rollicking Scottish song, tuneful
and incongruous,--

  "Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', an' a',
  Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', an' a',
  We'll up an gie them a blaw, a blaw!
  Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', an' a'!"


But as he plunged down the hill into the grey depths he suddenly ceased
singing.  The awe of the place touched his child's spirit.  Reared in
the forest though he had been, he suddenly felt strangely unfamiliar
with his surroundings.  He had never before experienced anything like
fear in the woods.  The rigours of seven Canadian winters had bred a
hardy spirit in this little backwoodsman, and besides what was there to
dread in the forest?  It had been his playground ever since he was
first able to steal away from Granny and toddle off to "the bush" to
gather blue flags and poke up the goggle-eyed frogs from their fragrant
musk-pools.  But here was something unfamiliar; a strange uncanny place
the swamp seemed to-day; and, being Nature's intimate, he fell into
sudden sympathy with her awe-stricken mood.

He sped silently forward, glancing fearfully down the dim, shadowy
aisles, so ghostly, so mysterious, dreading he knew not what.

"Eh, eh, it will be a fearsome place," he whispered.  "It's jist,--eh,
it must be the 'valley of the shadow'!"  And then he suddenly
remembered the psalm that Granny had taught him as soon as he could
speak,--

  "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
  I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me."


He whispered it over from beginning to end, not because he comprehended
its meaning as applied to his case, but because it was associated with
Granny and all things good, and, therefore, gave him a sense of
comfort.  For he felt as though he were home by the fireside, and she
was smoothing his curls and singing those words, as she so often did
when he was falling asleep.

  "And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever."


As he whispered the last line he reached the top of the hill and
suddenly emerged from the valley of shadows and fears into the light of
day.  Just ahead lay a clearing, with the rose-coloured sunset flooding
its white expanse and glowing between the dark tree-stems.  He ran
forward with joyful relief and leaped out into an open world of beauty,
all ablaze in the dazzling rays of the setting sun.  Here was light and
safety--yes, and friends!

He had emerged upon the public highway, known in that part of the
country as the "Scotch Line," and there, coming swiftly down the
glittering hill, was a low, rough sleigh, drawn by a pair of bell-less
horses.  The driver was an elderly man, tall, straight, and
fierce-looking, with a fine, noble head and a long, sweeping, grey
beard, which gave him a patriarchal appearance.  By his side sat a
young man, almost his exact counterpart in face and figure, but lacking
the stately dignity of years.  Behind, on the edge of the sleigh,
swinging their feet in the snow, sat two more youths, both showing in
face and figure unmistakable signs of close relationship to the elderly
man on the front seat.

As the little figure came bounding out from the forest the whole
quartette broke into a welcoming shout.  With an answering whoop the
boy darted forward and pitched himself upon the sleigh.

"Horo, Scotty!"  "Woohoo!"  "How's our big college-student?"

He was caught up and flung from one to another like a bundle of hay,
until he landed, laughing and breathless, in the arms of the driver.
Big Malcolm MacDonald stood the boy up between his knees, his deep eyes
shining with pride.

"Hey, hey!" he cried.  "And how's our big man that will be going to
school?"

The boy's dark eyes were blazing with excitement.

"Oh, Grandad, it would jist be fine!  It's jist grand!  An' me an' Big
Sandy's Archie and Peter Jimmie is all readin' in one place, an' the
master says I can read jist fine, whatever!"

"Didn't you get a lickin'?" demanded a voice from the rear of the
sleigh.

The bright face suddenly fell, one could never aspire to be a hero
until one had braved the master's tawse.

"No," was the reluctant admission.  "The master would be jist fearsome
to the big lads, but he would not be saying anything to me.  But," he
added, brightening, "I would be having a fight!"

"Horo!" the three young men laughed delightedly.  "That will be a fine
start, jist keep it up!" cried the youth on the front seat.

"Hoots, whist ye, Callum!" cried the elder man, reprovingly, while his
dancing eyes contradicted his tongue.  "What will his Granny be sayin'
to such goin's on, an' the first day at school, too!"

"And who would you be fightin', Scotty?" asked Uncle Rory, leaning
eagerly forward.

"Danny Murphy!" he announced truculently, "an' I would be lickin' him
good, too!"

There was a chorus of joyous approval.

"Good for you!" shouted Callum; "jist you pitch into any o' yon Irish
crew every time you get a chance!"

"Be quate, will ye, Callum!" cried his father more sternly.  "The lad
will be jist like yerself, too ready with his fists, whatever.  A brave
man will never be a boaster, Scotty, man."

The would-be hero's head drooped; he looked slightly abashed.

"What would Danny be doin' to you?" inquired Callum.

At the question, the proud little head came up swiftly.

"He said--he said!" cried its owner, stammering in his wrath, "he said
I would be an Englishman!"

Small comfort he received, for the report of this deadly insult
produced yells of laughter.

"Yon was a black-hearted Irish trick, an' jist like one o' Pat Murphy's
tribe, whatever," said Callum, with a sudden affectation of solemnity
that somewhat appeased the child's rising indignation.

"An' you would be pitchin' into him good for his lies, wouldn't you?"
inquired Rory, encouragingly.

The boy looked up shyly at his grandfather.  "A wee bit," he admitted
modestly.

The father glanced significantly at his eldest son.  "School will be
the place to learn many things," he said in a low tone.  The young man
laughed easily.  "He's bound to be finding it out some time, anyway,"
he answered, but not so low that the boy's quick ears could not catch
the words.  He looked up intently into the faces of the two men, a
startled expression in his big eyes.  Then he suddenly scrambled out
from between them, and went behind to where Hamish, his youngest uncle,
sat.  He felt vaguely that he was approaching some strange, unforeseen
trouble, and Hamish was always sympathetic.

The sleigh had been moving swiftly through long, narrow forest aisles,
and now it suddenly turned into view of a small farm, a "clearing,"
plentifully besprinkled with snow-crowned stumps and surrounded by the
still unconquered forest, dark and menacing, but sullenly and slowly
retreating.

Here was a home, nevertheless; a home wrested by heroic struggles from
the wilderness.  In the centre, on the face of a little sloping hill,
stood the citadel of this newly-conquered territory,--a farmhouse and
out-buildings.

They were all rough log structures, but the dwelling house had about it
the unmistakable atmosphere of a home.  Around it, even under the
snowdrifts, were vague signs of a garden; from the low, wide chimney
poured forth a blue column of smoke; and at one of the windows a candle
twinkled cheerfully; both speaking of warmth and welcome within, very
grateful in the chill, winter dusk.  And at the side of the house, on a
small knoll, spreading its bare branches over the roof as though to
shield the home from the biting blasts, grew a gigantic silver maple, a
welcome shelter alike in summer and winter.

As the sleigh swept past the house on its way to the barn.  Big Malcolm
pushed the boy gently forward.  "Run away in, Scotty, man," he said;
"see, Granny will be watchin' for you at the window."

Scotty hesitated; he wanted to go on to the stable, and there give Rory
and Hamish a more detailed account of his glorious battle of the
morning.  But Granny was expecting him, and he must not disappoint her;
even Callum dared not do that, and Callum dared almost anything else.
So the boy leaped down and ran swiftly up the rough little pathway.  At
his approach the old, weather-beaten door flew open; and he sprang into
a pair of outstretched arms.




II

A NEW NAME

  Outside, the ghostly rampikes,
  Those armies of the moon,
  Stood while the ranks of stars drew on
  To that more spacious noon,--

  While over them in silence
  Waved on the dusk afar
  The gold flags of the Northern light
  Streaming with ancient war.
          --BLISS CARMAN.


Scotty lay stretched before the wide fireplace, his tousled, curly head
upon his small, brown hand, his eyes fastened dreamily upon the glowing
mass of coals.  He was waiting anxiously for the rest of the family to
join him.  Supper was over; and just as soon as his grandfather and
"the boys" returned from the barn he was going to recount, for the
fourth time, the great events of this, his first day at school.  He
felt like a hero just returned from an overwhelming victory.  The whole
family seemed conscious of his added importance.  Even Bruce, his
collie dog, sat close beside him, poking him occasionally with his
nose, that he might have a share in his master's glory.  And as for
Granny, she stopped every few moments in her work of straining and
putting away the milk to exclaim:

"Eh, eh, but it's Granny would be the lonesome old body this day
without her boy!"

The little candle on the bare, pine table shed only a small ring of
light, and the goblin shadows danced away from the wide hearth into the
corners of the room.  In the darkest one stood an old four-post bed
with a billowy feather mattress, covered by a tartan quilt.  Beside it
hung a quantity of rough coats and caps, and beneath them stood the
"boot-jack," an instrument for drawing off the long, high-topped boots,
and one Scotty yearned to be big enough to use.  In another corner
stood Granny's spinning-wheel, which whizzed cheerily the whole long
day, and beside it was a low bench with a tin wash-basin, a cake of
home-made soap and a coarse towel.  There was very little furniture
besides, except a few chairs, the big table, the clock with the long
chains and the noisy pendulum, the picture of Queen Victoria, and the
big, high cupboard into which Granny was putting the supper dishes.
This last article of furniture was always of great interest to Scotty.
For away up on the top shelf, made doubly valuable by being
unattainable, stood some wonderful pieces of crockery; among them a
sugar-bowl that Granny had brought from the old country, and which had
blue boys and girls dancing in a gay ring about it.  Then there was the
glass jar with the tin lid in which Grandaddy kept some mysterious
papers; one piece was called money.  Scotty had actually seen it once,
in Grandaddy's hands, and wondered secretly why such ugly, crumpled,
green paper should be considered so precious.

"An' would Peter Lauchie not be coming across the swamp with you, _m'
eudail bheg_?" his grandmother was asking for the fifth time.

"Noh!"  The boy's answer was quick and disdainful.  Somehow he would
rather Granny would not pat his head and lavish endearing Gaelic
epithets upon him to-night; such things had been very soothing in the
past when he was sleepy and wanted to go to bed; but now he was a big
boy, going to school, and had fought and defeated in single combat one
of the MacDonalds' enemies, and he could not be expected to endure
petting.

"Why, Granny!" he cried, "I would be knowing the road all right.  Peter
Lauchie jist came to his clearin', and I would be coming to the line
all alone, and then I met Grandaddy an' the boys there."

"Eh, indeed, it is the great man you will be, whatever," she said,
regarding him wistfully.  This child, her last baby, and the
best-beloved, was growing up swiftly to manhood, and like all the
others would soon have interests beyond her.  "An' would Granny's boy
not be fearing to cross the swamp alone?"  Her voice was almost
pleading.  She bent down, and her thin, hard hand rested caressingly on
his dark, tumbled curls.  She yearned to hear him confess himself her
baby still.  He threw back his head and looked up into her tender,
wrinkled face; and one little hand went up suddenly to caress its rough
surface.  For Scotty had a heart quite out of proportion to the size of
his body, and a look of grief on Granny's face could move him quicker
than the sternest command of his grandfather.

"Yes," he confessed in a whisper, "I would be fearing jist once, and
then I spoke the piece about 'the Lord is my Shepherd' and then I
wouldn't be minding much.  Sing it, Granny."

So Granny sang the Shepherd's psalm in Gaelic, as she went slowly about
her household tasks; sang it in a thin, quavering voice to a weird old
Scottish melody that had in it the wail of winds over lone heather
moors, and the sob of waves on a wild, rock-bound coast.  She came and
went, in and out of the dancing ring of fire-light, a tall, thin
figure, stooped and aged-looking, apparently more from hard work than
from advanced years.  But her toil-bent frame, her rough hands and
coarse grey homespun dress could not quite hide the air of gentle
dignity that clothed her.  There was a certain lofty refinement in her
movements; and on her wrinkled face and in her beautiful grey eyes the
imprint of a soul that toil and pain had only strengthened and
sweetened.  Hers was the face of a woman who had suffered much, but had
conquered, and always would conquer through faith and love.

To the little boy on the hearthstone, at least, the thin, stooped
figure and worn face made up the most beautiful personality the world
could produce.  But he turned to the fire, and his dreams floated far
away beyond the ring of fire-light, and beyond Granny's gentle voice.
For he had entered a new world that day, the great new world of school,
and his imagination had a wider field in which to run riot.

He was still dreaming, and Granny was half-way through the psalm for
the second time, when the stamping of snowy feet at the door announced
the return of Big Malcolm and his sons.  Callum came swinging in first,
Callum who was such a gay, handsome, rollicking fellow that he was
Scotty's hero and copy.  The boy sprang up, pitching himself upon him,
and was promptly swung over the young man's shoulders, until his feet
kicked the raftered ceiling.  Scotty yelled with glee, Bruce leaped up
barking, and the room was in an uproar.

"Hooch! be quate!" shouted Big Malcolm.  "It is a child you are
yourself, Callum!"'

At the sounds of the noise and laughter a small figure stirred in the
shadowy chimney-corner, the figure of a little, bent, old man, with a
queer, elfish, hairy visage.  He sat up and his small, red eyes blinked
wonderingly.  "Hech, hech, and it will be the cold night, Malcolm!" he
said in Gaelic.

"A cold night it is, Farquhar," cried Big Malcolm, piling the wood upon
the fire.  "But we will soon be fixing that, whatever."

"It will be a good thing to be by a warm fire this night," continued
Old Farquhar solemnly, "och, hone, a good thing, indeed!"

Outside the wind had once more gathered its forces, and was howling
about the house, and the swaying branches of the silver maple were
tapping upon the roof as though to remind the inhabitants that it was
still there to protect them.  But the little old man shivered at the
sound, for he had once known what it was to be homeless on those hills
over which the blast was sweeping.

How Old Farquhar came to be a member of Big Malcolm MacDonald's family
no one could quite tell.  He was one of those unattached fragments of
humanity often found in a new country.  A sort of wandering minstrel
was Farquhar, content so long as he could pay for a meal or a night's
lodging at a wayside tavern by a song, or a tune on his fiddle.  Thus
he had drifted musically for years through the Canadian backwoods,
until homeless old age had overtaken him.  Four years before he had
spent a summer at Big Malcolm's, helping perfunctorily in the harvest
fields, working little and singing much, and when the first hard frost
had set the forest aflame he had gathered his poor, scant bundle of
clothes into his carpet-bag preparatory to taking the road again.

"And where will you be going for the winter?" Big Malcolm had asked.

"She'll not know," said Old Farquhar, glancing tremulously over the
great stretches of dying forest, "she'll not know."

"Hooch!" cried his host angrily, "sit down with ye!"  He snatched up
Old Farquhar's carpet-bag and flung it into a corner, and there it had
lain ever since.

And in another corner, the warm one by the chimney, Old Farquhar had
sat every winter since, too, smoking his pipe in utter content.  Always
in summer his Bohemian nature asserted itself again, and he would take
his stick and wander away, remaining, perhaps, for months; but as soon
as the silver maple beside the house began to turn to gold he would
come hobbling back, sure of a warm welcome in the home where there was
no stint.

The family gathered about the cheerful hearth: every one of them, to
Scotty's great delight, for there was not half the fun at home when
"the boys" went off in the evenings.  At one side of the fire sat his
grandmother, her peaceful face bent over her knitting, and opposite her
Big Malcolm smoking and happy.  Hamish, as usual, retired to the old
bench behind the table, and with the one candle close to him, was soon
absorbed in a book.  In some miraculous way Hamish always managed to
have reading material at hand, though the luxury sometimes cost him a
tramp half-way across the township of Oro.  Near the fire, balanced
uneasily on the woodbox and whittling a stick, sat Callum; for Callum
could never sit down quietly, even at home.  Callum Fiach, or Wild
Malcolm, they called him in this land of many MacDonalds, where the
dearth of names necessitated a descriptive title.  Unfortunately,
Callum's especial cognomen was quite appropriate and the cause of much
anxiety to his gentle mother.  But Scotty thought it was fine; he
intended to be just like Callum when he grew up.  He would stand up
straight and grand and cut down great trees and fight the Murphys, and
go off in the evenings and be chaffed about having a sweetheart.  Rory
was always teasing Callum about Long Lauchie's Mary, and Scotty was
resolved that, when he was big, he would go to see Mary's sister,
Betty; for then he and Callum could go together.  He cordially despised
the chosen Betty as a girl and a cry-baby, who gave her brother, Peter,
endless trouble; but he was determined to shirk no task, however
unpleasant, that would make him more like his hero.

When they were all ready to listen to him, the boy seated himself upon
a bench beside Rory, and proceeded to relate once more to his admiring
family the wonderful experiences of the day; the greatness of the
schoolmaster; the magnificence of the school itself; the prowess of
Peter Lauchie and Roarin' Sandy's Archie, how they declared they
weren't afraid of even the master; the number of boys old McAllister
could thrash in a day, and the amount he knew; such fearsome long words
as he could spell, and the places he could point out on the map!  He
chattered on to his delighted audience; but for some strange reason he
made no further allusion to his fight.

When there was no more to tell, Rory crossed the room and with
elaborate care took down a box from a shelf above the bed.  From it he
tenderly took out a violin, and after much strumming and tuning up he
seated himself upon a chair in the middle of the room and struck up the
lively air of "The MacDonalds' Reel."  Scotty leaped to the floor;
Rory's fiddle could do anything with him, make him dance with mad joy
until he was exhausted, stir him up to a wild longing to go away and do
deeds of impossible prowess, or even make him creep into the shadows
behind Granny's chair and weep heart-broken tears into her ample skirts.

To-night the tune was gay, and Callum came out into the ring of light,
and sitting astride a chair with his arms crossed over its back, put
his nephew through the intricacies of the Highland Fling until he was
gasping for breath.  Granny saw, and stopped the dance by a nod and
smile to Rory; the music instantly changed to a slow, wailing melody,
and the boy dropped into a chair and sat gazing into the fire, dreaming
dreams of mystery and wonder.

Then they all sang old-fashioned Scottish songs; songs that were old
before Burns came to give Scotland a new voice.  And Old Farquhar
struck in, during a short pause, with one of Ossian's songs of war-like
doings and glorious deaths.  He sang in a cracked, weird voice to a
wild Gaelic air that had neither melody nor rhythm, but somehow
contained the poetic fire of the impromptu songs of the old bards.
Rory followed, putting in a note here and there; but as the song
wavered on and showed no signs of coming to an end, he struck up, "The
Hundred Pipers an' a' an' a'," and drowned out the old man's wail.
Then Burns was not forgotten, and they were all in the midst of "Ye
Banks and Braes o' Bonnie Doon," a song that always made Scotty's heart
ache as though it would burst, he knew not why, when the door opened
suddenly, letting in a rush of frosty air, and a visitor.

No one ever knocked at a neighbour's door in the Canadian backwoods,
and James MacDonald, or Weaver Jimmie, as he was called, was such a
familiar figure at Big Malcolm's that even Bruce merely raised his eyes
as he entered.  Mrs. MacDonald smiled her welcome, Big Malcolm shoved
forward a chair, and the music flowed on uninterrupted.

Weaver Jimmie was a young man, short, and thick-set.  He was something
of an anomaly; for, while he was the coolest fighter in the township of
Oro, and gloried in strife, he was nervous and embarrassed to the verge
of distraction when in company, particularly if it consisted of the
fair sex.  This diffidence partly arose from the fact that poor Jimmie
was hopelessly ugly, and painfully aware of his shortcomings.  His
chief characteristics were a brilliant and bristling red beard and a
pair of long, flat feet.  He realised to the full that these obtrusive
features were anything but things of beauty, and found them a sorrow
forever in his vain attempts to conceal them.

At Big Malcolm's invitation he moved up to the fire in nervous haste,
and with a deprecating smile; dropped suddenly into a chair, and tilted
it back in imitation of Callum's easy nonchalance; but finding the
character difficult to maintain in view of his feet, he suddenly came
down to the horizontal once more, and in so doing descended upon poor
Bruce's tail.  That unoffending canine uttered a yelp of pain, echoed
by Scotty, who sprang to comfort him; and Rory, whose musical ear had
been irritated by the disturbance, suddenly drew his bow with a
discordant rasp across the strings, and ended the melodious song with a
long, wolf-like howl.

"Hoots, toots, Rory lad!" cried his mother reproachfully.  "Come away,
Jimmie man, come away to the fire, it will be a cold night indeed."

But Weaver Jimmie was so overcome by his embarrassing mistake that,
instead of obeying, he backed away into the shadows like a restive
horse.

"And how will all the folk in the glen be, Jimmie?" asked Big Malcolm.

Under cover of the conversation that ensued, Rory gently drew his bow
across the strings, and softly sang an old ditty that had an especial
meaning for their guest--

  "Oh, Jinny banged, Jinny banged, Jinny banged the Weaver!
  Ah cackled like a clockin' hen,
  When Jinny banged the Weaver!"


Callum Fiach's eyes danced, and Weaver Jimmie laughed sheepishly.  He
took off his cap, replaced it again, smoothed his whiskers furiously,
and then gazed around as if seeking a means of escape.

"Don't you be heedin' the lad, Jimmie," cried Mrs. MacDonald.  "It is
jist his foolishness."

"Hooch," cried Weaver Jimmie, with a fine assumption of disdain, "it's
little I'll be carin' for the likes o' him, whatever."

"D'ye think she'll ever have you, Jimmie?" inquired the musician with
great seriousness.

"I'll not be knowing for sure," replied the Weaver, throwing one knee
over the other in a vain attempt to appear at ease.  "She would be
lookin' a deal better these days, though!" he added, hopefully, as
though the young lady of his choice had been suffering from some
wasting disease.

"Hang me, but I believe I'll go sparkin' Kirsty John myself!" said
Callum resolutely.  "I'll be wantin' a wife bad when the north clearin'
is ready, and I believe Kirsty's got a fancy for me."

"You'd better be mindin' your own business indeed, Callum Fiach!" cried
Weaver Jimmie, with a sudden fierceness that contrasted strangely with
his habitual diffidence.  "She will be a smarter woman than you'll be
ever gettin' with your feckless ways, indeed!"

"Well, I'm afraid there isn't much chance that you'll be gettin' her
either," said Callum very seriously.  "Man, she would be givin' you a
fine black eye the last time you asked her."

Scotty turned away impatiently.  The boys always seemed to get a great
deal of fun out of Weaver Jimmie's tempestuous love-affair, but he
found it very uninteresting.  He slipped under the table, clambered
upon the bench beside Hamish, and stuck his curly head between the book
and the young man's face; for he had long ago discovered this to be the
only effectual means of bringing Hamish back to actualities.  Such a
proceeding would not have been safe with Callum or Rory, but Hamish was
always patient.  "What ye readin', Hamish?" he inquired coaxingly.

"Jist a book," said Hamish dreamily.  "Be careful of it now.  It
belongs to the Captain!"

"Captain Herbert?  The Englishman Grandaddy hates?"

"Yes; whisht, will ye?  I didn't get it from him, though.  Kirsty
John's mother had it, and lent it to me."

"Was you ever at the Captain's place?"

"Yes, once."

"Is it fearful grand?"

"Yes, I suppose so.  But I would jist be at the back door.  Take care,
now, and let me read!"

"The back door!"  Scotty's eyes ranged wonderingly round the walls.
With the exception of the trap-door leading to the loft the house had
but one opening.  "Eh, the Captain's folks must be awful grand, Hamish,
to be having two doors to their house."

Hamish laughed.  "There's grander things than that there; there's
carpets on the floor, an' a piano to play on, an' a whole roomful o'
books!  Losh!" he exclaimed, "I'd like to get my hands on them jist for
a day!"

"How did Kirsty John's mother get this one?"

"The lady that lives there lent it to her.  Kirsty's mother used to
work for them.  Go on away now, and let me read!" for the boy was
running his fingers through the pages.  "There's no pictures; go and
play with Bruce."

But Scotty had turned to the fly-leaf and had discovered some writing.
"What's that, Hamish?"

Hamish read the inscription, which was written in a round boyish
scrawl, "Isabel Douglas Herbert, from her loving cousin, Harold."

"Who're they?"

"The boy's the Captain's son, and the little girl is his niece.  I saw
her once at Kirsty's.  She's a pretty, wee thing."

"Huh!" Scotty was disdainful.  "I don't like girls.  They will jist be
cry-babies.  Is the boy as big as me?"

"He's a little bigger, I guess.  He goes to school away in Toronto."

"Bet I could fight him.  Is Toronto away over in the old country?"

"No, it's in Canada.  Be quiet.  I want to read."

"Oh!  Is Canady very far away?"

"No, it's right here; this is Canada."

"Oh!  An' will the school-house be in Canady too?"

"Yes."

"An' the Captain's house?"

"Imph-n-n."

"Oh!  An' all, Oro, an' Lake Simcoe?  What will you be laughing at?"

"Wait till old McAllister learns you some geography.  You'll hear
something about Canada that'll surprise you, whatever."

"It won't be as big as the old country, though, will it?"  But Hamish
did not answer.  He was far away with David Copperfield once more.  The
boy raised the fly-leaf and took another peep at the name.  He sat very
quiet for a few moment's and then he crept closer to his uncle, a red
flush creeping up under the tan of his cheeks, his black eyes shining.

"Hamish!" he whispered, "Hamish, will that be an--_English_ name?"

"Eh?  What name?"  Hamish awoke reluctantly to the troublesome
realities.  "I'll not know."

"Aw, tell me, Hamish!"

"My, but you will be a bother!  Yes, Herbert will be an English name,
but Isabel Douglas is Scotch, an' a fine Hielan' name, too.  But what
in the world would you be wanting to know for?"

Scotty hesitated.  He hung his black, curly head, and swung his feet in
embarrassment; but finally he looked up desperately.

"Do you know what made Danny Murphy say I was an Englishman?" he
whispered.

Hamish stifled a laugh.  "It would likely jist be his natural Irish
villainy," he suggested solemnly.

But Scotty shook his head at even such a natural explanation.  "No, it
would not be that, it would be--because--_the master said it_, Hamish!"

"The master?"  Hamish's look of amusement changed to one of deep
interest.  "Why?  What would he be saying?"

The boy glanced around the room apprehensively, but the rest of the
family were still absorbed in Weaver Jimmie.  "When we would be coming
into the school," he whispered hurriedly, "the master would be calling
all the new ones to the front.  An' he says to me, 'What's your name,
child?'  An I says, 'It's Scotty,--Scotty MacDonald.'  An' he says,
'Hut tut, another MacDonald!  Yon's no name.  Whose bairn are ye?'  An'
I told him I belonged to Grandaddy an' the boys; an' he says,--an' he
says, 'Oh tuts, I know you now.  You're Big Malcolm's _English
grandson_!'  He would be saying that, Hamish!  An' he wrote a name for
me; see!"  He had been growing more and more excited as the recital
proceeded, and at this point he jerked from his bosom a torn and
battered primer that had done duty in the few days that Hamish had
attended school.  Under the scrawling marks that stood for Hamish's
name was written in a fine scholarly flourish, "Ralph Everett Stanwell."

"Humph!"  Hamish gazed at the book, and a look of sadness crept into
his kind, brown eyes.  He glanced across the room at his father.
Weaver Jimmie had just departed, and Callum was leaning over the back
of his chair laughing immoderately, while Rory was out in the middle of
the floor executing a lively step-dance accompanied by voice and fiddle
to the words, "Ha!  Ha! the wooin' o't!"

"Look here, father," called Hamish, "do you see what the schoolmaster
would be writing in Scotty's book?"

Big Malcolm took the primer, adjusted his spectacles, and moved the
little book up and down before the candle to get the proper focus.
"Ralph Everett Stanwell," he read slowly.  "What kind o' a name would
that be, whatever!" he cried, with a twinkle in his eye.

"It's got a fearsome kind of a sough to it," said Callum apprehensively.

"It will be an English name!" cried Scotty fiercely, "an' Peter Lauchie
would be saying it is jist no name at all!"

The young men burst into laughter, which served only to increase their
nephew's wrath.  He sprang out upon the floor, his black eyes blazing,
and stamped his small foot.

"I'll not be English!" he shouted.  "It's jist them louts from the
Tenth is English!  An' I'll be Hielan'.  An' it's not my name!"

"Eh, eh, mannie!" cried his grandmother gently.  She laid her hand on
the boy's arm and drew him toward her.  "That will be no way for a big
boy that will be going to school to behave," she whispered.  The child
turned to her and saw to his amazement that her eyes were full of
tears.  His sturdy little figure stiffened suddenly, and he made a
desperate effort for self-control.

"But it would be a great lie, Granny!" he faltered appealingly.

"Hoots, never you mind!" cried his grandfather, with strange leniency;
and even in the midst of his passion Scotty dimly wondered that he did
not receive a summary chastisement for his fit of temper.  There was a
strange, sad look in the man's eyes that alarmed the child more than
anger would have done.

"Granny will be telling you all about it," he said, rising.  "Come,
lads, it will be getting late."

The three young men followed their father out to the stable.
Ordinarily they attended to the evening duties there themselves, but
to-night Big Malcolm wished to leave the boy alone with his
grandmother, realising that the situation needed a woman's delicate
handling.

This new proceeding filled Scotty with an added alarm.  He clambered up
on his grandmother's knee as soon as they were alone and demanded an
explanation; surely that English name wasn't his.  He whispered the
momentous question, for though Old Farquhar was snoring loudly in his
corner, Bruce was there, wide awake and looking up inquiringly, as
though he could understand.

And so, with her arms about him, Granny told him for the first time the
story of his birth.  How Granny had had only one little girl, older
than Callum, eh, and such a sweet lassie she was; how just when they
had landed in Canada she had married a young Englishman who had come
over with them on the great ship; how they had left them in Toronto
when they came north to the forests of Oro; how their baby had come,
the most beautiful baby, Granny's little girl wrote, and how she had
written also that they, too, were coming north to live near the old
folks when,--Granny's voice faltered,--when the fever came, and both
Granny's beautiful little girl and her Englishman died, and Grandaddy
and Callum had journeyed miles through the bush to bring Granny her
baby, and how Kirsty John's mother had carried him all the way, and how
he was all Granny had left of her bright lass!

At the sound of grief in his grandmother's voice, the child put up his
hand to stroke her face, and found it wet with tears.  Instantly he
forgot his own trouble in sympathy for hers, and clasping his hands
about her neck he soothed her in the best way he knew.  He scarcely
understood her grief; was Granny crying because he was only an
Englishman after all?  For to him, bereavement and death were but
names, and in the midst of abounding love he had never realised the
lack of parents.

He had often heard of them before, of his beautiful mother, whose eyes
were so dark and whose hair was so curly like his own; and how his
father had been such a fine, big, young man, and a gentleman too,
though Scotty had often vaguely wondered just what that meant.  But
that his parents had left him an inheritance of a name and lineage
other than MacDonald he had never dreamed.  And now there was no
denying the humiliating truth; his father had been an Englishman, he
himself was English, and that disgraceful name, at which Peter Lauchie
had sneered, was his very own.  Henceforth he must be an outcast among
the MacDonalds, and be classed with the English crew that lived over on
the Tenth, and whom, everyone knew, the MacDonalds despised.  Yes, and
he belonged to the same class as that stuck-up Captain Herbert, who
lived in that grand house on the north shore of Lake Oro, and whom his
grandfather hated!

He managed to check his tears by the time the boys returned, but during
prayers he crouched miserably in a dark corner behind Hamish, a victim
of despair.  He derived very little comfort from the fact that
Grandaddy was reading, "And thou shalt be called by a new name"; it
seemed only an advertisement of his disgrace.  He wondered drearily who
else was so unfortunate as to be presented with one, and if it would be
an English name.  And afterwards, when they had gone up to the loft to
bed, he crept in behind Hamish, and cried himself to sleep because of
that, which, in after years, he always remembered with pride.




III

WINNING HIS SPURS

  The Saxon force, the Celtic fire,
  These are thy manhood's heritage!
          --C. G. D. ROBERTS.


Old Ian McAllister, schoolmaster of Section Number Nine, Oro, was
calling his flock into the educational fold.  It was no clarion ring
that summoned the youths from the forest, for the times were early and
a settlement might be proud to possess a school, without going to the
extremity of such foolishness as a bell, and Number Nine was not
extravagant.  But the schoolmaster's ingenuity had improvised a very
good substitute.  He stood in the doorway, hammering upon the doorpost
with a long, flexible ruler, and making a peremptory clatter that
echoed far away into the arches of the forest and hastened the steps of
any tardy youths approaching from its depths.  Good cause they had to
be expeditious, too, for well they knew, did they linger, the master
would be apt to resume the bastinado upon their belated persons when
they did arrive.  This original method had other advantages, from the
schoolmaster's point of view, for, as his pupils crowded past him
through the narrow doorway, he had many a fine opportunity to transfer
occasional whacks to the heads of such boys, and girls, too, as he felt
would need the admonition before the day was over, and who could not
manage to dodge him.  So those approaching the school, even before they
came within sight of the place, could reckon exactly the state of the
master's temper, and the number of victims sacrificed thereto, by the
intermittent sounds of the summoning stick.  Indeed, Number Nine
possessed an almost superhuman knowledge of their master's mental
workings.  When he was fiercest then they were most hopeful; for they
knew that, like other active volcanoes, having once indulged in a
terrible eruption he was not likely to break forth again for some time.
He was quite dependable, for his conduct followed certain fixed rules.
First came about a fortnight of stern discipline and faithful and
terrifying attention to duty.  During this period a subdued and busy
hum pervaded Number Nine and much knowledge was gained.  For Ian
McAllister was a man of no mean parts, and, as the trustees of the
section were wont to boast, there was not such another man in the
county of Simcoe for "bringing the scholars on--when he was at it."
But the trouble was he could never stay "at it" very long.  A much more
joyous, though less profitable, season followed, during which the
schoolmaster's energies were taken up in a bitter and losing fight with
an appetite for strong drink.  Poor McAllister had been intended for a
fine, scholarly, upright character, and he struggled desperately to
maintain his integrity.  But about once in two months he yielded to
temptation.  During these "spells," as Number Nine called his lapses
from duty, he still taught, but in a perfunctory manner, being prone to
play practical jokes upon his pupils, which, of course, they returned
with interest.  When he finally succumbed in sleep, with his feet on
the desk and his red spotted handkerchief over his face, Number Nine
took to the bush and proceeded to enjoy life.  That they did not
altogether give themselves over to unbounded riot was due to the fact
that the master's awakening might occur at any moment.  And well they
knew he was apt to come out of his lethargy with awful suddenness, with
a conscience lashing him for his weakness and with a stern
determination to work out tremendous reparation for the lost hours.

But Number Nine suffered little from this changeable conduct.  They had
studied their master so faithfully that they could generally calculate
what would be the state of his temper at a given time, and guided
themselves accordingly.  Indeed, Roarin' Sandy's Archie, a giant
MacDonald who had attended every winter since the schoolhouse was
built, could tell almost to a day when the master was likely to relax,
and he acted as a sort of barometer to the whole school.

But to-day McAllister showed no signs of relaxation as they dodged past
him and scrambled into their places.  The room was soon filled, for the
winter term had commenced and all the big boys and girls of the section
were in attendance.  The schoolroom was small, with rough log walls and
a raftered ceiling.  Down the middle ran a row of long forms for the
younger children, and along the sides were ranged a few well carved
desks, at which the elder pupils sat when they wrote in their
copy-books.  At the end nearest the door stood a huge rusty stove,
always red-hot in winter, and near it were a big wooden water-pail and
tin dipper.  At the other end of the room stood the master's desk, a
long-legged rickety structure, with a stool to match, from which lofty
throne the ruler of Number Nine could command a view of his realm and
spy out its most remote region of insubordination.  Behind him was the
blackboard, a piece of sheep-skin used as an eraser, and an ancient and
tattered map of Europe.

Scotty was already in his place; he had hurried to his seat as soon as
he arrived for fear someone might ask him his name, and in dread lest
he might be claimed by those English boys from the Tenth, whom his soul
loathed.

He had started to school at a time when the several nationalities that
were being welded together to make the Canadian race were by no means
one, and he had inherited all the prejudices of his own people.  Number
Nine was a school eminently calculated to keep alive all the small race
animosities that characterised the times; for English, Irish and
Scotch, both Highland and Lowland, had settled in small communities
with the schoolhouse as a central point.

The building was situated in a hollow made by a bend in the Oro River;
to the north among the green hills surrounding Lake Oro, was the Oa, a
district named after a part of Islay, and there dwelt the Highlanders;
all MacDonalds, all related, all tenaciously clannish, and all such
famous warriors that they had earned the name throughout the whole
County of Simcoe of the "Fighting MacDonalds," a name which their
progeny who attended Number Nine School strove valiantly to perpetuate.

From the low-lying lands at the south, a region called the Flats, which
sloped gently southward until it sank beneath the blue waters of Lake
Simcoe, came the Irish contingent, always merry, always quarrelling,
and always headed by young Pat Murphy and Nancy Caldwell, who were the
chief warriors of the section.

And over on the western plains that stretched away from the banks of
the Oro, on a concession locally styled "the Tenth," lived a class of
pupils whose chief representative had been overheard by a Highland
enemy to say, as he named the forest trees along his path to school,
"That there's a _hoak_, an' that there's a _hash_, an' that there's a
_helm_."  Though the youth bore the highly respectable and historic
name of Tommy Tucker, he was forever after branded as "Hoak" Tucker,
and his two innocent brothers were dubbed, respectively, "Helm" and
"Hash."

One more nationality was represented in Number Nine, those who
approached the school-house with the rising sun behind them.  They were
Scotch to a man; what was more, they proclaimed the fact upon the
fence-tops and made themselves obnoxious to even the MacDonalds, for
after all they were only Lowlanders, and how could the Celt be expected
to treat them as equals?

When this heterogeneous assembly had all passed under the rod and
seated themselves, the master tramped up to his desk and a solemn hush
fell over the room.  This was remarkable, for unless McAllister was in
an unusually bad humour Number Nine buzzed like a saw-mill.  But this
morning the silence was intense and ominous, and for a very good
reason.  For only the evening before Number Nine had for once
miscalculated their ruler's condition, and a flagrant act of
disobedience had been perpetrated.  McAllister had commanded that all
fighting cease, and in the face of his interdict the MacDonalds and the
Murphys, according to the established custom of the country, had
manfully striven to exterminate each other.  For between the Oa and the
Flats there was an undying feud; partly hereditary, and partly owing to
the fact that Pat Murphy considered it an impertinence on the part of
anyone to come from the north when he chose to approach from the
opposite direction.

During school-hours a truce was preserved, all factions being united
against a common foe; but as soon as school was dismissed the lines of
demarcation became too obvious to be overlooked.  The outlandish Gaelic
the MacDonalds spoke when among their brethren, their irritating way of
gathering clan-like for the journey home, always aroused resentment in
the breasts of the assembling Murphys.  So, five o'clock fights had
long ago become one of the institutions of the school, and in the
winter when the big boys were present the encounters were frequent and
sanguinary.

The schoolmaster objected to all strife in which he had no part, and
since the opening of the winter term he had set his face like adamant
against this international warfare.  But his opposition served only to
increase the ardour of the combatants.  In vain he scolded and
thrashed.  In vain he imprisoned the Scots until the Hibernians had had
a reasonable time to make an honourable retreat.  The liberated party
only waited behind stumps and fallen logs, with the faithfulness of a
lover to his tryst.

So at last McAllister arose in his might and announced that the next
time such an affair occurred he would thrash the leaders of each party
within an inch of their lives.  On such occasions the schoolmaster was
not to be trifled with, and for a few days even the Murphys were cowed.

But as time passed there grew up between the belligerents a tacit
understanding that just as soon as the master entered upon a less rigid
frame of mind they would settle the fast accumulating scores.

So the night succeeding Scotty's first day at school they felt the time
was ripe.  Roarin' Sandy's Archie assured all that a fight would be
perfectly safe.  The master's tropical season was already overdue some
days, and on the morrow he was sure to be jolly.  So the forbidden
campaign had opened just a day too soon.  It proved to be an
Armageddon, too; Lowlander and Highlander, Sassenach and Hibernian,
they battered each other right royally, and now here they were ranged
before their judge to find to their dismay that he was clear-eyed,
clear-headed, and ready to inflict upon the culprits the severest
penalties of the law.

The strange, tense atmosphere filled Scotty with vague alarm.  He felt
that the air was pregnant with disaster.  Danny Murphy nudged him when
the master closed his eyes for prayer and whispered that "Somebody was
goin' to get an awful hidin', likely the MacDonalds."  Prayers were
extremely lengthy, always a bad sign, and Scotty felt his hair rise as
at their close the master banged his desk lid, and glared fiercely
about him.  Perhaps McAllister was going to thrash him for pretending
he was a MacDonald, he reflected fearfully.

The master lost no time in going straight to the point, he knew his
period of weakness was coming over him with overwhelming rapidity; one
more visit to that which lay in his desk would, he knew, destroy his
judgment; and struggling desperately to do what he deemed right, he put
his fists firmly upon the desk lid as if to crush down the tempter and
proceeded to business.

"So, ye've been fighting again!" he cried, fixing the row of bigger
boys with his eye.  "Ye uncivilised MacDonald pack, an' ye savage
Murphy crew!  Tearin' at each other like wolves!  Aye!  Roarin' an'
rantin' an' ragin' like a pack o' blood-hounds!  Ah, ye're nothing but
a pack o' savages!  Jist uncivilised savages!  But Ah'll have no wild
beasts in my school.  Ah'll teach ye!  Ah'll take some o' the fight out
o' ye!"  He glared meaningly at Peter Lauchie, one of the most
bellicose Highlanders, but that young man dodged cleverly behind Pat
Murphy's broad shoulders.  "Ye'll think Ah'll not find ye out?" the
master shouted triumphantly.  "But Ah'll soon do that!  Aye, it was at
the Birch Crick ye were fightin' like a pack o' wild beasts; ye thought
ye were far enough away to be safe.  But Ah'll find out who started
it!"  His eye ranged quickly round the room and fell upon Scotty,
sitting open-mouthed straight in front of him.  McAllister was not
above extorting information from the younger pupils, and Scotty went by
the Scotch Line and could be made to tell.  "You, Ralph Stanwell!" he
cried, fixing the boy with an admonitory finger.  "Yon's your road.
Now, jist tell me all about this fight!"

Now, Scotty, in his eagerness to get home, had taken the short road
across the swamp and knew nothing of the affray.  But he scarcely heard
the master's question; he had caught only that hateful name, the name
that made him an alien from the MacDonalds and classed him with that
baby, "Hash" Tucker, who was even now weeping behind his slate lest his
big brother should be thrashed.  Scotty's face flushed crimson, his
hands clenched.

"Are ye deef?" roared the master.  "Answer me my question, Ralph
Stanwell!"

The boy leaped as if he had been struck.  "That will not be my name!"
he cried defiantly.

McAllister glared at him with wild bloodshot eyes; under other
circumstances he would have been ashamed of the part he was playing;
but now his nerves were raw and his temper was rendered wild by his
craving.

"Are ye ashamed o' yer name, ye young English upstart?" he roared.

That opprobrious epithet "English" swept all fear and discretion from
Scotty's mind.  "I'll not be English!" he shouted back, "I'll be
Scotch, an' my name will jist be MacDonald, whatever!"

A low growl of approval came from the region of the MacDonalds at the
back of the school, and Peter Lauchie MacDonald, who was Scotty's next
of kin, came out from behind Pat Murphy and snorted triumphantly.  The
master reached out his powerful arm and swept the boy up onto his desk,
holding him there in a terrible grip.  "Ah'll MacDonald ye!" he
shouted, shaking him to and fro.  "Another MacDonald to be a wild beast
in the school!  Ah'll knock the MacDonald out o' ye!  Ye young English
wasp, ye!"

Scotty's face was white; but he remembered Callum and held his lips
firmly to keep from crying out.  Peter Lauchie half rose, "He'll be no
more English than you!" he shouted.  The master turned; he was facing
rebellion.  "Peter MacDonald," he said in a low, thrilling tone, "you
will go out and cut me a stick, an' when Ah've taught this ill piece
with it Ah'll break it over your back!"

Peter Lauchie's defiance melted in the white glare of the master's
wrath.  He arose and stumbled sullenly out of doors on his unpleasant
errand.  Scotty had been placed in his especial care both by the boy's
grandmother and his own mother, and his soul writhed under the master's
command.  Outside the door he paused, weighing the chances of returning
without the weapon; the master's tawse had been removed the night
before, and he might put off the day of judgment until the judge
collapsed.  As he stood, miserably irresolute, a low hiss sounded from
beneath the door.  Roarin' Sandy's Archie had crept to it on all fours.
"Don't be hurryin' back," he whispered eagerly, "I'll tell ye when to
come!"

Peter Lauchie stepped behind a hemlock and peeped through the window.
The first glance convinced him of the wisdom of his friend's advice;
delay was the watchword, for trouble had arisen in a new quarter.

At one of the side desks near the platform sat Nancy Caldwell.  Nancy
was the biggest girl in the school and the only person in the township
of Oro whom old McAllister feared.   She was a handsome girl, belonging
to one of the leading Protestant families of the Flats; she was bold
and fearless and had withal such a feminine ingenuity for inventing
schemes to circumvent the schoolmaster that he regarded her with
something akin to superstitious awe.

Nancy had a big, Irish heart, and it swelled with indignation when
Scotty was put up for execution.  She shrewdly guessed that McAllister
was nearing the limit of his strength, and thought she might try a tilt
with him.  So as he tramped angrily up and down the platform, she
reached out, when his back was turned, and whisked the boy under her
desk.

"Lie still!" she whispered.  "Sure, I'll murder him if he touches ye!"

McAllister marched over to her, his arm raised threateningly; the girl
sat and stared coolly back.  For a moment the baffled man stood glaring
at her.  He would rather have met all the big boys in concerted
rebellion than Nancy Caldwell, and felt that he must be fortified
within before he could successfully combat her.  He stepped up to his
desk and clutching a half-empty bottle from it, drained the contents.

The tension of the school was immediately relaxed; the pupils nudged
each other and giggled and Nancy Caldwell laughed aloud and pulled
Scotty out from his hiding place.

As everyone expected, McAllister sank into his chair and glared
sheepishly about him, making a desperate attempt to retain his dignity.

Peter Lauchie stepped out from his post of observation, with a light
heart; and strolled off leisurely in search of a weapon.  Since the
master was now on his way to a better frame of mind, Peter was not the
one to retard his happy progress; so he sauntered about, knowing that
Roarin' Sandy's Archie would summon him when the time was ripe.

His commander did not fail him.  With the keen eye of an old
campaigner, Roarin' Sandy's Archie saw the moment to strike.  The
master had worked up a little energy and was again making for Nancy;
now was the time to divert his attention; he beckoned to his henchman.
As Peter Lauchie entered he showed himself a worthy follower of a
worthy leader, for he strode solemnly up the aisle, dragging in his
wake a respectably-sized hemlock tree, the branches of which swept up
the floor and whipped the boys and girls in the faces, evoking shrieks
of laughter.  He paused before the master's desk and solemnly handed
him the sapling.

"Here's the switch to hide Scotty _MacDonald_, sir," he said with great
seriousness, and a fine emphasis on the name.

The master turned like an animal at bay, and the school broke into a
torrent of laughter.  He grasped the tree and raised it above his head.
"Ah'll batter the cursed impidence out o' ye, ye curse o' a MacDonald!"
he roared, making a drive at the boy.

But Peter Lauchie knew that the master need not now be taken seriously;
he darted down the aisle, McAllister after him, bearing his clumsy
weapon, and mowing down all within three yards of his path.  The boy
leaped over the wood box, dodged round the stove, upset the water pail
over the girls and came careering back.

Number Nine rose to the occasion; their year of Jubilee, so long
delayed, had come at last.  The boys joined in the chase, and soon the
master became the pursued as well as the pursuer.  The girls shrieked
and fled to the wall, all except such amazons as Nancy Caldwell and
Roarin' Sandy's Teenie, who joined in the race, materially assisting
Peter by getting in the master's way or catching hold of his flying
coat-tails.

The chase did not last long; the prey, exhausted, fled out of doors and
the master subsided into a chair.  He brought the school to some
semblance of order and made a feeble attempt at teaching.  But by the
afternoon he was uproariously genial.  He spent an hour conducting a
competition in which the boy who could stand longest on the hot stove
received the highest marks, and finally went to sleep with his feet on
the desk and his red handkerchief spread over his face.

But the affair was not without material benefit to Scotty.  In his
gallant refutation of the charge against him, and in the miraculous way
he had averted the master's vengeance, he had won a place in the heart
of every MacDonald.  Thereafter, no one outside the clan dared give him
his English name, and at last the fact that he possessed one almost
faded from his friends', as well as his own, mind.




IV

"CAPE CANADA"

  The ocean bursts in very wrath,
  The waters rush and whirl
  As the hardy diver cleaves a path
  Down to the treasured pearl.
        --GEORGE HERBERT CLARKE.


The days sped swiftly, and Scotty learned many things both in and out
of school.  In the latter department his chief instructor was his
nearest neighbour.  Peter Lauchie was fourteen, and a wonderful man of
the world in Scotty's eyes; but in spite of the great disparity of
years the two were much together.  From his companion Scotty learned
many great lessons.  The first and cardinal principle laid down was
that all who hailed from the Oa must wage internecine war upon the
Flats and must despise and ignore all English and Lowlanders.  Another
was that one might as well make up one's mind to attend to business
during McAllister's glacial period, but that, when a more genial
atmosphere pervaded the school, the farther one went in inventing new
forms of mischief the more likely was one to become a hero.

Peter Lauchie further explained that all Pat Murphy's crew were nothing
but Fenians.  He pronounced the evil word in a whisper, and added in a
more sepulchral tone that the Caldwell boys and a lot more Irish from
the Flats, yes, and "Hoak" Tucker's people, too, were Orangemen.  These
terrible disclosures filled Scotty with vague alarm; for, though he
strove to keep his companionship a secret, there could be no doubt that
most of his time at school was spent in the very pleasant company of
Danny Murphy and "Hash" Tucker; and furthermore that, since the day she
had saved him from old McAllister's clutches, Nancy Caldwell had been
the bright, particular star of his existence.  He had no doubt that
Nancy returned his devotion, either; for she brought him big lumps of
maple sugar and the rosiest apples, and was always anxious that he
should share her cake.  Of course, she was apt to exact payment for
these favours, and would chase him all over the school and kiss him in
spite of his fiercest struggles.  But, nevertheless, Nancy held his
heart.  Surely she could not be anything very wicked.  Fenians he knew
something about; the Fenian Raids had been talked of in his home ever
since he could remember.  Orangemen might not be quite so bad.  He made
up his mind he would ask Hamish all about it.

There was quite a little circle of friends about the fire that evening;
Long Lauchie MacDonald and three of his grown-up sons had come over for
a chat, and of course Weaver Jimmie was there, having been turned out
of Kirsty John's house at the point of the potato masher.

Like most of the Highlanders, Long Lauchie was aptly described by his
name.  He was a tall, thin, attenuated man.  Everything about him
seemed to run to a point and vanish; his long, thin hands, his flimsy
pointed beard, even his long nose and ears helped out his character.
He rarely indulged in conversation, coming out of an habitual reverie
only occasionally to make a remark.  Nevertheless he was of a sociable
turn and was often seen at Big Malcolm's fireside.

The company sat round in a comfortable, hump-backed circle, emitting
clouds of smoke and discussing the affairs of the Empire; for these
men's affections were still set on the old land, and that which touched
Britain was vital to them.

Then Old Farquhar started upon a tale, so long and rambling that Rory
took his fiddle and strummed impatiently in the background.  Scotty
understood enough of Gaelic to gather that it was the story of a
beautiful maiden who had died that night when her father and brother
and lover lay slain in the bloody massacre of Glencoe.

Impatient of the high-flown Gaelic phrases, Scotty flew to Hamish, and
his indulgent chum put aside the book and told him the story, and why
the MacDonalds hated the name of Orange.  Scotty went back to the fire,
his cheeks aflame with excitement.  Hereafter he would fight everything
and anything remotely connected with the name of Orange.  See if he
wouldn't!

The conversation had turned to quite a different subject.  Weaver
Jimmie had the floor now, and had almost forgotten his embarrassing
appendages in the thrill of relating his one great story; the story of
how his brother fought the Fenians at Ridgeway.

"Eh, eh," sighed Long Lauchie, "it would maybe be what the prophets
would be telling, indeed, about wars and rumours of wars!"

For Long Lauchie not only saw sermons in stones, and books in the
running brooks, but discerned in the everyday occurrences about him
fulfilment of dire prophecy.

"Hooch!" cried Big Malcolm, "I would rather be having a Fenian raid any
day than an Orangeman living in the same township."

Long Lauchie sadly shook his head and went off into a series of sighs
and ejaculations, as was his way, receding farther and farther until
his voice died away and he sat gazing into space.

"Aye, indeed, and mebby you'll be gettin' one," cried Weaver Jimmie,
wagging his head.  "Pete Nash himself told me that Dan Murphy and that
Connor crew an' all them low Irish would be saying at the corner the
other night that they would jist be gettin' up a Fenian Raid o' their
own some o' these fine days, an' be takin' the Glen, whatever."

"Horo!"  Callum Fiach arose and came forward, the joy of a conflict
dancing in his eyes.  "Hech, but I wish they would!"

"Whisht ye, Callum!" cried his father sternly.  "Let the evil one
alone.  I'll have no son o' mine mixin' with such goin's on!"

The young man eyed his father laughingly.  "You'd stay at home if there
was a Fenian Raid, wouldn't you?" he asked teasingly.

Big Malcolm glanced uneasily towards his wife.  His was a hard position
to fill amid the fighting MacDonalds; his whole life was a struggle
between his inherited tendencies and his religious convictions.  He
preached peace on earth and good will towards all men; and believed
implicitly that the meek should inherit the earth; but his warlike
spirit was always clamouring to be up in arms, and sometimes, in spite
even of the strong influence of his wife, it broke all bounds.  He
shook his head at his son's raillery and made no reply.  Not for a long
time had he yielded to temptation, but he felt it was not safe to boast.

"Well, if the Fenians ever come to take Canady again, I hope I'll be
there!" cried Rory gaily, breaking into an old warlike Jacobite air.

Weaver Jimmie threw one leg over the other, with great nonchalance.
"They may take Canady, whatever; but they'll not be taking Oro!" he
remarked firmly.

"Kirsty 'll be lookin' after Oro!" cried Callum.  "Losh, but she'd bang
the senses out of the wildest Fenian that ever grew, if she got after
him!"

"They didn't take much when they did come," said Long Lauchie's Hugh.
"Only a few bullets.  Say, though, don't you wish you'd been there?"

Scotty listened, his heart torn with conflicting emotions.  He wanted
to fight the Fenians now, but with Danny a Fenian, and Nancy and Hash
Orangemen, what would become of him?  He guessed that Callum had some
scheme afoot and he kept close to him all evening and heard him
conferring with Long Lauchie's boys in low tones.  There was something
about the Murphys, and getting them stirred up, and finally a compact
to all be at the glen the following afternoon.

The next day Scotty used all his powers to effect a journey to the
glen, too.  He had some difficulty, however, for it was Saturday and
Granny wanted him with her; but by dint of assistance from Hamish he
accomplished his aim, and in the afternoon he drove away on the front
seat of the big sleigh between Grandaddy and Callum, full of exuberant
joy.

The Glen was a small community at a bend in the River Oro, just a mile
east of the schoolhouse.  Though it was near his home, Scotty had not
been in it since he was a baby.  He was wildly eager to see the place.
To him it was a great metropolis, for it contained a tavern and a
store, yes, and a real mill where they made flour.  And Hamish had
promised to show him the great water wheel that made the mill go, and
they were to spend an hour at Thompson's store, and most of all he was
anxious to learn the outcome of the boys' mysterious plans of the night
before.

The day was delightful, with all the world a gleam of blue and silver,
the glittering landscape softened here and there by the restful grey
tints of the forest.  The blue skies with their dazzling white clouds,
and the shimmering white earth with its bright blue shadows, were so
bewilderingly alike that one might well wonder whether he was in heaven
or on earth.  The air was electric, setting the blood tingling, and, as
the sleigh slipped along down the winding road that led to the river,
Scotty churned up and down on the seat and could with difficulty
restrain himself from leaping out and turning somersaults in the snow.

The highway suddenly emerged from a belt of pine forest and descended
into a little round valley made by the bend in the river.  Here lay
"the Glen," the central point of the surrounding communities.  Scotty
grew quieter and his eyes bigger as they followed the winding steep
road that led into its depths.  There was the mill by the river, giving
out a strange rumbling sound; and beside it the house of old Sandy
Hamilton, the miller; and there, on the northern slope of the river
bank, was Weaver Jimmie's little shanty, with the loom clattering away
inside; and right at the corner stood Thompson's store and opposite it
Peter Nash's tavern.

So many houses all in one clearing!  Scotty could scarcely believe his
eyes.  And yet the poor little place had, after all, a greater
importance than the child could imagine.  The Glen was to the grown
part of the community what the school was to the younger portion.  It
lay within the boundaries of the four different settlements, and as
clearings began to widen and social intercourse became easier, it had
gradually become a place where men met for mutual help or hindrance, as
the case might be.  Here the several nationalities mingled, and though
they did not realise the fact, here they were laying the foundations of
a great nation.  Such a vast work as this could scarcely be carried on
without some commotion; the chemist must look for explosions when he
produces a strange new compound from diverse elements; and it was,
therefore, no wonder that the crucible in the valley of the Oro was
often the scene of much boiling and seething.  Then the tavern came,
with its brain-destroying fire, and sometimes after harvest, when the
Fighting MacDonalds and the belligerent Murphys met before it, the
noise of the fray might be heard in the farthest-off clearing of the Oa.

Scotty's eyes rested fearfully on the tavern.  It was a common log
building, wider than the ordinary ones and with a porch in front and a
lean-to behind.  To the boy its appearance was a great surprise and
some disappointment.  Grandaddy always spoke of it as "a den of
iniquity"; and Scotty's fancy had pictured such a den as Daniel had
been cast into, which he had seen many times in Granny's big Bible.

He was rather sorry they did not stop there, the inside might be more
romantic; but he soon forgot it in the excitement of other scenes; for
they went to the mill and Sandy Hamilton, all floury and smiling, took
him down to where the water came thundering over the big wheel; and
then, while the boys went off with the team, Big Malcolm took his
grandson to the most wonderful place yet, the store.

This was the most important place in the Glen, and the man who kept it,
James Thompson, or Store Thompson, as the neighbours called him, was
the most important and influential member of the community.  He was a
fine, upright, intelligent man and was known far and wide for his
learning.  He possessed a vocabulary of polysyllables that never failed
to confound an opponent in argument, and all the township could tell
how he once vanquished a great university graduate, who was visiting
Captain Herbert at Lake Oro.  He was often identified by this
illustrious deed, and was pointed out to strangers as, "Store Thompson,
him that downed the Captain's college man."

Big Malcolm and Store Thompson, though the latter was a Lowlander, had
been fast friends ever since they had come to Canada.  They were
slightly above the average pioneer in intelligence and had many
interests in common; so for this reason, as well as a matter of
principle, Big Malcolm avoided the tavern and spent his leisure moments
with his friend.

As they entered, Store Thompson was busy weighing out sugar for a
customer, and glanced up.  He was a tall man, with a kind, intelligent
face and a high, bland forehead.  He wore steel-rimmed spectacles, but,
when not reading, had them pushed up to the scant line of hair on the
top of his head, and his pale blue eyes blinked kindly at all around.
He stopped in the midst of his calculations to welcome his friends.

"Eh, eh, Malcolm, an' is yon yersel'?" he cried heartily.  "It's jist a
lang, lang time since Ah seen ye, man; aye, an' it's the wee man ye
hae.  It's a lang time since ye've been to the Glen; jist an
unconscionably lang time; aye, jist that, jist unconscionably like!"
He lingered over the word as he shook hands, and then, after inquiring
for the wife and family, he turned his attention to Scotty, remarked
upon his wonderful growth, and his sturdy limbs, asked him how he was
getting on at school and if he could spell "phthisis."

Scotty hung shyly behind his grandfather, and as soon as the host's
attention was turned from him he escaped.  He seated himself carefully
upon a box of red herring, and his eyes wandered wonderingly around the
shop.  It was a marvellous place for a boy with sharp eyes and an
inquiring mind.  Down one side ran a counter made of smoothed pine
boards and behind it rose a row of shelves reaching to the raftered
ceiling and containing everything the farmers could need, from the
glass jar of peppermint drops on the top shelf to the web of factory
cotton near the floor.  The remaining space was crammed with
merchandise.  There were boxes of boots, bales of cloth, barrels of
sugar and salt and kerosene, kegs of nails, chests of tea and boxes of
patent medicines; and the combination of odours was not the least
wonderful thing in this wonderful museum.  Nothing escaped Scotty's
eyes, from the festoons of dried apples suspended from the dark
raftered ceiling to the pile of axe-handles on the floor in the corner.
He sat utterly absorbed, while his grandfather and Store Thompson
talked.  There was much to tell on one side, at least, for Store
Thompson and the schoolmaster took a weekly newspaper between them, and
it all had to be gone over, especially the news from Scotland.

Store Thompson's wife, a bright, little red-checked woman came hustling
in to greet Big Malcolm, and ask him in for a cup of tea.  "Ah've had
the Captain an' his sister an' the wee leddy to denner," she whispered
proudly, "an' they'll jist be goin' in a minit, an' ye'll come an' have
a cup o' tea with them, jist."

But Big Malcolm, who had arisen at her invitation, suddenly sat down
again.  His face darkened, and he stoutly refused the joint invitations
of husband and wife.  Then the lady espied Scotty in his corner, and
bore down upon him; she secured a handful of pink "bull's-eyes" from a
jar behind the counter, and slipped them into his chubby fist, patted
his curly head and declared he was "jist Callum over again."  And
Scotty smiled up at her, well pleased at being likened to his hero; but
when she caught his face between her hands and tried to kiss him, he
dodged successfully; for, now that he was a big boy and going to
school, not even Granny might kiss him in public.

When she had trotted back to her guests in the house, Scotty caught a
few words of the conversation that aroused his interest.

"Ye hae the boys in wi' ye the day, Malcolm?" Store Thompson asked,
with a note of anxiety in his voice.

"Yes?"  Big Malcolm looked up inquiringly.

"Oh, Ah suppose it's jist naething, jist a--a triviality, like; but Ah
see there's a great crood frae the Oa, the day, an' jist as many
Murphys an' Connors; an' Ah heerd a lot o' wild talk aboot Fenians, an'
the like.  They would be sayin' Pat Murphy was a Fenian; an' that Tam
Caldwell would be for sendin' him oot o' the Glen.  Ah'm hopin'
there'll be nae trouble."

Big Malcolm's face was full of anxiety.  "Indeed, I will be hopin' so
too," he said in an embarrassed tone.  "You will be knowin' my
weakness.  I would not be hearin' about it.  I hope the lads----"

"Oh, Ah suppose it's jist naething," said Store Thompson reassuringly.
"Indeed it's yersel' that's past all sich things as yon, Malcolm, never
fear."

But Big Malcolm shook his head; for years he had purposely avoided the
Glen, to be out of the way of temptation; for the sound of strife was
to him like the bugle call to a war charger.  He fidgeted in his seat
and looked anxiously towards the door.

Scotty went over to the window and stood watching the crowds of men
come and go across the street.

He could not quite make out what was going on, but there seemed to be a
great commotion, for a big crowd of men had suddenly appeared from
nowhere.  And there was Danny's father, and Nancy's father, apparently
having high words; and yes, there was Callum right in the centre of the
seething mass.

There were mingled cries of "Popery" and "Fenians" and "Orangemen."
Then suddenly above the noise there came a roar, "The Oa!  The Oa!
MacDonald!  MacDonald!"

"Grandaddy! oh, Grandaddy!" cried Scotty shrilly, "they're killin'
Callum, they're killin' Rory!"

At the first sound of the MacDonalds' battle-cry Big Malcolm raised his
head like a stag who has heard a challenge, and, at the boy's cry, he
cleared the intervening space with one bound, flung open the door and
shot out into the street.

"Malcolm, Malcolm!" cried Store Thompson in dismay, but Big Malcolm had
heard the call to arms and nothing in the township of Oro could hold
him back.

Scotty sprang to follow him, but Store Thompson closed the door, and
his wife, who had re-entered, put her arms about the boy and drew him
back.

"Ye mustna gang oot there, ma lad," said the storekeeper.  "Yon's no
place for a child; aye," he added, "an' no place for yer grandfather
either!"

"Lemme go!" shouted Scotty, struggling equally with his captor and his
sobs.  "They--'re--killin'--Rory!  Lemme go!"

"Yer Grandaddy said ye were to bide here, laddie, mind ye!" cried Store
Thompson's wife soothingly.

At the reminder of his grandfather's commands Scotty collapsed.  He
retired to the window once more, bathed in tears of helpless rage.  But
another shout from the MacDonalds sent him flying again to the door,
where he once more encountered the ample skirts of his keeper.

"Ah'd niver look Marget Malcolm in the face again, Jeames, if onything
happened the bairn," she cried, struggling with Scotty's sturdy
muscles.  "He maun jist bide!"

"What in heaven's name is the matter with that child?" demanded a
laughing voice from the rear of the shop.  "Has he an attack of spasms?"

Scotty stopped struggling and looked up.  In his absorption over the
battle outside he had not noticed that three strangers had entered the
shop with Store Thompson's wife, and he drew back abashed.  The speaker
was a short, well-built man under middle age, with an air and
appearance quite different from the rough exterior of Scotty's own
people.  There was a look of command in his merry blue eyes and an air
of superiority in his straight, trim figure, that impressed the child.
The other two strangers stood back by the stove; one, a tall lady, the
rustle of whose black silk dress gave Scotty a feeling of awe, the
other a tiny girl, so wrapped up in furs and shawls that he could see
nothing of her, except a bunch of golden curls.

"What's the matter with the confounded little fire-eater?" asked the
man, coming forward.

"It's all his kin that's in yon fecht oot by, sir," said Store
Thompson's wife apologetically.  "The puir wee mannie!"

"Oh, I see; he's starting early.  I never come to the Glen but you
entertain me with a battle, James.  A bad crowd, those fellows from the
Flats.  What's your name, youngster?  Murphy, eh?"

"NO!" Scotty shouted the refutation in indignant horror.  This was
worse than being English!  "It will be MacDonald!"

"Oh, by Jove, one of the Fighting MacDonalds!"  The man burst into a
hearty laugh.  "I might have known."

"But yon's not yer real name, laddie," said Store Thompson's wife.
"Tell Captain Herbert yer name; it's jist a fine one.  He's Big Malcolm
MacDonald's grandson, Captain, but his faether was an English
gentleman, like yersel, an' his mither was a bonny, bonny bit lassie;
aye, an' puir Marget lost her."

The man was gazing down at the boy absorbedly.  "What's his name?" he
demanded sharply.  But Scotty stood silent and scowling.  Confess his
disgrace to this man whom he knew Granddaddy despised?  Never!

"His patronymic," said Store Thompson ceremoniously, "is Stanwell,
Captain; and his baptismal name is jist the same as his father's was,
Ralph Everett; Ralph Everett Stanwell!"

When Store Thompson delivered himself of any such high-sounding speech
he was always rewarded by signs of a deep impression made upon his
hearers.  He had come to look for such results; but he was totally
unprepared for the expression of aghast wonder that his words produced
in the face of Captain Herbert.

"Stanwell!" he cried, "Ralph Stanwell!"  He glanced hurriedly at the
two standing at the other end of the shop and an expression of relief
passed over his face when he saw the tall lady was not attending.  "It
can't be!" he said, lowering his tone, "Captain Stanwell's child died
with the parents!"

"No, sir," said Store Thompson wonderingly.  "Big Malcolm an' his son
brought him from Toronto when he was jist an infant."

The man still stood gazing down at the boy.  Scotty's face was dark
with anger.  Store Thompson, who pretended to be his grandfather's
friend, to publish his disgrace before these strangers!  It was
unbearable!  "I'll not be English," he muttered.  "I'll jist be Scotch,
an' my name's MacDonald!"  He clenched his fists and wagged his curly
head threateningly.  "He must be right," said the man eagerly.  "He
should certainly know."

Store Thompson shook his head smilingly.  "He lives in the Oa, sir," he
confided in a low tone, "an' he wants to be a MacDonald.  But yon's his
name, nevertheless!"

Captain Herbert turned away abruptly, as though he had not heard.
"Eleanor, I shall be ready almost immediately," he said to the lady in
the silk gown, and, with a hasty good-bye, he stepped outside, Store
Thompson following.  Scotty slipped out behind them; the fight was
over, the Murphys and their friends were evidently retreating.  He
could see his grandfather's tall, commanding form in the midst of a
victorious crowd.  He drew a great breath of relief.  As he stood
gazing proudly at them, he felt his hand touched gently by little,
soft, gloved fingers.  He wheeled round to find a pair of big, blue
eyes looking at him from out of the coquettish rim of a fur-trimmed
hood.  The eyes were very sympathetic.  "I'm Scotch, too," came in a
whisper from inside the wrappings, "an' it's nice to be Scotch, isn't
it?"

Scotty's heart opened immediately; here was someone who evidently
believed in him.

"But--but, won't you be Captain Herbert's little girl?" he asked,
wonderingly.

"Yes," she answered with a baby-lisp, that made him feel very big and
superior.  "He's my uncle Walter; but my mamma was Scotch, an' my
name's Isabel Douglas Herbert, an' Uncle Walter says I'm his Scotch
lassie!"

"Oh!" Scotty looked at her with new interest.  "An' you're Kirsty
John's little girl, too, ain't you?"

"Yes," she cried delightedly.  "Do you know Kirsty?"

"Yes."

"Oh, an' Gran'mamma MacDonald?  An' Weaver Jimmie?"

"Oh, yes!"

"I love Jimmie; he tells lovely stories when I go to see Kirsty, 'bout
fairies, an'--an' everything.  Do you know any stories?"

A silken rustle in the doorway made Scotty draw back.  "Come, Isabel,"
said the tall lady.  She was a very pale lady, with a haughty, weary
look in her eyes; and Scotty wondered how the little girl could catch
hold of that silk dress so fearlessly.

"Goo-bye," she said, pausing a moment.  "Goo-bye, little boy."  She
poked the fur-lined hood very close to his face, and Scotty drew back
in alarm for fear she might be going to kiss him.  The little girl
looked disappointed, nevertheless she smiled radiantly.

"I like you," she whispered, "an' I'm comin' to visit you next time I
go to Kirsty's; goo-bye!"

She danced off towards the sleigh, and was bundled in among the warm
robes.  She waved her hand to Scotty as they dashed away, and turned
back to gaze at him standing on the step.

"Man," said Store Thompson, stamping the snow from his feet as he
entered, "Ah niver saw the Captain act like yon before.  He was
jist,--aye, he was jist what Ah would call inimical; aye, jist
inimical, like!"

Store Thompson was more perturbed over the hearty Captain's strange
behaviour than he was over the commotion that had just taken place at
his door.  Such affairs were of too frequent occurrence to call for
comment.  But when Big Malcolm returned for Scotty, the fierce heat of
the conflict still blazed in his eyes and his friend suddenly
remembered what had happened.

"Eh, Malcolm, Malcolm, Ah'm sorry for this!" he cried.  "These fichts
are no work for a Chreestian man!"

"And would I be sitting here, James Thompson, an' see that piece o'
Popish iniquity kill my son?" demanded Big Malcolm fiercely.

Store Thompson held up his hands.  "What, what?" he cried, "would it be
the Murphys and the MacDonalds again?"

"It was a Fenian raid, James!" shouted Tom Caldwell, coming up to the
sleigh, with a proud swagger, "an' Malcolm here was helpin' us
Orangemen put it down, sure!"

Weaver Jimmie, his diffidence all vanished, threw his cap into the air
and shouted his old shibboleth, "They may take Canady, but they'll not
be taking Oro!"

"The Orangemen 'll kape Canada!" cried Tom Caldwell reassuringly.

"Hoh, him an' his 'kape Canada,'" cried Callum Fiach in disgust, as he
pitched himself into the sleigh.  "Let's get out o' this!"

"Eh, eh!" cried Store Thompson, standing in the doorway to see them
depart, "ye MacDonalds are aye too ready wi' the neeves!"

Big Malcolm took the reins and drove away without another word.  The
joy of battle was always succeeded by a season of depression.  His old
friend's reproof had already begun to work repentance in his breast.

The homeward drive was silent and gloomy.  Even Callum forbore to talk;
for he was uncomfortably conscious that he had had more to do with
setting the Orangemen and the Catholics against each other than he
would like Big Malcolm to know.  He had not foreseen that all the
MacDonalds would plunge into it, and his father with them, and was
rather uneasy at the havoc he had caused.  For this would bring sorrow
upon the mother at home.

But Scotty could not be silent, he was alive with curiosity; and,
taking advantage of his grandfather's gloomy absorption, he crept out
from between the two on the front seat, and got close to the source of
all knowledge, Hamish.

He overflowed with questions.  Why should the MacDonalds be helping
Orangemen?  And hadn't Hash Tucker's father and a lot more from the
Tenth been on their side, too?  And how in the name of all
nationalities did it happen that the Caldwells and the Tuckers came to
be fighting together against the Murphys?  And weren't Orangemen far
worse than Fenians, anyway?

The confusion in Scotty's mind was like that which befell the builders
of the Tower of Babel; and for once Hamish failed to satisfy him.  He
seemed rather ashamed of the fact that they had helped a Caldwell in
battle, and was rather inclined to drop the subject.

That evening at home was something new to Scotty.  A gloomy silence
pervaded the place, and there was a look in Granny's eyes that made the
boy want to put his head into her lap and cry.  There were no prayers
before they retired, either; there always came a stage in Big Malcolm's
repentence which consisted almost entirely of religious exercises, but
that was not yet.

Scotty felt vaguely that there was something terribly wrong, for the
boys, even Hamish, went off after supper, and Old Farquhar did not sing
his accustomed song before retiring.  And when Scotty went up to bed in
the loft he left Granny praying by the bed in the corner, and he could
hear the steady tramp, tramp of his grandfather's feet up and down in
the snow outside.  He half woke late in the night and found that Hamish
was beside him; the problems of the day were still troubling his dreams.

"Hamish," he whispered, "where's Cape Canady?"

"What?" growled Hamish sleepily.

"Where's Cape Canady?  Tom Caldwell said somethin' about it, an' the
Master learned the Fourth Class all about capes yesterday, an' he
wouldn't be saying anything about that one!"

But Hamish was snoring; and outside the steady tramp, tramp of feet
went up and down in the snow.




V

THE REFORMATION

  O strong hearts, guarding the birthright of our glory,
    Worth your best blood this heritage that ye guard!
  These mighty streams resplendent with our story,
    These iron coasts by rage of seas unjarred--
  What fields of peace these bulwarks will secure!
    What vales of plenty these calm floods supply!
  Shall not our love this rough, sweet land make sure,
    Her bounds preserve inviolate, though we die?
          --C. G. D. ROBERTS.


The fathers of the Scottish settlement were gathered about the stove in
Store Thompson's shop.  This emporium was a respectable rival of Pete
Nash's tavern across the way.  Anyone, weary of the noise and wrangling
which characterised that lively establishment, might step across to
Store Thompson's haven and find rest and quiet, a never-failing
hospitality and a much better social atmosphere.  To-night the company
represented the best the settlement could produce, several of the
MacDonalds and a few of the inhabitants of the Glen.

Big Malcolm was among them.  It was his first visit to the Glen since
the day of his disgrace, and he had not yet quite recovered his old
genial spirits.

One small lamp burned dimly on the counter and the forms of boxes and
barrels loomed up fantastically in shadowy corners.  In the circle
about the stove the men's faces shone out spectrally from the cloud of
smoke produced by some half-dozen pipes.

As usual, Store Thompson was taking the lead in the conversation.  He
stood leaning over the counter in the little ring of light, his
spectacles pushed up on his benign-looking forehead, his finger-tips
brought carefully together.  In company with the schoolmaster, Store
Thompson had begun his winter's course of reading and was more than
usually oratorical.

"Aye," he was saying, "a dictionary 's a graund institution; aye, jist
a graund institution, like.  When me an' the master now meets a word we
dinna ken, we jist run him doon in the dictionary, an' there he is, ye
see!"

"Oh, books will be fine things," said Big Malcolm, "but that Hamish of
ours will jist be no use when he will be getting his nose into one,
whatever.  And he will be making the wee man jist as bad.  Eh, it's him
that'll make the reader!"  His eyes shone as they always did at any
mention of his grandson.

"Aye, Hamish is the man for the books!" cried Store Thompson
enthusiastically.  "How is he gettin' on wi' Ivanhoe?"

"Och, he would be finishing it the night after he brought it home,
indeed; and now the little upstart will be trying his hand at it
whatever."

"Feenishin' it in twa nichts!" cried Store Thompson, aghast at such
extravagance.  "Hut, tut! yon's no way to use a book.  When me an' the
wife read Ivanhoe last winter, we jist read a wee bit at a time for
fear it wouldna last; it wes that interestin'.  Aye, books is too
scarce to be used yon way."

"And what will you and the master be reading, this winter, James?"
inquired Long Lauchie, who had just returned from one of his mental
excursions.

Store Thompson's face beamed.  "Eh, it's a graund book this time,
Lauchie, jist an Astronomy, like."

"Eh, losh, an' what would it be about?"

"All aboot the stars, aye an' the moon an' the constellations, like."

"Eh, eh!" Long Lauchie was very much impressed.  "And would it be
telling about the comets, whatever?"

Store Thompson stood erect and put his finger tips together.

"A comet," he declared solemnly, "a comet, Lauchlan, so far as Ah can
mak' oot frae the book, is jist naething more nor less than an
indestructible, incomprehensible combustion o' matter; aye, jist that,
like."

There was an impressive silence.  When Store Thompson took his flights
through the vast spaces of knowledge he was always hard to follow, but
when he soared to the heights of astronomy the district fathers felt
him to be unapproachable.

"'Seek Him that maketh the seven stars and Orion.'"  The silence was
broken by a deep, rolling voice; a voice so powerful that even when
softened, as it now was, it gave the impression of vast possibilities.
The speaker was like his voice, huge and strong; the thick, waving hair
covering his massive head, and his bushy beard were a dark iron-grey,
which, with his strong features and bristling eyebrows, gave him the
appearance of a man carved from iron.  It was Praying Donald, the
earliest pioneer of the Oa, and the most pious man in many settlements.

"'Seek Him that maketh the seven stars and Orion,' that will be the
word of the Holy Book, and it will be a poor thing to be seeking the
stars first."

Every eye was turned upon the speaker.  Praying Donald was a man who
spoke seldom, but when he did everyone listened.

"Yes, indeed, it is the Word of Jehovah we should be reading," he
continued, "for I would be reading last night, and the Lord would be
speaking to me through the Word, and it was, 'Blow ye the trumpet in
Zion....  Let all the inhabitants of the land tremble, for the day of
the Lord cometh, for it is nigh at hand; a day of darkness and
gloominess and of thick darkness.'  And it will be this land that it
will be coming upon.  For there will be the drink and the fighting, and
there will be no minister, and no house of the Lord, for we will be in
the gall of bitterness and in the bonds of iniquity.

"Yes, we must be praying, praying night and day, and maybe that the
Lord in His mercy will be sending us a minister; for if He will not be
visiting us in His mercy, He will be coming in His wrath, and who shall
stand in the day of His judgment?"

Weaver Jimmie flung one leg over the other nervously.  Long Lauchie
sighed, and Store Thompson murmured, "Undeniable, undeniable."  But Big
Malcolm sat staring at the speaker as if fascinated.  Praying Donald's
life of stern piety, and his knowledge of the laws governing human
action, had often enabled him to foresee events, and had given him the
reputation of a prophet.  The memory of the scene in which he had so
lately taken part came over Big Malcolm with overwhelming force.

"It is the true word," he whispered, as though smitten with a sudden
fear.  "Och, and it will be Malcolm MacDonald that will be visited in
wrath for his sins, whatever!"

"Ye're richt, Donald," said Store Thompson, at length, "what wi' the
whuskey an' the wild goin's on this place is jist in a bad state.  But
it's thae Eerish.  Man," he continued emphatically, "thae Eerish,
whether Catholic or Protestant, are jist a menace to the country, aye,
jist yon, jist a menace, like!"

"It is the Oa that will be as bad as the Flats," said Praying Donald
relentlessly.  "They will be forsaking their God and be following after
their own evil desires!"

Long Lauchie suddenly opened his eyes.  He was in the habit of seizing
upon a remark and retiring with it slowly, repeating it over and over
in a lessening whisper until he was lost in the echoing caverns of
imagination, and was wont to emerge from these absent fits suddenly
with the air of a diver who comes to the surface with a great treasure.
He came to life at this moment, his eyes wide open, his manner alert;
"Eh, it will be a fulfilment o' the prophecy o' Jeremiah, 'Out of the
north an evil shall break forth upon all the inhabitants of the land.'
Eh, eh, out o' the north--the north--it would perhaps be meaning the
Oa," he whispered fearfully to Weaver Jimmie.  "Out of the north--the
north----"  His voice gradually died away and he was lost in meditation.

"This place is not like the auld land," said old Sandy Hamilton,
moodily.  "Man, we werna bothered wi' ony Fenians, nor Orangemen, nor
sik like there!"

"Times'll be better now the Murphys know their place," said Weaver
Jimmie confidently, pitching one leg over the other.  "Callum led a
fine charge.  The Fenians may take Canady, but they'll not----"

"Hooch!" Big Malcolm broke in fiercely.  Weaver Jimmie did not properly
belong either by age or sentiments to this gathering, and his remark
regarding Callum was very much out of place.  "Yon son o' mine will
jist be a breeder o' mischief in this place, James MacDonald!" he
cried, "an' it's little check you will be on him, whatever.  It is high
time, indeed, that ye were both settlin' down an' stoppin' such doings!
But och, och," he added with a sudden change of tone, "it is myself
will be the worst of them all."

Weaver Jimmie heaved a sentimental sigh.  "It will not be any fault of
mine that I will not be settled down," he muttered gloomily.

Praying Donald's rumbling voice had arisen again.  "Yes, oh yes, the
evil will be growing; and the Judge will be coming in His wrath and we
will jist be like Sodom and Gomorrah!"

"Oh, indeed," broke in Store Thompson, "the good Lord is slow to anger
and of great mercy, Donald, ye mind!"

"Mercy!" roared Praying Donald.  "Eh, James, do not be deceiving
yourselves!  He will be just.  We must be reaping what we sow.  This
place is sowing the wind and it will be reaping the whirlwind.  'For I
the Lord thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers
upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that
hate me.'"

Long Lauchie came suddenly to the surface, this time with a precious
pearl: "And showing mercy unto thousands," he continued softly.  "Oh,
yes, indeed and indeed, unto thousands, mercy unto thousands!"  He sank
again into the ocean of his imagination, and the tide of conversation
flowed over him unheeded.

"'Visiting the sins of the father upon the children,'" repeated Big
Malcolm bitterly.  He dropped his head into his hands and groaned.

There was a long silence.  These men were facing a great problem in the
building up of this new nation, one which presented graver difficulties
than they had met even in the toil and stress of breaking the forest.
In the early days the social problem had not arisen; the settler had
been too busy to permit of its troubling him.  He needed all his time
and strength to battle with this new land and compel her to give him
his due of bread and shelter.  But now, the stern young stepmother was
yielding to those whom she recognised as worthy to be her sons, and was
rewarding them with wider pasture-lands and waving fields of grain.
Now the pioneer found time to draw breath and look about him.  All
through the years of weary hardship, homesickness for the old land had
been heavy on his heart and his love for it had grown.  And now, with
some time for sentiment and reflection, he found his thoughts turning
thither; old loves were re-awakened, old traditions revived, old
enmities fanned into flame.  The still wild stretches of forest called
on all sides for wild, free action; the wind swept down over the Oro
hills, straight from the vast expanse of the Great Lakes, setting the
blood leaping for vigorous action.  Little wonder, then, that in their
first days of leisure men should go a few steps farther back towards
the savage stage from which we are all such a short distance removed.
And little wonder, too, that the wiser ones trembled lest their new
land of promise, now so smiling, so prodigal of her favours, might be
scarred with the marks of evil.

And so, these simple seers, these men, ignorant in the world's wisdom,
but many of them secure in the knowledge of One, whom to know is life
eternal, turned in their fear and perplexity to the fountain-head of
righteousness.

"We must be having a prayer meeting, lads," said Praying Donald at
length.  "We could be having them all this winter, once a week, and
maybe the good Lord will be sending us a minister."

"Eh, if we could get a meenister like auld Angus McGregor!" said Store
Thompson.  "Ah jist heerd him once, but it was a veesitation, aye, jist
a veesitation, like.  D'ye mind yon sermon, Lauchie, on 'Simon Peter,
lovest thou me'?"

Long Lauchie awoke from his reverie with a start.  The mention of the
great Scottish preacher set going a train of tender memories.  "Eh, Mr.
McGregor!" he cried, "Mr. McGregor,--eh, there will not be such men
nowadays I will be fearing.  He was the man of God, indeed--yes--oh,
yes----"

And as he faded away into the distance, the others made the necessary
arrangements.  They would hold a series of prayer meetings in the Oa
and the Glen to last during the winter.  Store Thompson made a feeble
suggestion that they might join the Methodists, Tom Caldwell's faction
in the Flats.  For Tom, who was as active at wrestling in prayer as in
any other sphere, in company with the population of the Tenth, had
secured the services of a primitive Methodist preacher, and was holding
nightly meetings in the schoolhouse, where much good was done.  But the
noisy devotions of the Flats met with little favour in the sight of the
Oa.  Praying Donald, conscious of the purity of their motive, had
visited the Methodists once, and had now little to say in commendation.

"They will be doing the best they know, James," he declared, "but the
Lord will be taking no pleasure in tumult and confusion, and we will
jist be holding our meetings at the neighbours' houses, whatever."

And so the first meeting was arranged to be held at Long Lauchie's,
and, before parting, the little group knelt about the boxes and bales,
and in low, solemn tones like the breaking of waves on a rocky shore,
Praying Donald besought the Eternal Father for a blessing on this new
land and an instilling of the righteousness that exalteth a nation.

The news of the meeting was spread through the community, chiefly by
Weaver Jimmie; and was received with much thankfulness by most of the
people, who had been longing all the days of their exile for something
resembling the church services of the old land.

When the night of the first meeting arrived, Scotty was in a state of
carefully subdued excitement.  He knew by his grandfather's manner that
the occasion was one calling for solemnity of demeanour; but he could
not help feeling very much worked up over the thought of going away
from home after dark; it made one feel almost as big and important as
Callum.  He could scarcely believe his senses when they covered the
fire, closed the door and all drove away in the big sleigh.  Granny sat
on the front seat beside Grandaddy, another strange circumstance, for
Granny never went anywhere either by day or by night, except when a
neighbour was sick.  Scotty further emphasised his grown-up feeling by
sitting behind with the boys; they conversed in low tones, and Callum
said he'd "a good mind to skedaddle off into the bush."  But they were
unusually quiet.  Rory even forbore to whistle, and the boy found he
had to amuse himself by peering into the silent blackness of the pine
forest, or gazing up at the strip of clear star-spangled heavens that
shone between the lines of trees.

Long Lauchie's house, which stood on a hill at the end of a very long
lane, was brightly lighted and very silent.  This last fact was worthy
of note, for what with the misdemeanours of Long Lauchie's own sons,
and the assistance they received from Big Malcolm's boys, the place had
long been a rival of Pete Nash's establishment for noise, though,
happily, it was of a much more innocent character.

The room they entered, kitchen, dining-room and living-room, was
furnished, like all the pioneers' homes, with the plainest necessities;
but Long Lauchie's family had grown-up girls in it, and the place
showed the touch of their fingers; a few bright rugs on the floor, and
on the wall some pictures in homemade frames.  Then there were some oil
lamps, replacing the candles, and the house was so far in the van of
progress as to possess a stove, which added not a little to the
comfort, and detracted much from the picturesqueness, of the room.

The family consisted of a troop of boys and girls, all ages and sizes,
from big, six-foot Hector to little tangle-haired Betty.  They were
already gathered, and several of the neighbours' families had arrived
and were seated on the improvised benches along the wall.  There were
Praying Donald's family, Store Thompson and his wife, several others
representative of the Oa and the Glen, and, of course, Weaver Jimmie.

Jimmie's face shone with soap and excitement, and his manner was a
series of embarrassed convulsions; for Kirsty John, the cruel object of
his hopeless love, was there.  A fine, big, strapping young woman she
was, with a strong face, and a pair of fearless, black eyes.  She sat
bolt upright against the log wall, talking to Mary Lauchie, a sweet,
pale-faced girl; and occasionally casting a withering glance in the
direction of the bench behind the stove, where the Weaver was
alternately striving to efface himself and to attract her attention.

Scotty soon managed to slip away from his grandmother, and join Betty
and Peter in a corner.  He found them in the same state of subdued
excitement as he was himself.  Peter informed him in a joyous whisper
that there was a big cheese in the cupboard, and a johnny cake and
blackberry preserves for the visitors, before they left.  Scotty's
interest in this delightful disclosure did not prevent his noticing
Callum's entrance.  Callum had gone with Hector to put up the team and
now came marching in, the object of many admiring glances.

He displayed none of Weaver Jimmie's diffidence; but went straight over
to where Mary Lauchie sat, and whispered in her ear, and Mary flushed
and smiled and her plain face grew quite pretty.  Even Kirsty was
gracious to the handsome youth, and poor Jimmie nearly twisted his neck
out of joint in his jealous efforts to do something commendable in her
sight.

But all sounds were suddenly hushed, for Praying Donald was rising to
announce the first psalm:

  "I waited for the Lord my God,
  And patiently did bear,
  At length to me He did incline
  My voice and cry to hear."


His deep, rumbling voice had just completed the first few lines when he
was interrupted by a clatter of bells.  The door swung suddenly open,
and, to the amazement of all the assembled Scots, in stalked Tom
Caldwell with his wife and family!

The appearance of the leader of Methodism in the stronghold of the
Presbyterians was naturally unexpected; but Tom Caldwell had been very
friendly with the MacDonalds since the day they "cleared the Glen of
Popery," as he said, and hearing that they were about to imitate the
Flats in having a season of prayer, had journeyed all the way to the
Oa, resolved to give the neighbours a helping hand in the good work,
and infuse a little life and fire into the dead bones of
Presbyterianism.

The leaders arose and shook hands with the newcomer solemnly, but
heartily; while Long Lauchie's wife and daughters welcomed the family.

"Sure, it's the right track ye're on, Donald!" cried Tom Caldwell
heartily, as he seated himself and gazed happily about him; "the Glen's
gettin' to be like Sodom, that's what it is, an' it's mesilf that
couldn't be lettin' the matin' pass widout comin' up an' givin' ye a
helpin' hand.  We'll bring down a blessin', glory be; so let's jist
fire ahead an' have a rousin' time!"

The MacDonald brethren looked at each other rather aghast.  Tom
Caldwell's fervour, though well-meant, was a foreign element, savouring
of irreverence and Methodistic confusion; but his hearty good will was
irresistible; Long Lauchie gave him the place of honour next to the
leader, and the meeting commenced.

Scotty scarcely heard the words of the psalm, for to his delight he
found that Nancy had come, too, and was there seated beside her mother.
In spite of the fact that Nancy was Irish and tainted with Orange
sentiments, Scotty had found it impossible to tear her from his heart.
He had long since made up his mind that when he grew big he would go to
see her instead of Betty in the evenings.  He wondered what Callum
would think of her, and glanced up to see that young man staring with
all his might at the subject of his thoughts.  Nancy was certainly
worth a stare; in spite of the fact that she was still at school, she
was quite one of the young ladies of the Flats, and when occasion
demanded could deport herself quite becoming the name.  Her black,
curly hair was tied up with a scarlet ribbon that matched her cheeks,
her eyes were Irish blue, limpid and dancing, and she had a dimple in
the centre of her saucy chin.

Seeing Callum so absorbed, Scotty slid softly up to him.  "That's
Nancy!" he whispered proudly.

"Is it?" said Callum, with an air of surprise.  "Where?"

"Why, there beside Granny, where you're lookin'.  Ain't she pretty?"

"Oh, I guess so."  Callum showed an indifference that greatly
disappointed his nephew.  Probably, though, he considered, Callum would
not think of admiring an Irish girl.

At that moment the girl raised her eyes and glanced in their direction.
She encountered Scotty's eager gaze, and returned it with a brilliant,
laughing glance; then her eyes met Callum's and she instantly turned
away with a coquettish toss of her head.  Scotty felt she surely might
have smiled at Callum, too.  He glanced up at the young man again and
was rather troubled.  He was sure Callum must be very angry at either
him or Nancy, for he had never seen his face get red like that unless
he were in a rage.

But, meantime, Praying Donald had finished the interrupted psalm and
Roarin' Sandy had started the tune.  The elder men caught it up, then
the women, and lastly the young men about the stove, and the song
swelled out slow and solemn, the deep, full-chested notes rolling out
into the winter night where the glittering stars and the solemn, silent
forest seemed to give back in grand reverberations the words:

  "He put a new song in my mouth
  Our God to magnify!"


In the hush that followed, Praying Donald read a chapter from the Holy
Word, read it in tones that arrested the most careless listener, and
even Scotty felt a little tingle go over him at the yearning words:

"As the hart panteth after the water brooks, so panteth my soul after
thee, O God.  My soul thirsteth for God, for the living God."

And then they all knelt in prayer, old and young, serious and careless;
all bowed before the God for whom their souls, whether they realised it
or not, panted as the hart for the cooling streams.

The prayers were all the heartfelt repetition of the sentiment
expressed in the psalm.  These pioneers were children in a strange
land, surrounded by new conditions, and in their wise simplicity went
as children to a father for what they most needed.  After Praying
Donald came Big Malcolm, then Store Thompson, and Roarin' Sandy, and
then the leader called upon Tom Caldwell.  Tom Caldwell's big Irish
heart was overflowing with good-will to his Scottish neighbours; and
carried away by his emotions, he prayed long and loud and shouted
hallelujahs in a manner that rather alarmed the company.  Indeed, Store
Thompson's wife, who was considered quite a genteel person in the
community, declared afterwards that "it jist garred her ears tingle,"
and Store Thompson himself, though never given to censure anyone,
admitted that though Tom certainly had a fine gift of prayer, he was,
"jist a wee thing tumultuous-like."

The meeting had been very solemn and the youngest person there very
well-behaved during the earlier prayers, but after Tom Caldwell came
the host of the evening, and the young men began to grow restless.  For
Long Lauchie was never so long as when at his devotions.  Indeed, for
years it had been the scandal of the Oa that his sons were in the habit
of slipping out during family worship to attend to the "chores" about
the stable, returning to appear decorously upon their knees when their
father arose.

At Callum Fiach's suggestion the "Lauchie boys" even arranged a
competition in which the five sons strove to see who could make the
longest excursion during prayer-time.   The palm was yielded to Hughie,
the third son, who crossed the swamp on skis one evening, and saw
Kirsty John chase the Weaver from her door with the porridge stick,
arriving home, breathless but triumphant, just before the amen was
pronounced.  No one quite believed Hughie's story, until it was
ruefully corroborated by Jimmie himself; whereupon the limit was
declared to be reached, and the boys turned their attention to new
fields.

But on this first prayer-meeting night, spurred on by the enthusiasm of
the company, Long Lauchie bade fair to give his sons ample opportunity
to journey through the length and breadth of the township of Oro and
return before he was finished.  The pious old man had a fine poetic
temperament, and to-night he soared beyond anything his family had ever
heard.  The petition ramified and expanded to an alarming length, and
still showed no signs of stopping.  Even Mrs. Lauchie, whose chief
pride was her husband's devotional fluency, was somewhat concerned.

There was a restless movement among the young men about the stove.
Scotty twisted and squirmed and tried in vain to be still.  It was very
wicked to open one's eyes during prayer, he knew.  Roarin' Sandy's
Johnny had told him that if he did he might see the Deil standing
behind him.  And since then Scotty had been divided between dread of
the awful apparition and a natural desire to see what his Satanic
Majesty looked like.  He was ashamed of his restlessness, for Callum
was kneeling beside him motionless.  Callum would think him a baby if
he moved.  He peeped cautiously through his fingers at his uncle.
Callum was kneeling at the bench, absolutely still, indeed, but with
his eyes wide open and staring straight at the black, curly head of Tom
Caldwell's daughter.

Scotty felt that if it were not very wicked, he would like to
straighten up like that and stare at somebody, too.  It looked so big
and manly.  Mastering his fears, he turned cautiously in the direction
of Betty, but Betty had slipped to the floor with her tousled yellow
head on the bench, and was sound asleep.  Scotty closed his eyes again,
the droning voice of Long Lauchie floated farther and farther away, he
felt himself going, too, somewhere, into immeasurable space, until at
last he dropped into the gulf of oblivion.  He half woke to find Granny
tying a muffler round his neck.  He made an ineffectual effort to stop
her, for she was saying, "Eh, eh, Granny's poor, wee, sleepy lamb," and
he dreaded lest Peter should hear her; only Peter, like all the other
people, seemed an immeasurable distance away.  Someone else was bending
over him, too, and saying, "And you'll be sure to let him come, then?"

"But I'm afraid he would jist be a trouble to yer mother, Kirsty,"
Granny answered.

"Tuts, not a bit!" was the reply.  "Mother'll jist be glad o' him, an'
the wee Isabel would be lonely.  Ah'm glad she's comin', for mother's
jist wearin' to see her again, an' Miss Herbert's sick, poor lady.".

"Oh, well, indeed he can go, Kirsty, an' I hope he will not be rough
with the little lady."

"Not him."  Scotty felt a strong, rough hand pass gently over his
curls.  "When she comes Ah'll send ye word by yon loon o' a weaver.
It'll give him somethin' to do, an' the buddie's jist fair in want for
a job."

"Ah, Kirsty, Kirsty!" whispered Granny, "it's too hard ye'll be on poor
Jimmie.  Take my advice an' marry him, he'll be a good man to you,
indeed!  There's the sleigh.  Come, Hamish, lad, take the lamb out, he
will be jist dead asleep, whatever."

As Scotty passed out like a sack of potatoes on Hamish's shoulder, the
rush of clear, cold air partly revived him.  He cuddled under the
blanket close to Granny, and dimly heard the good-nights as each
sleigh-load moved down the long lane, not gaily spoken as when the
neighbours came in for an evening, but low and subdued, for all were
under the spell of the season of prayer.  He heard Granny say, "Where's
Callum?  Don't be leaving the lad," and a voice answered, "He's yonder
helpin' Tom Caldwell to hitch," and then Callum sprang in, and the
sleigh creaked slowly forward, and Scotty slid away once more down the
dim road of dreamland.




VI

AN IGNOMINIOUS TASK

  Into the dim woods full of the tombs
  Of the dead trees soft in their sepulchres,
  Where the pensive throats of the shy birds hidden
  Pipe to us strangely entering unbidden,
  And tenderly still in the tremulous glooms
  The trilliums scatter their white-winged stars.
        --ABCHIBALD LAMPMAN.


Winter passed, and then came the spring, with its fresh, warm winds
coming up from Lake Simcoe and sweeping away the ice and snow in a mad,
joyous rush of water.

Scotty went barefoot just as soon as there was enough bare ground to
step upon.  He seemed for a time to cast aside all restraint with his
shoes and stockings, and when not in school lived a freebooter's life
in the forest.

He and Bruce spent much time wandering, plundering and exploring from
the edge of the corduroy road where the musk and marigolds and
fleur-de-lis grew in glorious profusion all through the green and
golden depths to where the River Oro slipped from its sweet enthralment
of reeds and water lilies to go bounding away down the valley to Lake
Simcoe.  The whole place was a plantation of treasures and teemed with
sounds of life: the blue-jay, the song-sparrow, the robin, the noisy,
red-winged black-bird, the plaintive pee-wee, the far-off,
clear-ringing whitethroat, the jolly woodpecker, the noisy squirrel,
and the shy raccoon--Scotty knew them all intimately, learned their
ways and lived their life.

He was given to much idle roaming through the swamp, on the way to and
from school, too, and when he went to bring home the cows he remained
longer than even Granny could excuse.  For that simple task should have
been performed in a very short time.  He could trace the cattle through
the woods with the sure instinct of a sleuth-hound, could distinguish
Spotty's tracks from Cherry's, and might have found his own little
heifer's in the midst of the public highway.  But his skill did not
help to make him any more expeditious, for he often forgot his errand
and would lie full length upon the ground, gazing up into the restless,
swishing, green sea above, and dreaming wonderful dreams.  Callum
declared he was a lazy little beggar and ought to be cowhided to make
him move, though where one could be found to perform that necessary
operation the MacDonald family were not prepared to say.

That he did not altogether develop into a little savage was entirely
due to Granny's tender care.  Nowhere was the influence of her
beautiful character felt so strongly as by the little grandson.  She,
who could command her grown-up sons by her mere presence, and who was
slowly but surely transforming Big Malcolm's wild nature, was quietly
moulding the boy's character.  Scotty early learned the great lessons
of life, the lessons of truth and right, and was well grounded in the
knowledge of the things that are eternal.  He could read the Bible
before he ever entered school, and could repeat the Shorter Catechism
with a rapidity that sometimes alarmed Granny, as savouring of
irreverence.  He learned a verse of Scripture by heart every evening of
his life, and the Sabbath was a grand review day.

Sunday was always a red-letter day in Scotty's life, for he generally
had Granny to himself.  Not that the others were away; for Big Malcolm,
who generally ruled his household rather laxly, sternly forbade Sabbath
visiting.  But the boys wandered off to the barn or the woods after
morning prayers, and Big Malcolm dozed, or smoked, or read his Bible.
And then Granny and her boy would climb the little hillock beside the
house and sit under the Silver Maple.  This was a fine position, for
one could see Lake Oro, stretched out there blue and sparkling in its
ring of forest, and far away to the south, a glittering string of
diamonds and turquoise where Lake Simcoe lay smiling in the sun, and
now and then, where a clearing opened the view, the blue flash of the
river.  And there, with the soft rustle of the green and silver canopy
above, and around the scent of the clover and the basswood blossoms,
Scotty lay with his head in Granny's lap and heard wonderful stories of
One who sat on a hill and spoke to the multitude as never man yet
spake.  And never afterwards, though he sometimes wandered from
Granny's teachings, did those Sabbath days lose their hold upon his
life.

And so the spring slipped into summer, and one evening a new element
came into his life.  He was lying on the doorstone, his feet in the
cool, dewy grass, dreamily watching the fireflies sparkling away down
in the pasture by the woods, and listening to the hoarse cry of the
night hawks as they swooped overhead.  It was a warm evening, and the
leaves of the Silver Maple, still touched by the hot glow of the
sunset, hung motionless in the still air.

Rory came out with his fiddle, and, sitting with his chair tilted
against the house, droned out a low, sweet, yearning song for Bonny
Prince Charlie who would return no more, no more.  Grandaddy sat near
on a bench smoking contentedly.  Since the day of the first prayer
meeting at Long Lauchie's, Big Malcolm had lived a life of peace, and
had once more regained his attitude of happy, kind complacency.  Old
Farquhar was gone; he had disappeared when the Silver Maple was putting
forth its buds, and had gone "a kiltin' owre the brae," as he musically
expressed it to Scotty; but everyone knew that he would come back in
the autumn as surely as the wild ducks went south.  Indoors, close to
the candle, sat Hamish poring over "Waverley," and Callum could be
heard tramping about in the loft, preparing to go off for the evening.
Callum took great pains with his toilette these evenings, Scotty
noticed, though the boys did not tease him any more about going to see
Mary Lauchie; indeed, there were no more good-natured allusions to his
courtship.  Instead, Scotty had overheard Rory tell Callum, in the barn
one day, that "he'd go sparkin' old Teenie McCuaig, though she was
seventy and hadn't a tooth in her head, before he'd be seen going down
to the Flats to see an Irish girl."  And Callum had seized him by the
shoulders and flattened him up against the wall until he roared for
mercy.  There was always something in the home atmosphere when Callum
started off of an evening now that vaguely reminded Scotty of those
terrible days following Grandaddy's fight in the Glen.  He felt
anxiously that his hero was doing something of which his family
disapproved, and wondered fearfully what it might be.

His mind was turned from the contemplation of these difficulties by a
sudden change in Rory's tune.  He stopped in the midst of his low,
wailing dirge and struck up loudly the lively air that told again and
again of the mirth produced when "Jinny banged the Weaver."  Scotty
raised his head and looked across the pasture-field.  That tune always
ushered Weaver Jimmy upon the stage, and there he was, coming over the
field, easily recognisable by his huge feet.  Before he reached them,
the MacDonalds could see that his face was shining with unusual joy.

"Come away, Jimmie, man," called Big Malcolm, "it will be a warm night,
whatever."

But the Weaver was too happy to notice anything wrong with the weather.
"Hoots, it will be a fine night for all that, a fine night; and how
will you be yourself, Mrs. MacDonald?"

"Perhaps you'll find it chilly enough if you go round by Kirsty's,
Jimmie," suggested Rory.

"Hooch!"  Jimmie flung one leg over the other with more than usual
vigour.  "And that is jist where you will be mistaken, Rory Malcolm, I
will jist be coming from there," he admitted with an embarrassed quiver.

"That's what you're generally doin'; how fast did you come?"

"Whisht, whisht, Rory," cried his mother.  "It's the foolish lad he is,
Jimmie, don't be listening to him.  And indeed it's Kirsty John will be
the fine girl, so good and so kind to her poor mother.  And how would
the mother be to-night, Jimmie?"

"Oh, jist about the same, jist about the same; but," he lowered his
voice confidentially, "what do you suppose she would be doin' the
night?"  "She" was understood to mean Kirsty; for Jimmie never dared
take her name upon his tongue.

"Giving you a clout on the head, most like," ventured Rory.

The Weaver did not deign to notice him.  "She would be sending me over
here on a message!" he cried, and his face shone as if illuminated from
within.

"Hech! yon's good news, Jimmie!" cried Big Malcolm.  "You're comin' on!"

"She'll be sendin' you on a message to another world some o' these
days," said Callum coming to the door, looking very handsome, ready for
departure.

"Oh, indeed it's yourself had better be lookin' after your own
sparkin', Callum Fiach!" cried Weaver Jimmie jovially.  "You'll not be
likely to find it as easy as I will, whatever."

Callum turned away with an embarrassed laugh, Rory following him.  He
did not answer Weaver Jimmie's raillery, as he would have done under
other circumstances, for he had caught a look on his father's face that
betokened trouble.  Big Malcolm's eyes flashed angrily and he took his
pipe from his mouth as though to call after his son; but his wife's
gentle voice interposed.  She had, so far, by her quiet tact, kept the
father and son from an open rupture.

"And what would Kirsty be doing?" she asked, striving to keep her
anxiety from showing in her voice.  A spasm of joy jerked one of the
Weaver's legs over the other.

"She would be sending me over here on a message.  A good sign, I will
be thinkin'," he added, lowering his voice, for the young men were
scarcely out of earshot.  "Yes, indeed, a good sign, I will be
thinkin'.  The wee lady from the Captain's came the other day and she
would be sending me to get Scotty to come and play with her."

Scotty raised his head.  "Hoh!" he scoffed, "play with a girl!"

Big Malcolm laughed indulgently.  "See yon, Jimmie!" he said, "he'll
not be so anxious to go to Kirsty's as some people, indeed."

Jimmie grinned delightedly.  Nothing pleased him more than to be
twitted about his devotion to his lady.

"Oh, but he must be going," said Granny.  "The little girl would be
lonely and I would be promising Kirsty last winter that he would go."

"Grandaddy don't like her uncle, anyhow," said Scotty.  Big Malcolm
took his pipe from his mouth.  The boy had mentioned a fact for which
his grandfather had excellent reasons, but he did not choose that it
should be made so apparent to the general public.

"That will be none o' your business, lad," he said sternly, "an' when
Kirsty wants ye, ye'll go."  Scotty made no reply; he was not quite so
chagrined as he would have others think.  He really wanted to see the
little girl with the yellow curls and the big, blue eyes, and
demonstrate to her that he was not English, no not one whit.

So the next morning he set off across the swamp towards Kirsty John's
clearing.  It was a relief that Grandaddy and the boys had gone for a
day's work to the north clearing.  This was a tract of timber on the
shore of Lake Oro which was partially cleared, and upon which Callum
hoped some day to settle.  The distance to it was some miles, and they
had taken their dinner and supper; so Scotty felt his disgraceful
secret was safe.

He was a long time on the way, of course, for Bruce had gone to the
north clearing too and his master had to do double work in racing after
chipmunks.  Then he loitered purposely, for he was going for the first
time in his life to pay a formal visit, and that to a girl.  The
situation was such as no discreet person would plunge into without due
deliberation.

So the sun was high in the heavens when at last he saw ahead of him the
golden light that betokened a clearing, and heard the sound of farm
life echoing down the forest avenues.

Kirsty John's farm was a small, rough clearing near the Scotch line.
There were two or three fields, and in the centre of them a log shanty
and a small stable.  Everything about the place was very neat; for
Kirsty's mother was a Lowlander and one of the most particular of that
great race of housekeepers.  The little barnyard, ingeniously fenced
off with rough poles, the small patch of grass around the doorway, the
neat little flower garden, all showed signs of a woman's tasteful hand.
But Kirsty could do the man's part as well.  Black John MacDonald had
died some years before, leaving his invalid wife to the care of their
only child.  And Kirsty's care had been of the tenderest; and if in the
rough battle of life she became a little rough and masculine, the poor
crippled mother felt none of it.  Kirsty managed everything with a
strong, capable hand, from felling trees to spinning yarn and making
butter.  She received plenty of help, of course; Big Malcolm and Long
Lauchie were her nearest neighbours, and their families vied with each
other in seeing who could do the most for her.  Weaver Jimmie, too,
would have been willing to let the weaving industry go to ruin if
Kirsty would but let him so much as carry in a stick of firewood on a
winter evening; but Kirsty kept her despised suitor so busy saving
himself from violent bodily injury, when in her presence, that his
assistance was not material.

Scotty could see her now as he came down the forest path.  She was
working in the little rough hayfield, pitching up the forkfuls of hay
on to a little oxcart with masculine energy.  Her skirt was turned up,
showing a striped, homespun petticoat, and beneath it her strong bare
ankles.  Her pink calico sunbonnet made a dash of colour against the
cool green of the woods.

Scotty took a leap at the low brush fence that surrounded the clearing
and went over it in one bound.  Then he stood stock still with sudden
surprise; for there, right in front of him, seated on a low stump with
an air of patient expectancy, was a small figure almost enveloped in a
big, blue sunbonnet.

"Oh!" cried Scotty in amazement.

"Oh!" echoed the Blue Sunbonnet.  It came suddenly to life, leaped from
the stump and pitched itself upon him.  "Oh, oh!  I've been watching
for you just hours and hours, and I thought you weren't never, _never_
coming!"

The visitor did not know what to say.  He was scarcely prepared for
such an effusive welcome, and was suddenly seized with a fit of shyness.

"You're Scotty, aren't you?" she asked.  He nodded and the vision
laughed aloud and clapped its small hands.  The blue sunbonnet toppled
off, showing a shower of riotous golden curls, tumbled about in
delightful confusion; her eyes, big and blue, danced with joy.  "Oh,
oh, I'm so glad!" she cried.  "I 'membered you ever since I saw you in
that funny little shop!"

Scotty stared still harder.  To hear Store Thompson's establishment
designated by such terms was beyond belief.

"I 'membered your eyes!" she added, nodding confidentially.  Her baby
way of saying "'member" restored Scotty's confidence in himself.

"Well, I will remember you, too," he admitted sedately.

She laughed again and capered about him, while he stood and looked at
her rather puzzled.  He did not see anything to laugh at, and did not
yet comprehend that here was a creature so joyous by nature that she
must laugh and dance about from sheer spontaneous delight.

"Oh, I'm so glad!" she reiterated for the tenth time.  "I'll race you
to the house!"

She darted down the hill like a swallow, her golden hair blown back,
her little white bare feet twinkling over the grass.  But Scotty was a
very greyhound for speed.  He leaped after her and in a moment forged
ahead.  When he had gone sufficiently far to show her how fast he could
run, he looked back to find her limping slowly after him.  The boy's
tender heart, always quick to respond to the sight of pain, suddenly
smote him.  He ran swiftly back.  "What's the matter?" he asked.

"A fisel," she said plaintively, dropping upon the grass and showing
him the sole of her tender little foot.  Running barefoot was not even
to be mentioned at home, and she had not yet grown accustomed to the
"freedom of the sod."  Scotty, whose sturdy little brown feet were shod
with leather of their own making, stared contemptuously; she must
certainly be a baby to be hurt so easily.  Nevertheless, he bent down
and extracted the tormentor with the skill acquired in many summers'
apprenticeship.  Then he regarded her with half-disdainful amusement,
his shyness all vanished.

"Can't you say thistle?" he inquired.

The big blue eyes regarded him innocently.  "I did say fisel," she
declared wonderingly.

"No, you didn't, you would jist be saying 'fisel.'"

She stared a moment, then laughed aloud, a clear little bubbling
irresistible laugh, and this time Scotty laughed with her.

He seated himself cross-legged upon the grass and proceeded to
catechise her.

"Your name will be Isabel, won't it?"

"Imph--n--n," the blue bonnet nodded emphatically, "Isabel Douglas
Herbert, an' my mamma was Scotch, an' my Uncle Walter says I'm his
Scotch lassie."

Scotty nodded approval.  He could not quite understand, however, how
she could be Scotch and live with the English gentry on the shores of
Lake Oro instead of in the Oa.

"Where does your mother live?" he inquired dubiously.

"In heaven," said the little one simply, "an' my papa lives there too."

"Oh," said Scotty, "an' my father and mother will be living there too,
whatever."  He was not to be outdone by her in the matter of ancestry.

"Do they?  Oh, isn't that nice?  I guess they visit each other every
day.  An' you live with your granma, don't you?"

Scotty nodded.  "Have you got a Granny too?"

"No, only Granma MacDonald here, but I've got an auntie an' an uncle,
an' a cousin.  His name's Harold.  Have you got a cousin?"

"No."  Scotty's face fell.  "No, I don't think I will be having any,
unless mebby Callum an' Rory an' Hamish would be my cousins, whatever."

"Who's Callum?"  Scotty sat up straight, his eyes shining.  Callum!
Why, he was the most wonderful man in all the township of Oro; and
thereupon he proceeded to give her a detailed account of the wonderful
achievements of "the boys"; how Callum was so big and so strong and
could run the logs down the river better than anyone else; how Rory
could play the fiddle and dance; and, oh, the stories Hamish could tell!

The blue eyes opposite him grew bigger.  "Oh," their owner exclaimed
delightedly, "I'm going over to your place to see you some day, an'
we'll get Hamish to tell us 'bout fairies an' things, won't we?  You'll
let me come, won't you?"

Scotty hesitated.  A girl at home might be a great inconvenience and at
best would certainly be an embarrassment; but his whole life's training
had taught him that one's home must ever be at the disposal of all who
would enter, and anyone who would not must be urged, even though that
person were the niece of Captain Herbert.  So he answered cordially,
"Oh, yes, 'course, if you want to come."

Miss Isabel sighed happily.  "Oh, I think you're awful nice!" she
exclaimed.  "And is your name just Scotty?"

"Yes!" cried Scotty, very emphatically, "Scotty MacDonald."

"But that isn't all, is it?  There's sumpfin' more?"

"No!" exploded Scotty, "there ain't!  Some bad folks would be saying
that would be my name; but it will be jist Scotty, whatever.  And," he
looked threatening, "I don't ever be playing with anybody that would be
calling me that nasty English name."

His listener seemed properly impressed.  "I won't never call you
anything but just Scotty!" she promised solemnly.

A call from the house summoned them; Kirsty had hurried in and was
searching the milk-house for bannocks and maple syrup.  The children
ran through the little barnyard, causing a terrible commotion among the
fowl, and up the flower-bordered path to the shanty door.  Scotty had
not been at Kirsty's since the summer before, when Granny took him to
see the poor sick woman who lay in bed weary month after weary month,
and now he drew shyly behind his little hostess.

"Come away, Scotty man!" called Kirsty heartily.  "Come away, mother's
wantin' to see ye!"

The door of the little log shanty stood open, revealing a bare,
spotless room with whitewashed walls.  There were a couple of old
chairs and a rough bench scrubbed a beautiful white like the floor; a
curtain of coarse muslin, white and glistening, draped the little
window, and a picture of Bobby Burns in a frame made from the shells of
Lake Oro, and another of the youthful Queen Victoria and the Prince
Consort in a frame ingeniously wrought from pine cones hung on the
wall.  A tall cupboard and an old clock with its long hanging weights
looked quite familiar and home-like to Scotty.  But over in the corner
by the window was a sight that struck him painfully and made him draw
back.  An old four-post bed stood against the log wall and in it lay
the shrivelled little figure of Kirsty's mother propped up with
pillows.  She was bent and twisted with rheumatism, like a little old
tree that had been battered by storms.  But her face was brave and
bright, and from it shone a pair of brown eyes with a pathetic inquiry
in them as of a dumb, uncomprehending creature in pain.  She wore a
stiff white cap on her thin grey hair, a snowy mutch covered her poor
crooked shoulders, and everything about her was beautifully neat and
clean, showing her daughter's loving care.

"Heh, mother!" cried Kirsty cheerfully, "here's Marget Malcolm's boy at
last.  Come, Scotty, and mother will be seeing how big you are."

The old woman took the boy's sturdy brown hand in her own poor crooked
ones as well as she was able, and peered eagerly into his face.

"Eh, eh!" she cried musingly.  "He will be some like Marget's lass, but
he's his faether's bairn; eh, he's got the set an' the look o' yon fine
English callant, forbye the MacDonald eyes."

The aforementioned MacDonald eyes drooped and the rosy MacDonald lips
pouted at the word English.

"He's awful nice, isn't he, Granma MacDonald?" whispered the little
girl.

The old woman gazed at the little fair face, and then back at the boy.

"Strange, strange," she murmured, half audibly.  "It's a queer warld, a
queer warld, the twa here thegither, an' ane has a', an' the ither has
naething.  Mebby the good Lord will be settin' it right.  Och, aye,
He'll set it richt some way."

The children gazed uncomprehendingly at her, but just then Kirsty came
forward with a plate of bannocks soaked in maple syrup, and for a time
they gave it their absorbed attention.

Then Kirsty soon had to leave them for her work, and after giving the
children the freedom of the clearing, provided they did not go near the
well, she rearranged her mother's pillows very gently and returned to
the field.

The two sat silent by the bedside.  Now that their feast was over, the
little girl looked with longing eyes through the doorway; but Scotty
felt constrained to wait a few minutes, for Granny had said that
Kirsty's mother was sick and lonely and needed comforting.

The old woman looked up with sudden brightness in her eyes.  "Can ye
read?" she asked eagerly.  Oh, yes, Scotty could read, had been able to
do so for a very long time.

"I can read too, can't I, Granma MacDonald?" cried the little girl.  "I
read to you sometimes, don't I?"

"Yes, yes, lassie, ye're jist a wee bit o' sunshine.  Eh, what would
yer puir auld Granny do if ye didna come to see her in the simmer?  But
Ah want the laddie to read me the wee bit that Kirsty reads me; ye ken
it, bairnie?"

She pointed to the old worn Bible lying on the window sill, with a
drowsy blue-bottle fly droning about it.  The little girl tripped over
and brought it to Scotty.

"I know the place, Granma, don't I?" she chattered; "it's got the blue
mark in it.  There!"  Her rosy finger pointed to a well-worn page,
marked by a piece of woven scented grass.

"Aye!" said the old woman, with a satisfied look, "that's the bright
bit, lassie; Kirsty leaves a mark for Ah canna read.  Eh, Ah wish Ah
could jist read yon bit.  Ah wouldna mind ony ither, but jist yon.
Ah'd like to see hoo it looks."  Her wrinkled face quivered pitifully,
but she made a brave attempt to smile.  "Read it, laddie," she
whispered.

Scotty took the book and read where his little friend indicated.  He
read the Bible every day, and this extract was quite familiar; one
wonderful story among the many of the Master's love and tenderness
towards all the suffering; Luke's beautiful tale of the poor woman who
was bent nearly double and was made whole by the potency of a Divine
word.  The boy droned laboriously on, and as he came to the words, "And
Jesus called her to Him," the old woman put out her feeble hand and
caught his arm, her bright brown eyes shining, her withered face
flushed.  "Aye!" she whispered eagerly, "d'ye hear yon?  D'ye hear yon?
_He called her_!  Aye!" she continued with an air of triumph, "that's
it!  Sometimes Ah canna quite believe it, but ilka buddy reads it jist
the same; that's it!  _He called her Himself_.  Aye, an' a' the ither
buddies fleein' aefter Him, an' botherin' Him, but no her, no her!  Eh,
wasna yon graund!  Go on, laddie, go on!"  She made a feeble attempt to
wipe away the tear that coursed down her wrinkled cheek.

"Eh, isna it bonny!" she cried as the boy finished.  "Isna it bonny!
Ah suppose Ah'm too auld to learn to read, but Ah'd jist like to read
yon bit," she said wistfully.

Little Isabel went softly to her, and tenderly wiped away the tears
from the poor old face.  "There now, Granma MacDonald," she said in the
tender tones she had heard Kirsty use, "you mustn't cry.  Maybe
Jesus'll come and make you straight too, won't He?"

"Eh, lassie," she whispered, "Ah'm jist waitin' for it.  Ah'm houpin'
He will.  Ah'm jist a burden to puir Kirsty, an' whiles the pain's that
bad.  Eh, but Ah wish He would.  Surely He'd think as much o' me as o'
yon auld buddy.  Don't ye think He micht, lassie?"

"Course!" cried the little one with the hopefulness of childhood,
"course He will, won't He, Scotty?"

Scotty hung his head shyly.

"If Granny was here, she would be tellin' you, whatever," he whispered.

"Aye, that's true, mannie," said the old woman brightening, "Marget
McNeil kens aboot Him, aye, she kens fine.  Eh, but mebby He will," she
whispered.  She lay back and gazed through the little window, away over
the forest-clad hills and dales to where Lake Oro's shining expanse
sparkled through the jagged outline of the treetops.  Her lips moved,
"_He called her to Him_," she whispered, "an' He said unto her, 'Woman,
thou art loosed from thine infirmity.'"  She lay very still, a happy
light shining in her eyes; the children waited a moment, and then
slipped softly out of doors.

When he found himself alone once more with his new acquaintance, Scotty
suddenly became shy again.  But his diffidence was put to flight in a
summary manner.  The young lady gave him a smart slap in the face and
darted away.  "Last tag!" she screamed back over her shoulder.  Scotty
stood for an instant petrified with indignation, and then he was after
her like the wind.  As they tore through the little barnyard Kirsty
called to them not to go near the well, but neither of them heard.
Into the woods they dashed, over mossy logs and stones, tearing through
the undergrowth and crashing among fallen boughs.  In spite of her
fleetness Scotty caught his tormentor as she dodged round a tree; he
held her in a sturdy grip and shook her for her impudence until her
sunbonnet fell off.  He was somewhat disconcerted to find her accept
this treatment with the utmost good humour.  Betty would have wailed
dismally, but this girl wrenched herself free and laughed derisively.

"You can't hurt like Hal," she said rather disdainfully, "he pulls my
hair."

"Well, I'll be doing that too if you slap me again," said Scotty,
grateful for the suggestion.

"No, you won't," she declared triumphantly, "'cause then I wouldn't
play with you.  I'd just go right back to Granma MacDonald and leave
you all alone in the bush.  An' I wouldn't show you all the places
here.  There's a king's castle an' a hole where the goblins comes out
of, an' a tree where a bad, bad dwarf lives, an'--an'," she was
whispering now, "an' heaps of dreadfuller things than that 'way down
there."  She pointed into the green depths with an air of
proprietorship.  Scotty felt a deep respect rising in his heart.

He had thought he knew the forest as the chipmunks know it, but here it
was in a new and romantic aspect.

"Where are they?" he inquired quite humbly; and, satisfied with his
demeanour, his mentor led the way.  Though the royal castle proved to
be only a rock and the other enchanted places equally familiar to
Scotty, she clothed them with such an air of mystery and related such
amazing tales concerning each, vouched for by no less an authority than
Weaver Jimmie, that her listener regarded them and their exponent with
something like awe.

They journeyed on, every new turn revealing untold wonders and giving
an added stimulus to the leader's lively imagination.  And indeed the
forest was a place in which anyone might expect to meet a fairy or a
goblin behind every tree.  The happy sense of unreality lent by the
uncertainty of distances, the airy unsubstantial appearance of the
leaf-grown earth; the dazzling splashes of golden light on the green,
the sudden appearance of open glades choked with blossoms; and through
all the ringing harmony of a hundred songsters combined to make the
woods a veritable fairyland.

And Scotty soon found to his joy that he was to have his part in
interpreting its beauties too, for Isabel came to the end of her tales
at last and was full of questions.  What was that sad little
"tee-ee-ee," somebody was always saying away far off.  It must be a
fairy too.  But Scotty had come down to realities now, and felt more at
home.  That?  Why, that was only a whitethroat.  Didn't she hear how it
said, "Hard-times-in-Canady!"  She laughed aloud and imitated the song,
setting all the woods a-ring with her clear notes.  And what made those
bells ring up in the tree?  Those weren't bells, they were just veerys,
and they said, "Ting-a-ling-a-lee!"  But the bobolinks had bells; they
would go back to the clearing and hear them ring in the hayfield, and
there was a meadow-lark's nest there, and lots of plovers; yes, and if
she would come down to the creek that ran across the Scotch line he
would show her a mud turtle, and they could catch some fish, and there
was a boiling spring there, where the water was so cold you couldn't
put your feet into it, and it bubbled all the time, even in the winter.

And then they found flowers, oh, so many flowers, big, pink, bobbing
ladles' slippers, and delicate orchids and great flaming swamp lilies;
and there were wonderful pitcher-plants, too, with their tall crimson
blossoms.  Scotty explained the workings of the perfidious little
vessels, and they sat down and watched with absorbed interest the poor
foolish insects slip happily down the silken stairway to certain death.
And under Isabel's magic touch the little green pitchers became
dungeons, presided over by a wicked giant, and filled with helpless
prisoners.

And so they might have rambled in this enchanted land all day had not
the woman nature asserted itself.  Isabel had had enough of fairies and
goblins.  They must give up this wandering life and settle down, she
declared.  They would build a house in the fence corner and carpet it
with moss and have clam shells from the creek for dishes.  Scotty had
fallen quite meekly into the unaccustomed rôle of follower and was
willing that they should go housekeeping, provided he was allowed to
play the man's part.  He would be Big Wind, the Indian who lived down
by Lake Simcoe, and he would go off shooting bears and Lowlanders all
day, and she would stay at home and be his squaw and make baskets.  But
Miss Isabel would be nothing of the kind.  She did not like "scraws";
they were very dirty, and came to the back door and sold their baskets.
But Scotty might be a great hunter if he wanted, and she would be the
lady who lived in the house, and she would cook the dinner and go to
the door and call "hoo-hoo" when it was ready, the way Kirsty did when
Long Lauchie's boys worked in her fields.

"I see Kirsty now!" she called, seating herself upon a log which formed
one side of their mansion.  "I see her 'way over yonder!"  Scotty
seated himself beside her, flushed and heated with the unwonted
exertions of house-building.

"Oh, don't you love Kirsty," she cried, giving him an ecstatic shake.
"I do; an' I love you, too, Scotty, you're a dear!"  Scotty looked
slightly uncomfortable, but not wholly displeased.

"Don't you love to run away off in the bush like this, and have nobody
to bother you?" she inquired next.

"Yes."  Scotty could cordially assent to that.  "When I get a man," he
said, in a sudden burst of confidence, "I'm goin' to live in a wigwam
like Big Wind an' shoot bears!"

"Oh, my!" she cried in delight.  "I wish I could live with you, only I
don't want to be an ugly scraw, I want to be like Kirsty when I grow
big, an' live up here in the Oa, an' pile hay; but I'll have to be like
Auntie Eleanor an' wear a black silk dress, oh, dear!"

"Wouldn't you be liking a silk dress?" asked Scotty in surprise.

"No!" she cried disdainfully.  "You've always got to take care of it.
I want a red petticoat like Kirsty wears, and I want to go in my bare
feet all the time, and live in the bush."

"Don't you go in your bare feet at home?" inquired Scotty in amazement.

"No," she admitted mournfully.  "Auntie Eleanor says 'tisn't nice for
little girls, an' I have to play the piano every morning, an' not make
any noise round the house, 'cause you know my poor auntie has headaches
all the time.  Do you know what's the matter with my auntie?"

"No."

"Well, don't you tell, it's a big secret; she's got the _heartbreak_!"

"The what?" cried Scotty in alarm.

"The heartbreak.  Brian told me.  Brian's our coachman, an' I heard him
tell Mary Morrison, the cook, and he told me not to never, _never_
tell; but I'll just tell you, and you won't tell, will you, Scotty?"

"No, never.  Will it be like the rheumatics Granny has?"

"No-o, I 'spect not; it's when you have headaches an' don't smile nor
eat much; not even pie!"  She gazed triumphantly into Scotty's
interested countenance.  "That's what my auntie's got."

"Would she be catching it at school?" he inquired feelingly, moved by
recollections of an epidemic of measles that had raged in Number Nine
the winter preceding.

"No, she just got it all by herself.  She was going to be married in
the church, 'way over in England, and she had a beautiful satin dress
and a veil and everything, and he didn't come!"

"Who?" demanded Scotty.

"Why, the gempleman; he was a soldier-man with a grea' big sword, an'
he got bad an' went away, an' my auntie got the heartbreak.  An' that's
why she's sick an' doesn't want me to make a noise or jump."

Scotty looked at her in deep sympathy.  "Won't she be letting you
jump?" he asked in awe.

"Not much," she said with a fine martyr-like air.  "She says 'tisn't
lady-like, an' she's going to send me to a school in Toronto when I get
big, where it's all girls, and not one of them ever, ever jumps once!"

They stared at each other in mutual amazement at the conception of a
whole jumpless school.

"I wouldn't be going!" cried Scotty firmly.  "_I'd_ jump--I'd jump out
of the window an' run away, whatever!"

Her eyes sparkled.  "Oh, p'raps I could do that too!  I'd run away an'
come to Kirsty.  She doesn't mind if I jump an' make a noise, an'
Kirsty never makes me sew.  Oh, Scotty, you don't ever have to sew, do
you?"

"Noh!" cried Scotty in disdain, "that's girls' work."

She sighed deeply.  "I wish I was a boy!  Harold never has to sew, but
Harold goes to school 'way in Toronto all the time an' maybe they don't
let him jump there.  _I'd_ jump!" she cried, springing from the log and
laughing joyously, "oh, wouldn't I!  Last tag, Scotty!" and she was
once more off into the woods and Scotty after her.

Such a happy day as it was, but it was over at last, and after they had
eaten their supper, where Kirsty served it to them in their playhouse,
Scotty went to the house to bid the old woman good-bye, and started for
home.

The little girl followed him sadly and slowly to the edge of the
clearing.

"When'll you come back again?" she asked pleadingly.

"I'll not know," said Scotty patronisingly, "I don't often play with
girls."

The blue sunbonnet drooped; its owner's assurance and independence had
all vanished.  "You might come next Saturday," she suggested humbly.

"Well," said Scotty handsomely, "mebby I'll be coming."

"I'm going to ask Kirsty if I can't go to school with you some day!"
she cried audaciously.

Scotty looked alarmed.  In reality he was most eager to return and
resume housekeeping in the fence-corner, but to have this stranger go
to school with him would never do.  The boys would laugh at him, and
already he had sufficient trials with Betty Lauchie since Peter stopped
going to school.

"Oh, it's too far!" he cried hastily, "an' there will be an awful cross
master there!"

"I don't care, you wouldn't let him touch me, would you?"

"If you don't ask Kirsty, I'll come over all next Saturday, an' mebby
she'll be letting you come to my place; it's nicer than school."

So thus comforted, Isabel climbed the stump and swung her sunbonnet as
long as the slanting sunlight showed the little figure running down the
fast darkening forest-pathway; and just before the shadows swallowed
him up, he turned and waved his cap in farewell.




VII

THE AVENGING OF GLENCOE

  Now the dewy sounds begin to dwindle,
  Dimmer grow the burnished rills,
  Breezes creep and halt,
  Soon the guardian night shall kindle
  In the violet vault,
  All the twinkling tapers
  Touched with steady gold
  Burning through the lawny vapours
  Where they float and fold.
          --DUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT.


The sound of a tinkling bell, crossing the pasture in tuneful harmony
with the music of the summer evening, had come to a pause in the
barnyard, and the boys had gone out with their pails to the milking.

Scotty came capering up the path from the barn, making mischievous
snatches at Granny's rosebushes, which surrounded the house all abloom
in their June dresses.  He seldom returned from his evening task of
bringing home the cows in such good time.  Generally he lingered in the
woods until he had almost worn out even Granny's patience, and caused
Callum to threaten all kinds of dire punishments, which were never
inflicted.  But to-night he had been very expeditious, and with good
reason; for hadn't Granny warned him that Isabel might arrive at any
moment?  She had come to Kirsty's a few days before, and Weaver Jimmie
had promised that, if the lady who ruled his heart was in a
sufficiently propitious mood to admit of his leaving her door intact,
he would, without fail, bring the little visitor over that evening.

She and Scotty had become quite intimate since the first summer of
their acquaintance.  Miss Isabel was possessed of a vitality and high
spirits that sometimes became unbearable to her invalid aunt; so every
summer, to her own delight and Miss Herbert's relief, she was packed
off to the home of her old nurse.  For Kirsty John's mother had been a
servant in the Herbert family in her youth; and when the little Isabel
had been left an orphan in the Captain's family, Kirsty herself had
been nurse-maid to both her and Captain Herbert's little son.
Sometimes, too, during the winter, when her cousin was away at school,
the child came for a lengthy visit to her Highland home, for Miss
Herbert had often to go to the city for medical attendance, and her
brother always accompanied her, glad of an opportunity to be with his
son.  Indeed, the family at Lake Oro had what Kirsty called a bad habit
of "stravogin'."  She declared they were always "jist here-away
there-away," and never settled down like decent folk in one place.  But
then there was no accounting for the ways of the gentry, and these
people were half English and half Irish, anyway, and what could a body
expect?  She was thankful herself that the wee bit lassock had some
good Scotch blood in her, anyway.  Kirsty often shook her head over her
little charge, declaring that if the father or mother had lived, or
even the Captain's wife, who was a smart, tidy body, even if she was a
lady, the wee one would have had better care.  Not but that the
Captain's folk were fond of the lamb; Kirsty declared it was clean
impossible not to love her; but what with a poor girnin', sick body for
an aunt, and an uncle who was such a gentleman he didn't know whether
the roof was falling in on him or not, was it any wonder the bit thing
was wild?

Whatever neglect Miss Isabel may have suffered troubled her not a whit.
For neglect spelled liberty and always contributed to the general
joyousness of her existence.  Her poor aunt's illnesses, even, were
associated in her childish mind with the keenest delight, for they
brought her what she enjoyed most in the world, many days spent in the
Oa.  Nominally her home was with her old nurse, but she really spent
the greater part of her time at Scotty's home.  And here Weaver Jimmie
became indirectly a partaker in the joy of the little one's presence;
for Kirsty entrusted her girl to him in her journeys between the
clearings; an honour of which Jimmie boasted from one end of the Oa to
the other, and fulfilled his commission with a vigilance that kept his
lively young charge in a state of indignant rebellion.

In the meantime Scotty had grown to like this new comrade and to
respect her.  Of course she was only a girl, but she was immeasurably
superior to Betty, for she rarely cried, was always merry, had a
marvellous inventive genius and never failed of some new and wonderful
scheme for enjoying life and escaping work.  His big, generous heart
experienced no jealousy, but only a great pride in her, when she
usurped his place and became the centre of interest and admiration in
his home.  One visit had been sufficient to establish her as the ruler
of Big Malcolm's household.  Everyone came at her beck and call; Rory
fiddled, Callum danced, Old Farquhar sang, and Hamish spun impossible
yarns at her command.  And Granny, who was the most abject subject of
all, would fondle her golden curls, calling her Margaret, the name of
her own little girl whom she had lost, and would let her help make the
johnny cake for supper, apparently not a whit disturbed by the fact
that everything in the room was strewn with flour.  Big Malcolm himself
seemed to forget that she belonged to the man against whom he had sworn
lifelong enmity, and like the rest, opened his heart to her
unreservedly.  And she returned his affection with all the might of her
warm happy nature.  She called him "Grandaddy," as Scotty did, and
would climb upon his knee and coax and tease him into doing things that
even his grandson would not have dared to ask.

The little visitor always came at a time that Scotty found very
convenient, just when the closing of school had deprived him of Danny
Murphy's companionship; and to-night he looked forward to her coming
with more than usual pleasure, for he needed her help and advice.  Of
late the boy's tender heart had been worried by signs of discord at
home.  Something he could not fathom was wrong with Callum.  That old
trouble that had arisen between him and Grandaddy the first winter of
the prayer meetings had been suddenly aggravated.  Scotty had heard
rumours at school, and was vaguely conscious of the cause of the
dissension.  Isabel was so quick, perhaps she could help him to find
out just what was wrong and suggest a remedy.

"Yon's a queer-lookin' thing comin' over the bars, Scotty," said his
grandfather, smilingly, from his place at the doorway.

Scotty turned eagerly; yes, there was a little blue figure scrambling
hastily over the fence into the pasture-field, followed by Weaver
Jimmie, as anxious and flustered as a hen with a wayward duckling.  A
joyous scream announced that she had really come.

"It's her!" shouted the boy.  "It's wee Isabel!"

He darted down the hill to meet her, but Callum was there first.
Callum was on his way up from the barn, and the little blue figure flew
to him and made the rest of the journey to the house perched
triumphantly upon his broad shoulder, screaming with delight, and
calling upon Scotty, her own dear Scotty, to come and meet her.

But for all his joy, as she approached Scotty drew back shyly behind
the rosebushes.  The first meeting with Isabel was something of an
embarrassment, for she always pitched herself upon him and insisted
upon kissing him, more than once sometimes, if he wasn't watchful, and
it was certainly an unseemly thing for a boy of his size to be kissed
by anybody.  But the ordeal was soon over, and when they had all
rejoiced over her and measured her height against the door-frame, where
two niches showed how she and Scotty had stood last summer, and admired
her growth, and warned Scotty to take care or she would soon be as tall
as he was, the elder folk gave their attention to Weaver Jimmie and
left the children to their own devices.

As usual the Weaver was the bearer of important tidings.

"It's a fine job Tom Caldwell thinks he's got this time!" he declared
with an embarrassed hitch of one big foot over the other, and a rather
nervous glance towards Callum.

"What's that?" inquired Rory, coming up to the door with his two pails
of foaming milk.  "We always like to know what our relations will be
doing," he added with a sly chuckle.

Weaver Jimmie looked more embarrassed than ever.  He attacked his
whiskers and became so absorbed in their subduing that his audience
grew impatient.

"Out with it, man!" cried Callum, and thus adjured, the Weaver told his
story.  When he had finished, it appeared that a much graver danger
than a Fenian raid threatened the Glen, for what should Tom Caldwell
and all those Irish louts from the Flats be up to now but an
Orangemen's raid!

Big Malcolm removed his pipe and glared at the speaker.

"What is it ye will be saying, man?" he demanded harshly.  Weaver
Jimmie looked encouraged, and avoiding Callum's eye, he gave further
details.  Tom Caldwell had lately been the means of organising an
Orange lodge in the Flats, and at their last meeting the brethren had
decreed that, upon the coming 12th of July, they must have a
celebration.  It was to be no ordinary affair either, Pete Nash himself
told him; but such a magnificent spectacle as the pioneers had never
yet witnessed.  Pete had received orders to prepare dinner for fifty
guests and whiskey for twice as many.  There was to be a grand rally
early in the morning at the home of Tom Caldwell, who was to personate
the great Protestant monarch, and at high noon a triumphal march up
over the hills and down into the Glen to the feast,--with fifes and
drums and a greater display in crossing the Oro than King William
himself had had in crossing the historic Boyne.

Big Malcolm sat silent, his fists clenched.  He was a Glencoe
MacDonald, and, like all his clan, had an abhorrence of the name of
Orange running fiercely in his veins.  But he was saying to himself
over and over that he who had repented of all his strife, who had set
his face firmly against the evils of the day and become a leader of the
new movement that was bringing the community into a higher and better
life, he certainly must not be the one to stir up dissension.  And yet,
to have a celebration in their own glen in honour of the MacDonalds'
betrayer!

"It will be a low, scandalous, Irish trick!" he vehemently burst forth.

Weaver Jimmie's eyes brightened.  "They would be needing to learn a
lesson, whatever," he suggested tentatively.

"Malcolm," Mrs. MacDonald's voice came in gently, "we will surely not
be forgetting that Tom Caldwell would be joining us at the meetings
these last winters, and indeed we would jist all be praying together
that the Father would be putting away all strife from our hearts."

Callum cast his mother a look of gratitude; for, though generally the
first to scent the battle from afar and hasten its approach, for very
good reasons of his own he was on this occasion strongly inclined for
peace.  Big Malcolm looked at the gentle face of his wife and the fire
died out of his eyes.

"Hoh!" he exclaimed disdainfully, "I will not be caring; let them have
their childish foolishness if it will be doing them any good, whatever!"

Weaver Jimmie looked disappointed, but, seeing no encouragement in the
faces about him, he reluctantly dropped the subject.  The conversation
soon turned from war to a topic even nearer Jimmie's heart, for Rory
had brought out his fiddle and now struck up gaily the song of the
cruel Jinny and the hapless weaver.

Before the departure of the guests Scotty found an opportunity to
confide his troubles to Isabel.  He could not tell her exactly what was
wrong, for that meant confessing that Callum and Grandaddy were capable
of mistakes.  But he vaguely hinted that he was worried over their
hero.  Callum was going to do something, something strange and new, but
just what he could not discover.  Isabel was equally perturbed.  Why
not ask Granny? she suggested.  She would tell them.  But no, Scotty
explained, that was just what they must not do, for it was something
that made Granny sad.  But Peter Lauchie knew; Peter had told him that
the shanty at the north clearing was to be fixed up for Callum to live
there, after harvest; and then he laughed and would tell him no more.

As usual Isabel was quick to suggest a way out of the difficulty.  Why
should they not go over to Peter's place some day and _make_ him tell
all about it?  She wanted to see Betty again, anyway, and perhaps
Hughie would put up a swing for them in the barn again.

This was a fine plan, and the next week they proceeded to put it into
execution, and with Kirsty's permission set off early one morning for a
day's visit at Long Lauchie's.  Isabel was almost as well known there
as Scotty himself, so he soon managed to leave her in Betty's company
and go off to the fields to seek Peter.

By judicious and persistent questioning he learned the confirmation of
his fears.  Yes, Peter and all the boys knew what the trouble was.
Callum was to be married, and to an Irish girl at that, and of course
all the MacDonalds were highly disgusted.

Scotty listened in dismay.  Callum to be married!  That itself was bad
enough, people were always laughed at and chaffed when they got
married, and he writhed at the thought of his hero being in such an
ignominious position.  But to be married to an Irish girl!  Surely the
MacDonalds would be disgraced forever.

And yet Scotty's heart forbade his taking sides against Nancy.  She was
Irish, certainly a deplorable fact, but still she was Nancy; and though
she had not been at school for some time, the boy had not forgotten
her.  He sighed deeply over the complexity of human affairs.  This,
then, was the cause of their unhappiness at home, of Grandaddy's
muttered threats and Granny's distressed looks.

He did not understand that there were stronger objections to Nancy in
Granny's mind than the girl's nationality.  Big Malcolm's wife was
growing old, and the work of the farmhouse weighed heavily upon her.
Ever since Callum had grown up she had cherished the hope that one day
she would have sweet, trim Mary Lauchie, the finest girl in the Oa, and
a MacDonald at that, to take the reins of government in her household.
The loss of Mary would have been disappointment enough, but Callum's
new choice was a great trial to his patient, gentle mother.  The
thought of Nancy Caldwell as a daughter-in-law, even though she was to
live at the north clearing, instead of with her, filled her with fear.
For Nancy had a reputation that had spread beyond the Flats.  Since the
day she left school, where she had defied McAllister at his best, she
had ruled supreme in her own home from sheer dauntlessness of spirit.
Many were the tales told in the Oa of her wild outlandish doings; how
she would dress up in her brother's clothes and drive madly all over
the country; how she could ride an unbroken colt bareback, and shoot
like a man, things which everyone in the Oa knew no right-minded young
woman could ever learn.  And hadn't Store Thompson's wife been, as she
declared, clean scandalised by seeing the hussy cross the Oro at the
spring floods, standing erect in a canoe and spreading out her skirts
to the gale, "Makin' a sail o' mesilf!" as she had laughingly declared
when she leaped ashore.

Scotty could not force himself to tell Isabel the disgraceful truth; he
was very quiet and gloomy as they walked homeward through the
golden-lighted forest.  But Isabel had had a grand day with Betty and
had forgotten all about the original purport of their visit.  She
danced along at his side full of busy chatter.  Didn't he love all Long
Lauchie's folks?  She did; for Betty was a dear and Mrs. Lauchie was
'most as nice as Scotty's Granny.  But she loved Mary most of all,
because she was so kind and so good.  And did Mary have the heartbreak
too, like her auntie?  No; Scotty did not see how that was possible;
for Mary had never had a dress ready for a wedding; nor a fine soldier
man who did not come.  But Isabel was sure he was mistaken.  Yes, that
was certainly what Mary had, for her face was so pale, and she had the
same look in her eyes that her auntie had when her wedding day came
round, only Mary's eyes were kinder.  But Scotty was not interested in
Mary.  Callum absorbed all his thoughts, and he left Isabel at Kirsty's
and hurried home.

He found the boys all gone and his grandfather sitting alone by the
door.  Big Malcolm was not smoking, which was a bad sign, and his
grandson saw by the look in his eye that he was not at peace.  In his
perturbation over Callum's difficult case the boy had not noticed that
a new undercurrent of excitement was running through life's everyday
affairs.

For, though Big Malcolm had, with wonderful self-control, put aside his
indignation at the Orangemen, all the MacDonalds had not done so.
Weaver Jimmie had gone up over the hills of the Oa like a bearer of the
fiery cross, and wherever he appeared the beacon-fire of anger had
blazed forth.  The Orangemen celebrating!  The MacDonalds arose as one
man, and in all the inherited fury of generations, combined with as
much more produced for the occasion, banded together and swore that
before the soil of this, their new home, should be polluted by a
celebration in honour of the MacDonalds' betrayer, it should first be
soaked with the MacDonalds' blood!

To do Tom Caldwell justice, he did not at all comprehend the enormity
of the offence he was about to commit.  Of course the Orangemen
anticipated some trouble among their Catholic brethren, but rather
looked forward to it as part of their entertainment.  For though Pat
Murphy and his friends prophesied death and destruction to the
procession and all that had part or lot in it, what matter?  The
country had been growing far too quiet since the fighting MacDonalds
had taken to praying instead of pugilism, and a little row at the
corner would just stir things up a bit and make it seem like old times.
But while they gleefully looked for tempests in the Flats, they were
innocently oblivious to the fact that the formerly peaceful hills of
the Oa had been converted into raging volcanoes.  Occasionally vague
rumours of an eruption in the MacDonald settlement did float down to
King William and his men, drilling in the long June evenings, but they
drowned them in the tooting of fifes and the banging of drums and went
gaily on to their doom.

But while the MacDonalds raged, Big Malcolm remained at home alone or
in company with Long Lauchie, and fought with himself the fiercest
battle in which he had ever engaged.  Not since the day he had seen
Rory go down under Pat Murphy's feet had he been so sorely tried.  And
the MacDonalds would say he had failed them because his son was about
to unite with one of the Caldwell crew.  That was the sting of it!
Callum had always been the first in any aggressive enterprise of the
Oa, and Callum was now conspicuous by his absence.  Sometimes Big
Malcolm was fiercely resolved to plunge headlong into the commotion and
compel his son to join him.  And then calmer moments ensued; he could
not forget those winter prayer meetings and the wonderful leavening
effect they had had upon the community; nor could he forget Praying
Donald's prophetic warnings that all strife and enmity must certainly
bring retribution.  No; he had forever put all feuds behind him, he
finally decided, and if the MacDonalds were about to engage in strife
with the Orangemen they must learn that he, Big Malcolm, was far above
and beyond any such unseemly brawlings.

But upon this evening when Scotty found him alone at the doorway, his
grandfather was experiencing none of the settled calm that might be
expected to follow such a laudable decision.  For to-night the
MacDonalds were holding another mass-meeting at the house of Roarin'
Sandy to decide finally what punishment should be meted out to the
reckless Orangemen, and his very soul was crying out to be with them.

Scotty could elicit no answer to his remarks, and sat upon the
doorstep, a small, disconsolate heap, wondering sadly how his hero
could have made such a mistake, and finding in his own forlorn heart an
echo of the sweet, melancholy evening music.  Around him the mosquitoes
wailed out their dreary little song; away down by the edge of the wet,
low pastures, where the fireflies wandered, each with his weird little
torch, the frogs were piping mournfully.  The whitethroat was sending
out his "silver arrows of song" clearly and pensively from the depths
of the velvet dusk.  The discordant twang of the swooping night-hawks
came down from the pale clear sky where one silver star had come out
above the black jagged line of forest.

Granny was moving about indoors; the boy could smell the sweet
fragrance of the new warm milk she was straining into the pans.  The
air was heavy with the scent of clover, the world was very peaceful,
but very sad.

And then, out of the soft murmurs of the summer night, there grew a
strange new sound.  At first it seemed merely a movement of the air, a
peculiar thrilling vibration.  But gradually it grew into a note, a
high, weird musical note, alluring, electrifying.  Scotty raised his
head from the grass.  "What's that, Grandaddy?" he asked sharply.  Big
Malcolm did not answer; he was sitting bolt upright, alert, tense,
listening as if for his life.  For a moment the sound faded away, there
was a wondering silence.  And then, suddenly, a little pine-scented
breeze came sweeping up from Lake Oro; and on it, high, clear,
entrancing, commanding, came again that wild penetrating call--the
bagpipes! playing up gloriously the MacDonalds' pibroch!

Big Malcolm leaped to his feet.  It was the first time he had heard
that sound since it came ringing to him over the heather moors of his
native land.  The pipes!  The pipes on the hills of Oro!  There was
neither prophecy nor precept, no, nor iron bands that could have held
him at that moment.  With a wild outpouring of Gaelic, he sprang
forward, overturning the bench and the water-bucket by the doorstep;
and, coatless and hatless, went tearing across the fields and down the
road in obedience to that imperative call.

"Granny, Granny!" cried Scotty, running indoors in alarm, "what's gone
wrong with Grandaddy, will he be gone daft?"

Granny raised her hands in amazement and stood listening.

"Eh, eh!" she cried, "it will be the pipes!  Och, och, lad, things will
be going wrong with Grandaddy now!"

The great day, the 12th of July, dawned radiant in sunshine like any
other Canadian summer day.  Mr. Nash had made tremendous preparations
for his guests.  He had his family up long before dawn and by dint of
much fluency of language, for which he was famous, managed by eleven
o'clock to have the banquet in readiness.  Tables were set in the
dining-room and barroom, which two chambers constituted the ground
floor of the hotel proper.  The lean-to kitchen at the back was
steaming with all the good things Mrs. Nash and her daughters and the
assisting neighbours had prepared; and by half-past eleven the host, in
a clean shirt and his Sunday trousers, stood on the front step ready to
receive with due ceremony the expected company.

Store Thompson's place across the way was surrounded by a crowd of
eager spectators, for such a spectacle as a procession had not been
witnessed in the Glen within the memory of the earliest settler.  Then
there were rumours of trouble too; Pat Murphy and his friends were
there ready to produce it; and besides, everyone suspected that the
MacDonalds had some scheme afoot.  Store Thompson himself was excited.
He had not seen Big Malcolm for more than a fortnight, and he was
anxious about his war-like friend.  Surely, he told himself a dozen
times, Malcolm would never break forth into strife again after the
stand he had been taking during the past few winters for the bettering
of the community.  And yet, as the kindly old gentleman confided to
Sandy Hamilton, who had stopped the mill and come up to see what was
transpiring, he could not help feeling "a wee thing apprehensive-like."

A few minutes before twelve, the appointed hour for the procession to
appear, the patience of the crowd was rewarded.  Pat Murphy had just
assembled his satellites in the middle of the road and was haranguing
them and, incidentally, all the township of Oro upon their duties, when
a loud, shrill yell from the hilltops rent the air; there was a dull
thud, thud of marching feet.  The procession was coming!  For a moment
nationalities and creeds were both forgotten in a common desire to
witness the spectacle.  English, Irish, and Scotch crowded eagerly into
the road; every eye was turned towards the south hill.  Yes, the
procession was certainly coming, but what was this unearthly noise it
was making?  And where were the fifes and the drums?  And why, in the
name of all the cardinal points, was it coming down the north hill from
the Oa, instead of from the Flats?

And then there were no more questions, but just a sea of silent faces
held upwards in gaping amazement, for out from the pine grove of the
northern river-bank, with a shriek of pipes and a flutter of plaids,
whirled Fiddlin' Archie MacDonald in full Highland costume; and behind
him, armed and menacing, tramped every available male of the clan
MacDonald, from Long Lauchie's seventeen-year-old Peter, up to--yes,
alas, for the new era and its reforms!--Big Malcolm himself, all in
perfect time to the wild yell of the MacDonald pibroch!

Down they swept like a Highland charge, the pipes screaming out a
fierce challenge to anyone reckless enough to stand in their path, and
awakening such warlike echoes in the Oro hills as they had not given
back since the days when they rang to the war-whoop of Huron and
Iroquois braves.

And, indeed, had an army of redskins in war paint and feathers appeared
upon the hill, it is doubtful if it would have created any more
excitement.  For, though the Oa was a Highland settlement, the bagpipes
had hitherto been an unknown instrument in the township of Oro.  Hard
work and hard times had precluded the indulgence in any such luxury, so
the startled population of the valley witnessed for the first time that
magnificent combination of sight and sound known as a Highland Piper.

Upon Pete Nash the effect was almost disastrous.  The expectant host
had been fortifying himself rather copiously against the duties and
trials of the day, and his brain was in no condition to bear any such
strain as the appearance of Fiddlin' Archie put upon it.

At the first sound he rushed into the road, his eyes bulging with
horror, his hands held up as if to ward off a blow.  For Peter had once
been a good Catholic and knew he was committing a deadly sin in
harbouring these Orange heretics; and here, surely, were the hosts of
the Evil One, coming with shrieks of wrath to snatch away his guilty
soul in the midst of his iniquity.  His distracted wife bounded after
him, a half-washed frying pan in one hand, a dishcloth in the other;
and seeing what was descending upon them she dropped both utensils and
wailed, "Och, the Powers come down, Pater! is it Gabriel's trump, then?"

No one noticed the stricken pair, for all eyes were fixed upon the
advancing column.  Right up to the tavern door it marched, and when the
pipes ceased with a final defiant yelp, Big Malcolm, his eyes blazing,
his head erect, stepped forward and addressed the still trembling, but
much relieved, proprietor.

"We will be needing our dinner, Peter," he said very mildly, "for we
would be having a long walk, and mebby some work ahead of us, whatever,
so I hope you will jist be bringin' it on queek."

There was something in the intense politeness of Big Malcolm's tone
that aroused Mr. Nash's worst fears; a MacDonald was never so dangerous
as when he was courteous.

"And is it dinner for all this raft ye'll be after wantin', Malcolm
MacDonald?" he cried in alarm.  "Sure, ye know I can't give ye a bite
nor sup the day, man; the byes from the Flats----"

"Whisht yer tongue, Pete Nash!"  Big Malcolm's suavity vanished like a
wisp of straw in a flame.  "Bring on yer grub, man, or"--he brought
down his big fist upon the nearest table with a crash that made both
the crockery and its owner leap--"we'll be eating your old carcass on
the doorstep!"

Mr. Nash gave a prompt and obsequious obedience.  The Fighting
MacDonalds individually must ever be treated with respect, but the
Fighting MacDonalds in a body!  Surely not the most vivid Orangeman
could blame him in his extremity.  Perhaps the distracted landlord felt
that, after all, here was a providential means of escape from the crime
he had been about to commit, for very soon he had all Glencoe seated
about the well-spread tables, devouring the banquet prepared for
William of Orange.

The MacDonalds attacked the unholy viands with a zest that not even a
long tramp and a pioneer appetite could quite explain.  Mrs. Nash flew
back and forth hospitably, explaining to her satellites, to cover up
any apparent irregularity in her husband's sudden change of patronage,
that indeed they were always pleased to have the MacDonalds with them,
and that she, for one, was very glad to see a Scotchman dressed the
right way.

"Sure Oi've got a sister in the owld country, married to a Scotchman,
thin," she explained quite proudly to Judy Connors.  "He's in a Kiltie
rig'ment, an' his name's Pat O'Nale, an' aw now, it was him that had
the foine way o' swishin' his kilt whin he walked, indade!"

Meantime the feast was progressing; the great roasts of pork, the pies,
the cakes, and the puddings were vanishing like the snow on a March
noonday, when once more the assembly outside the tavern was
electrified, this time from the proper source.  For from the summit of
the north hill there arose such a mighty banging and tooting as might
have been heard had the new sawmill, lately built on the shore of Lake
Simcoe, taken legs and gone on a mad excursion up over the Oro hills.

Down the slope with waving banners and thumping drums rode King William
himself in brave array, mounted on a white steed which bore a strong
resemblance to Tom Caldwell's old grey mare, and followed by a troop of
loyal subjects, all to the stirring squeak of "The Protestant Boys."

At the sight of this magnificent army marching straight into the jaws
of disaster, Pat Murphy uttered a yell of triumph that put the fifes
and drums to shame.  Reckless with joy, he flew into the middle of the
road, and standing there facing the oncoming multitude, his wild eyes
blazing, his red beard and hair flaring out in all directions, he shook
his huge fist at the unoffending skies and called upon the sun and the
moon and all things created to witness the downfall of his enemies.

Fortunately for the usurpers, the steed of state which King William
bestrode, though old and decrepit, still adhered to a youthful habit of
shying, or the procession might never have reached the MacDonalds.
But, as the old grey mare approached the raving obstacle in her path,
she swerved coquettishly and King William curvetted round his enemy
with royal indifference.  His subjects wisely followed his example; the
procession divided and streamed noisily on both sides of the profane
wedge which had cloven it, and which gallantly held its position waving
its arms and howling forth derision until the last Orangemen had swept
past.

But as the revellers tooted their victorious way down the street
towards the tavern, a strange sensation of impending disaster made
itself felt.  The unwelcome fact began to dawn upon the Orangemen that
the clamour about them was neither composed of acclamation, nor yet of
the expected tumult of the outraged Murphys.

The suspicion grew to a horrible certainty by the time their
destination was reached, and the instant the procession halted, King
William, forgetting his royal dignity, scrambled from his horse and led
a hasty charge against the doors and windows of the tavern.  Their
apprehension had been too correct.  There, sitting at the Orangemen's
feast, were forty-nine armed MacDonalds, while the fiftieth swept round
the tables, his plaid flying, his kilt waving, his ribbons streaming,
and his pipes shrieking as if they would fain split the roof!

It was a crucial moment for the Glen; and, looking from his vantage
point on the verandah, Store Thompson held his breath.  That the
Orangemen even hesitated to pitch themselves headlong upon the usurpers
showed that in the past two years the forces that make for law and
order had been steadily working.  However it might be, they hesitated.
Perhaps they were assisted to a pacific decision by the sight before
them.  There is nothing so disastrous to a man's fighting qualities as
an empty stomach.  King William and his followers looked at their
dinner rapidly disappearing into the capacious interiors of Glencoe;
they looked at the stout clubs beneath the table; they glanced over
their shoulders at Pat Murphy and his men, waiting eagerly for the
MacDonalds to strike; they gazed at the terrible spectacle of Fiddlin'
Archie, whirling round the room in an eddy of defiant yells; and the
sights counselled discretion, rather than valour.

Slowly and sullenly they began to fall back from the doors and windows.
Even King William was about to join the retreat when, in glaring
fiercely round the tables, his eye chanced to fall upon the man whose
family was so soon to be connected with his own.  At the sight, the
royal rage, already at boiling point, burst all bounds.  Sticking his
crowned head far in through the window, and forgetting that he had made
a league with the MacDonalds to bring about a season of peace and
good-will in the community, Mr. Caldwell burst into wild and profane
vituperation.  Commencing with Big Malcolm at the head of the table,
and, taking each in turn, he roundly and lengthily denounced the
MacDonalds and all their generation; and ended his mad tirade by vowing
by all things in heaven and on earth that before a daughter of his
should unite with any such scum of savagery as was produced in the Oa,
her father would strike her dead!

Such snatches of the royal ultimatum as managed to penetrate the scream
of the pipes the MacDonalds heard in silence.  Occasionally a pair of
fierce eyes would dart a look of inquiry towards the leader, and once
or twice Weaver Jimmie half rose from the table; but, with wonderful
endurance, Big Malcolm held his men and himself down.  He had broken
his great resolution, but even in his abandonment he could not quite
get away from the strong influence at home.  No, he would not fight,
not unless Tom Caldwell pressed him too hard, and this refusal to
accept Callum into his family was nothing short of a blessing.

At last, through sheer dearth of remaining epithets, the royal address
came to a termination.  With much brandishing of fists and shouting of
threats, the chagrined and hungry would-be revellers melted away before
the sound of the MacDonalds' jig and the Murphys' jeers.

And when the last atom of the banquet had been demolished and the
landlord paid to the utmost farthing the MacDonalds arose, and, headed
by their piper, went roaring up to their native hills, fired with the
triumphant assurance that they had that day performed a great and
glorious deed, and that at last Glencoe had been avenged.




VIII

THE END OF THE FEUD

  There was a time I learned to hate,
  As weaker mortals learn to love;
  The passion held me fixed as fate,
  Burned in my veins early and late,
  But now a wind falls from above--
  The wind of death, that silently
  Enshroudeth friend and enemy.
          --ETHELWYN WETHERALD.


To Scotty the days following upon the Orangemen's defeat were filled
with misery.  Even when he spent the time at Kirsty's, fishing in the
streams or racing in the woods with Isabel, he could never quite forget
that there was trouble in the lately happy home beneath the Silver
Maple.  For Granny's face was full of pain and anxiety, though she was
so brave and patient; and Grandaddy walked the floor at nights or
tramped up and down beneath the stars, and Callum was silent and gloomy.

Scotty did not understand just how much reason Callum had for gloom.
That young man had to contend with foes both at home and abroad.  Tom
Caldwell had lost no time, upon his return home the
never-to-be-forgotten night of the Orangemen's downfall, in making very
clear to his daughter his views upon the burning MacDonald question.
Nancy had responded, with her usual spirit, by declaring that, when the
day arrived, she would marry Callum Fiach if the heavens fell.  The
father understood his daughter's spirit and took no risk; the Caldwell
homestead was guarded by armed men in quite a mediaeval fashion; Nancy
was kept in strict seclusion and a cordial invitation was sent to
Callum to come on the wedding day with all the MacDonalds he could
muster and take his bride.

Callum would have gladly accepted the challenge had there been any hope
of assistance.  But when Big Malcolm returned from the glorious defeat
of the Orangemen, his spirit still aflame, the sight of his son, who
had taken no part in their triumph, stirred him to fierce resentment.

"Callum!" he cried sternly, "I will be hearing no more about you and
any o' yon low Eerish crew.  It is not for my son to be disgracing the
MacDonalds after this day's work!"

Callum's face went suddenly white and he rose from the table.  "If you
mean Nancy Caldwell," he cried, "let me be telling you that I'll marry
her if she was the daughter o' the Deil, himself!"

Big Malcolm rose to his feet also, and the two men faced each other
fiercely.  "The day ye marry any kin to that son o' Belial, Callum
MacDonald," he roared, shaking his fist in his son's face, "you will be
no more a son of mine!"

Callum laughed harshly, and flung out of doors.  Scotty's big heart
swelled to bursting.  Grandaddy and Callum quarrelling!  It was too
awful to be believed.  He dared not look at Granny's face, for he
dreaded what he would see there, but he crept up close to where she sat
by the bare table, her face in her hands, her breath coming in long
sobs.  Granny's heart was breaking, he was sure, and his own heart was
breaking, too, for her, and for Callum, and for everyone.

The days that followed did not lighten the misery.  Big Malcolm's
repentance came over him like a flood of many waters.  He left the farm
to the care of the boys, and sat in the house, or wandered in the
fields, plunged in the deepest humiliation and despair.  One look at
his wife's sad face would drive him to the barn or the woods, where he
would sit, Job-like, and curse the day he was born.  Like Job, too, he
had three comforters who, though well-meaning and kind, served only to
deepen his spiritual gloom.  Neither Store Thompson's solemn
admonitions nor Praying Donald's hints of stern retribution were
calculated to relieve his mind; and when Long Lauchie came across the
fields on a Sabbath afternoon to mourn over him and see dire fulfilment
of prophecy in his woeful case, he was driven to the verge of
desperation.

There was no pleasure at home, and whenever Scotty had an opportunity
he went visiting in the direction of Kirsty's.  Isabel's companionship
afforded him much solace, and through her wonderful ingenuity came at
last a way out of his despair.

At first he had been reluctant to confide his troubles even to her; he
knew that Granny would speak of them to no one except the one great
Comforter, no, not even to Kirsty's mother; so he nursed his mournful
secret through one long miserable day.  But Isabel's eyes were very
bright and soon spied the trouble in Scotty's face.  So one day, as
they sat on the edge of the old log bridge and swung their feet in the
cool, brown water, he opened his heart fully.

To the boy's relief she seemed to think none the less of Callum for
wanting to marry an Irish girl.  Some Irish people weren't bad, she
declared.  For her Uncle Walter and Aunt Eleanor were half Irish.
Maybe she was some Irish herself, she generously conceded, but, at
Scotty's look of incredulous dismay, she hastily concluded that she
must be entirely and exclusively Scotch.  But there was Danny Murphy,
that nice boy who brought her the maple sugar and the butternuts, he
was Irish; yes, and old Brian, their coachman, was Irish and said
"begorra," and Brian was a dear.  And very likely Nancy must be one of
the nice Irish, or Callum would not want to marry her.  And if they did
not let him marry her, then that would be an awful thing, for if Callum
failed to appear on the wedding day Nancy would certainly take the
heartbreak, like Aunt Eleanor, and be sick forever and ever, and have
to lie for days in a dark room and have headaches and nasty medicine.

Scotty's heart was wrung at the awful prospect.  Was Isabel sure?  Why,
of course, she knew all about heartbreak and disappointments and such
things.  Scotty declared desperately that something must be done.  And
without an instant's meditation Isabel burst forth with the brilliant
suggestion--why could they not take their pirate ship, sail down the
Oro to the Flats and carry Nancy off bodily?

Scotty was dazzled.  This was a thrilling project, entailing, as it
did, an adventure in their wonderful vessel.  For some time before the
close of school he and Danny Murphy had been copartners in a tremendous
secret enterprise.  Down in the green tunnel made by the "Birch Crick,"
where it foamed along through a tangle of timber and underbrush, until
it found its way into the Oro, they had discovered, early that spring,
a derelict punt.  This craft had come like an answer to prayer; they
had patched it up, launched it, and, before the holidays, had spent
aboard its rotten timbers days of perfectly abandoned joy.  Several
times, indeed, they had made adventurous voyages out upon the Oro
itself, and had had hairbreadth escapes, for the vessel leaked and
accidents were frequent.  But every boy of Number Nine school was an
amphibious animal, and such small things as shipwrecks mattered little.
With the close of school these happy excursions had to be given up.
Only once had the boys been on a voyage since, and then Isabel had
accompanied them, and they had not gone far.  But here was a chance to
go on a wonderful tour.  They would sail down to the Flats and steal
Nancy; perhaps they would even take a voyage down to Lake Simcoe and
away out upon the Atlantic Ocean and have fights with pirates and
Fenians.  Scotty's ambition was fired to be away at once, but there was
one trouble--Isabel herself.  She was all right at home, but her habit
of hanging on to his coat with both hands when danger threatened would
be embarrassing in public, and he did not even dare to think what Danny
would say if he saw him in such a disgraceful plight.  And then he
conceived the rest of the brilliant plan himself.  They would not steal
Nancy away this time, but they would go to the Birch Crick, and if
Danny was there they would send a message by him to Nancy, asking her
if she would not like to be kidnapped, and he mentally resolved that
Isabel could be put off while he and Danny performed the glorious deed.

Isabel, quite innocent of his traitorous plot, agreed to this
modification of her plan; and the next morning, having obtained
Kirsty's reluctant permission to go on an indefinite fishing
expedition, they set off down the Scotch Line, bursting with excitement.

The Birch Creek crossed the road, flowing cool and brown beneath the
old log bridge; a fine place for paddling with bare feet, but the two
adventurers had no time for any such trivial pastime.  They plunged
into the undergrowth and followed the stream through a riotous
confusion of long grasses and shrubs, where the yellow touch-me-not,
the pink willow weed, the tall white turtle-head, and the blazing
golden-rod grew in a tangle of wild beauty.  They scrambled along with
joyous shouts, sometimes on land, more often in the water.  Frequently
they had to stoop and crawl beneath the green canopy of birch and elm
and willow that covered the stream and through which the golden
sunbeams scarcely struggled to the cool, brown surface.  Out in the
open spaces the dragon fly darted here and there like a little blue
spear.  The shy trout fled dismayed before the two noisy intruders; the
waxen blossoms of the arrowhead, the broad shining leaves and
golden-hearted blossoms of the water lily and the stately blue spikes
of the pickerel weed bent before their ruthless tramping.  A
kingfisher, startled from his day's work by the uproarious pair, shot
down the stream, his derisive laugh echoing far through the leafy
avenue.  The two almost forgot the great import of their journey in its
delight.  Scotty splashed ahead, capering from fallen log to sunken
stump; and after him came his faithful follower, bespattered with mud,
dripping wet, even to the crown of her golden curls, and filling the
air with her joyous shrieks of laughter over Scotty's wild antics.

And to crown their happy excursion, as they came round a sudden bend in
the stream, there came a splashing sound ahead; a welcoming shout
greeted them, and here was Danny sailing down upon them, his red head
shining like a beacon in the stern of the pirate ship!  They wasted
very little time in making known the grave reason for their visit, and
to their surprise they found that Danny knew much more about the
Caldwell-MacDonald trouble than they did.

Sure, wasn't his brother Mike telling them only last night that Nancy
wasn't allowed to go outside the gate, though she fought like a tiger
about it; and Tom Caldwell had said he'd kill Callum Fiach if he came
near the place; and Nancy had said she'd murder anybody that laid a
finger on him.  Nancy was good stuff, and if there was any scheme for
outwitting the Caldwells, Danny was their man.

But this was grave news, and somewhat dampening to the ardour of the
adventurous spirits.

So they pulled the old punt up under the birches and sat in it with
their three heads, black, gold and red, very close together, and
concocted a new plan.  The line of procedure finally settled upon was
not quite so romantic as Scotty had intended, but it answered.  Danny
had access to the Caldwell home; no one would suspect him; he must see
Nancy, and offer their services as well as those of their vessel, and
meanwhile Scotty was to interview Callum, and if he had any message to
send to Nancy, then Danny would carry it.

They all went home bursting with their prodigious secret; and Scotty,
whose forest breeding had made reticence easy, never ceased all the way
home to warn Isabel of the fearful consequences of disclosure.

He could scarcely wait for an opportunity to speak to Callum alone, but
at last supper was over and the chores all done; and he crept out to
the barn where he had seen the young man disappear.  He found him in
the loft, lying gloomily upon the hay; and, hesitating and fearful lest
Callum would ridicule or blame him for his interference, he made his
confession.  Callum suddenly sat up and gazed into the bright eager
face with its big sparkling eyes.  He sprang to his feet.

"Horo!" he shouted, and catching the boy up flung him over his head
into the hay; and when Scotty came laughing and breathless to his feet
he was filled with amazement and concern to see that there were tears
in Callum's eyes.

And so a letter was carried, but not without difficulties encountered.
Kirsty proved the first obstacle.  She declared she was just going to
put a stop to such stravogin', and would not let the lass go near that
dirty crick again, for she always came home wringing wet.  Isabel swept
away this barrier in a flood of tears, and all other difficulties were
met and dealt with in an equally summary manner.  Danny's dangerous
part of the task was executed with wonderful skill and an answer was
piloted safely back.

They were all three somewhat disappointed when Callum announced that
the proceedings must stop there.  Danny was inclined to rebel, and
Isabel failed to explain such conduct.  But Scotty found ample
compensation for their restriction in the happy change in Callum.  His
old gaiety came back, his eyes sparkled, and he would snatch up Isabel
and go leaping about the house with her perched shrieking upon his
shoulder, just as he used to do in the happy days before the Orangemen
came to blight their home.

Matters were improving in other places too.  Big Malcolm's second stage
of repentance, a period of prayer and fasting, had passed; he had come
once more into his old contented state, sure of the forgiveness of his
Heavenly Father for the wrong done, and determined by His grace never
again to fall.  News reached the Oa, too, that Nancy Caldwell had
suddenly given up her rebellious outbursts and had settled down meekly
to her fate, and Tom Caldwell boasted all over the Flats that she
wouldn't take Callum Fiach if all the MacDonalds in the Oa came to back
him up.

And so Scotty found life happy again, and he and Isabel once more
settled down contentedly to housekeeping beneath the Silver Maple.  But
the summer passed and old Brian came and took his comrade away, and
Scotty wept secretly in the haymow all the evening after her departure.

The next morning he arose with a distinct consciousness of loss
sustained.  Isabel was not the only one who had left apparently.  When
they sat down to breakfast Callum had not yet appeared.  No one marked
his absence until Big Malcolm came in from the barn.

"Where will Callum be?" he inquired as he helped himself to his
porridge.  Rory kept his eyes upon his plate, but Hamish answered in a
troubled tone, "I'll not know, father.  Mebby he would be at the north
clearing, whatever.  He would not be coming home last night."

Big Malcolm continued his meal with knitted brows.  Suddenly he looked
up and caught a startled expression in his wife's eyes.

"What is it?" he asked anxiously.

Mrs. MacDonald's fingers were working tremulously with the hem of her
apron.  "I would be thinking," she faltered, "it will be the day--the
day that was set!"

"Hoots!" cried Big Malcolm, "that will be nothing, whatever."

But a sudden ominous silence fell over the breakfast table; this was to
have been Callum's wedding day, and Callum had not appeared.  The
stillness was broken by Bruce, who rose up from underneath the table
with the short bark that announced a well-known visitor.  A shadow fell
over the threshold, still pink in the glow of the rising sun.  Big
Malcolm looked up in surprise.

"You will be early, Jimmie!" he called heartily as the Weaver stood in
the doorway, "come away, man, and be having a bite!"

But Weaver Jimmie shook his head; he stood at the door struggling with
feet and whiskers, and apparently more than usually overcome by
embarrassment.

"I would like to be speakin' to you, Malcolm," he said.  There was a
look in his face that brought the three men instantly to the doorway.
Scotty, straining his ears to catch their low remarks, could hear only,
"Run-away--Lake Simcoe."  Granny arose, her face white.

"Malcolm," she whispered, "Malcolm, what is this about our son Callum?"

Big Malcolm turned.  There was a look in his eyes that had not been
there since the day the Orangemen were defeated; but it suddenly faded
at the sight of her white, pained face.

"It will jist be nothing, whatever," he said gently.  "They would be
saying the girl was off this morning, but Jimmie will not be sure.
Come, lads."

The four men went away without another word, passing quickly through
the barnyard and up the path that led into the woods.  The mother arose
and knelt by the bedside in the corner so long that Scotty could bear
his burden of guilt no longer.  He crept up to her, and when she put
her arms about him he sobbed out his dreadful secret; how he and Isabel
and Danny had carried a letter to Nancy, and another one back to
Callum; and perhaps that was what made Callum run away.  And oh, oh, he
didn't know it was wicked or he wouldn't have done it; only she must
not blame Isabel; it wasn't her fault.

But Granny blamed no one.  She listened gravely to his story, and to
Scotty's supreme relief seemed a little comforted by it.  And she
comforted him, too, patting his head lovingly and declaring that he was
Granny's own boy with the big heart, indeed, and together they watched
and waited through the long dreary day for the men's return.

But Scotty was tired out and gone to bed long before they came.  He was
half-awakened in the night by the sound of voices; strange voices, too;
not angry or clamorous, but hushed and solemn.  Once he distinguished
Grandaddy's voice, broken as though with weeping, and Granny's, too,
speaking as though she were comforting him, but with a sound in it that
made the child's tender heart contract with pain.  There seemed an
awesomeness about the strange, soft movements below that sent a chill
over him.  None of the boys had come to bed yet; the light from below
shone up through the cracks in the floor, and he crept to the hatchway
and listened.  And then he distinguished Praying Donald's low, deep
voice raised in supplication; then Grandaddy had been fighting again
and they had come to pray for him.  The boy crept miserably back to his
bed and, childlike, soon fell asleep.

He awoke in the rosy dawn, when the shadows of the forest still
stretched up to the doorstep, and found to his surprise that Hamish was
sitting by his bedside.  He remembered with a chill the anxiety of the
day and the awesomeness of the night before, and asked suddenly,
"Where's Callum?"

But Hamish did not answer directly; only said that he must be good and
quiet and not ask Granny any questions, and added after a second
question that Callum was gone away.  And when would he be back?  He
would not be back, Hamish whispered, with his eyes upon the floor.
Would not be back?  Scotty stared uncomprehending.  And where was
Nancy?  Nancy was with him.  Had they gone to the old country? he asked
in a whisper, but Hamish shook his head and turned away.  The boy's
heart seemed held by an awful dread.  He wanted to ask another
question, and yet he dared not.  But as the young man turned to go down
the stairs something in his white face opened a flood of awful
intelligence upon the boy's mind.

"Hamish," he cried in a sharp whisper, "is--is--Callum--dead?"

But Hamish made no reply, only gave him a glance as though he had been
smitten with a mortal wound, and went hurriedly down the stairs.

But Weaver Jimmie told him all about it as soon as he descended.  For,
to his surprise, Scotty found not only Jimmie there, but many others of
the neighbours.  Store Thompson's wife sat by the bed in the corner,
and Granny lay upon it white and silent.  Something lay in another
corner, stretched upon boards, a figure so muffled and still that,
without knowing why, Scotty glanced at it with a feeling of terror.
Grandaddy was nowhere to be seen; but Praying Donald was there, reading
by the window.  His deep voice, hushed to a solemn, low rumble, filled
the room; "Then they cry unto the Lord in their trouble, and He
bringeth them out of their distresses," he was saying, but Scotty did
not listen; he followed Weaver Jimmie out to the barn full of
awe-stricken questionings.  And Jimmie, his kindly face quivering with
sympathy, told him all.  Yes, that still, dark form he had seen in the
corner was Callum; they had brought him home last night, and had taken
Nancy to her home.  But Hamish had said Callum was gone, Scotty argued,
and Nancy with him; had they come back then?  No, they had not come
back.  They had run away and tried to cross Lake Simcoe in a canoe.  A
storm had come up suddenly, and though the Caldwells and the
MacDonalds, who had tracked them to the shore, tried to rescue them,
they were too late.  And Callum was gone, gone never to come back, and
Nancy was with him; and if Store Thompson could get the great preacher
who had lately come to Barbay, they would bury them both in the Glen
to-morrow.  Scotty did not hear any more; Callum to be buried, and
Nancy, too, to be put away in the ground as they had put Kirsty's
father!  He crept off into a corner of the haymow as soon as Jimmie had
left him, and lay there, his curly head hidden deep in the hay, his
small body shaken with long convulsive sobs.  Callum, his Callum,
Granny's hero, as well as his own, gone never to come back!

Voices reached him once, and lest he should be discovered, he pressed
his small hands over his quivering face and manfully strove to hold
down his grief.  Praying Donald and Long Lauchie were walking slowly
with bent heads past the open barn door.

"It will be the will of the Almighty to be visiting us through this
calamity," Praying Donald was saying, "but the Father will never be
leaving His children comfortless, for the man of God himself will be
coming to the funeral."

"McAlpine?" asked Long Lauchie in an eager whisper.

"Aye, John McAlpine himself; the Lord will be very merciful to us.
But, eh, eh, that the man that poor Malcolm would be praying for all
these years should be coming to us over his dead!  Eh, it will be a
mystery, a mystery!"




IX

RALPH STANWELL AGAIN

  Johnnie Courteau of de mountain,
  Johnnie Courteau of de hill;
  Dat was de boy can shoot de gun,
  Dat was de boy can jomp an' run,
  An' it's not very offen you ketch heem still,
      Johnnie Courteau!
          --WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND.


Scotty was setting out for what he hoped was his last winter at school.
It was a performance he considered quite too juvenile, and a single
glance at him would convince anyone that it was high time he had put
away childish things.  His great, strong frame, over six feet in his
"shoepacks," his brawny arms and hands, well developed under the toil
of the axe and the plough, all spoke of his having reached man's
estate.  But his growth had somewhat outrun his years, and he had not
yet reached the age when he might with propriety remain away from
school during the winter.  Besides, he had held a conference with Dan
Murphy and "Hash" Tucker during the Christmas holidays to consider the
matter of further education.  Should they abjure the whole trivial
business, was the question discussed, or should they attend school this
winter just to see what the new master would be like, and, if possible,
make things lively for him?

The latter course, being the more uncertain, offered the more
entertainment and was unanimously adopted; so here was the young man,
on this dazzling January morning, swinging along the silent white
forest path, ready for any kind of adventure.

For Scotty had arrived at a period when the unknown and the forbidden
were the alluring, and the lawful and the restraining were the irksome.
Indeed Rory was wont to grumble that that young Scot was just going to
ruin; he had never been made to mind anybody when he was little, and
now he was just growing up clean wild.  For since Rory had given up
fiddling and dancing and had settled down with Roarin' Sandy's Maggie
in the north clearing he had become a very staid householder and
frowned upon all youthful frivolity.  And though his prophecies were
perhaps overpessimistic, there was undoubtedly some cause for
disapproval in the matter of Scotty's conduct.  Even Big Malcolm and
his wife, who, as old age advanced, were more and more inclined to make
an idol of their grandson, could not quite shut their eyes to his
imperfections.  He was the same big-hearted Scotty he had been in his
childhood, lavishly generous and swift to respond to the call of
suffering; but his high spirits were sometimes too much for the narrow
confines of his life, and he was wont to break out into wild,
mischievous pranks.

During the last winter of poor old McAllister's feeble misrule, Scotty
and his two leal followers, Dan Murphy and "Hash" Tucker, had contrived
to make the hard name of Number Nine notorious.  So long as the three
confined their misdemeanours to the school the public had winked at
them.  Disorder and ill-behaviour always seemed associated with old
McAllister, everyone felt; and indeed Mr. Cameron, the minister, was
suspected by most of the section to have had reference to the old
broken-down school-teacher when he preached that solemn discourse upon
the blind leaders of the blind.  As the sermon was delivered on the
Sabbath after Scotty and Dan had knocked over the stovepipes and almost
burned down the school-house, Store Thompson declared he was "convinced
of the certainty of the application-like."

But when the boys perpetrated acts of lawlessness beyond the precincts
of school life people began to look upon them askance.  Scotty had
distinguished himself rather unpleasantly on the last Hallowe'en; for
besides the usual small depredations which everyone expected on that
historic night, someone had gone to the extremity of elevating Gabby
Johnny Thompson's wagon, heavily loaded with grain, to the top of the
barn; and everyone in the Oa knew that nobody would have conceived of
such a daring thing except Big Malcolm's Scot.

Of course, the neighbours could not fail to see some poetic justice in
the affair, for Gabby Johnny, who was famed for his astute bargaining,
had been voicing a wailing desire for high wheat ever since that grain
had begun to grow along the banks of the Oro.  Nevertheless, though the
neighbours might secretly approve of such retributive acts of
Providence, the medium through which they descended was liable to be
regarded with disfavour.

For while Scotty was growing up the social life of the Oro valley had
been undergoing a great transformation.  John McAlpine, that great
preacher whose words always awoke his hearers to a terrible realisation
of the solemnity of life and the certainty of death, had come to the
Glen with his imperative call to higher things.  And at his coming the
Sun of Righteousness had arisen over the Oro hills and the whole
countryside had awakened to a new day.

Other influences had been at work, too; the spirit of the pioneer days
was passing with the forests, the little isolated circles of cleared
land had widened out and merged into each other like the rings on the
surface of the Oro pools, and with the broader outlook came gentler
manners and more tolerant views.  Then this young land was slowly but
surely absorbing into her own personality all the discordant elements
and making of them a great nation; for within the last few years a new
race had sprung up in the Oro valley, a race that was neither English,
Irish, nor Scotch, Highland nor Lowland, but a strange mixture of all,
known as Canadian.  The community in the Glen had grown to quite a
respectable village, the post office adding a touch of dignity and
necessitating the new name, the name of Glenoro.  And best of all,
there was the church just at the bend in the river, with the manse
beside it where the minister lived; and such had been its influence
that a fight at the corner now would have brought a shock to the whole
township.

So Scotty and his followers did not properly belong to these improved
times; they were mediaeval.  The boy had been too young when Mr.
McAlpine came to be deeply affected by his great sermons; but he had
not outlived the stirring memory of the old fighting days when Callum
kept the Oa lively.  Callum was still his hero, the dear old handsome
Callum, of whom he could never think even yet without a pang of regret.
Hamish and Rory had grown beyond him with the years, but Callum was
always young and bright and dashing; and Scotty was determined to be
like him and to do the great deeds Callum would certainly have done had
it not been for his untimely end.

The bell was ringing when the three conspirators met at the school
pump.  Number Nine had a bell now, and there was even some agitation
for a new building.  Poor old McAllister's wasted life had gone out the
autumn before like the quenching of a smouldering fire, and now that a
new man was to take his place the section was beginning to pick up
courage and look for a hopeful future.

The young men lounged in at the end of the procession and flopped into
their seats with the proper air of insupportable boredom.  Scotty's
first task was to take the measure of his new instructor.  At the first
glance he was conscious of a distinct sensation of disappointment.  He
had expected the stranger to be young and callow, but this man had grey
hair and was apparently nearing middle age.  His face, which was pale
and showed signs of ill-health, was clearly cut and refined.  His frame
was well-built and wiry, and he had a pair of steady grey eyes and a
quiet, dignified manner which seemed strangely incongruous in the
position old McAllister had so long made ridiculous.

Nevertheless Scotty regarded him with strong disfavour.  His white
collar, his smooth hair and his English way of sharply clipping off his
words stamped him as hopelessly "stuck-up"; and Dan Murphy reported
with derisive joy that he had worn gloves to school, a weakness of
which no one who called himself a man would be guilty.  Besides all
this, he had obtained his position through Captain Herbert; indeed, he
had been a close friend of the Captain when they lived in Toronto, it
was rumoured, and he probably belonged to the aristocracy, who were
hated of Scotty's soul.  On the other hand, he wasn't an Englishman,
for his name was Archibald Monteith, that was one thing in his favour;
but he stood for order and good behaviour, and the young man was
arrayed against all such.

The new master himself was quietly taking note of his surroundings.  He
had been thoroughly informed of the bad character of Number Nine, both
by Captain Herbert and the trustees, not to speak of the unsolicited
advice and information that had been pouring in upon him ever since his
arrival.  Upon the first night of his stay at Store Thompson's, a burly
man with a great bushy head and beard had come suddenly upon him; and
after a warm handshake and welcome had given him absolute power in the
matter of dealing with his family.

"You lay it onto my Danny," was the generous admonition.  "Sure, the
young spalpeen's mad wid the foolish goin's on, an' it's a latherin' he
needs ivery day.  You mind an' lay it onto Danny!"

Quite as cordial but more ominous had been the advice proffered by
Gabby Johnny Thompson.  In his capacity of Secretary-Treasurer of the
School Board that gentleman felt it incumbent upon him to inform the
novice of the unsounded depths of iniquity he had to deal with in
Number Nine.  His darkest hints related to "yon ill piece o' Big
Malcolm MacDonald's."  A scandalous young deil he was, and Mr. Monteith
would have to keep an eye on him, for him and yon young Papish of a
Murphy were a bad pair.  It was young Scot Malcolm who had nearly
burned the school down, over McAllister's head; yes, and would have
burned up old McAllister, too, without a thought, he was that thrawn
and ill.

Monteith was regarding with deep interest the owner of this evil
reputation.  He was a rare reader of character, and understood at once
the nature of Scotty's malady.  His man's frame and boy's face, his
keen, bright, inquiring eyes, and the signs of abounding life, all
fully explained the cause of the trouble.  The schoolmaster found
something irresistibly attractive about the boy too; there were signs
of intellect in every line of his face, and he dearly loved brains.

As the school passed out for their morning intermission he beckoned the
youth to him.  Dan Murphy made a covert grimace expressive of his whole
being's revolt against any such degrading task, and Scotty went forward
reluctantly.  He wanted to disobey, but the man's courtesy held him.

An old school register in which were written some seventy names lay
open on the desk.

"I am hopelessly entangled in all these MacDonalds," said the new
master, in a tone one man would use in addressing another.  "Here are
four Betseys and six Johnnies, and Donalds without number.  Would you
be so good as to assist me?"

Scotty's inbred Highland courtesy and the generous desire to help which
was part of his nature, impelled him to answer politely.  Striving to
ignore the violent pantomime being enacted by Dan in the porch, he gave
the man the key to the situation.  His big finger ran awkwardly down
the page as he gave the name by which each pupil was known.  The
stranger listened in some amusement and not a little bewilderment to
the list: Roarin' Sandy's Donald, Crooked Duncan's Donald, Peter Archie
Red's Donald.  They were rather unwieldy, but he planted them down
heroically, and then proceeded to disentangle the Murphys and the
Tuckers after the same fashion.

"I am very much obliged to you," he said with the same quiet
seriousness when the work was finished, and Scotty took his seat
wondering if the new master ever smiled.  Most likely that grave,
unbending manner was just the natural outcome of his inevitably
stuck-up nature, he reflected.

Affairs went harmoniously enough until school was dismissed for the
noon recess.  As soon as the word was given dinner-pails were seized,
bread-and-butter, meat, pie, and cake began to appear and disappear
again with equal rapidity; a crowd of the bigger girls made
preparations for brewing tea on the stove; and before the new master
could get on his overcoat and gloves preparatory to leaving, dinner was
well under way, and the room was filled with a strong aroma of tea and
pork.

Scotty had gone to the door to administer a farewell snowball to the
unclassified aliens who went home to the village for dinner.  A prompt
answer came hurtling back, and as he dodged into the porch with a
derisive yell of laughter, he barely escaped knocking over the new
master.  He hastily stepped aside to let him pass, but the man paused.

"I forgot to ask you your own name, among all the others," he said,
more for the sake of engaging the youth in conversation than to gain
information.  "You are a MacDonald, too, I believe?"

Scotty had long passed the time when he felt his English name a
disgrace.  Of course he would have preferred one of another sort, but
he scarcely thought of it now, and most of his schoolmates had
forgotten that he possessed one.  And, in the face of this grave man's
courtesy, he felt it would be childish to pretend, so he answered, not
without some dignity, "No, my name will not be MacDonald, it will be
Stanwell, Ralph Stanwell."

The new master's grey eyes grew suddenly narrow; he was well acquainted
with all the small tricks to be played upon a newcomer, and had many a
time seen this one of a fictitious name successfully practiced.  He had
been prepared to find this boy hard to manage, but he was disgusted
that he should descend to such a small, childish prank.  He knew
Scotty's name only too well, and, in any case, for a youth with a
marked Highland accent, dressed in the grey homespun which seemed the
uniform of the clan MacDonald, to stand before him and give himself
such a name as this was as stupid as it was insulting.

"That is a very clumsy lie," he remarked quietly.

Scotty dropped his snowball and stared; for a moment he did not quite
comprehend.

"What?" he cried artlessly.  His look of innocent amazement doubled his
listener's indignation.

"I said," returned the man very distinctly, "that you have told me a
lie, and a very stupid one, for I know your name to be Scot MacDonald,
and a rather notorious one you have made it, too."

And turning his back in disgust, the new master walked quietly down the
snowy road.  For an instant Scotty stood glaring after him, every drop
of his rebellious blood tingling.  He snatched up his snowball again
and took aim.  If he could only smash that conceited looking hat, or
better still, the insufferable white collar!  But there was something
in the commanding air of the figure that went so steadily onward, not
deigning to look back, that held the boy's arm.

Instead, he sent the missile crashing into the last remaining pane in
the porch window, and went leaping into the school, determined to find
Dan and relieve his feelings by working some irreparable damage.

The schoolhouse was in a condition to invite depredations.  Late in the
previous autumn, as soon as the news of the new master's expected
advent had come, the matrons of Number Nine had organised a
housecleaning campaign in the school.  Store Thompson's wife, that
queen of housekeepers, headed the expedition against dirt, and even the
minister's wife took part.  The former lady had long declared that the
condition of the schoolhouse was clean ridic'l'us, and now demanded
that something be done to better it, for as the new master was coming
from the Captain's he was sure to be a gentleman, and most like would
be terrible tidy.

So the army of housekeepers had charged down upon the schoolhouse, and
such a washing and cleansing and renovating as took place had certainly
never been paralleled except when the spring winds and waters came
swirling down the Oro hills.  The poor little building was scarcely
recognisable when it emerged from its baptism of soapy water and
whitewash.  The big girls added an artistic touch by decorating the
spotless walls with cedar boughs, until the place smelled as sweet as
the swamps of the Oro; and to crown all, the minister presented it with
a fine picture of Queen Victoria to be hung above the master's desk.

And this was the immaculate condition of the place where, when his
dinner was finished, Scotty's roving eye sought something upon which to
work off his burning indignation.

It had always been the custom heretofore in Number Nine to employ the
noon recess tearing round the room in a cloud of dust, yelling,
throwing ink and breaking furniture.  But to-day the awe of the new
master had had a restraining influence, and most of the wilder spirits
had betaken themselves to an outdoor campaign.  So there were only a
few of the smaller pupils and the larger girls grouped round the stove
when Scotty started his new enterprise.  The cedar wreath above the
door was quite dry and rather dusty and offered a fine field for a
unique exploit.  Lighting a splinter at the stove, he set fire to the
garland, allowed the flames to mount up, and just as they threatened to
get beyond his control, beat them out with his cap.  The girls shrieked
in horror; Betty Lauchie screamed that he was a wretch, and the
minister himself would be after him, and Biddy Murphy vowed she'd pull
every hair of his worthless head out for him if he tried it again.  But
Scotty was joyously reckless and quite beyond fear of even Miss Murphy.

When Dan returned from the slaughter of the Philistines, who lived over
on the Tenth, he found his chum the centre of a wildly excited group,
and engaged in beating out his third conflagration.  Dan was
immediately fired to emulation.  He would be disgraced forever in the
eyes of the Flats if he allowed Scotty to get ahead of him, and already
the room was filling with admiring MacDonalds and envious Murphys.  So,
in spite of the imploring shrieks and commands of the girls, he struck
a match and soon had the festoons along the wall crackling merrily.
When this rival blaze was extinguished Hash Tucker stepped into public
notice.  Considering his blood and breeding, this son of the house of
Tucker should have been a phlegmatic Saxon.  But no one can say what
Canadian air will do with the blood; and under its influence Hash had
long ago commenced a reversion to type, the aboriginal wild Indian.
Whatever Scotty or Dan did therefore, that he could outdo.  Seizing a
burning brand from the stove, he scrambled up on the teacher's rickety
old desk, and the next moment the triumphal arch, reared in honour of
the new master's coming, was in a blaze.  But just as he reached up to
beat out the flames he was gripped violently round the knees, and down
he came to the floor, Scotty on the top of him.  Hash roared lustily
for his followers; the Tenth responded gallantly, Scotty was engulfed
in their on-rush, and, to help on the good work, Dan Murphy headed a
rescue party from the Oa to extricate his friend from the yelling heap.

What the outcome of this affray might have been is doubtful, but just
at its inception a terrified cry of "fire," from the remainder of the
school parted the combatants.  They came to their feet to find the
flames leaping up the walls, and clouds of smoke rolling through the
room.

It was no joke this time and the boys wasted not an instant.  Scotty
leaped from the floor to head an impromptu fire brigade, and for a few
moments they worked desperately.  They dragged down the burning
branches and flung them out of doors; they flew to and from the pump,
they flung snow and water among the flames, and after a short but
desperate struggle the fire was conquered.

It was all over in a few moments, and the victors stood, begrimed and
breathless, and rather ruefully surveyed the havoc they had unwittingly
wrought.  The lately spotless walls were scorched and blackened, the
decorations depended from the fastenings, charred and ugly, and the
floor was swimming in inky water.

"Horo!" cried Scotty, with a long, dismayed whistle.

"It'll be bad for the gent's white collar if he comes in here," said
Dan solemnly.  "Murderin' blazes, who's that?"

Now, it happened that by an evil chance Gabby Johnny, the
Secretary-Treasurer, had been driving past the school on his way to the
woods, and seeing smoke issuing from the windows of the building over
which he considered himself the especial guardian, he stopped his team
and rushed upon the scene, and there he stood now, in the silent crowd
of frightened girls and sobered boys, gazing at the devastation with
such an expression of aghast horror, that at the sight of him all
Scotty's compunction vanished and he laughed aloud.

Gabby Johnny peered through the smoke and discerned his enemy,
evidently rejoicing over his evil work.

"Ah, ye ill piece!" he shouted, stepping up to the boy and shaking his
fist in his face, "Ah kenned it was you!  Aye, Ah kenned!  If there's
ony scandal'us goin's on ye'll be in it!  It's an evil end ye're comin'
til, wi' yer goin's on; aye, that's what ye are!  Ye neither fear God,
nor regard man!  Sik a like onceevilised----"

Now Gabby Johnny was prepared upon all occasions to prove his right to
his sobriquet, and Dan Murphy well knew he would not stop until he had
driven Scotty to extreme measures, so here he mercifully interfered in
his friend's behalf.  He had no mind to defy a trustee, so, being of a
diplomatic turn, determined to divert the tide of wrath by the simple
expedient of producing a counter-irritant.  He slipped out quietly from
the line of culprits, and snatching up a well-packed snowball hurled it
straight and true at the team standing in the road.  The missile was a
hard one, and the nervous young colts, their heads erect, their
nostrils indignant, went jingling off down the road, their heels
sending a fine snowstorm over the old bobsleigh, leaping in their wake.

Gabby Johnny heard his bells and his eloquence suddenly ceased.  At the
same instant Dan burst in upon him, his eyes starting from his head,
his breath coming in gasps.

"Sure, your team's runnin' away!" he bawled.  "They're runnin' away!  I
can't stop them; they're gone clane wild!"

Gabby Johnny waited neither to hear nor deliver more.  He darted out
and down the road, followed by a hailstorm of snowballs and the joyful
cheers of Number Nine.  And as he went he howled breathless anathemas,
alternately at his wayward horses and back at the yelling mob behind
him, both couched in language little calculated to raise the moral
status of the already besmirched school.

But the boys' trouble was not over; they returned from the rout of the
trustee only to find the new master entering the scene of destruction.
He stood and looked about him with a manner just as quiet, but no
graver, than usual.

"How did the fire start?" he asked calmly.

The dauntless three stepped forward, headed by Scotty.  In the old days
confession to McAllister did not appear in the code of schoolboy
honour; but there was something about this man, even though Scotty
cordially hated him, which demanded fair dealing.  The new master
looked them over in a manner that was hardly complimentary.  His
eyebrows rose.

"Children!" was all he said, but the word made Scotty writhe.  Then he
did not scold or rave as the boys half-wished he would.  He quietly
dismissed all but the three culprits, and saying he would give them
that afternoon and the next day to bring the school back to the
condition in which they had found it, and that done, he would prefer
that they remain at home under their parents' control for a month or
so, he turned on his heel and walked away with an air that said plainly
that this was no affair of his and was regarded by him with calm
indifference.

The boys were completely taken aback.  Hitherto school discipline had
consisted exclusively of thrashings, which though uncomfortable had
some honour attached.  But here was a new departure; to have to undo
all one's mischief, and then be contemptuously dismissed was a serious
affair.  The new master acted as though he were the King of England
too, and certainly, with Gabby Johnny at his back, he was not to be
trifled with.

When the three arrived the next morning, armed with whitewash and
brushes, Dan and Hash were rather inclined to feel subdued, but not so
Scotty.  In his home discipline was not so rigid as in that of the
other two, and his grandparents had not even heard of his escapade.
And his heart was still raging hot against the new master.  The man had
dared to tell him he lied!  The remembrance of it and Monteith's air of
calm superiority maddened him.  How he longed to knock him down and
hear him take back his statement.  Well, he could not do that, it
seemed, but he would wreak his vengeance in some other way.

So with Scotty in this mood the work of reparation did not go on very
steadily.  His two companions tried to attend to business, but soon
found it impossible.  They were alone in the forest with unlimited
whitewash; and with Scotty inciting them to deeds of daring, how could
they resist?  They started by enduring their leader's pranks, and ended
by embracing them, and when their morning's task was completed not even
McAllister's ghost, could it have appeared, would have recognised its
old haunts.

Yet no one could say the boys had not done their work, for they had
whitewashed the school with a thoroughness even Store Thompson's wife
would never have attempted.  The only fault was the lack of
discrimination shown by the decorators.  Some critics might have
considered the coating of the floor and the desks a work of
supererogation.  But the boys were not stingy; they whitewashed
everything with an impartial and lavish generosity; the walls, the
ceiling, the blackboard, the furniture.  Yes, even the stove and
stovepipes were rubbed until they fairly radiated whiteness, and stood
out spectrally in their pallid surroundings, like the ghost of some
departed heater.  Scotty gave the new master's desk an extra coat, and
even polished up a stray book and dinner pail, unluckily left behind
the day before, just to have them in harmony with their environment.

When at last the work was finished and the three bespattered workmen
prepared to depart, Dan declared in an oratorical address delivered
from the top of the master's snowy desk, that they had nobly done their
duty, for had they not carried out the new master's instructions and
whitewashed the school?

And when they turned the white key in the white door and stole off in
three directions through the forest, bursting with mirth, they vowed
they had not experienced such a season of pure joy since the night
Gabby Johnny's waggon had arisen, like Charles's Wain, in the heavens!




X

IN THE REALMS OF GOLD

  Not to be conquered by these headlong days,
  But to stand free: to keep the mind at brood
  On life's deep meaning, nature's altitude
  Of loveliness, and time's mysterious ways;
  At every thought and deed to clear the haze
  Out of our eyes, considering only this,
  What man, what life, what love, what beauty is,
  This is to live and win the final praise.
          --ABCHIBALD LAMPMAN.


Upon his return home, Scotty went out behind the house to work off some
of his superfluous mirth upon the woodpile.  He had flung aside his
coat and was swinging his axe vigorously, when, with the quickness of
the rural eye which always spies an approaching figure, he noticed a
man turn in from the highway and walk briskly up the snowy lane.  The
boy gave a low whistle; his face grew dark with anger.  It was the new
master!  He had found out the condition of the school then, and had
come to report to his grandparents.  McAllister at his worst was better
than this fellow, for McAllister was no sneak.  But even in his anger,
he chuckled mischievously when he considered what an exhibition
Monteith would surely make of himself if he attempted to lodge
complaints with Big Malcolm against his grandson.

But instead of turning up the path to the door, the new master followed
the track that led round the house under the Silver Maple.

At first Scotty was of a mind to dodge round the woodpile and escape;
but he was too late; Monteith had already caught sight of him; so he
waited, sullen and defiant.

The new master lost no time in making his errand known.

"I came to offer an apology, Ralph Stanwell," he said gravely, "for
what I said concerning your name.  I found out my mistake only this
afternoon."

Scotty's defiant air changed to one of amazement; his eyes fell, he
felt suddenly ashamed.

"I hope you will accept an explanation, though it does not at all atone
for what I said," continued the schoolmaster earnestly.  "I am truly
ashamed of myself for making such a stupid blunder."

Scotty squirmed in embarrassment.  He had never in his life witnessed
any such dignified reparation of a wrong, and in contrast, his own late
conduct looked childish and almost barbarous.

"Oh, it will not matter, whatever," he stammered abruptly, and in a
manner much more ungracious than his feelings warranted.

"But it does matter very much.  It was no way for one man to speak to
another."

Scotty experienced a glow of mingled pride and shame; the new master
considered him a man then, and he had not played the man's part!  "But,
you see," continued Monteith, "I felt so sure.  It was your Highland
accent, and your--your general MacDonald appearance that to my
ignorance made your statement unbelievable."

The schoolmaster had unwittingly struck the right chord.

Scotty smiled shyly but amicably.  "Oh, it will be jist nothing," he
said generously.

"Won't you shake hands, then, and let me feel I am quite forgiven?"

But Scotty did not put out his hand; he stood shifting from one foot to
the other, looking down at the heap of chips.

"But--I--would you not be knowing?" he faltered.

"Knowing what?"

"That we--that I would be making the schoolhouse worse than ever?"

There was a sudden light in Monteith's eyes that would have surely
convinced Scotty, had he seen it, of the new master's ability to smile.

"Well, perhaps that will help to even things up a little," he said
brightly.  "Come, are you willing to call it quits?"

Scotty put out his big hand swiftly, and felt it caught in a strong
bony grip.  And as their hands met Monteith's stern face suddenly broke
out into an unexpected smile, a smile so brilliant and kindly that the
boy felt it illuminate his whole being, and from that moment he was the
new master's friend.

"And now," said the man, suddenly becoming grave again, "will you tell
me how you come to have two names?  How does a Highland Scot like you
happen to have such a name as Stanwell?"

Scotty gasped; was he going to ignore the whitewashing altogether?

"It would be my father's," he answered simply, "but I would always be
living here with my grandfather, and I was always called MacDonald."

"Ralph Stanwell, Ralph Stanwell," repeated the schoolmaster
ruminatingly, "I've heard that name before.  Why, yes; I wonder if you
are any relation to the Captain Ralph Stanwell I once met in Toronto.
The name is not common."

"My father died there, and my mother, too," was the answer.

The new master stared.  "Surely, surely," he was saying, half to
himself, "it couldn't be possible; but his wife's name was MacDonald
too!  And Herbert always said the child died!"

Under the man's steady gaze Scotty fidgeted with his axe in combined
amazement and embarrassment.

"Was your father's second name Everett?"

"Yes, and that will be mine, too."

The new master stared harder.

"Well, well, well," he muttered, "I wonder if he knows!"

The boy stood lost in a wild speculation.  By some queer trick of
memory he was back once more in Store Thompson's shop, a little
curly-headed fellow, and felt a man's kind, playful hand upon his
curls; and at the sound of his name saw a smiling face grow suddenly
grave with amazement, fear and defiance chasing one another across it.
How was it that, all through his life, his English name seemed always
to produce consternation?

Monteith shook himself as though awakening from a dream.

"I beg your pardon," he said hastily, "your name called up some old
memories.  And now, I must be going."  He held out his hand again.
"Good-bye, and I thank you for your generosity."

"But--but you will not be leaving without your supper!" cried Scotty
aghast.

"Thank you, but your grandparents are not expecting me, and----"

Scotty stared.  "But what difference would that be making?" he asked
artlessly.  "It will be all the better."  The new master smiled again
at the unconscious hospitality of the remark, and this time accepted
the invitation.  Scotty instantly flung aside his axe, and led the way
around to the door.

Monteith had already learned to expect a warm greeting from the
inhabitants of the Oro Highlands, but he had yet to experience a true
Scottish-Canadian welcome, and was almost overwhelmed by the one he
received in the old house under the Silver Maple.

Big Malcolm met him at the door and made him welcome in a manner that
somehow made the guest feel that the old man owned the whole township
of Oro and was laying it at his feet.  Mrs. MacDonald drew him up to
the fire, bewailing the long cold walk he had had, and pulling off his
overcoat, calling all the while for Scotty to run and put more wood in
the stove that she might make a fresh cup of tea.  Hamish came hurrying
up from the barn to shake the guest's hand and make him welcome yet
again, and even Sport, Bruce's successor, leaped round him, barking
joyously, as though he understood that the arrival of a visitor was the
best possible thing that could happen.

Then, there was Old Farquhar, still cackling incoherent Gaelic from the
chimney corner.  Before the visitor had got the snow swept from his
feet the old man inquired if he had read Ossian's poems, and finding
him in the depths of ignorance regarding that great bard, turned his
back upon him in disgust, and for the remainder of the afternoon snored
grumpily.

The hostess explained apologetically, as she brought the new master a
steaming cup of tea, that indeed poor Farquhar was the nice, kind body,
but he had had the toothache all last night and would be terrible set
on Ossian.

Mrs. MacDonald was growing too old for the household cares devolving
upon her, and Scotty being her chief help, the housekeeping did not at
all compare with what Monteith was accustomed to in his boarding place
at Store Thompson's.  But he was conscious of no lack in the dingy old
house.  He recognised the inherent refinement of Mrs. MacDonald's
nature, and bowed to it; he knew Big Malcolm for a gentleman the moment
he spoke; and he saw, too, something of the mystic in Hamish.  For in
later years there had grown an expression in Hamish's kind brown eyes
which the schoolmaster understood--the look of a soul that has longed
to soar, but has been kept down by narrow limitations.

Then the supper was spread upon the table, and it was all the visitor
could desire; porridge in brown bowls, smoking and fragrant, sweet
white bread, and bannocks with plenty of maple syrup.  And afterwards,
when the supper was cleared away, and Scotty and Hamish had finished
the milking, they all gathered about the stove, which now stood in
front of the old discarded fireplace.  First the schoolmaster had to
tell of his life and lineage, during which recital he proved his
Scottish blood to everyone's satisfaction.  There did not seem to be
much to tell of his past doings, though in response to the simple,
kindly questionings, he gave it all.  He had been born in Scotland and
was quite alone in Canada, except for Captain Herbert, who was an old
friend, and whose wife had been a distant relative.  He had studied law
for some years, but his health had failed before his course was
completed.  Then he had knocked about the world a good deal, and had
come north at Captain Herbert's advice to see if the Oro air would not
do him good.

"Indeed, and it will that!" Big Malcolm declared heartily.  "Jist you
eat plenty o' pork and oatmeal porridge and you'll be a new man in no
time.  Hoots, when we would be coming here first folk would never be
sick like now-a-days; and indeed it wasn't often a man died except a
tree would be falling on him, whatever."

"Those must have been fine times," said the schoolmaster smilingly; and
thereupon his host and hostess launched into long tales of the old
days, when the forest came up to the door, and of those older and
happier days in the homeland across the sea.

Big Malcolm and his wife lived much in the past now, and, when the
guest displayed a kindly interest in their history, they opened their
hearts even to speak of Callum, their light-hearted, bright Callum,
whose end had been so untimely.  The schoolmaster heard also the manner
of his death; how it had brought the great preacher, and how in the
double grave in the Glen by the river one of the Fighting MacDonalds,
at least, had buried all his feuds.  And they told him, too, of their
only daughter, the beautiful little Margaret, who had been Scotty's
mother.  Monteith asked many questions concerning her, and Scotty
listened eagerly, but his new friend offered no explanation of his
interest.

When it was time to depart, Big Malcolm was for insisting that he
should spend the night with them; but when he declared that he must
return to the Glen, or Mrs. Thompson would be worried, his hostess
seized the teapot again, and another supper was spread out, of which
the guest had perforce to partake before leaving.

That finished, Big Malcolm reverently laid aside his bonnet, and Scotty
brought him the old yellow-leaved Bible.  The old man read the 103d
Psalm in a triumphant tone that showed he had passed all his
temptations and trials, and now in a serene old age his soul blessed
the Lord for His guidance.

And then they sang a Psalm, Old Farquhar coming out from his corner to
join them.  They sang it in English, in deference to the guest's lack
of Gaelic, and the brown rafters rang to the solemn old Scottish tune
in harmony with the beautiful words:

  "Oh, taste and see that God is good:
  Who trusts in Him is bless'd!"


And listening, the man of the world experienced a vague sensation of
something like regretful envy.  Had he not, in his broader life, missed
some uplifting joy, some great blessing in which these old people
rejoiced?

While Monteith was taking a lingering farewell and promising a speedy
return, Scotty went to a corner and lit the lantern, and in spite of
the schoolmaster's protests, insisted upon accompanying him for a mile
to show him the short road across the swamp.

The two walked side by side along the snowy path, the lantern flashing
fitfully amongst the bare branches and dark boles of the trees.
Monteith chatted away pleasantly, but Scotty answered only in
monosyllables.  He was employed in making desperate efforts to bring
about some allusion to the condition of the schoolhouse.  But the new
master seemed to have totally forgotten school affairs, and when they
came to the end of the forest path and stood upon the Glenoro road,
saying good-night, this strange man had not in the smallest way
recurred to the shameful subject.  Scotty was in despair.  "It would be
a fool's trick we were doing!" he burst forth, as Monteith held out his
hand in farewell, "if we could jist be having another day----"  He
stopped overcome.

The new master did not seem to need an explanation of this apparently
irrelevant speech.  "Could you fix it all up in one day?" he inquired
in a business-like manner.

"Oh, yes!" Scotty gasped eagerly, "easy."

"All right, we'll take to-morrow; I'll come over and help you.
Good-night!"

And he turned away, leaving his pupil standing in the middle of the
road amazed and humbled.

Number Nine learned during the following week that for some
inexplicable reason the MacDonalds, whose hand had hitherto been
against every other man's hand, were on the side of the new master, and
that anyone who gave him trouble was courting dire calamities at the
hands of Big Malcolm's Scot.  As a direct result the fiat went forth
that Dan Murphy, and consequently all his generation, also approved of
the new rule.  Subsequently the Tenth announced its neutrality; and
from that time the new era, which had arisen at the building of the
church in the social world of the Oro valley, dawned in the schoolhouse
too, and the land had rest from war.

To no one did the new dispensation bring greater things than to Scotty.
Ever since the days when all knowledge and wisdom could be extracted,
by persistent questionings, from Hamish, he had experienced an
unslakable thirst for books.  He had been much more fortunate in
finding reading material than his uncle had been, for Captain Herbert's
library was always at Scotty's disposal.  Every summer and winter
Isabel came to Kirsty's laden with books, and what feasts she and
Scotty had reading under the boughs of the Silver Maple or before
Kirsty's fire!  Dickens, Scott, Thackeray, Macaulay--they devoured them
all; and once, by mistake, she had brought some books by a wonderful
man named Carlyle, which she declared were dreadfully stupid, but which
Scotty found strangely fascinating, though somewhat beyond his
understanding.

But Isabel had been away at school for more than a year now, and though
she wrote Scotty voluminous letters, which he answered at shamefully
long intervals, and only when Kirsty's reproaches goaded him to the
effort, she had almost entirely passed out of his life.

So when there had been no more books to read he had turned his restless
energies into less profitable channels.  But now, here were not only
books of all kinds, but a man ready and willing to interpret them.
Scotty heard no more of the sentence of expulsion, and with the energy
that characterised everything he did, he plunged headlong into a course
of study far beyond any public school curriculum.  Monteith was first
amazed, then delighted, and lastly found he had to set himself severe
tasks to keep sufficiently ahead of his pupil.

And in return for his pains Scotty gave an allegiance to his master
that had in it something of homage.  Not the gay, reckless Callum was
his hero now, but this quiet, self-controlled gentleman.  Unconsciously
the boy copied him in every particular, and unquestioningly adopted his
opinions.  Monteith had seen the world, had lived in cities, and even
in that magic land, "the old country," and surely he should be an
authority.  Scotty early learned that the new master despised the
tavern, not quite in the way Store Thompson and the minister and his
grandfather did, as a force of evil, but in lofty scorn of its lowness.

In consequence the boy was never found hanging about its doors any
more.  And though the teacher said nothing about his religious views,
the pupil soon learned and adopted them too.  Monteith treated all
creeds with a good-natured tolerance.  The Bible, he declared, was a
grand piece of literature, and he liked to go to church because Mr.
Cameron's sermons gave him some intellectual stimulus.  Religion he
characterised chiefly as an emotion.  A man needed only common sense to
show him how to live, he declared.  Scotty felt that this was the creed
for him; he had come under Monteith's control at a period when he was
in revolt against all earlier restraint and rejoiced in the feeling of
independence which the new belief brought.

The two soon became fast friends in their common pursuit of learning.
When the second winter came, and Scotty had become too old for school,
he and Monteith studied together in the long evenings, and each month
of companionship served to deepen their friendship.  But in spite of
their intimacy the boy never elicited any explanation of his friend's
strange behaviour when he first realised that Scotty's name was
Stanwell.  Monteith was always careful to call him Ralph, but he
forebore from any allusion to the subject; and as the days went happily
on the matter dropped from the boy's thoughts.




XI

THE WEAVER'S REWARD

  Love came at dawn when all the world was fair,
  When crimson glories, bloom and song were rife;
  Love came at dawn when hope's wings fanned the air,
  And murmured, "I am life."

  Love came at even when the day was done,
  When heart and brain were tired and slumber pressed;
  Love came at eve, shut out the sinking sun,
  And whispered, "I am rest."
          --WILLIAM WILFRED CAMPBELL.


And just as Scotty entered manhood a wonderful thing happened in the
Highlands, something that amazed the neighbours and convinced them of
the instability of all things, particularly of a woman's resolution,
for Kirsty John promised to marry the Weaver.  All these weary years,
as faithful as the sun and as untiring, Jimmie had been climbing the
hills to the Oa to shed the beams of his devotion unheeded at Kirsty's
doorstep; but now the long period of Jacob-like service was over, for
he had at last won his Rachel.

Some declared that this was only a new method Kirsty had found for
tormenting her hapless lover, and that after they were tied up she
would lead him a dog's life.  But Long Lauchie's girls--there were
still girls at Long Lauchie's, though a goodly number of matrons looked
back to the place as their old home--declared that Jimmie no longer
dodged when Kirsty passed him, and that he even entered her house
without knocking.  And Big Malcolm's wife would shake her head
smilingly at all the dark predictions and declare in her quiet, firm
way that indeed they need never fear for Jimmie.

And she was right; the Weaver was not undertaking any such hazardous
enterprise as the neighbours supposed.  For a change had come over
Kirsty the winter she lost the frail little mother, and only Big
Malcolm's wife knew its depth.  All Kirsty's bold courage, all her
fearless fight with poverty, had had for its inspiration the poor
sufferer on the bed in the corner of the little shanty, and when the
spring of action was removed there went also the daughter's dauntless
spirit, and nowhere was the change so strongly evinced as in this
promise to marry the Weaver.

Kirsty's grief had no bitterness in it.  It had softened her greatly,
for the little mother's death had been as beautiful as her patient,
pain-filled life.  And wonderful it seemed that, like that other woman
who had suffered so long before, just eighteen years of pain had been
completed when the Master called her to Him and said in His infinite
love, "Woman, thou art loosed from thine infirmity."

"But you will surely not be leaving me," pleaded Kirsty brokenly when
her mother told her the end could not be far off.  "Ah've nobody but
you."

"Eh, ma lassie, ye'll be better wi'oot such a puir auld buddie, jist a
burden to ye a' these years."

"Oh, mother, mother, ye'll surely not be talkin' that way to me,"
sobbed her daughter.

"Eh, eh, lass!  There, there!  It's naething but the best Ah could say
to ye, Kirsty."  The weak old hand was fumbling feebly for Kirsty's
bowed head.  "For, eh, ye've jist been that guid to yer mither, the
Lord'll reward ye; Ah've nae fear o' ye, Kirsty, He'll reward ye."
There was a long silence in the little room.  The fire flared up in the
old chimney, the clock's noisy pendulum went tap, tap, tap, loud and
clear in the stillness.  "Read it tae me jist once mair, Kirsty," she
whispered.  Kirsty arose and fetched the old yellow-leaved Bible from
the dresser.  She did not need to be told what she was to read.

"Aye," whispered the old woman with a gleam of triumph in her eyes,
"aye, He called her; an' it's jist eighteen year.  Aye, eighteen!  Eh,
it's been a long time, Kirsty," she continued as her daughter seated
herself at the bedside again, "eh, a weary time, an' the pain's been
that bad, whiles, Ah wished He would tak' it awa, but Ah didna ask Him.
No, no!  She didna ask Him, an' Ah jist waited like her, an' it's
eighteen year, and Ah think He'll be callin' me....  Read it, Kirsty."

Kirsty opened the Book; her eyes were blinded with tears, but she had
so often read that passage that she knew it by heart.  She was
faltering through it when a timid step sounded, a crunch, crunch on the
snow outside the door, and a low tap, scarcely audible above the noise
of the clock, announced Weaver Jimmie.  Old Collie, lying before the
fire, so accustomed to Jimmie's approach, merely uttered a gruff snort,
as though to apprise all that he was well aware that someone had
arrived, but did not consider the visitor worthy of his notice.  But as
Kirsty opened the door he thumped his tail upon the hearthstone.

For the first time in his life Weaver Jimmie realised that Kirsty was
glad to see him, and his heart leaped.  But he choked at the sight of
her grief-stricken face, and could only stand and look down at his
great "shoepacks" in the snow.

"Will ye bring Big Malcolm's Marget," whispered Kirsty, "mother's----"
She stopped, unable to say more, but more was unnecessary, for, eager
to do her bidding, Jimmie was already off across the white clearing and
was lost to view before she could shut the door.

Kirsty went softly back to the bed.

"Was it Jimmie?" whispered her mother.

"Yes."

"He's a kind chiel, Kirsty.  Ye must marry puir Jimmie, ma lassock,
he's got a guid hert, an' he'll mak' ye a kind man, an' Ah'll no be
fearin' for ye."  She paused, and then came the whisper, "Read it."  So
Kirsty read it to her for the last time, the sweet old story that had
comforted the poor, pain-racked woman and upheld her in patience and
fortitude for eighteen weary years of suffering.  And when at the end
of the story came those gracious words bearing a world of love and
divine compassion, "And Jesus called her to Him and said unto her,
Woman, thou art loosed from thine infirmity," Kirsty paused.  Her
mother always interrupted there, always broke in with a word of
triumph, a renewal of the firm faith that for eighteen years had
forbidden her to ask for relief.  But as she waited now there came no
sound, and, looking up, she saw that the Divine Healer had loosed this
other woman from her infirmity and made her straight and beautiful in
His kingdom of happiness.


And so Kirsty, always kind and true-hearted, had been made better and
more womanly by her trial; and although she kept her faithful suitor
waiting for a couple of years more, she yielded at last and the Weaver
received his reward.

As if to be in keeping with the time of life at which the bride and
groom had arrived, the wedding day was set in the autumn; the soft
vaporous October days when the Oro forests were all aflame.

Kirsty had refused to leave her little farm; so Jimmie, well content,
had a fine new frame house built close to her old home; and as soon as
the wedding was over he was to bring his loom from the Glen and they
would begin their new life together.

Kirsty declared that he might bring the loom any day, for there was to
be no nonsense at her wedding; they would drive to the minister's in
the Glen by themselves, and she would be home in time to milk the cows
in the evening.

But when she saw the bitter disappointment a quiet wedding would be to
the prospective groom, she had not the heart to insist.  For years
Jimmie had buoyed up his sorely-tried courage by the ecstatic picture
of himself and Kirsty dancing on their wedding night, he the envy of
all the MacDonald boys, she the pattern for all the girls; and though
neither he nor his bride were any longer young, he still cherished his
youthful dream.  And then Long Lauchie's girls came over in a body and
demanded a wedding and a fine big dance, and even Big Malcolm's wife
declared it would hardly be right not to have some public recognition
of the fact that there was a wedding among the MacDonalds.

And so, laughing at what she called their foolishness, Kirsty yielded,
and the girls came over and sewed and scrubbed and baked, and Scotty
and Peter Lauchie gathered in the apples and turnips and potatoes and
raked away all the dead leaves and made everything neat and tidy for
the great event.

And the day actually dawned, in spite of Weaver Jimmie's anticipation
that some dire catastrophe would befall to prevent it.  A radiant
autumn day it was, a Canadian autumn day, when all the best days of the
year seem combined to crown its close.  The dazzling skies belonged to
June, the air was of balmiest May, and the earth was clothed in hues of
the richest August blooms.  The forest was a blaze of colour.  The
sumachs and the woodbine made flaming patches on the hills and in the
fence-corners.  The glossy oaks, with their polished bronze leaves, and
the pale, yellow elms softened the glow and blended with the distant
purple haze.  But Canada's own maple made all the rest of the forest
look pale, where it lined the road to the bride's house, in rainbows of
colour, rose and gold and passionate crimson.

Early in the afternoon high double buggies, waggons, and buckboards
began clattering up the lane to Kirsty's dwelling.  And such a crowd as
they brought!  In the exuberance of his joy Weaver Jimmie had bidden
all and sundry between the two lakes.  And besides, everyone in the Oa
went to a MacDonald wedding, anyway.  Invitations were always issued in
a rather haphazard fashion, and if one did not get a direct call, it
mattered little in this land of prodigal hospitality, for one always
bestowed a compliment upon one's host by attending.

Long Lauchie's girls took the whole affair out of Kirsty's hands and
arranged everything to their hearts' desire.  The cooking and washing
of dishes was to be done in the old house, while the double ceremony of
the marriage and the wedding dinner was to be performed in the new
establishment.

This place was gaily decorated with the aromatic boughs of the cedar,
dressed with scarlet berries and crimson maple leaves.  A table at one
end held the wedding presents.  This was the work of the Lauchie girls,
too, for Kirsty felt it was nothing short of ostentation to put up to
the public gaze all the fine quilts and blankets and hooked mats the
neighbours had given her towards the furnishing of the new home.  But
the girls had their way in this as in all other arrangements, and most
conspicuous in the fine array were a Bible from the minister and a set
of fine gilt-edged china dishes from Captain Herbert's family.

And amidst all this splendour sat the bride, sedate and happy, arrayed
in a bright blue poplin dress and the regulation white cap.

Beside her sat Jimmie, his arm about her in proper bridegroom fashion,
but loosely, for Kirsty was not to be trifled with, even on her wedding
day.  He sat up, erect and stiff, strangling ecstatically in a flaring
white collar, and striving manfully to keep his broad smiles from
overflowing into loud laughter, for poor Jimmie's belated joy bordered
on the hysterical.  His magnificent appearance almost eclipsed the
bride.  He wore a coat of black, such as the minister himself might
have envied, a saffron waistcoat, and a pair of black and white
trousers of a startlingly large check.  His hair was oiled and combed
up fiercely, his red whiskers waged a doubtful warfare for first place
with the white collar, his big feet were doubly conspicuous in a pair
of red-topped, high-heeled boots which, unfortunately, met the trousers
halfway and swallowed up much of their glory.  But as both could not be
exposed, Jimmie, evidently believing in the survival of the fittest,
had allowed the boots the place of honour.

Scotty drove his grandmother over to Kirsty's early in the morning, for
the bride said she must have her mother's old friend with her all day;
and when he returned in company with Hamish, his grandfather, and Old
Farquhar, it was almost the hour set for the ceremony.

The wedding guests had already gathered in large numbers, many of them
standing about the door or in the garden--matrons in gay plaid shawls,
with here and there a fantastic "Paisley" brought out, for this festive
occasion, from the seclusion of some deep sea-chest; men,
weather-beaten and stooped, in grey flannel shirtsleeves, showing an
occasional genteel Sabbath coat from the Glen; bright-eyed lasses, with
gay touches of finery to brighten their young beauty; youths in heavy
boots and homespun clothing, gathered in laughing groups as far from
the house as possible; and everywhere babies of all sizes.

Scotty left a crowd of his friends at the barn and went up to the house
to look for Monteith.  The schoolmaster had spent the preceding
Saturday and Sunday with his friends at Lake Oro, but had promised
Jimmie faithfully that he would not miss the wedding.  As the young man
swung open the little garden gate and came up the pathway between rows
of Kirsty's asters he caught sight of his friend standing in the
doorway of the new house, and gave a gay whistle.  Monteith looked up
quickly, but instead of answering he turned to someone inside the house.

"Here he is at last," he called, "come and see if you think he's grown
any."

And the same instant a vision flashed into the little doorway, a vision
that nearly took away Scotty's breath--a tall young lady in a blue
velvet gown with a sweet, laughing face and a crown of golden hair
overshadowed by a big plumed hat, a lady who looked as if she had just
stepped out of a book of romance; a high-born princess, very remote and
unapproachable, and yet, somehow, strangely, enchantingly familiar.

The vision apparently did not want to be remote, for it came down the
steps in a little, headlong rush, casting a pair of gloves to one side
and a cape to the other, and caught hold of both Scotty's hands.

"_Scotty_!  Oh, oh, Scotty, _dear_!" it cried; and then it was no
longer an unapproachable heroine from a story-book, but just Isabel;
Isabel, his old chum, and something more, something strangely
wonderfully new.

Scotty did not return her welcome with the warmth he would have shown a
few years earlier.  He stood gazing down at her as if in a dream, and
then the red came up under the dark tan of his cheek and overspread his
face.  He dropped her hands and looked around hastily, as if he wanted
to escape.  But Isabel dragged him up the garden path in her old way,
deluging him with questions for which she never waited an answer.  She
had seen Granny Malcolm and Betty and Peter, and she had been afraid he
wasn't coming.  And, oh, wasn't it an awfully long time since she had
seen any of them?  And didn't he think he was very unkind not to have
answered her last two letters?  And she had been away at school all
this endless time, not home to the Grange even in the summer!  And, oh,
how glad she was to get back!  And how he had grown!  Why, he was a
giant!  And had he missed her?  She had missed him just awfully, for
Harold was away all the time now.  And wasn't it just too perfectly
lovely for anything that Kirsty and Jimmie were getting married, and
that he and she were together at the wedding?

Scotty stood and listened to these ecstatic outpourings, his head
swimming.  He was enveloped in a rose-coloured mist, a mist in which
blue velvet and golden hair and dancing eyes surrounded and dazzled
him.  One moment he was a child again, and his little playmate had come
back, and the next he was a man and Isabel was the lady of romance.
And while he stood in this delightful daze someone came and took the
vision away; he thought it was Mary Lauchie, but was not sure.  When
she had disappeared into the new house he awoke sufficiently to notice
that Monteith was standing at the door regarding him with twinkling
eyes, and for the second time that afternoon he blushed.

The crowd was beginning to gravitate towards the new house, and Scotty
soon found an excuse to enter also.  It hadn't been a dream after all,
for she was there, sitting close by Kirsty, holding her hand, and
surrounded by the people who made up the more genteel portion of
society in the Oa and the Glen.  A little space seemed to divide them
from the common crowd, and she sat, the recognised centre of the group.
Scotty noticed, too, that even Mrs. Cameron, the minister's wife,
treated the young lady with bland deference, quite unlike her manner of
kind condescension towards the MacDonald girls.  As he watched the
graceful gestures and easy well-bred air of his late comrade, Scotty
was suddenly smitten with a sense of his own shortcomings; he was
rough, uncouth, awkward.  Isabel belonged to a different sphere; she
was far removed from him and his people.  It was the first time he had
realised the difference, and he felt it just at the moment that it
first had power to hurt him.  He experienced a sudden return of the old
wild ambition that used to shake him in his childhood when Rory played
a warlike air.  And then he wanted to slip out and go away from the
wedding feast and never see Isabel again.  He glanced at her again, and
felt resentfully that she must surely be guilty of the sin of "pride,"
which so characterised the class to which she belonged.

But he had soon to change his mind.  The blue eyes had been glancing
eagerly about the room, and as soon as they spied him their owner arose
and came crushing through the throng towards him.  For though Scotty
was distrustful, Isabel's frank simplicity of nature had not changed in
her years of absence.  Her happiest days had been spent in the Oa, and
her return to her old home with its sense of welcome and freedom meant
more to the lonely girl than he could realise.  Practically she had
been brought up among the MacDonalds, and at heart she was one of them.

Scotty saw her approach in combined joy and embarrassment, and just as
he was trying to efface himself in a corner he found her at his side.
She wanted to talk about the good old times, she whispered, as she
pulled him down beside her on the low window sill.  "They were just the
loveliest old times, weren't they, Scotty?  And don't you hate to be
grown up?" she asked.

Hate it?  Scotty gloried in it.  It was a new birth.  He tried to say
so, but Isabel shook her head emphatically.

"Well, I don't, and you wouldn't in my place, for I can't run in the
bush any more.  Aunt Eleanor bewails me; she says I've been spoiled by
Kirsty, for I can't settle down to a proper life in the city.  The
backwoods is the best place, isn't it, Scotty?"

He drew a long breath.  "Do you mean you'd really like to come here and
live with--with Kirsty again?" he asked.

"Oh, wouldn't I?" she cried, her eyes sparkling so that Scotty had to
look away.  "It was never dull here.  Don't you wish I'd come back,
too?"

Scotty felt his head reeling.  "I--don't know," he faltered ungallantly.

"You don't know?" she echoed indignantly.  "Scotty MacDonald, how can
you say such a mean thing?"

Scotty looked up with a sudden desperate boldness.

"Because I wouldn't be doing any work if you were here," he exclaimed
with a recklessness that appalled even himself.

Isabel laughed delightedly.  "That's lovely," she cried.  "Do you know,
I was beginning to be afraid, _almost_, that you weren't just very glad
to see me, and--and you always used to be.  You _are_ glad I came,
aren't you, Scotty?"

Like a timid swimmer, who, having once plunged in, discovers his own
strength and gains courage, Scotty struck out boldly into the
conversational sea.

"It was the best thing that ever happened in all my life," he answered
deliberately.

She was prevented from receiving this important declaration with the
consideration it deserved by a sudden silence falling over the room.
The minister was standing up in the centre of the room, clearing his
throat and looking around portentously.  The ceremony was about to
commence, and all conversation was instantly hushed.  Mothers quieted
their babies, and the men came clumsily tiptoeing indoors.  Whenever
possible the more ceremonious precincts of the house were left to the
more adaptable sex, the masculine portion of such assemblies always
retiring to the greater freedom of the barn and outbuildings.  Now they
came crowding in, however, obviously embarrassed, but when the minister
stood up, book in hand, and a hush fell over the room, the affair took
on a religious aspect and everyone felt more at home.

Mr. Cameron moved to a little open space in the centre of the room, and
bade Kirsty and Weaver Jimmie stand before him.  Mary Lauchie, pale and
drooping as she always was now, stood at Kirsty's side, and Jimmie had
the much needed support of Roarin' Sandy's Archie, now the most
fashionable young man in the Oa, who was resplendent in aromatic hair
oil and a flaming tie.  Jimmie was white and trembling, but Kirsty was
calm.  Only once did she show any emotion, when she had to search for
her neatly-folded handkerchief in the pocket of her ample skirt to wipe
away a tear--a tear that, all the sympathetic onlookers knew, was for
the little mother who had said so confidently she had no fears for
Kirsty's future.

At last the minister pronounced them one, and the friends gathered
about them with their congratulations, and, to the delight of all, what
should Miss Herbert do, after hugging the bride, but fling her arms
about the bridegroom's neck also and give him a sounding kiss!  If
anything could have added to Jimmie's pride and joy at that moment,
this treatment by Kirsty's little girl would certainly have done so.

And then came the wedding supper, the tables set out with the precious
new china dishes and weighed down and piled up with everything good the
MacDonald matrons knew how to cook.  The bride and groom sat close
together at the head of the long table, Jimmie's affectionate
demonstrations partially hidden by the huge wedding cake.  The minister
sat at the foot, and after a long and fervent grace had been said
everyone drew a deep breath and proceeded to enjoy himself.

There was a deal of clatter and noise and laughter and running to and
fro of waiters.  In the old house where the work was going on, and
where there was no minister to put a damper on the proceedings, there
were high times indeed; for Dan Murphy was there, and wherever Dan was
there was sure to be an uproar.  Scotty was responsible for the young
man's presence; he had invited Mr. Murphy on the strength of his own
relationship to both contracting parties, knowing a warm welcome was
assured.  So, with an apron tied round his waist, Dan was making a fine
pretence of helping Betty Lauchie wash dishes, his chief efforts,
however, being directed towards balancing pots of boiling water in
impossible positions, twirling precious plates in the air, and other
outlandish feats that added a great deal to the enjoyment, but very
little to the competence, of the assembled cooks.

Scotty joined the army of workers in the shanty, but he had left the
blue vision seated at the table between his grandparents, and his
culinary efforts were not much more successful than Dan's.  His chum
tried to rally him on his absent looks, and made a sly allusion to the
effusive greeting of the young lady from Lake Oro.  But Scotty met his
well-meant raillery with such unwonted ferocity that he very promptly
subsided.

In the new house, where the elder guests were gathered about the table,
affairs were much more ceremonious, for all the genteel folk the
neighbourhood could boast were there, and Jimmie's face shone with
pride as he glanced down the splendid array.

The bridegroom's joy seemed to permeate the whole feast.  There was
much talk and laughter, and, among the elder women, a wonderful clatter
of Gaelic.  For only on such rare occasions as this had they a chance
to meet, and there were many lengthy recountings of sicknesses, deaths,
and burials.

Long Lauchie, as usual, was full of vague and ominous prophecies.  His
remarks were chiefly concerning the wedding feast to which those who
were bidden refused to come, with dark reference to the man who had not
on the wedding garment; neither of which allusions, surely, pointed to
either Weaver Jimmie or his marriage festivities.  Near him, in a
little circle where English was spoken, Praying Donald and the minister
were leading a discussion on the evidences of Christianity.  There was
only one quarter in which there were signs of anything but perfect
amity, and that was where a heated argument had arisen between Old
Farquhar and Peter Sandy Johnstone upon the respective merits of Ossian
and Burns; a discussion which, in spite of the age of the disputants,
would certainly have ended in blows, had it been in the old days when a
marriage was scarcely considered binding without a liberal supply of
whiskey.

But Kirsty's wedding, happily, belonged to the new era, and the
minister, glancing round the well conducted assemblage and recalling
the days, not so far past, when most of the Highlanders enlivened any
and every social function, from a barn-raising to a burial, with
spirits, heaved a great sigh of gratitude.  And Store Thompson
unconsciously voiced his sentiments when he declared, in a neatly
turned little speech, that the occasion was "jist an auspicious
consummation-like."

There were several other speakers besides the minister and Store
Thompson, and each made the kindliest allusions to both bride and
groom; but, like the true Scots they were, carefully refrained from
paying compliments.  There were songs and stories, too, stirring
Scottish choruses, and tales of the early days and of the great doings
in the homeland.  Then Big Malcolm's Farquhar, who had long ago come to
regard himself in the light of the old itinerant bards, sang, like
Chibiabos, to make the wedding guests more contented.  He had but a
single English song in his repertoire, one which he rendered with much
pride, and only on state occasions.  This was a flowery love-lyric,
entitled "The Grave of Highland Mary," and was Farquhar's one tribute
to the despised Burns.  It consisted of a half-dozen lengthy stanzas,
each followed by a still lengthier refrain, and was sung to an ancient
and erratic air that rose and fell like the wail of the winter winds in
the bare treetops.  The venerable minstrel sang with much fervour, and
only in the last stanza did the swelling notes subside in any
noticeable degree.  This was not because the melancholy words demanded,
but because the singer was rather out of breath.  So he sang with some
breathless hesitation:

  "Yet the green simmer saw but a few sunny mornings
  Till she, in the bloom of her beauty and pride,
  Was laid in her grave like a bonnie young flower
  In Greenock kirkyard on the banks of the Clyde."


But, when he found himself launched once more upon the familiar
refrain, he rallied his powers and sang out loudly and joyfully:

  "Then bring me the lilies and bring me the roses,
  And bring me the daisies that grow in the dale,
  And bring me the dew of the mild summer evening,
  And bring me the breath of the sweet-scented gale;
  And bring me the sigh of a fond lover's bosom,
  And bring me the tear of a fond lover's e'e,
  And I'll pour them a' doon on thy grave, Highland Mary,
  For the sake o' thy Burns who sae dearly loved thee!"


It did not seem the kind of song exactly suited to a hymeneal feast,
but everyone listened respectfully until the old man had wavered
through to the end and called, for the last time, for the lilies, the
roses and the daisies; and before he had time to start another Fiddlin'
Archie struck up "Scots Wha Hae," and the whole company joined.

When everyone, even to the last waiter in the old shanty, had been fed
and the tables were all cleared away, Scotty deserted Monteith, and
once more took up his station on the window sill where he could catch
glimpses of Isabel's golden head through the crowd.  He could see she
was the object of many admiring glances; the MacDonald girls stood
apart whispering wondering remarks concerning the beauty of her velvet
gown, and even Betty Lauchie seemed shy of her old playmate.
Nevertheless, when, upon spying him in his corner, Isabel came again
and seated herself beside him, Scotty forgot all differences between
them and blossomed out into friendliness under the light of her eyes.
For she had clear, honest eyes that looked beneath the rough exterior
of her country friends and recognised the true, leal hearts beneath.
Yes, she was the same old Isabel, Scotty declared to himself, and
something more, something he hardly dared think of yet.

He sat and chatted freely with her of all that had happened since they
had last met, her life in a ladies' boarding school and his progress
under Monteith's instruction, and he found that with all her schooling
he was far ahead of her in book knowledge.  Then there were past
experiences to recall; the playhouse they had built beneath the Silver
Maple, the mud pies they had made down by the edge of the swamp, the
excursions down the Birch Creek, and the part they had played in poor
Callum's sad romance.

"And what are you going to be, Scotty?" she asked.  "Don't you remember
it was always either an Indian or a soldier, a 'Black Watcher' you used
to call it?  You ought to go to college, you must be more than prepared
for it since you've learned so much from Mr. Monteith."

Scotty's eyes glowed.  A college course was the dream of his life,
sleeping or waking.  But he shook his head.

"I'd like it," he said, trying to keep the gloom out of his voice, "but
there's not much chance."

"Oh, dear," sighed the girl, "things seem to be all wrong in this
world.  There's Harold now; Uncle Walter fairly begged him to go to
college, but he went only one year."

"Where is your cousin now?"

"He's in the English navy, and poor Uncle frets for him.  He's an
officer too.  I can't imagine Hal making anybody mind him.  I always
used to be the 'party in power,' as Uncle Walter used to say when Hal
was home."

Scotty laughed.  "I expect he'd have a hard time if he didn't let you
have your own way," he said slyly.

"Now, Scotty, you know you didn't let me have my own way, now, did you?
But somehow, I think I was always in a better humour at Kirsty's here,
I didn't have anyone to bother me."

"I know what I'd like most to be," said Scotty, with a sudden burst of
feeling.

"What?"

"A Prince!"

"A Prince!  Why, in all the world?"

"Because you are just like all the Princesses I have ever read about."
Scotty was making headlong progress in a subject to which he had never
been even introduced by Monteith.

The girl looked up at him with an expression of half-amused wonder in
her eyes.

"Why, Scotty," she declared, "you're as bad as any society man for
paying compliments.  But you will be something great some day, I know.
Mr. Monteith says so."

Scotty's face lit up.  "If I'm ever worth anything I'll owe it all to
him," he exclaimed enthusiastically.  "Isn't he fine?"

"He's just a dear.  If it hadn't been for his help I should never have
been able to come for this visit.  But he told Aunt Eleanor that we
would elope if I wasn't allowed to come.  Isn't he funny?  And just
think, Scotty, I'm going to stay a whole month, perhaps two!"

Scotty was speechless.

"Now, I'm sure you're glad!  Yes, I'm to stay at the manse for about
two weeks, until poor Jimmie and Kirsty have a little honeymoon by
themselves, and then I'm coming here.  Auntie and Uncle have been
invited to spend a month with friends in Toronto, and I didn't want to
go because"--she hesitated and then laughed softly--"well, because I
have to be so horribly proper all the time, so I begged to come here
instead, and as Mrs. Cameron had invited me and Mr. Monteith coaxed
too, Uncle Walter consented.  And there's a possibility they might not
be back till Christmas.  Oh, I wish they wouldn't!  Am I not wicked?"

"I've got a colt of my own," Scotty burst forth with apparent
irrelevance, "he's a fine driver."

Isabel seemed to understand.

"I hope Mrs. Cameron will let me go," she said, though there had been
no invitation.  She glanced around the room and found that lady making
rather anxious motions in her direction.

The minister's wife had been taking note of the fact that Miss Herbert
and one of the young MacDonald men had been renewing their acquaintance
in a rather headlong fashion.  Mrs. Cameron was a lady who had an eye
for the fitness of things, and, being responsible for young Miss
Herbert, she decided it was high time to take her home.  So, when the
girl looked up her hostess beckoned her, and announced rather sedately
that they must be going, as the minister had already begun his round of
handshaking.

"And when will I see you again?" Scotty asked forlornly, as the girl
came downstairs dressed for her drive.

Isabel was intent on buttoning her glove.  "I--I suppose you sometimes
come to the Glen?" she suggested, without looking up.

Scotty hastened to asseverate that he spent almost all his waking hours
there, and that he was a daily visitor at the Manse; and before Mrs.
Cameron could get through bidding the neighbours good-bye, he had
secured permission to come with his black colt the next day, and with
Mrs. Cameron's consent they would drive up to the Oa to see how the
Silver Maple looked in its autumn dress.

No sooner had the minister and the elder guests turned their backs,
than the young folk who remained made a joyous rush for the furniture.
Chairs and benches were piled helter-skelter in the corners and a
unanimous demand arose for Fiddlin' Archie's Sandy to bestir his lazy
bones and tune up!

Thus importuned, the musician, who had fearfully concealed his unholy
instrument from the minister's eyes all afternoon, mounted upon a
table, and after much screwing up and letting down and strumming of
notes, now high and squeaky, now low and buzzing, banged his bow down
upon all the strings at once, and in stentorian tones gave forth the
electrifying command: "Take--yer--partners!"

This was the signal for a general stampede, not out upon the floor, but
back to the walls, leaving a clear space down the middle of the room;
for dancing before company was a serious business not to be entered
upon lightly, and it required no small courage to be the first to step
out into the range of the public eye.

Balls were generally opened by a couple of agile young men dashing
madly into the middle of the floor to execute a clattering step dance
opposite each other, and under cover of this sortie the whole army
would sweep simultaneously into the field.

Dan Murphy and Roarin' Sandy's Archie were the two who this night first
ventured into the jaws of public opinion.  Jimmie's best man, as became
the dandy of the countryside, could disport himself with marvellous
skill on the terpsichorean floor, and Dan Murphy was at least warranted
to make plenty of noise.  The two young men flung aside their coats and
went at their task, heel and toe, with a right good will and a
tremendous clatter.  They pranced before each other, stepping high,
like thoroughbred horses, they slapped the floor with first one foot,
then the other, they reeled, they twirled, they shuffled and
double-shuffled, and pounded the floor, as though they would fain tramp
their way through to Kirsty's new cellar; while, in his efforts to keep
pace with them, the fiddler nearly sawed his instrument asunder.

But just when they were in the midst of the most intricate part of the
gyrations, the spirit of the dance seized the spectators, and the next
moment the performers were engulfed in the whirl of the oncoming flood.

But Roarin' Sandy's Archie was not the sort to lose his identity in the
vulgar throng.  He was the most famous "caller-off" in the township of
Oro, as everyone knew; and staggering out of the maelstrom, he seized
Betty Lauchie and was soon in the midst of his double task, his face
set and tense, for it was no easy matter to manage one's own feet and
at the same time guide the reckless movements of some twenty heedless
and bouncing couples who acted as though a dance was an affair of no
moment whatever.

Scotty did not remain for the dance, but accompanied his uncle home.
He wanted to be alone to think over the wonderful events of the day and
of the joys of the morrow.  There were not many youths who followed his
example.  When the dance broke up the majority of them merely retired
to the edge of the clearing to return half an hour later armed with
guns, horns, tin pans, old saws from the mill, and all other implements
warranted to produce an uproar and annihilate peace.  With these they
proceeded to make the night hideous by serenading the bridal pair until
the late autumn dawn chased them to the cover of the woods.  This last
festivity gave no offence, however, being quite in accordance with the
custom of the country and the expectations of the bride and groom.

And so Weaver Jimmie's wedding passed off just as, through the long
years of waiting, he had dreamed it would; and one young man, who had
been a guest at their marriage feast, entered that day upon a new life,
as surely as did the bride and groom.




XII

A WELL-MEANT PLOT

  O, Love will build his lily walls,
  And Love his pearly roof will rear,--
  On cloud or land, or mist or sea--
  Love's solid land is everywhere!
          --ISABELLE VALANCY CRAWFORD.


The minister and his wife had been on a pastoral visitation to the Oa,
and, having had an early tea at Long Lauchie's, were driving homeward.

The first snow had fallen a few days before and had been succeeded by
rain, which, freezing as it fell, formed a hard, glassy "crust" on the
top of the snow.  This glimmering surface reflected the radiant evening
skies like a polished mirror.  The surrounding fields were a sea of
glass mingled with fire, and the whole earth had become an exact copy
of heaven.  Away ahead stretched the road like two polished, golden
bars that gradually melted into the violet and mauve tints of the dusky
pines.  Through the frequent openings in the purple forest they could
see, far over hill and valley, a marvellous vista, all enveloped in the
wondrous glow, the patches of woodland looking like fairy islands
floating in a sea of gold.  Overhead, the delicately green heavens
shone through the marvellous tracery of the bare branches.  The horse's
bells echoed far into the woods, the only sound in the winter
stillness, for the whole world seemed silent and wondering before the
beauty of the dying day.

The two travellers had not spoken for some time; the minister was lost
in contemplation of the glorious night, and the minister's wife, alas,
was absorbed in a subject that had been worrying her for more than a
month, the subject of Miss Isabel Herbert.

Before her visit at the manse had terminated, Mrs. Cameron had come to
consider her invitation to that young lady as the great mistake of her
hitherto well-ordered life.  For no sooner had the guest been settled
than that young MacDonald, who was such a friend of Mr. Monteith, began
to appear with alarming frequency.  Now, though there might have been
no harm in Captain Herbert's niece playing in the backwoods with Big
Malcolm's grandson when they were children, Mrs. Cameron mentally
declared that, now they were grown up, such a thing as intimacy between
them was absolutely out of the question.  Miss Herbert, she well knew,
would be horrified at the thought, and she set herself sternly to
discourage the young man's attentions.

But she found this no easy task.  One of her greatest obstacles was the
minister himself.  The good man had long yearned to bring Monteith and
his friend into the church and now hailed Scotty's visits as special
opportunities sent him by Providence.  To his wife's dismay he warmly
welcomed the young man, pressed him to come again speedily, and was, in
his innocent goodness of heart, as much a trial to his wife as Isabel
herself.

And Isabel certainly was a handful.  In Captain Herbert's niece one
surely might have looked for a model, but the young lady did not
conduct herself with the exact propriety her hostess expected.  Mrs.
Cameron was quietly proud of the fact that she had been very well
brought up herself and knew what was due one's station in life.  But
Miss Isabel was an anomaly.  She belonged to one of the best families
in the County of Simcoe and had been educated in a select school for
young ladies; but, in spite of these advantages, she would much rather
tear around the house with the dog, her hair flying in the wind, than
sit in the parlour with her crocheting, as a young lady should.
Moreover, if she could be persuaded to settle for a moment with a piece
of sewing, at the sound of a horse's hoofs at the gate, or the whirl of
a buggy up the driveway, she would jump from her seat, scattering
spools, scissors and thimble in every direction and go dancing out to
the door, joyfully announcing to everyone within the house that here
was "dear old Scotty!"

And yet, she was so charmingly deferential, and, in spite of her high
spirits, so anxious to please, that her hostess had not the heart to
chide her.  Her whole-hearted innocence had begun to disarm the lady's
suspicions when, at the end of a week, the watchful eye noted signs of
an alarming change in her troublesome charge.  Isabel ceased entirely
to mention Scotty's name.  She did not talk, either, as had been her
wont, of the delightful times they had had together in their childhood.
Neither did she run to meet him any more when he came, but would sit
demurely at her sewing until he entered, or even fly upstairs when his
horse appeared at the gate.

These were the worst possible symptoms, and Mrs. Cameron appealed to
the minister.  But he, good man, was not at all perturbed.  He saw
nothing to worry about, he declared.  Probably the young lady had
discovered that she did not care for her old comrade as much as when
they were children and was taking this tactful way of showing him the
fact.  Mrs. Cameron was in a state of mingled indignation and despair
over such masculine obtuseness, and vowed that if young MacDonald were
not politely requested to discontinue his attentions to Captain
Herbert's niece, she would feel it her duty to send the aforesaid niece
home.

But the minister would consider neither project.  When he had a man's
soul in view everything else must be made subordinate.  The young man
was showing signs of an awakening conscience, he affirmed; he had
displayed wonderful interest in the sermons lately and had asked some
very hopeful questions during their last conversation.  And beside all
this the young lady was having a good influence on him, for the lad had
missed neither church nor prayer meeting since she came.  Indeed, she
was a fine lassie, and wonderfully clear on the essentials; though, of
course, she had a few unsound Anglican doctrines.  But Kirsty John's
mother had trained her well in her childhood and she was not far
astray.  No, it would be interfering with the inscrutable ways of
Providence to separate these two now, they must just let them be.

So Scotty and Isabel had things all their own way; and, when, at last,
Weaver Jimmie and his wife came and carried the young lady off to the
Oa, her late hostess declared she washed her hands of the whole affair.

But her guest's departure did not bring her entire relief from
responsibility.  She could not get away from the suspicion that Miss
Herbert would blame her, and the rumours that came from the Oa were not
calculated to allay her fears.  Kirsty John's little lady from the
Grange and Big Malcolm's Scot were always together, the gossips said,
and indeed it was a great wonder the black colt wasn't driven to death.

So to-night Mrs. Cameron was too much worried to notice the beauty of
the landscape.  Nearly a month had slipped past since Isabel had left
her; the Herberts had returned to the Grange, and still the young lady
showed no signs of departing.  The minister's wife looked out sharply
as they approached Weaver Jimmie's place.  If she could catch sight of
her late guest she would delicately hint that propriety demanded that
she go home.

As they entered a little evergreen wood that bordered Weaver Jimmie's
farm, there arose the sound of singing from the road ahead.

A turn around a cedar clump brought into view a solitary figure a few
yards before them--the figure of a little old man, wearing a Scotch
bonnet and wrapped in a gay tartan plaid.  It was a bent, homely
figure, but one containing a soul apparently lifted far above earthly
things, for he was pouring forth a psalm, expressive of his joy in the
glory of the evening, and with an ecstasy that might have befitted
Orpheus greeting the dawn.

His voice was high, loud, and cracked; but the words he had chosen
showed that Old Farquhar discerned the divine in nature, a revelation
that comes only to the true artist:

  "Ye gates, lift up your heads on high;
  Ye doors that last for aye,
  Be lifted up that so the King
  Of Glory enter may.
  But who is He that is the King
  Of Glory?  Who is this?
  The Lord of Hosts, and none but He
  The King of Glory is!"


The minister smiled tenderly, there was a mist before his eyes when he
paused to shake the old man's withered hand.

"Yes, it is a wonderful night, Farquhar," he said.  "Truly the heavens
declare the glory of God and the firmament showeth His handiwork."

The old man smiled ecstatically, and after a halting greeting in
English to the minister's wife, dropped into Gaelic.  Mrs. Cameron did
not understand the language of her husband's people, and while the two
men conversed she looked about her.  Kirsty's house was just beyond the
grove, Isabel might be near.  A narrow, dim pathway led from the road
across the woods to the house, an alluring pathway bordered thickly
with firs, and now all in purple shadows, except when occasionally the
golden light sifted through the velvety branches and touched the snow.
Something was moving away down the shadowy aisle.  She looked sharply,
it moved out into a lighter space and resolved itself into two figures
going slowly, so very slowly, down the path in the direction of the
Weaver's house.  There was no mistaking Isabel's long, grey coat, or
young MacDonald's stalwart figure.  They paused at the bars that led
into the yard, they were evidently saying good-night....

Mrs. Cameron did not wait even to take off her bonnet, upon her return
home, before sitting down to write Miss Herbert, of the Grange, a
letter, a letter which evidently alarmed the recipient, for before many
days Miss Isabel packed her trunk with a very sober face and took her
leave.

It was partly this sudden manner of her departure that made Monteith
resolve to visit his friends at Lake Oro.  He wanted to see Captain
Herbert on important business--business which, he felt, had been too
long delayed, and besides he was anxious to discover, if possible, what
the people of the Grange had done to offend Ralph on the day he had
taken Isabel home.

That he had been mortally offended by someone Monteith could not help
seeing; but whether by Isabel herself, or another, Scotty's reticence
prevented his discovering.

"I'm going up to the Captain's to-morrow," he remarked casually, as he
sat and smoked by Big Malcolm's fire one evening.  He glanced at
Scotty, and that young man arose and began to cram the red-hot stove
with wood, until his grandfather shouted to him that he must be gone
daft, for was he wanting to roast them all out?

"Oh, indeed," said Mrs. MacDonald, suspending her knitting with a look
of pleased interest.  "And you will be seeing the little lady.  Eh, it
is herself will be the fine girl, not a bit o' pride, with all her
beautiful manners and her learning, indeed."

"She will be jist the same as when she used to run round this house in
her bare feet with Scotty," declared Big Malcolm enthusiastically.  "It
is a great peety indeed that she will belong to that English upstart!"

Scotty had settled down in deep absorption to whittle a stick and was
apparently taking no notice of the conversation.

Monteith regarded Big Malcolm curiously.  He had been long enough in
the settlement to understand that the ordinary pioneer had no love for
the more privileged class that had settled along the waterfronts.
Socially the latter belonged to a different sphere from the farmers;
and having often been able, in the early days, to secure from the
Government concessions not granted to all, they were regarded by the
common folk with some resentment.  But the difference between the two
classes, like all other differences, was fast dying out, and the
schoolmaster well knew that Big Malcolm had other and deeper reasons
for his dislike of a man so popular as Captain Herbert.  He longed to
know, before he visited the Grange, just how much his friend had sinned
against the old man.

"Oh, I suppose he's no worse than many of his kind," he said
tentatively.

"Aye, but that is jist where you will be mistaken," said Big Malcolm, a
dangerous light beginning to leap up in his eye.  "If this place would
be knowing the kind of a man he is, indeed it would not be Parliament
he would be thinking about next fall, but----"  He stopped suddenly.
"Och, hoch, the Lord forgive me, and he will be your friend, too, Mr.
Monteith," he added hastily, with a return of his natural courtesy.
"Indeed I would be forgetting myself."

"Why does your grandfather hate the Captain so?" inquired Monteith, as
Scotty walked with him to the gate.

"I'll not know," said Scotty morosely.  "I think they had some quarrel
long ago, about land or something, when they came here first."

"And did he never give any hint of what the trouble was?"

"Not to us boys.  It was one of those things he would always be
fighting against, and Granny kept him back, too.  He would be often
going to speak of the Captain, when she would stop him."  Scotty's tone
was gloomy.  This last surviving feud of his warlike grandfather
weighed heavily upon his soul.  For, indeed, matters had gone sadly
wrong in Scotty's world lately, and life was proving a very hard and
sordid business.

Monteith said no more, but the next morning he set off for his friend's
house, determined to settle once for all those questions which had been
troubling him ever since he had learned that young Ralph Stanwell
lived.  Something must be done with Ralph, and that right away.  He had
taught him as far as he could, and the boy must not be allowed to waste
his talents in the backwoods.

The Grange, Captain Herbert's residence on the shore of Lake Oro, was a
different building from the homes of the people among whom the
schoolmaster lived; for its owner belonged to the fortunate class for
whom life during the early settlement of the country had been made easy
by money and political influence.

The house, a long, low, white stone building with plenty of broad
verandahs, stood close to the water's edge, sheltered by a stately oak
grove.  It was surrounded by wide lawns and a garden, all now covered
with their winter blanket.

As Monteith went up the broad, well-shovelled path, a crowd of dogs of
all sizes came tearing round the house from the rear with a tumult of
barking.  He stooped to fondle a little terrier, and when he looked up
the master of the house was coming down the steps with outstretched
hands.

"By Jove, Archie!" he cried, his face shining with pleasure, "I'd
almost come to the conclusion that the Fighting MacDonalds had eaten
you alive!  Why, we haven't seen you since October, and I've been
blue-moulding for somebody to talk to.  Well, I _am_ glad to see you.
Get down, you confounded brute!  Come in.  Come in.  Why, you certainly
are a stranger.  And just at the right moment, too!  I'm all alone.
Brian drove Eleanor and Belle to Barbay this morning.  Get out, you
infernal curs!  Those dogs all ought to be shot!"

And so, talking loud and fast, as was his manner, the hearty Captain
led the way into the house.  A small room at the left of the hall, with
two windows looking out upon the ice-bound lake, constituted the
Captain's private den.  A bright wood fire blazed in the open grate.
The host drew up a couple of arm-chairs before it.

"So you've decided to immure yourself in the backwoods for another
year, I hear," he said, when his guest was comfortably seated and
supplied with a cigar.  "Come, Archie, this will never do.  Two years
was the limit you set when you took the school, and there's no more the
matter with you than there is with me.  You're actually getting fat,
man!"

"Why, I do believe I am," said the other apologetically.  "I shall
probably grow corpulent and lazy, and settle down in Glenoro to a
peaceful old age."

"Not a bit of you!  You look like a new man, and you ought to get back
to your law books."

Monteith drew his hand over his grey hair with a meaning smile.  "It
seems rather foolish at my age, but I believe I shall; the Oro air has
really made a new man of me, as you say.  I believe I should have gone
long ago if I hadn't been interested in a certain young person there."

"A young person!  Thunder and lightning, Archie, don't tell me you've
gone and fallen in love!"

Monteith laughed.  "Upon my word I believe I have," he asserted, "but
don't look so aghast, the object of my devotion is six feet high, and
is cultivating a moustache."

"Oh, that young MacDonald chum of yours.  You gave me quite a shock."
The guest noticed that his friend's face changed at the mention of
Scotty; there was a moment's rather awkward silence.

"So the ladies are away," said Monteith at last.  "I am unfortunate."

Captain Herbert burst into a hearty laugh.  "Why, bless my soul, you've
had the escape of your life!  Eleanor has it in for you, for shifting
your responsibility and sending little Bluebell home with your young
MacDonald; an uncommonly handsome young beggar he is too, with the airs
of a Highland chieftain, quite the kind calculated to be dangerous,
Eleanor thinks.  I'm afraid she wasn't as cordial to the boy as she
might have been, and probably lost me a couple of good MacDonald votes."

Monteith looked enlightened.  "Why, I must apologise," he said, "but I
did not dream I was transgressing.  Miss Herbert surely knows that they
have been like brother and sister since their baby days?"

"Oh, that's just the trouble.  Eleanor's scared they're not going to
remain like brother and sister.  She and your minister's wife down
there have got it into their busy heads that the little monkey's
inclined to think too much about this old chum of hers.  Bluebell's the
right sort, I assure you, Archie, never forgets an old friend.
Harold's just the same.  Every time he writes he sends his love to
every old codger that chopped down a tree on this place.  It's a fine
quality.  It's Irish.  We get it from my mother's side, though I'm more
English than Irish myself, praise the Lord.  Well, it seems this
loyalty is out of place in this case, and Eleanor thinks the less Belle
sees of this young man the better.  All perfect bosh and unthinkable
nonsense, you know; but you can never account for the mental workings
of some people.  A woman's mind picks up an idea, particularly if it
concerns matrimony in the remotest degree, as a hen does a piece of
bread, and runs squawking all round this earthly barnyard advertising
the matter until she convinces herself and all the rest of the human
fowl that she's got a whole baking in her bill.  Eleanor has snatched
up some such notion about Isabel and this young MacDonald, and the
youngster hardly out of short dresses yet!  But there it is.  She'll
never let go.  All rubbish!"

He burst into a hearty laugh, and poked the fire until it crackled and
roared.  "Now, Archie, what sort of figure do you think I shall cut
running for Parliament next fall?  Think the Oa 'll run me off the face
of the earth?"

"Just one moment, Captain, before you leave this subject, and we'll
talk politics all day afterwards.  Far be it from me to even glance
into the dark mysteries of matchmaking, but I'd like to know why Miss
Herbert should object so strongly to my young friend on so short an
acquaintance?"

Captain Herbert looked surprised.  He drew himself up with a slight
access of dignity.  "Oh, come now, Monteith!" he exclaimed, "you are
surely worldly wise enough to understand that, though this young Scotty
may be the most exemplary inhabitant of that excellent section where
you teach, he would scarcely be a match for my niece."

"I understand perfectly.  And if Ralph were one of the ordinary young
men of the place I should most heartily agree with you.  But you don't
know him.  He is an exceptionally fine fellow; he has had as much
education as I have been able to guide him to since I came here, and
indeed he is a thorough gentleman at heart."

Captain Herbert shrugged his shoulders.  "I suppose that's all true,
but what difference does that make?  You don't want me to offer him my
niece, I hope."

Monteith paid no attention to such frivolity.  He turned squarely upon
his host.

"Then I suppose you know he's the equal in birth to anyone in this part
of the country.  You know, of course, that his name is not really
MacDonald?"

Captain Herbert seized the poker and attacked the fire again.  He
seemed waiting for Monteith to proceed, but as he did not, he answered
rather shortly, "So I believe."

There was a long silence.  The host sat back again, swung one foot over
the other impatiently, and at last turned upon his silent companion.

"Go on!" he cried.  "Out with it!  I know what you want to say!"

Monteith slowly turned his eyes from the fire and looked into his
host's face.

"I don't want to say anything disagreeable, Captain," he said
courteously.

Captain Herbert arose and walked to the window.

"I knew this would come some day, when I saw you were getting so
infernally chummy with all the MacDonald clan.  That dear friend of
mine, old Firebrand Malcolm, has been telling you tales, I see."

"On the contrary, he has scarcely ever mentioned your name to me.  Big
Malcolm is not that sort," said Monteith, with some dignity.  "But it
was impossible for me not to remember Ralph Stanwell, Senior; it all
came to me the moment the boy told me his name."

There was a moment of intense silence, and at last the man turned from
the window.

"Well," he said, coming to the fireside, "why don't you speak?  What
have you got to say about it?"  His manner was half-defiant.

"I don't know that you'll think it's my place to say anything, Captain.
But--well, since you ask my opinion, I must confess that, though I am
not in possession of all the facts, the thing does not look
exactly--straight."

Captain Herbert glared at him.  "You are the only man in Ontario who
would dare to say that to me, Archibald Monteith!" he cried.

Monteith arose, smiling.  "Well, Captain, be thankful you have at least
one honest friend in Ontario.  And," he added, with a sudden change of
tone, "look here, I haven't come to you about this in anger.  I am
Ralph's friend, but I am yours, too, and have many debts of kindness
owing you.  But, honestly now, is it or is it not true that you jumped
a claim and appropriated the boy's property, perhaps unwittingly?"

"It was unwittingly, Archie," burst out the other, with a look of
relief.  "I know the affair must look nasty to you; but, as sure as I
stand here, I didn't know the child was alive until he was nearly seven
years old."

"But the grandfather?  Did he never interfere in the child's interests?"

"That old fire-eater!  If he hadn't been such a maniac, I should never
have made the mistake I did.  I tell you the whole thing was
misrepresented to me.  Stanwell and his wife and, as I was told, his
child too, died just before I landed here.  This property of his was
partially cleared, but was represented to me as totally unclaimed.  You
know that as well as I do.  Don't you remember the day I left Toronto
to come up here?  Well, after I had spent hundreds of dollars on the
place that old Lord of the Isles got wind of it away back there in the
bush, and came down on me like a deposed king.  He talked so loud and
so fast, and half of it in Gaelic, that I paid no attention to him, and
at last ordered him off the place.  My brother Harold had been
instrumental in getting the place for me, so I wrote him and asked if
it was possible that anyone connected with Captain Stanwell could have
any claim on my property.  He wrote back to say that Stanwell and
everyone belonging to him were dead, but that he would come up soon and
see about it.  Well, you know he died the next week, and little
Bluebell was left to me.  Those were hard times for me, Archie, as you
know.  Maud was taken next, and I was left alone with two helpless
children on my hands and my finances in the very deuce of a state.  I
forgot all about everything but the troubles that had come upon me.
Then I sent for Eleanor to look after my family, and after she came I
had other reasons you know nothing about for keeping silent concerning
Captain Stanwell.  And so the years slipped away, and there it is, you
see.  If I had given up the property when I settled here first I should
have been almost destitute.  Now, I ask you, is there any living man
could blame me?"

Monteith answered warily.  "There are not many men who would have acted
differently in your place, I fear, only--it's rather hard on the boy."

"Pshaw, I don't believe the boy's claim was worth a brass farthing.  If
it was, why couldn't his old grandfather have gone to law about it?"

Monteith shook his head.  "You don't know those Highlanders; they would
sooner be bereft of every stick or stone they possess than enter a law
court.  Besides, you can't deny, Captain, that even had Big Malcolm
wished to take such measures, he well knew that in those days a man of
his class hadn't much chance against one of yours."

Captain Herbert tramped up and down the little room.  Monteith sat
silent, waiting.  He was able to guess with some degree of accuracy the
workings of his friend's mind.  Captain Herbert was a man who believed
in letting circumstances take care of themselves, particularly if they
were of the disagreeable variety; but he would willingly do no man a
wrong; and Monteith well knew that his warm heart was a prey to regret,
and he was therefore full of hope for Ralph.  But the Captain had a
stormy journey to traverse before arriving at any conclusion.

"If the matter were taken into a law court now, no fool would say for a
moment that I wasn't the owner of this place after all these years.  It
was a howling wilderness when I came here."

"But a court might say you were under some obligation to that boy,
Captain."

"Nonsense!  Do you want me to present him with a deed of all my
property?"

"Not at all, but I want you to act fairly by him, as I am sure you
will."

The steady tramp ceased at last, and as Monteith had expected his host
came and stood before the fire.

"It's a mean business, the whole thing, I know, Archie; and I've hated
the thought of it all these years.  But what could I do?  It was too
late to mend matters when I found my mistake."

"It's never too late to mend," quoted the imperturbable guest.  "And
you're comfortably well off now, Captain, with that last legacy."

Captain Herbert evidently did not hear him.  "I'm sorry about that
boy," he said, staring into the grate with brows knit, "I'm truly
sorry."

Monteith felt that now was his opportunity, and he put Scotty's case
forward strongly.  He was careful not to press the boy's legal claims,
but made much of the moral obligation.  Here was a young man with
marked ability and no worldly resources, his high ambitions fettered by
poverty.  He had already spent two winters in the lumber camps; he was
getting to be a famous river pilot, and, as matters stood, there seemed
nothing better ahead of him.  Ralph was a youth who would probably make
his way in the world somehow, but just now he needed a helping hand.  A
little assistance at present would make his fortune, and who so fitted
to give that assistance as Captain Herbert?

The appeal was received in silence.  Captain Herbert sat, his brows
drawn together, his eyes fixed upon the fire.  "There's another reason,
stronger than any you suspect for my sister's antipathy for the young
man," he said suddenly without looking up.  Monteith's eyebrows rose.

"It is a very unpleasant subject to refer to, but it seems necessary
that you should know.  When Captain Stanwell came to this country he
was engaged to marry my sister.  He came out here, presumably to make a
home for her.  A pretty face among the emigrants took his fancy, and he
married shortly after he landed.  So you may imagine I am not likely to
have any warm feeling for the rascal's son."

Monteith sat staring.  He had come to represent Scotty's righteous
cause, to uphold him as the wronged, and here were the tables turned
upon him.

"All these years, Eleanor never dreamed that the child lived.  Indeed,
I am not sure that she knew Stanwell had a child, and of course she
never guessed who little Bluebell's Scotty was.  And I naturally didn't
see any reason for enlightening her.  She nearly discovered it once,
the first time I saw the boy.  But when he brought Bluebell here she
saw the resemblance at once--he's the image of his father--she asked
him his name, and it all came out, and you can imagine the scene.  She
sent him off, and ordered the youngster never to speak to him again,
and the poor little monkey's been fairly sick over it.  There couldn't
possibly be anything between them, but she liked him; they were chums.
Now don't you see how difficult it is for me to show him any kindness,
even if I wanted to?  And I'm sure I don't owe his scoundrel father
much consideration, anyway."

The ambassador had nothing to say.  Scotty's chances for redress were
very poor.  He looked into the fire in deep disappointment.  Monteith
was not a religious man, but at that moment he remembered vaguely a
passage from the Bible about the fathers having eaten sour grapes and
the children's teeth being set on edge.

But for all his talk, Captain Herbert had not settled the affair to his
own satisfaction.  He was blustering up and down the room again, trying
to work off his Indignation against fate.  He paused once more in front
of his visitor.

"I tell you what, Archie," he cried for the fifth time, "I hate the
whole business.  It's been grinding at me for nearly fifteen years.
I've got a son of my own about that boy's age.  His mother died when he
was a baby, and he's everything to me; and when I think that if I had
been taken too, he might have fared badly,--well--it's----  Look here,
what kind of ability has young Stanwell?"

Monteith gasped.  "He's as bright as a steel trap; all brains."

"Well,"--the Captain was thoughtful--"what does he want?"

"He wants a chance to earn some money in a hurry so that he can go to
college.  He's determined to get an education, but the money isn't
forthcoming."

"Well, if I should see him through----"

Monteith shook his head smilingly.  "He wouldn't accept it.  You must
remember, the boy has the real old Highland pride.  No, give him some
position where he can earn some money, or think he is earning it, in a
short time."

"You're a Jew at a bargain, Archie Monteith, and a Scotch Jew, at that,
which is the worst kind.  What sort of aptitude would he have for
figures?"

"He seems to display a special aptitude for almost anything he
undertakes."

"Well,--I might,--pshaw, why not?  Eleanor needn't know.  There's Raye
& Hemming.  They want a young man in their office.  It means a
responsible position, though, Archie, with good pay, and I'm depending
entirely upon your recommendation.  He ought to know something about
lumber surely."

"Raye & Hemming!" Monteith started.  "I'd be delighted to see the boy
get such a good opportunity, but the name of that particular lumber
company isn't absolutely synonymous with fair-dealing.  Remember,
Ralph's been very strictly brought up, Captain."

"Pshaw, they're supposed to muddle a little with politics, but what's
the difference?  If your paragon is so squeamish you'd better keep him
in the bush.  I can't think of anything else I could do for him half so
good.  Those fellows are sharp, I'll admit, but they know how to make
money."

Monteith considered for a moment, then stood up and held out his hand.
"I knew you would do the square thing, Captain," he said heartily.

"Well, to be honest, I confess I'm not entirely disinterested.  That
young Carruthers the Grits are bringing out will be sure to rake up
this story if I run next fall; and those MacDonalds are double-dyed
Grits already.  I don't want to give them a handle against me.  Young
Stanwell will make a better friend than an enemy.  I can clear my
tender conscience and get him out of the road, and save myself a great
deal of future trouble all in one stroke.  So there you are, you see."

Monteith laughed.  There was something irresistible about the candour
of the man.

"He certainly is an Irishman all through," was the Scotchman's mental
comment.

"And by the way, Archie, does he know anything about this?"

"Not a word.  Big Malcolm never told anybody, I fancy.  That's a
gentleman for you!"

Captain Herbert looked slightly embarrassed.

"I suppose you'd better tell the boy--everything?"

"I think it would be better.  He's very fair-minded, and, besides,"
Monteith smiled, "he is not likely to feel any resentment against Miss
Isabel's uncle."

"That brings up a very important item in our bargain," said the Captain
frowningly, "and one upon which everything depends."

"Yes?"

"He'll have to understand that there's to be nothing between him and
Bluebell.  It seems absurd to talk about such a thing already, but
Eleanor seems certain of danger.  So you'll have to put the matter
plainly to the young man, and explain that if he's so much as caught
speaking to her, his position is gone as quick as a gunshot.  I owe
that much to my sister.  She couldn't stand the sight of him, and
neither of the youngsters is old enough to be hurt."

Monteith looked dubious, but he did not hesitate to comply.  Ralph
would soon forget when he got away into the world, he told himself, and
Miss Herbert would probably make the keeping of the bargain very easy
for him.

"And now," cried Captain Herbert, rising with an expression of relief,
"that's over.  It's been an abominable tangle all through, a perfect
mess, with everyone in the family mixed up in it, and it's a relief to
have it settled.  Come along, let's go out and breathe some fresh air
and look at the dogs!"




XIII

THE VOICE IN THE WILDERNESS

  Out of the strife of conflict,
  Out of the nightmare wild,
  Thou bringest me, spent and broken,
  Like the life of a little child.

  Like the spume of a far-spent wave,
  Or a wreck cast up from the sea,
  Out of the pride of being,
  My soul returns to Thee.
          --WILLIAM WILFRED CAMPBELL.


Raye & Hemming, managers of that branch of the Great Lake Lumber
Company that had its headquarters in the town of Barbay, soon learned
that their new clerk was a young man of no mean parts.  For beside an
unusual ability, young Stanwell brought to his work that tenacity of
purpose and tendency to unremitting toil which is the product of the
farm.

Scotty found himself treated with every consideration by his chiefs.
Captain Herbert's protégé was evidently a person of some importance,
and he guessed that his generous salary was largely due to his patron's
influence.  Though his feelings towards his benefactor were naturally
somewhat mixed, since hearing how he had defrauded him of his
birthright, nevertheless Scotty could find small room in his heart for
any ill-will against Isabel's uncle.  He had ill-used him, no doubt,
but he was making reparation, and what more could any man do?  And,
indeed, Scotty's affairs were turning out so much better than his
fondest hopes had pictured, that he could not wish the past different.
A few years with Raye & Hemming, he felt assured, would open the golden
gates of college to him, and there he would vindicate himself.

For the young man was in happy ignorance of the fact that his present
good fortune depended upon his separation from Isabel.  Monteith had
not seen fit to apprise him of that item in Captain Herbert's bargain.
The shrewd schoolmaster had a suspicion that the foolish young man
might throw up his hopeful prospects in a fit of romantic gallantry,
and determined to run no risks until all danger was past.

So the boy did not know how hopeless was the love he and his
golden-haired sweetheart had pledged beneath the pines at Kirsty's
gate.  Miss Herbert strongly objected to him, he knew, but she could be
overcome in time.  They must be separated for a time, but Captain
Herbert was his friend, surely, and Isabel--well, he was certain of
her, anyway--Isabel would never forget, for had she not promised that
she would think of him always, no matter how far apart they might be,
and how could anyone doubt Isabel?

His life in the town was beneficial in many ways.  Socially he learned
as much as he did in the office of Raye & Hemming, knowledge which he
knew would stand him in good stead when that longed-for day would come
when he would be permitted to visit Isabel in her home.  He was
received in Barbay society in spite of his rural training, for was he
not Captain Herbert's friend, and the only son of that dashing Captain
Stanwell whom the best people knew in the early days.  And was there
not the chance that he might be a young man of property some day?

And so, though Isabel and home were far away, Scotty worked away
blithely, determined to show Captain Herbert that he was worthy of the
trust reposed in him, and resolved to win in spite of all odds.

But as he grew more accustomed to the business, and more intimate with
the inner workings of Raye & Hemming's office, there slowly spread over
his rosy hopes a shadow of misgiving.  He found it impossible to shut
his eyes to the fact that the men with whom he was employed, and from
whom he was to learn, were adepts at many of the small, sharp practices
which he had been taught to despise.  Scotty had been brought up with
no hazy ideas of right and wrong.  Though Big Malcolm had left the
boy's training almost entirely to his wife, still, as much by example
as precept, he had instilled into his grandson's very soul a proud
contempt for anything resembling a lie.  Any form of deceit, sharp
dealing or trickery came under one despised category, and within
Scotty's earliest memory had been looked upon by all his household with
supreme scorn.

And now in his new environment he found himself a daily witness of a
dozen little petty transactions such as he had been taught to loathe.
Sometimes, when he was compelled to assist in the sharp tricks of his
employers and received afterwards their laughing congratulations upon
his success, he turned away from them with a feeling of nausea.  He
tried to picture his grandfather in similar circumstances, but could
not.  Well he knew Big Malcolm would not stoop from his lofty height to
touch the business of Raye & Hemming with his finger-tips.

And yet they were not absolutely dishonest; perhaps this was only what
the world considered being "sharp" in business, he argued.  But he
could not quite convince himself, and in his perplexity hinted at his
troubles in a letter to Monteith.

The schoolmaster's answer did not succeed in putting his mind at rest.
"I know those fellows have the name of doing some slippery things," he
wrote, "and personally I wish you had hit upon men who had a better
reputation, but there's no denying they know how to make money, and the
shareholders are naturally rather fond of them.  You must just learn to
shut your eyes to little things that don't exactly suit you and go
ahead.  Your chance in life depends upon your ability to please those
fellows.  Don't lose it, my boy, it means everything."

Scotty was rather bewildered by this advice, coming from one whom he
had long regarded as an infallible authority.  In his backwoods
simplicity he felt himself at sea.  Was there, then, a different code
of honour in the country from that which was adhered to in the town?

Not since the days when Granny had had to chide him for childish
naughtiness had he been greatly troubled over the vexed question of
right and wrong.  Looking back now, he could see that he had been
hedged about by what he chose to call circumstances.  First there had
been the influences of that home beneath the Silver Maple, and the
strong, gentle control of his grandmother.  And when his high spirits
had been in danger of taking him beyond the "borderland dim," Monteith
had come, and there had been no more trouble.  Monteith's training had
been quite different from that which he had received at home.  The
schoolmaster despised as a fool anyone who did not walk the straight
and narrow path.  Wrong-doing was idiotic, he declared; it didn't
"pay."  But Monteith's creed did not hold here.  It did pay, as far as
Scotty could see.  And here he was with no hedging circumstances to
keep him in the right path, standing at the parting of the ways.

And yet he did not for a moment consider the possibility of drawing
back.  There was too much at stake.  As Monteith had said, everything
depended upon his faithfully filling his post.  To lose the favour of
Raye & Hemming meant to lose everything he had set his heart upon,
Captain Herbert's friendship, his education, Isabel herself.

No, he could not dream of giving up.  And so he took Monteith's advice
and went forward doggedly.  But all the enjoyment in his new work was
soon gone, his happy, sanguine days gradually changed to a season of
worry and humiliation; until he sometimes longed with all his soul to
fling all the unclean business aside, take an axe and go back to the
bush.

He struggled on through the winter, morose and plodding, until the
spring came with scented breezes and the songs of birds calling him to
come away.  Barbay was situated picturesquely on an arm of Lake Simcoe.
From the office window he could catch enchanting glimpses of sapphire
lake and emerald hill, and he was seized with an intense longing to
return to his outdoor life.  If he could only get back to his old
environment for even a day, he felt he could readjust his ideas and see
things more clearly.  The 24th of May, the birthday of the good Queen,
brought him the longed-for holiday.  The office claimed him for a few
hours in the morning, but early in the afternoon he hired a canoe, and,
supplied with a gun and rod, a blanket and plenty of bread and meat, he
paddled away into the blue expanse.  He would go on until he came to
the forest, he determined, and there he would camp for the night.

His spirits rose like a freed bird as, with long, steady strokes, hour
after hour, he glided smoothly up the low, green shore.  He was some
distance from any human habitation when the steady dip, dip of his
paddle echoed farther inland than usual.  He paused and peered into the
woods.  He was on the edge of a forest whose tangled fringe of birch
and elm hung over the greening water.  But just behind this fringe was
a little clearing, all smothered in riotous undergrowth.  Scotty ran
his canoe up on the sandy beach, her bow sweeping aside the drooping
elm branches, and leaped ashore.  He plunged into the little tangled
circle of undergrowth, and at the first sight gave a boyish whoop of
delight.

In the centre of the space, facing the water, stood an old log shanty,
a temporary structure erected in the lumbering days.  It contained
bunks filled with straw.  Here was the very place to spend the night;
it seemed waiting for him.  He set to work to make camp with the skill
of a lifelong practice.  A splendid black bass that responded hungrily
to his bait made a fine addition to his larder.  He soon had a merry
fire in front of the cabin, sending a blue column of smoke straight
into the treetops, and when it burned down to a bed of coals he cooked
his fish.  Supper was soon over, the canoe stowed safely high up on the
shore, and he had nothing to do but enjoy the silence and peace of the
wild, lonely spot.  He built up his fire again, partly because the May
night was cool and partly to keep off the mosquitoes, and stretched
himself full length upon the ground before it.  It was the first time
in months that he had been absolutely at peace.  Around him was the
encircling forest, which bulked largely in his earliest memories, and
always gave him the sensation of being at home.  The sweet pungent
odour of burning evergreens filled the air, mingling with the scents of
the forest.  Above the dark ring of wild, luxuriant growth the sky
shone a clear transparent crystal, with faint illusive suggestions of
rose and orange, for out there in the wide world the sun was setting,
and Lake Simcoe glinted between the tree trunks flushed and smiling.
The little breeze of the afternoon had died away, and not a leaf
stirred; only where the subsiding waves disturbed the shells and
pebbles on the beach could be heard a soft whispering rustle.

But as the night fell, from the darkening forest there arose the
evening chorus of the birds.  Each tall pine tree, silhouetted sharply
against the crystal sky, was soon ringing with the transporting vespers
of the veery.  Away back on a hill, far above the little clearing, a
whip-poor-will stationed himself in a treetop to complain over and over
of the darkness and loneliness of the world.  Just at Scotty's right
hand, from behind a screen of scented basswood, came a sudden
discordant sound, the rasping "meyow" of the cat-bird; a moment's
silence followed and then arose a burst of delirious, bubbling melody,
as though the naughty songster, hidden within his aromatic curtains,
were laughing impudently at having deceived his hearers into thinking
he was only a cat.  A loon arose with a splash from the reedy shore of
an island opposite and sailed away through the amber air; his wild,
derisive laugh echoed back from the glimmering sunset bay where he had
joined his comrades.  Far above, the "scree-ak, scree-ak" of the
night-hawks whirling in the heavens echoed away into the green depths;
up the long dark aisles came the sweet "hoo, hoo" of the owl, and the
clear ringing notes of the whitethroat "calling across the dusk."  The
frogs, down by the whispering water's edge, joined their chorus to the
night music; and on every side, keeping at a respectful distance from
the smoke of the fire, the mosquitoes "all in a wailful choir" uttered
their little, thin, doleful tunes.  And always, far up in the dark
pinetops, like bells in a cathedral tower, rang out the clear,
enchanting, metallic notes; the long liquid carol of the veery.

Scotty drew a great sigh of content; he was home again.  The magic
spirit of the woods, with its sense of peace and freedom, enfolded his
very soul.  Those things of earth, the sordid meannesses of his
everyday life, faded away; they were as far removed as that diamond
star he was watching twinkling on the sharp peak of a dark fir.  He lay
on his back, his hands clasped beneath his head, and gazed up into the
tender blue of heaven until the night began to deepen.  The crackling
embers of the fire slowly smouldered down, the chorus in the treetops
began to subside.  Gradually a great stillness settled over the velvet
darkness of the woods, and still lying motionless and content he could
hear only the soft stir of a leaf or the occasional "hush, hush!" that
the waters and the shells whispered, as though they were telling each
other that the world was going to sleep.

Scotty forgot his bed in the shanty, a soft balsam limb made a fragrant
pillow, and mother earth was the best couch.  His senses floated away.

He was at home, lying under the Silver Maple; the sound of Granny's
spinning-wheel came drowsily through the doorway.  The pathway across
the swamp to Kirsty's clearing was blue with violets; a white figure
was flitting down it,--coming to him with the sunshine on her golden
hair and the violets at her feet.

Suddenly he was wide awake; not startled, but with all his keen,
woodsman senses alert.  Instinctively he reached for his gun.
Something strange in his surroundings had aroused him, he knew.  What
was it?  He lay listening intently.

And then out of the depths of the darkness came the answer,--a sound,
dim and far off, but echoing melodiously through the leafy arches, a
voice as of an angel, singing:

  "The Lord thee keeps, the Lord thy shade
  On thy right hand doth stay:
  The moon by night thee shall not smite,
  Nor yet the sun by day."


Scotty raised himself upon his elbow; the sound of the old psalm,
coming without warning out of the uninhabited darkness, struck him with
awe.  Had the forest taken voice, or was it all but a part of his
dream?  He listened breathlessly until the psalm was finished and the
silence had again fallen.  There seemed something too sweetly
mysterious about the singing to come from a human source.  There was an
intense silence for a few moments, then the voice rose again, this time
nearer and more distinct,

  "The Lord's my Shepherd, I'll not want,
  He makes me down to lie
  In pastures green, He leadeth me
  The quiet waters by."


Scotty was overwhelmed with a sudden rush of memory.  He was reminded
of that day so long ago when the awesome shadows of the winter woods
had terrified him with the first conception of death, and sent him with
unerring instinct to the true refuge.

Who could be wandering in this wild, lonely place at night
singing,--singing the very things calculated to touch the depths of his
soul?

The sound was coming nearer, growing in power, as though the singer
felt the sublime confidence of the words.

  "Yea, though I walk through death's dark vale,
  Yet will I fear no ill,
  For Thou art with me and Thy rod
  And staff me comfort still."


And then Scotty recognised the voice.  It was one which, once heard,
was not easily forgotten.  It belonged to the great preacher, Mr.
McAlpine, the man who years before had come to the Glen, and with his
message from the Eternal roused the place to a better life.  But he was
an old man now, and retired from his labours, and how came he to be
wandering in this trackless wilderness after nightfall?

The voice had ceased, and now the sound of footsteps in the crackling
underbrush could be heard.  Scotty could discern a dim figure coming
towards his fire.  He stood up as it approached.  The old man with his
long white beard, his bare silver head, for he carried his hat
reverently, his tall, gaunt figure and piercing eye gave the young man
the impression of one of the great men of Bible times, Isaiah, or that
one who preached in the wilderness beyond Jordan and called to his
hearers to make straight the paths for the coming of the Messiah.

With the mutual feeling of friendship that arises between men in the
lonely places of the earth, the two met with outstretched hands.

A smile of pleasure at the open face and fine physique of his
unexpected host flashed over the old man's face.

"Big Malcolm MacDonald's grandson!" he cried, when Scotty had
introduced himself.  "Oh, yes, indeed, I know Big Malcolm well,"--he
shook the young man's hand once more: "Ah yes, it was his eldest son's
funeral that first took me to the Oa.  God moves in a mysterious way,
indeed.  And you were but a child then, and now you are a man.  And it
is a good thing to be standing upon the threshold of life, is it not?"

A good thing?  Scotty would have given a most emphatic affirmative in
response some months before, but now he was doubtful.

"Yes," he said hesitatingly, "in some ways.  But how do you happen to
be away back here alone, Mr. McAlpine?"

The minister explained his presence.  He had been asked to go to Barbay
to assist with the sacrament on the following Sabbath, and had intended
to spend the night with a friend and take the stage out in the morning.

"But I could not wait," he concluded, "I was constrained to come on."
There was that strange gleam in his eye which had always so filled
Scotty with awe in his childhood.  The young man understood.  Mr.
McAlpine's burning restlessness, his erratic way of making arrangements
to be driven to certain places, and then suddenly setting out in the
dead of night to walk prodigious distances had been the wondering talk
of the Oa since he was a child.  For this man carried a burden of souls
that gave him no rest day or night, and that even now, when he was
broken and aged, sometimes drove him to stupendous labour.

"But you will surely stay here to-night!" cried Scotty, feeling in the
capacity of host even in this wild tangle of forest growth.  "I am
camping, but there is plenty of room in the shanty, and I can cook you
some supper."

The old man accepted the hospitality gratefully.  He appeared worn and
exhausted, and seemed to have suddenly lost his restless energy, as
though the spur which had driven him forth in the night had been
removed.

Scotty made a comfortable seat for him of cedar boughs placed against a
large tree trunk, and stirred up the fire to a blaze.  Its rays danced
forth, lighting up the worn face and white hair of the old man seated
before it, and the strong frame of the young one standing erect in
splendid contrast.  The light made the log walls of the old shanty
stand forth, touched here and there the fantastic heaps of dead
brushwood and misshapen stumps, illumined the underside of the adjacent
trees and danced away down the dim avenues to be lost among the ghostly
shadows.

And while his host prepared supper, the minister beguiled the time by
asking after all his friends in the Oa and the Glen, especially the
Highlanders, for Mr. McAlpine was not above possessing a little
weakness for anyone who spoke the Gaelic.  And then he must know what
the young man was doing, and how he came to be there.

Scotty answered his questions in the distantly respectful manner that
all the Glenoro youth had been wont to show this man.  He explained his
sudden excursion to the woods as merely a natural desire to be out of
doors.  He told something too of his life with Raye & Hemming in
Barbay, but he had all the reticence of his class and kin, and the
minister learned little from what he said.

And while they conversed the elder man was watching the younger with
the keen eye of a detective.  For to old John McAlpine every soul with
whom he came in contact was a burden to be carried until it was laid
safely at the foot of the cross, and he was yearning to know if this
young man, so respectful and kindly of manner, had yet had his heart
touched by Divine love.

He tried to read the dark, young face in the light of the dancing
flames, noting every feature--the intellectual brow, the kind, bright
eyes, the mouth, still boyish, and showing some wilfulness and
impatience of rule; the resolute chin.  A good face, the man concluded,
with rare possibilities.  But he was convinced before the conversation
closed that its owner was not a follower of the meek and lowly One.

For the minister was a marvellous reader of character, and in spite of
Scotty's reserve, before the evening was gone he had allowed his guest
to discover that he intended to carve out his own destiny as he
desired, fearless of consequences.

When everything was in readiness for the night, and the young man had
returned from making up a second bed in the shanty, the minister drew
up close to the fire and took from his pocket a Bible.

He slowly turned over the leaves, praying earnestly that he might be
guided in his choice to something that would touch this young man's
soul.  The 139th Psalm caught his eye, and the deep voice slowly and
solemnly read:

"O Lord, thou hast searched me, and known me.  Thou knowest my
down-sitting and mine uprising, thou understandest my thoughts afar
off....  Whither shall I go from thy spirit? or whither shall I flee
from thy presence?  If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I
make my bed in hell, behold thou art there.  If I take the wings of the
morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, even there shall
thy hand lead me and thy right hand shall hold me.  If I say, surely
the darkness shall cover me; even the night shall be light about me."

Leaning back against a fallen tree trunk, his face partially hidden in
shadow, Scotty listened intently.  Had this man been sent out of the
darkness of the forest to show him how foolhardy were his attempts to
escape from God?  For had he not been saying to himself all these past
months that surely the darkness of secrecy would cover his wrongdoing;
that somehow he would escape from God.

He had not read the Bible since he left home, and the old familiar
words, coming like a long-lost friend, struck him with their inevitable
truth.  His rest in the lap of nature had brought him to himself; he
saw things with a clearer vision, and he realised now that the fierce
yearning to be away which had driven him to the forest had been really
the desire to escape the Eye that never sleeps.  The longing to take
the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea
had been upon him, and here God's messenger had met him, and he stood
like a hunted animal at bay.

The minister read on without pause almost to the end, and then stopped.

There were two more verses, Scotty well knew; he and Isabel had learned
that Psalm years ago at Granny's knee.  "Search me, O God, and know my
heart; try me, and know my thoughts; and see if there be any wicked way
in me, and lead me in the way everlasting."  He looked up
half-inquiringly as the voice ceased.  The minister smiled
comprehendingly.

"I see you know what follows," he said; "it is a great thing to be
grounded in the Scriptures in youth.  Do you know why I stopped?"

"No," said Scotty, in a whisper.

"Because the next is a verse I hardly dare to read.  It is a fearful
thing to ask the Almighty God to search the heart, for there are wicked
ways in us, many and deep."  He began slowly turning over the leaves
again, and Scotty waited with a strange dread of what was coming.

The passage was from the challenging words that came to Job out of the
whirlwind, and like a whirlwind they swept over the young man's soul.

"Who is this that darkeneth counsel, by words without knowledge?  Gird
up now thy loins, like a man, for I will demand of thee, and answer
thou me."

He paused a moment and his listener held his breath.  To him the words
did not seem to be spoken by man, but seemed to come out of the
whispering darkness of the great forest.

"Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of the earth? declare, if
thou hast understanding....  Whereupon are the foundations thereof
fastened? or who laid the cornerstone thereof; when the morning stars
sang together and all the sons of God shouted for joy?"

Scotty's heart suddenly swelled.  This great Jehovah was speaking
directly to him; the Jehovah whose inexorable laws were written in
man's very being, as well as in His Book.  And he, His creature, was
about to set them aside, declaring that he would walk as seemed right
in his own eyes.

But the minister was still reading.  "Hast thou commanded the morning
since thy days; and caused the day-spring to know his place?...  Have
the gates of death been opened unto thee? or hast thou seen the doors
of the shadow of death?...  Canst thou bind the sweet influences of the
Pleiades, or loose the bands of Orion?"

Scotty listened with heart and ears, and when the minister came at last
to Job's confession, he felt he could echo the words, "I have heard of
thee by the hearing of the ear, but now mine eye seeth thee.  Wherefore
I abhor myself and repent in dust and ashes."

The amber column of smoke rising straight to the circle of sky was
suddenly touched with a silver radiance.  Up from behind the dark
island the moon had arisen, radiant and burnished, and was sending a
long shimmering pathway across the deep blue of Lake Simcoe.  Scotty's
eyes followed its glint between the tree trunks and the words came over
him again, "Now mine eye seeth thee."  But when the minister paused he
came back to realities.  Another picture rose before him, the sweet
face of the girl he loved, the one whom he was to win by keeping in the
path wherein he now walked.  A look of defiance flitted across his
face.  No.  He would go on.  He could never give up now!

But the leaves had rustled again, and now the minister had resumed his
word pictures.  This time they were not of the mighty Jehovah, just,
unapproachable, omnipotent; but of the lonely Man of Nazareth standing
by the lakeside and calling the fishermen to Him, and then on to
Calvary when He said, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what
they do."

The elder man's keen eyes saw the tokens of a conflict in the other's
face, and he was too wise to address him directly.  His occasional
remarks had the effect of soliloquies, but they plunged Scotty's soul
in the valley of shadows.

He was thinking how all his life he had been compassed about.  He knew
now that what he had called hedging circumstances had been God's very
Hand.  His grandmother's faithful teachings had guided his careless
boyish feet; his grandfather's falls from the high position he had set
himself were graphic object-lessons to teach the value of
righteousness; Monteith's influence had kept him in the right way, and
now how dared he turn aside of his own will?

But what was the minister reading now?  What but the story of a young
man, one so goodly and commendable in person and character that the
Master had regarded him with an especial feeling of comradeship; but
there was one thing he refused to give up, and he turned his back upon
the Saviour of mankind and went away sorrowful, "for his possessions
were very great."  And Scotty's possessions were great also--those he
was about to reach out and seize, infinitely beyond the value of gold
and silver, and he wanted to turn away, too, but something held him.

The minister glanced at the young man's face, and knew his heart had
been touched.  He closed the Book.  "Let us pray," he said, and rising,
knelt by the side of a moss-grown log.  But Scotty did not kneel; he
sat erect, staring with desperate eyes into the fire, and striving with
all the force of his will to harden his heart.  To his relief the old
man made no remark upon his strange conduct when he arose from his
knees, but at once went to his bed in the shanty.  Some subtle instinct
told him the young man would be better alone.

Long after he had retired Scotty walked up and down before the fire,
fighting out the old, weary battle; but now with a fury as if for life.

To go on with his work at Raye & Hemming's now in the light of what had
come to him this night would be, he knew, to cast aside all the
teachings of his lifetime--the teachings of Granny, of experience, yes,
even of Monteith, for he realised now they had all come from God, and
were one.  He was down in the valley of the shadows, and the rod and
staff were of no comfort to him, for they meant pain and renunciation.

He could not give up Captain Herbert's friendship and Isabel; he could
not go on.  The fire had died down to a red eye looking sullenly out of
the smoky darkness, the moon had sunk behind the forest ring, and out
of the blackness of night came a sensation of approaching change, a
hint that the dawn was near.  As Scotty, pale and haggard, stood
looking into the dying fire, a step aroused him and the minister was by
his side.

"Why, sir," he cried in surprise, "you will surely not be getting up
yet.  It is quite dark."

"I was not sleeping," said the old man.  "I could not but watch you,"
he added gently, "for I cannot but see you are carrying a burden; one
heavy for your time of life, my lad, and I wondered if I could be of
any help."

All Scotty's mental attitude of defiance melted away before this gentle
sympathy.  He was silent, simply through the inability to speak, and
the minister continued, "Do not speak of it if you would rather not.  I
would not force your confidence, but just come and we will pray about
it, and you will tell the Father and He will be making it right."

Scotty turned with a gesture of defeat.  To pray was the last thing he
desired to do, it meant surrender; but this time he knelt obediently at
the minister's side by the dying fire.

And as he bowed his head he was suddenly startled by the words that
broke forth.  It seemed as if all his own soul's struggle had been
transferred to the man at his side.  Old John McAlpine had a wondrous
gift of prayer, one that never failed to cast a solemn spell over his
hearers, and to-night he pleaded for the soul of this young man as if
for his life.  His big hands were knotted, the perspiration stood in
beads on his white forehead, and his agonised voice rose and went
ringing away into the forest.  Scotty was awesomely reminded of One who
prayed in a garden, quite unlike this one of nature's wild making, and
sweat drops of blood because of the sin he was to bear.  And before the
minister had ceased it seemed as if that other One came to his side and
took up the petition, for Scotty felt his worldly desires slip from him
like a garment.  The struggle was over.  Henceforth there could be no
indecision, for he was not his own, but had been bought with a price.

When they arose from their knees the darkness had suddenly become
transparent.  A mysterious rustle and whisper of awakening life was on
all sides, the dawn was on the point of breaking.  Scotty's fire, like
his worldly hopes, had died down to pale ashes, but far out on the
faintly grey bosom of Lake Simcoe, and away beyond its dark
forest-ring, soon to put all lesser lights to shame in their triumphant
blaze, were kindling the fires of Heaven.




XIV

THE VOYAGEURS

  Oh, the East is but the West, with the sun a little hotter;
  And the pine becomes a palm by the dark Egyptian water;
  And the Nile's like many a stream we know that fills its brimming cup;
  We'll think it is the Ottawa as we track the batteaux up!
  Pull, pull, pull! as we track the batteaux up!
  It's easy shooting homeward when we're at the top.
          --WILLIAM WYE SMITH.


The Imperial transport, _Ocean King_, had loosed from her moorings at
Montreal and was swinging down with the tide of the mighty St.
Lawrence, and on her deck, many leaning eagerly over the railing to get
a last glimpse of home, stood some four hundred stalwart sons of the
Maple Land.  Great, strong fellows they were, all with the iron muscles
and steady, clear eyes of the expert riverman.  For these were the
famous voyageurs, trained from childhood on the rapids and cataracts of
Canadian streams and summoned now to the help of the mother country on
the ancient river of Egypt.

When Lord Wolseley found himself face to face with the tremendous task
of reaching Gordon far up the hostile Nile, he remembered the
assistance he had received in an earlier expedition in a western land
from the daring, untiring, cool-headed, warm-hearted Canadian boatmen.
And he asked that once more they might give him aid.  And here they
were, the best the country could produce, a rollicking, light-hearted
crew, ready for anything--adventure, hard work, danger, death.

Among those who stood longest gazing at the receding land were two who
had begun their years of apprenticeship for this great day on the
little, noisy, foaming stream that scolded its way into the Oro river.
And one of them, looking at the fast-fading outline of Mount Royal, saw
instead an old log house among the enfolding Ontario hills, with a
Silver Maple spreading its protecting branches above the roof.  His
home!--and the dear home faces, how they rose up from the misty shore;
and another face, the most beautiful in the world, as he had seen it
that winter night in the sunset glow!

And he had left all, had turned his back upon friends and home, and
love itself, for what?  A mere sentiment?  A mad notion born of that
night in the wilderness the spring before?  The man who had been his
guide and instructor, his staunchest friend and truest adviser from
boyhood, had called his new impulse by just such a name, and the loss
of his esteem had been one of the bitterest drops in Scotty's cup of
renunciation.  Apparently he had done injury to himself in every
quarter, by giving up his connection with Raye & Hemming.  Captain
Herbert had been disgusted and had declared he washed his hands of him,
Monteith had been filled with righteous indignation over such blind
folly, and his grandparents had been keenly disappointed.  And Isabel?
That was the hardest part.  What would Isabel think?  Perhaps she, too,
was offended, and he had had no opportunity to vindicate himself.  And
yet, through disappointments, estrangements and doubts, he clung
tenaciously to his purpose.  He was done forever with Raye & Hemming,
and no power on earth could drive him back.  Before he left Barbay,
Monteith had come down upon him to bring him to a more reasonable state
of mind.  The schoolmaster had scolded, entreated, and had even brought
up arguments which Scotty was powerless to combat.  In his perplexity
and bewilderment he could answer nothing; only there had come vividly
to his mind the reply of another young man in somewhat similar
circumstances; a young man, who, when clever people argued that the Man
who had opened his eyes was at fault, could only say, "One thing I
know, that, whereas I was blind, now I see."

For that night in the wilderness had given this young man a clearer
vision of right and wrong, the keen perception granted to those only
who have passed by Calvary and seen the One who suffered there and
conquered.  And in that uplifting moment he had heard the voice of the
Eternal say, "This is the way, walk ye in it"; and he could not but
obey.

So Scotty had turned his back upon all his worldly prospects, because
they had led from the way of integrity; and early in the summer had
gone to seek employment amongst the lumbering centres of the Ottawa.
And away back there he had been tracked and joined by his faithful
henchman, Dan Murphy.  This strange freak on Scotty's part had no
effect on Danny's warm heart.  What cared he that his chum preferred
working in the bush to a college education?  That mattered little, so
long as they were together.  For had Scotty turned Mohammedan and gone
forth to convert the world to his beliefs, not one inch would his
friend's loyalty have swerved.

And, while they worked on the upper Ottawa, the call for the Nile
voyageurs had come.  Here was an opportunity to see the world and serve
the Empire, and the boys had gladly embraced it.  And so Scotty was
going down into Egypt, because the great Controller of Destiny had need
of him there, as He had long before needed another young man in that
same land to perfect His divine plans.


The Canadians commenced active work at a station on the Nile a few
miles from Wady Halfa.  The busy little trains, that came puffing up
from Cairo, landed this latest addition to Britain's forces amid all
the bustle and stir of the departing army.  Here the naval detachment
of the River Column was preparing to embark.  The steel-keeled
whaleboats, the especial care of the voyageurs, were being fitted up
with masts and oars.  As soon as ready they were filled with soldiers
or Dongolese boatmen, the Canadian bowman and helmsman took their
places, and out they shot up the swift, brown current.

Scotty and his chum found that their turn to embark was not likely to
come for some time, and they employed their first day of leisure in
looking about them.  To their unaccustomed Western eyes the place
presented endless interest.  It was full of the noise and display of a
military camp, and alive with potent signs of war.  Trains loaded with
ammunition went puffing out; bands of baggage-mules, driven by
scantily-dressed natives, came down to the water's edge to drink; and
stately camels swayed past.

Now and then a detachment of a regiment swung out desertward, whether
on hostile acts intent or for exercise, only the initiated could tell.
The boys stood watching them with absorbed interest.  First came the
Coldstream Guards, then the Grenadiers, and finally the Black Watch
stepping out splendidly to the rousing scream of the pipers.  Scotty
had been taking in all the sights calmly, but this last was too much
for his Highland blood; and, in spite of Dan's jeers, he leaped to his
feet with a cheer, as they whirled past.

But even such spectacles as these began to pall.  The Canadians soon
discovered that an army is an unwieldy monster, and that even a flying
column moves slowly.  When the third day came and they still awaited
their call to the boats, Dan became restless.  This period of enforced
idleness acted upon him like firewater upon a wild Indian, and his
friend soon had his hands full keeping him from disaster.

On the last afternoon of their waiting Scotty composed himself under a
gum acacia tree near the river to write home.  They expected to go at
any moment and he must leave a last message for Granny.  With the aid
of an old box for a writing desk and the battered lid of a tin can for
an inkbottle he managed his task fairly well.  The sun was blazing down
on rock and sand and river, but the breeze from the north blew up cool
and grateful, reminding him of the June zephyrs that came up from Lake
Oro to stir the boughs of the Silver Maple.

Near him, stretched full length upon the ground, lay Dan, striving to
be as cross as his light-hearted Irish spirits would permit.  Scotty
had just a moment before forcibly rescued him from a row with some
idle, poker-playing Tommies, and the wild Irishman felt small gratitude
towards his preserver.  He rolled about restlessly, pronouncing
serio-comic denunciations upon everything in Egypt from Lord Wolseley
to the baggage-mules, and informing his inexorable keeper at short
intervals, that if something didn't hurry up and happen, glory be, but
he'd commit high treason--a crime of which Dan had only the vaguest
notion, but one which he imagined immeasureably transcended all other
forms of iniquity.

Scotty paid no attention to these threats; he finished his letter,
packed his writing materials into his kit bag, and stood up to stretch
his limbs.  Over near the officers' quarters a couple of Tommies were
making strenuous efforts to hold down a reluctant and evil-minded camel
long enough to permit a fat and pompous Colonel to mount.

"That brute must be some relation to you, Dan," said Scotty laughingly,
"he seems to have got up a mighty objection to everything in the way of
common sense."

Dan did not reply; he had raised himself upon his elbow and was
listening eagerly to something else.  His attention had been caught by
the conversation of a couple of officers who were coming up from the
water-side.  One was a young army subaltern, fresh from home, very
innocent and well-meaning, but belonging to that class of youth who,
because of a serene consciousness of vast inward resources, is certain
to fall a prey to circumstances.  His companion was slightly older, a
young officer of the Naval Brigade under Lord Beresford.  He was
squarely-set, with a frank, good-humoured face.

The subaltern was evidently showing his newly-arrived friend the
sights.  "Those are the American Indians we've brought out to pilot the
boats," he explained, with a nod in the direction of a group of French
Canadians standing at the boat-slip; "rather a fine looking lot o'
beggars, aren't they?"

His companion laughed.  "Indians be hanged!" he exclaimed merrily.
"More than half those fellows are no more Indians than you are.  Jove,
it does a fellow's eyes good to see something from home.  I'm going to
have a chat with them."

"Pshaw, you don't expect to find friends there, I hope.  'Pon honour,
they're red Indians, every one of them.  Wolseley got 'em.  And
Harcourt says they're the aboriginal thing."

"Your Colonel's an insular baa-lamb, Bobby; you can bet Wolseley never
said it.  Surely, as I was born and brought up in Canada I'm likely to
know a red Indian from myself now, am I not?"

The subaltern looked annoyed.  "I think you're mistaken this time," he
said with some dignity; "perhaps an odd one or so may be white, but the
majority are the real thing.  Look at that big fellow there, now.  I'll
bet two to one he's a full blood, anyway."

The other glanced at the man indicated.  Scotty's face and arms, always
brown, had become almost copper-coloured in even his short exposure to
the Egyptian sun, and his lithe, muscular figure, leaning easily
against the tree, was not unlike that of the stalwart Caughnawagas from
the St. Lawrence, but as the young naval officer looked at him he
laughed derisively.

"Done with you," he cried gaily.  "Go and ask him."

The subaltern marched up promptly to the voyageur.  "I say, Canadian,"
he said somewhat stiffly, "here's a gentleman who says you're not an
Indian.  Just tell him politely that he's mistaken, please."

Scotty turned from his contemplation of the camel to find, to his
surprise, that he was being addressed.  But before he could reply, Dan
had forestalled him.  That young man, whose red hair and Hibernian
features could have left no doubt even in the subaltern's mind as to
his nationality, had been listening, with huge enjoyment, to the
conversation.  He had risen to his feet and was saluting with grave
respect.

"Sure it's yourself that's right, sir," he said with an apologetic air.
"Anybody can see he's an Indian.  He belongs to one of our worst
tribes--the Blood-drinkers, they call themselves.  His name's Big
Scalper.  And sure," he added, lowering his voice fearfully, "it's the
bloodthirsty brute he is, an' no mistake!"

The young naval officer came forward and gazed fixedly into the
speaker's meek and innocent countenance, but could detect there no
smallest sign of deceit.  The subaltern looked solemn.

"Is that all true he's telling us, Big Scalper?" he asked dubiously.

"Sure, there's no use talkin' to him, sir," broke in Dan, with patient
surprise; "he can't spake a word but his own outlandish jabber.  The
cratur was jist runnin' wild in the bush when Colonel Denison caught
him an' brought him out here."  The young man's air of kindly anxiety,
mingled with innocent seriousness, was too much for mortal gravity.
Big Scalper turned his back with strange suddenness and stared fixedly
out upon the hot, grey glint of the river.

A little group of idle Canadians had begun to gravitate towards them.
Dan Murphy had already earned a reputation among them as a source of
entertainment, and was particularly interesting whenever anyone evinced
a desire to learn anything of his native land.  The officers were wont
to question the voyageurs, and Dan played upon their ignorance of the
western half of their Empire, which was deep enough to begin with, and
made it abysmal.

"I told you," cried the subaltern triumphantly.  "I've won my bet, old
fellow!"

"Strange how he's going to pilot a boat-load of men up the river
without the use of the English language," suggested the young naval
officer, with a slightly sarcastic drawl.

"Aw, ye don't know him," cried Mr. Murphy in a tone expressive of fear,
"he'll find a way to make them mind or he'll bash all their heads in.
Sure, he's the Divil himself, sir.  Jist look at the wicked eye o' him
now, will ye?"

This was going too far for safety, and Big Scalper turned upon his
loquacious showman.  He was too much an artist to spoil the play by
proclaiming it a sham, so he spoke a few rapid words in Gaelic.  The
Murphy's knowledge of that language was naturally limited, but there
was never a boy in Glenoro school, be his nationality what it might,
who did not pick up much of the war-vocabulary of the Fighting
MacDonalds, and Dan had no difficulty in gathering from Scotty's remark
that he was being strongly advised to immediately shut his mouth.

"What's he sayin'?" inquired the subaltern interestedly.

Dan's face was a study in pained and polite anxiety.

"I'm askin' yer pardon, sir," he said nervously, "but I think it would
be safer if ye wouldn't be lookin' at him anny longer.  He's askin' me
which o' yer scalps I think would look best danglin' from his belt!"

There was a shout of long-suppressed laughter from the on-looking
Canadians, and the young officer's face flamed up angrily.

"I shall report you for this insolence!" he cried, suddenly awakening
to his ignominious position.

But his friend caught his arm and drew him away.

"Come out of this, Bob!" he cried in a choking voice.  "You'll report
nothing!  You'd better not monkey with those fellows.  That young Irish
ruffian was improvising as he went along.  And I'm awfully sorry, Bobby
dear, but I'm afraid I've won my bet," he added, allowing his laughter
to overcome him, "because--because--oh, Holy Maria, hold me up, I'm
going to die!--because Big Scalper speaks a language that's amazingly
like the stuff the pipers of the Black Watch jabber to one another!"

As Scotty moved down to the landing he gave his tormentor a
good-humoured shaking.  "It's lots of fun, I know, Dan; but you'd
better keep that long, Irish tongue of yours still before the officers,
or you'll get into trouble.  I don't know what that fellow's going to
do."

"Be jabers, it would be worth pickin' oakum for a year jist to take
down his blamed consate.  Did ye iver see such a banty rooster as the
young wasp was?  The little sailor chap wasn't half bad.  And, say,
Scot, did ye hear him say he was a Canadian or from Canady, or
somethin' like that?  It accounts for his good manners."

"Who, the bluejacket?"  Scotty looked with interest after the young
man's retreating form.  There was something in his trim, straight
figure that somehow seemed familiar.

"What's his name, I wonder?" he began, when a peremptory order
interrupted.  "Stanwell, into number 150!" cried the sharp voice of the
overseer, and Scotty sprang into the stern of the boat and was off for
his first battle with the cataracts of the Nile.




XV

THE SECRET OF THE NILE

  O mystic Nile!  Thy secret yields
  Before us; thy most ancient dreams
  Are mixed with far Canadian fields
  And murmur of Canadian streams.
          --C. D. G. ROBERTS.


The awe-inspiring designation which Dan had bestowed upon his friend
was not readily dropped.  The Canadians seized and used it joyfully.
Others who heard the name and were not aware of the joke in which it
originated supposed that the bearer of it was really an Indian chief,
about whose bloody prowess they were ready to believe any tales which
the ingenious Mr. Murphy might invent.  And so, for the remainder of
the voyage, Scotty was known throughout the column as Big Scalper, the
fiercest Indian from the Canadian wilds.

But in the days that followed Dan found few opportunities for indulging
his reckless humour, for soon the army was moving forward rapidly and
the boatmen were in the midst of stupendous toil.  The River Column had
been bidden to make haste.  Gordon was shut up in Khartoum waiting his
rescuers, and no one must rest.  On they went, day after day, past
dreary stretches of sand, broken only by an occasional and equally
dreary dom palm; past barren ledges of rock, deserted mud villages and
ruined temples; battling madly with a rapid, only to find when it was
overcome that another lay ahead; toiling strenuously to catch up with
the enemy, only to see at nightfall their spearheads disappearing over
the last brown ridge of sand hills.  Scotty felt himself becoming a
machine, something that did the day's work mechanically.  To toil all
day in the bow or stern of a boat in the scorching heat of the pitiless
sun, or walk over blistering rock and dazzling sand; to sleep at night
inside a square of good British bayonets, chilled by the numbing wind
from the north; to rise at the bugle-call and go at it again--that was
the unvarying programme.  Cataract and sand plain succeeded cataract
and sand plain with such deadly monotony, that all sense of time,
place, and progress was blotted out.  They seemed stationary in an
endless desert, toiling against an endless river, always moving but
never advancing.

He often wondered, as he watched the brown, turbid water racing down to
meet him, what secret the mysterious Nile held for him.  What would be
its bearing upon his life?  But he always ended his questionings with
the assurance that whatever the outcome might be, even though he should
never see it, it was controlled by a higher Power, and he was content.

And through all the hardships and stress of the work, the struggle with
the rapids, the hunger and privations, the new life which had been
implanted in Scotty's heart was his greatest stay.  Many a time in the
face of temptation he blessed the saintly old woman far away in the
Canadian backwoods for the godly training he had received beneath the
Silver Maple.  He found he needed all his strength in this new, wild
life; for a more gaily-gallant, reckless, devil-may-care crew than the
Canadian voyageurs, who fought and overcame the ancient Nile, surely
never wielded paddles.  His chief trial was his own faithful follower,
for Dan Murphy strove to out-Canadian the wildest river-driver of the
Ottawa valley.  And had Scotty's strong hand not been often placed upon
the unsteady tiller of his friend's life, there might have been a
sadder wreck among the Nile voyageurs than has been set down in
history.  His vigilant oversight of Dan's conduct did not prevent him
distinguishing himself in quite a unique way.

Ever since he had left Cairo that young man's one hope in life had been
to participate in a battle.  There came a day, later, when he and
Scotty worked side by side on the blood-stained rocks of the desert,
helping to remove the dead and wounded; when they saw their General's
body lowered into its lonely grave, and witnessed the hundred harrowing
sights of a battlefield; and then and there, much of the boyish glamour
of battle faded before the horrible reality.  But that time had not yet
come; and, like Napoleon, Dan was convinced that war was a grand game.

So when the reluctant enemy at last massed itself upon the rocky ledges
of Kirbekan to delay the column, and the joyful news spread through the
impatient army that at last they were to meet the foe, none was so
eager for the fray as Dan.  In spite of Scotty's admonitions, he went
to one of his officers to beg permission to join the advance the next
morning.  The request was promptly refused, and the volunteer bidden
with scant ceremony to go back to his boat and mind his own business.
But Mr. Murphy was convinced that his business lay with the front rank
of the advancing column.  He had not been trained to army discipline
and was not minded to lose the glorious chance of participating in a
real battle for such a trifling consideration as one man's opinion.

So in the grey dawn of the morning, when the troops marched out over
sand and barren rock, there went with them a man who had neither the
uniform nor the dogged stride of the rank and file.  But he made up in
enthusiasm what he lacked in military precision; for, having
appropriated the arms and accoutrements of the first man who fell, he
rushed to the front, and was right in the van of the victorious charge
that swept the enemy from their rocky stronghold.

Dan Murphy was the hero of the Canadian voyageurs for the remainder of
the journey.  When the six months' term for which they had signed had
expired, and he and Scotty resolved to go on to the end, there were
many who remained with the column because the former chose to act as an
independent recruiting officer.  If he was going to Khartoum, then they
would follow, for where Murphy was there must surely be some fun.

But the end of the journey came sooner than was expected.  A little
above Kirbekan General Brackenbury received the tragic news of the fall
of Khartoum and the martyred Gordon's death.  Just a few days earlier,
just a little more haste, and the gallant heart that had looked bravely
into the face of despair for so many weary weeks, still patient, still
hoping, might have seen the answer to his prayers!  But the succors
were too late by less than a week.  Gordon was murdered, Khartoum was
fallen, and at Huella the baffled column received orders to return.

If the toil of descending the Nile was not equal to that experienced in
the ascent, the skill and vigilance required of the pilots was even
greater.  Only a few days' journey had been completed when the column
halted at the head of a long series of cataracts.  Here the Dongolese
boatmen had been put to their utmost strength to haul up the boats
through the boiling, writhing channel, and the question was, could any
boat go down it and live?  General Brackenbury gave orders that none
but the Canadians should be entrusted with the descent; so, early in
the morning, the voyageurs walked down the stream to survey it.  They
pronounced the channel bad, but not impossible, while one old St.
Lawrence pilot sniffed contemptuously and declared that the Lachine
would make this puddle look "seek."

But the Nile cataract was bad enough, as Scotty realised, when he found
himself among the first called to go down.  Dan was his bowman and the
stroke oar was a hardy old Scotch sergeant.  Upon both of these he
could rely with certainty.  Nevertheless, as he steered out into the
middle of the river, he realised that they had good need of all their
courage and resource.  On an overhanging rock above him stood the
commander with some of his staff, anxiously watching the experiment.
The shore was lined with soldiers, as though they had come to witness a
boat-race.  Scotty had a fleeting glimpse of them as he raced past, and
then his boat was caught in the swift current and shot forward with
lightning speed.  The men bent to their oars with all the might of
their brawny arms, to give their helmsman more power, Dan stood in the
bow, alert and tense, his paddle ready, and Scotty held the tiller in
an iron grip.  The channel curved sharply to right and left; at the
quickest turns great rocks stood in mid-stream over which the angry
waters boiled and roared.  At many points an instant's hesitation on
his own part, Scotty well knew, or a second's relaxation of Dan's
vigilance, would hurl boat and crew to destruction.  They were in it
now, dashing through a blinding rain of spray, leaping, turning,
dodging, twisting, as though the boat were a living creature pursued.

Down they shot through the boiling zig-zag current, now avoiding great,
jagged rocks by a hair's-breadth, now bounding like a deer over a
smooth incline, now plunging into a seething white billow; and, when at
last they swept round into the quiet bay at the foot of the cataract,
Dan leaped up, and waving his paddle on high uttered a wild war-whoop
learned long ago in the swamps of the Oro.  There was an answering
cheer from the group of men waiting at the landing.  "Well done, Big
Scalper!" cried the foreman.

A young naval officer who had just ridden down from the head of the
rapid turned quickly at the words.

"What, Big Scalper, is that you?" he cried as the pilots stepped from
the boat.  "How is it you're not hanged yet?"

Scotty glanced up and encountered a laughing glance from the speaker's
merry eyes.  He recognised the young man whom Dan had vainly tried to
befool, away back at the beginning of the voyage.  He was prevented
from replying by a word from the officer in command.  As the voyageurs
were few and the boats many they had to walk back to the head of the
cataract as soon as one descent was accomplished and prepare for
another.  Their commander was bidding them make haste, and, when Scotty
turned to leave the landing, the young man had disappeared.  He was
vaguely disappointed.  There was something very attractive in his
good-humoured familiarity, so different from the manner of the ordinary
under officers.

When the long day's labour was over and the darkness prevented the
descent of any more boats, the Canadians received orders to return to
the upper camp to be in readiness for the morning's work.  Dan had been
required for steering early in the day, and had been separated from his
friend, so Scotty found himself upon the rocky path leading to the head
of the cataract quite alone.

Dan had promised to join him, but when Dan was in the company of the
voyageurs there was generally sufficient cause for delay.  Scotty
walked on slowly, glad to be alone for a few moments after the
tremendous toil of the day; the desert was quiet, and acted upon his
spirits as did the deep, fragrant swamps at home.

The sun had set and the desert, which had glowed golden in the
blistering sun all day, now lay grey and ghostly in the moonlight.
Away ahead stood the ruins of an ancient temple overgrown with dusty
mimosa bushes.  The whispering Nile, brown and gleaming in the daytime,
ran swiftly past, touched to silver by the moon that hung in the great
empty space overhead.  The breeze from the north was cool; the night
was quiet and restful.  He strolled along easily, looking back
occasionally for signs of his comrades; a solitary figure in the barren
desert.

The toil over rocks and rapids of the last few months, though it had
hardened his physique and left him in superb health, had played havoc
with his clothes; and he was so disreputable and tattered a figure,
that he smiled to himself, as he pictured Granny's distress could she
have seen him.

He reached a turn in the rocky path and stopped to listen for sounds of
those who were to follow.  The breeze from the north brought faintly
the music of the old French Canadian song that had so often enlivened
alike the toil of the shantymen on the Ottawa and the pilots on the
Nile.

  "En roulant, ma boule roulant,
  En roulant, ma boule."


The boys were coming, then; he seated himself upon a rock to await
them.  The sound died away for a moment, only the dry rustle of the
mimosa bushes disturbed the silence.

He seemed absolutely alone in the world, until from a break in the
rocks to his right a camel emerged with its stately, undulating stride.
It bore an officer presumably riding down to the foot of the cataract.
The long, fantastic shadow moved across the grey sand.  Scotty could
hear the rider's voice urging the animal forward.  As they came out
into the open, the two figures were silhouetted against the pale sky; a
splendid mark for a prowling Dervish, he reflected.

As if in answer to his thought there came the sudden crack of a rifle
from the direction of the ruined temple.  The figure of the rider
lurched over, and, with a leap, the animal had thrown him and was off
desertward.  There was a fiendish yell from the mimosa bushes.  Three
or four dark forms rose like magic from their shadows, their spears
glinting in the moonlight as they leaped forward.  The wounded man lay
between his assailants and Scotty, somewhat nearer the latter.  As it
was Scotty reached him first.  The man was lying on the sand.  He had
his revolver in his hand and was striving desperately to raise himself
into a position to shoot.  Scotty dragged him into a sheltering nook
between two ledges of rock, snatched the weapon from his hand, and
crouching down sent a bullet spinning out to meet the advancing rush.
The Dervishes halted; the revolver spoke again; there was a howl as a
man fell.  Scotty felt a moment's inner exultation in that steady aim
he had never lost since the days he and Dan shot chipmunks behind the
schoolhouse.  But the yell had been answered by another farther from
the river; three more glinting spearheads suddenly appeared from the
dark expanse beyond, and came hurtling towards him.  He poured the
remaining chambers of his revolver into the mad charge; but, when the
last was gone, the enemy were still leaping forward.  He threw down the
weapon and looked about swiftly.  The wounded man had a sword at his
side.  Scotty grasped it and the same instant the yelling savages were
upon him.  There was no use trying to take cover now.  He stood erect
and struck out madly.  He was dimly surprised when the first man went
down before him.  He swung his weapon fiercely, with no thought of aim;
but he was as agile as even these wild sons of the desert and his arm
had the strength of ten.  It could not last long, he knew, and he
fought with the energy of despair.  There was a strange roaring in his
cars, as though he were in the midst of the cataract again, something
warm was streaming down his face and obscuring his vision; he struck
out blindly, desperately.

But now another sound arose, even above the roaring in Scotty's head,
the sound of a familiar voice; a shout from down the river.  Scotty's
heart leaped; he uttered a strange, weird yell--"Oro, Oro, woo-hoo!"
It was the long, fierce battle-cry of Glenoro school.  If Dan were in
Egypt that would bring him, he knew!

"Oro!  Oro!" came the answer; and like a sandstorm across the desert
came the company of voyageurs, Dan at their head, uttering the
blood-curdling war-whoop with which he had so often awakened the echoes
of the Canadian swamps.

The fierce-eyed Soudanese who had raised his spear to hurl at his
opponent hesitated.  He must have thought that all General
Brackenbury's army was upon him.  He leaped back with a sharp word of
command; one more yell from the advancing column, followed by the crack
of a random shot decided him; the dark figures took to their heels, and
in the magic way known only to the desert-born, had melted in a moment
over the low hills.

Scotty's head was spinning wildly, and when Dan flung himself upon him
he sank unsteadily upon the ground.

"Hello, Danny," he tried to say, with his usual calmness, "just on
time."

Dan clutched him by the shoulders and shook him violently; his voice
was unsteady.  "Be jabers, didn't I hear ye bleatin' like a stray lamb,
half-a-mile back.  How did ye happen to have such luck, ye beggar?  Aw,
the black-hearted brutes has give ye a bang, Scotty, boy.  Hold on to
me now, old man, here, an' we'll fix ye up in no time."

"The other fellow needs it worse," said Scotty, making a motion towards
the man at his feet.  Someone struck a light; the voyageurs raised the
wounded man gently.  His eyes opened.

"Are you much hurt?" asked one of the rescuers, bending over him.

Scotty looked down at him and was conscious of a feeling of glad
surprise.  It was the young naval officer who had spoken to him that
morning.

"Not much," he gasped pluckily.  "It's under my arm here.  You were
just in the nick of time, Canadian."

Another match was lit to enable the men to see the rough bandages they
were trying to adjust.  The light flashed up into Scotty's face, and
the wounded man's eyes brightened.

"Why, was it you, Big Scalper?" he asked, with a faint attempt at a
smile.  "The Devil's not so bad as he's painted----"  He made an effort
to hold out his hand, but before Scotty could take it the young man's
head fell back and he had fainted in Dan's arms.

The buzzing in Scotty's head grew louder, other sounds became dim and
far away.  He was vaguely conscious that the boys were binding up his
head, hurting him most unnecessarily in the process, and that they were
leading him away, away, through the revolving darkness, over an
interminable desert.

But the next morning saw him in the stern of his boat ready to take the
cataract once more.  His head was still bandaged and felt rather light,
but he did his day's work as usual.  And before the next evening he was
at the head of the column, far down the Nile, without knowing even the
name of the man whose life he had saved.

And that same day a young naval officer, lying in a hospital boat asked
anxiously if he might not see the Canadian pilot, known as Big Scalper,
and was informed that the Indian of that name had gone on at the front
of the column, but that he would see him when they disbanded at Korti.

But when the voyageurs drew up before the flagstaff to receive the
General's farewell, the young officer lay tossing in delirium; and when
next he saw his preserver it was not in Egyptian bondage, but in the
new land of promise.




XVI

RE-VOYAGE

  "For dere's no place lak our own place, don't care de far you're goin',
  Dat's what the whole worl's sayin', w'enever dey come here,
  'Cos we got de fines' contree, an' de beeges' reever flowin',
  An' le bon Dieu sen' de sunshine nearly twelve mont' ev'ry year."
          --WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND.


And surely the Israelites, on the borders of Canaan, felt no more joy
than did the two voyageurs when they first sighted the green shores of
Canada.  As they steamed up the St. Lawrence Dan's delight reached the
dangerous stage.  He was dying for a fight, and a fight he must have,
he declared.  And for this purpose he danced about the deck,
brandishing his fists, and beseeching everyone within hearing to speak
up and say that Canady wasn't jist the flower garden of creation,
barrin' ould Ireland.  Before he succeeded in getting himself into
serious trouble, Scotty wisely put the wild Irishman down upon the deck
and sat on him until the first spasms of the home-coming ecstasy were
over.

But when the boys reached the little railway station a few miles from
Glenoro, and saw Hamish's kind, brown eyes and old Pat Murphy's red
face beaming a double welcome, there were no noisy demonstrations.  For
as they drove up through the ever-changing panorama of hill and valley,
with the flash of the river and the blue gleam of lakes peeping through
the green, Scotty had a choking lump in his throat--and even Dan was
silent.  For they were home again, and Oro was vocal with the joy of
returning spring.

The pink-tinted buds were everywhere bursting into green, the marsh
marigolds lit the dark borders of the swamp with their little golden
lamps, the hepaticas and trilliums spangled the dun-coloured carpet of
the woods; just the same, Scotty thought, as in the happy days when he
and Isabel scampered among them.  The air was deliciously laden with
the exhilarating scents of the young green earth, the bluebirds flashed
from bough to bough of the elm trees, and the robins, how they sang!
Dan declared the little spalpeens knew he was home, for what else would
make them bust their foolish little throats wid shoutin'?

His quiet mood did not last long.  The Canadian air was getting into
his blood again.  A sudden whirr and flash, where a host of red-winged
blackbirds arose in a cloud from the road, proved too much for him.  He
leaped from the buggy, yelling like a madman, and for the rest of the
journey was quite beyond the limits of reason.  He sat in the vehicle
only on rare occasions, and spent his time scrambling over fences,
tearing into the woods and back again, chasing squirrels and whooping
like an Indian, until his father privately questioned Scotty as to the
effect of the Egyptian sun on the brain.

Scotty sat beside Hamish, laughing helplessly at poor old Dan's
madness, and in his quieter way revelling just as much in all the dear
familiar sights.  He was feeling how good it was to be a son of the
north land, to live in this garden of lake and river, forest and
meadow, and see it come to life afresh each year, and as they climbed a
hill, and he stood up in the old buggy to catch his first glimpse of
Lake Oro he realised solemnly that, though he might be called English,
Irish, Scotch, Indian, Egyptian, what not, he was altogether and
entirely and overwhelmingly Canadian.

And at the brow of the hill came the Murphy homestead, with all the
Murphys far and near assembled to greet the returned wanderer.  Scotty
and Hamish had intended to leave Dan at his home and hurry away, but
when the hero of the house of Murphy was dropped into the arms of the
excited crowd, they found leave-taking a difficult enterprise.  Irish
hospitality, especially when transplanted to the land of Canadian
plenty, is a compelling force.

At first Scotty's impatience to get home resisted all invitations, and
old Pat was about to reluctantly allow them to depart, when Mrs.
Murphy, who until now had been weeping loudly on Dan's broad shoulder,
oblivious to everything but his return, suddenly awoke to the shameful
fact that someone was about to leave her doors without stopping to eat.
She issued no further invitation, but with her apron still to her eyes
and still exclaiming over and over in muffled sobs, that "the darlin'
had come back to his mother," she darted into the road; and snatching
the horses' bridle, dragged her guests through the gate and up to the
door, amid the applause of the assembled Flats.

And so they had supper in the Murphy home perforce, and all the great
deeds of their expedition had to be recounted.  Scotty told how Dan had
disobeyed orders and run away at the battle of Kirbekan; only, like a
true Irishman, he had run to, not from the fight.  But when his friend
returned the compliment and launched into an account of the midnight
skirmish at the ruined temple, the hero of that event arose hastily,
and declared they must be going.

There was much for Hamish both to tell and hear on the road, so the
afternoon was fading into evening when at last they reached the Scotch
Line.  They had taken a detour round the Glen, for Scotty did not want
to be delayed by more friends.  They passed the Weaver's clearing, and
Hamish declared how Jimmie and Kirsty were such an agreeable pair as
never was, for indeed the two lived in such a state of connubial
felicity as was a wonder to all the neighbours.  Scotty caught a
glimpse of the little path through the cedars, the path where he and
Isabel had walked so often in those magic days succeeding Kirsty's
wedding.  And there was the boiling spring by the roadside where they
had so often played, and the pools where they had gathered musk, and
yonder in the fence-corner they had built their first house.

And then there came a turn in the road and there it was!  His old home!
It was just the same: the old garden in front with the rose bushes
turning green, and the Silver Maple putting forth its pink buds above
the roof!  And there was Granny at the door, shading her eyes with her
hand; and beside her Mary Sandy, Rory's sister-in-law, who was now her
help; and Grandaddy, who had been pretending to cut wood all afternoon,
still holding the axe in his hand; yes, and even Old Farquhar, bobbing
about as excited as any!

With the instinct of long custom, Scotty jumped from the vehicle to
open the gate, but his trembling fingers refused to pull out the pin,
and the next moment he had cleared the bars in one mighty spring,
leaving Hamish, helpless with laughter, to shift for himself.  Before
the gate was open he had charged up the hill like a whirlwind and
caught Granny off her feet.

And then such a time as there was with talking and hand-shaking and
laughter and tears, for even Mary Sandy took to crying out of sympathy
with her mistress, and Scotty himself had some work to keep his eyes
dry.

And no one could hear a word anyone else said, for as the long-absent
one crossed the threshold, Old Farquhar burst into loud and joyous
song.  And what could do justice to the great occasion but "The Grave
of Highland Mary"?  The old man's voice was strong with excitement, and
he drowned both the noise of joyful greeting and the din of the barking
dogs as he shouted triumphantly,--

  "Then bring me the sigh of a fond lover's bosom
  And bring me the tear of a fond lover's e'e,
  And I'll pour them a' doon on thy grave, Highland May-ay-re,
  For the sake o' thy Bur-urns who sae dearly loved thee!"


When the excitement had slightly subsided they had to sit down and
partake of such a supper as had never before been set out in that
house; for Granny would not listen to such foolish nonsense as that
they had eaten at Murphy's.  She sat beside her boy, never touching her
own food, but heaping his plate, clapping him upon the back and
showering upon him all the endearing epithets she knew in a language
that is famous for them.

Big Malcolm sat close to him on the other side, his old warlike spirit
aroused, as his boy told his story.  Scotty softened the hardships for
his grandmother's ears and said nothing of his own encounter in the
desert.  He was graphically describing the manoeuvres of the
Highlanders at Kirbekan, much to his grandfather's delectation; when,
as if to give point to his narrative, there suddenly arose from the
direction of the road a splendid roar of pipes; and behold here came
Rory driving up the lane in a wagon, his whole family aboard; and he
himself, forgetful of his dignity as the father of the family, standing
up in the wagon and blowing up a tremendous pibroch on Fiddlin'
Archie's Sandy's bagpipes!

Scotty flung out of doors to meet him and had scarcely time for a
greeting when they sighted Weaver Jimmie and Kirsty hurrying up the
path from the bush.  Then a shout from the hill behind the barn
attracted everyone's attention, and Long Lauchie's whole household
appeared trooping down the slope; Long Lauchie himself plodding
joyfully at the tail of the procession, full of bewildering prophecies
and analogies, in which there was something about Lake Simcoe's being
the Red Sea, and the Oa, Mount Pisgah.

It was well that Mary Sandy merited her mistress's oft-repeated
declaration that she was "jist the smartest, tidiest girl in the Oa,
indeed."  The multitude had to be fed, in accordance with the laws of
Canadian hospitality, which alter not, no matter what the circumstances
may be, and without Kirsty's and Mary Lauchie's help even Mrs.
MacDonald's paragon might have found herself inadequate.

Big Malcolm and his wife were quite helpless with excess of happiness.
The latter moved about in a happy daze, making ineffectual efforts to
assist her friends, picking up articles and putting them down again in
a haphazard fashion.

At last Kirsty declared that they must all clear out and let her do
some work.  Yes, and Mrs. Malcolm was to go too, for how could she be
of any use with a big gomeril like Scotty clattering after her every
step, as if he was a bairn, and mostly with Big Malcolm and Rory's wee
Callum trailing behind.  It was enough to put a body fair daft.

Thus banished, Scotty laughingly followed his grandmother out of doors.
He was well pleased, for he was longing to get a word with her alone.
He knew that her tender eyes had long ago read his heart's secret, and
if she had any news for him she would surely give it without asking.

There was a new stone milk-house a few yards from the door, built since
his departure; and he must needs see it, Granny said.  So she took him
with her when she went for a jug of buttermilk for the guests.  And
when he had admired the place and the buttermilk had been procured,
they stood in the cool, sweet dampness, and Granny told him how all the
friends had asked for him so often.  The minister, indeed, came up
several times just to inquire if they had had a letter, and Store
Thompson's wife had said that whenever the Captain himself came to the
Glen he always asked for him.  Then she went to the farther end of the
little chamber and commenced a diligent search for something that was
not there, and, with her back turned to him, remarked with elaborate
carelessness that the Captain's family were expected at the Grange any
day now.  The Captain had been away nearly all the time since he lost
the election, he had been that disappointed, poor body.  They had spent
the last winter in Toronto.  The wee Isabel hadn't been jist very well
all winter, Kirsty had said, and the aunt had wanted to take her to the
seashore, but she had said that nothing but the Oro air would do her
any good, and Kirsty was expecting her some of these days.

Scotty drew a deep breath.  She was coming back then!  She would be at
the Grange, she might even come to Kirsty's!  And then Kirsty herself
darted in and snatched the pitcher of buttermilk from Granny's hands
and disappeared as quickly.  Neither of them noticed her, for Scotty
was in a rosy but hopeless dream, and Granny was patting him lovingly
upon the arm in expression of the sympathy she dared not speak.  There
was silence for a moment, the old woman still caressing him tenderly.

"Eh, it would be the Lord would be bringing you back to me, _m' eudail
bheg_," she said at last.  "He would be good to Malcolm and me in our
old age, for you would jist be our Benjamin, whatever.  And has it been
well with Granny's boy all this weary time?" she added in a whisper.

Scotty put his hands upon her shoulders and looked long into her loving
eyes.

"Granny," he whispered, "do you remember the first day I went to
school, and how I came through the swamp alone on the way home."

"Eh, the wee man it was!  And how would I be forgetting, indeed, for it
would be the first time you would be leaving me!"

"And do you remember what I found a comfort then?  The swamp was so
lonely it frightened me, and I thought it must be like the valley of
the shadow of death; so I said over the Shepherd's Psalm, because you
had taught it to me and I knew it must be good, and I wasn't afraid any
more.  And now I've been away from you again, Granny, in the valley of
the shadow of death, yes, and worse than death often, but--the rod and
the staff were always with me."

The tears were running down the old wrinkled face, happy tears, for
Granny had feared often for her boy; not so much the temporal ills; the
arrow that flieth by day was not to her so dangerous as the "secret
fear."  But her fears had been happily disappointed, he had had the
great Keeper with him, and one more joy was added to her deep content.

The celebration at Big Malcolm's lasted half the night, and before it
had ended Scotty found he had yet one more draught to drink from his
cup of happiness.  The assembly was sitting round him breathless as he
related the many incidents of his journey, when Weaver Jimmie, who was
sitting in the doorway to allow his feet to hang in the greater freedom
of outdoors, suddenly interrupted with an exclamation, "Losh keep us,
is yon the Schoolmaster come back?"  Scotty came to the doorway with a
spring and met the outstretched hands of his friend.  Monteith had
heard the boys were expected and had journeyed all the way from Barbay,
where he now resided, to bid his pupil welcome.  Scotty was speechless
over this last greeting, for in the long warm handshake of his old
friend there was not the smallest hint of a past estrangement.




XVII

THE PROMISED LAND

  Love and Hope and Truth and Duty
  Guide the upward striving soul,
  Still evolving higher beauty
  As the ages onward roll.
          --AGNES MAULE MACHAR.


The next day Scotty found that he was not yet through with his
lionising.  With the morning sun up came Dan from the Flats with the
news that "the boys" were to meet at Store Thompson's that evening, and
they must both go down and show themselves.  At first Scotty was for
refusing, but his grandfather decided for him.  Big Malcolm, who was no
better at dissembling than his wife, suddenly remembered that he had
urgent reasons for going into the Glen that evening and promised that
he would bring his grandson with him.

So there was nothing for Scotty to do, as Monteith, who was still with
him, explained, but to be a real lion and roar properly.  Granny made
them an early tea and, the schoolmaster accompanying them, they drove
off in the old buckboard.

On the way Big Malcolm regaled the two exiles with tales of the great
events that had transpired since their absence.  The most important one
related to Store Thompson's latest achievement in the philological
field.  This time he had routed completely young Mike Murphy.  Mike had
never received anything through the post office in his life, but never
a day passed but he poked his head in at the little wicket and demanded
in a loud voice, "Anythin' for Murphy the day?"  Store Thompson had
endured the youth's uncouthness with his usual serenity, but one day
Mike asked twice at the wicket.  That was once too often, and Store
Thompson fell back on his reserve forces.  "Murphy?" he queried.
"Young man, ye're jist ambeeguous like, aye, ye're jist ambeeguous."
Mike had never inquired for letters since.  He retired in a rage, under
the impression that Store Thompson had called him some insulting name,
but, like many another brave man, overawed by the mystery of the
unknown.  Ever since, Store Thompson had been free from his tormentor
and the young man was known between the Oa and the Flats as "Ambiguous
Mike."  Big Malcolm chuckled audibly and jerked the lines in delight
over the remembrance of his old friend's victory.

The way seemed very short to Scotty, there was so much of interest to
see.  Soon they left the Highlands and began to descend into the Glen,
and he found his eyes growing misty again as they dwelt on the winding
white road, the silver curves of the river between the faint green of
the hills, and the cosy homesteads nestled in the budding orchards.

The place was so little changed in the two years he could almost
believe he had never left it.  He noticed only one radical difference.
Pete Nash's establishment had disappeared.  The tavern had not been
able to withstand the united progress of commerce and righteousness;
Mr. Cameron's advent had heralded its downfall, and the toot of the
railway train through Oro had sounded its death knell.

Big Malcolm had not finished dilating upon the blessing its departure
had been to the community, when they reached the post office.  A crowd
stood collected about it, eager but quiet.  They hid their concern in
the true rural fashion and stood leaning against every available
support with supreme indifference, shoulders high, hands in pockets,
caps on one side.  Store Thompson was more ceremonious.  Before Scotty
could alight, out he came with hands outstretched in greeting.  He had
prepared an elaborate speech of welcome, adorned with all the available
polysyllables in the dictionary; but, when he saw Scotty's familiar
face, his eyes shining with the joy of his home-coming, and Big
Malcolm, erect and full of fire as though he had suddenly dropped
twenty years of his life, his heart got the better of his head and he
could only shake the voyageur's hand again and again and say:

"Aye, ye're home again.  Aye, ye've jist come home, like!"

And then out bustled Store Thompson's wife, who was as blithe and brisk
as she had been twenty years before, and she had no difficulty in
kissing Scotty this time, though she had to stand on tip-toe to do it.

And at last the crowd flung off its lethargy and one by one came
forward in greeting.  Dan had already arrived and was resplendent amid
the whole population of the Flats; and not the Flats only, for such a
cosmopolitan crowd had not been seen in the Glen since the old days of
the fights.  There were all the Murphys and the Caldwells and, of
course, every MacDonald from far and near.  And Hash Tucker had brought
over a goodly representation of the Tenth to do honour to his old
schoolmates.  Scotty had got through only half the hand shakes when the
minister came up from the manse to welcome the boys and tell them they
had made him proud of Canada.

Scotty found, somewhat to the dismay of his reticent soul, that Dan had
been spreading abroad the story of his gallant rescue of an English
officer against overwhelming odds, and the ovation he received was
particularly trying.

"It's a pity you couldn't have kept your long, Irish tongue still for a
day!" he grumbled, and Dan laughed and thumped him soundly upon the
chest for an ungrateful and stony-hearted old Scotchman.

The two were standing, the centre of a breathless ring, while Dan, with
true Irish fluency, described the fight at Kirbekan, when the sound of
rapidly approaching wheels partly diverted the attention of the
audience.

"Eh, yon must be the Captain an' his family jist gettin' home," said
Store Thompson, turning away to welcome the new arrivals.  For, since
the departure of the tavern, Store Thompson was public host in the
Glen.  Scotty heard and felt his heart leap into his mouth.  Would she
be there?

The wheels were stopping.  "That'll be his son most like, the young
man," he heard someone say above the buzzing in his ears.  "He's been
away in the wars."

Captain Herbert's voice came next, "No, thank you, James, not to-night;
we just want to water the horses.  But what's all this?  You haven't
lapsed into the old warlike days in my absence, I hope?"

And then Scotty shoved Dan aside and looked up.  Yes, there she was,
and not at all pale and ill as his heart had feared, but smiling and
flushed like a wild rose.  And her eyes were looking a welcome straight
into his, over the heads of the people; such a welcome as not all the
love of his own kin had been able to give.

And the next instant a marvellous thing happened, a thing that
astounded all the spectators and left them amazed and gaping.  For the
pale young man at Captain Herbert's side suddenly leaped to his feet as
though he had gone mad.  He gave a shout, "_Big Scalper!_" and the same
moment he had cleared the carriage wheels and several people's heads
and had flung himself upon Scotty and delivered him a blow that sent
him staggering back against the verandah.  And instead of resenting
such outrageous treatment, as any right-minded descendant of the
Fighting MacDonalds should, Scotty submitted very meekly.  In a
laughing, half-ashamed manner he allowed himself to be pounded and
shaken, and when his assailant had almost wrung his hands off, even
permitted himself to be dragged up to the carriage wheels.

"Father!" cried the young man, his voice high with excitement, "it's
the very fellow himself!  It's Big Scalper!"

At that Dan Murphy uttered a yell that made the topmost pine on the Oro
banks ring.

"It's the English spalpeen!" he roared to the dumbfounded crowd.  "It's
the cratur Scotty pulled out o' the black divils in Agypt.  Oh, hooray!"

It seemed as if all the township of Oro joined him in one mighty shout.
Some said afterwards that even Store Thompson cheered, though most
people believed that the excitement of the moment gave birth to that
wild rumour.  But certain it is that an equally wonderful thing
happened, for at the sound of the uproar the minister turned back from
the manse gate, and when he was made aware of the cause, he actually
waved his hat in the air and made everyone give three more cheers.

And such a prodigious handshaking ensued that Scotty was almost
overcome.  Captain Herbert acted as if he could never let him go; and
there was Store Thompson and the minister and half the crowd to shake
hands with again, and it seemed to Scotty that every second man was the
young Egyptian officer, and he found to his amusement that even that
absurd Dan was greeting him as though they had not met for years!

But he was only half-conscious of it all, only half realised what it
meant even when Miss Herbert took both his hands in hers and whispered
softly: "God bless you, my boy."  For he could see nothing but Isabel's
face and her blue eyes swimming in happy tears, and felt only her
clinging hands as she whispered brokenly: "Oh, Scotty, isn't it
wonderful, wonderful?"  And Scotty knew that even she did not quite
realise just how wonderful it was.

Then, amid all the expressions of good will, Big Malcolm stepped
forward and held out his hand to Captain Herbert.  It was grasped
warmly and the old man felt, with a great uplifting of his spirit, that
his last forgiveness was accomplished and his last feud buried.

It was very late that night when the company broke up and Scotty found
himself at home once more.  Monteith had returned with him, and as he
took his leave the young man accompanied him to the gate.

"I wanted a chance to tell you, before I go," he said, as they paused
in the moonlight, "that you were right, after all, Ralph."

"In giving up?" asked Scotty eagerly.  "Is it because of what you saw
this afternoon?"

"No; the reward of a right act doesn't always come so suddenly; but
because I have learned something since you went away, something that
your grandmother taught me up there under the Silver Maple.  I know now
that when a man has once realised what the Great Sacrifice means he
cannot choose his own way."

And Scotty went up to his old bed in the loft and lay listening to the
branches of the Silver Maple softly caressing the roof, unable to sleep
for joy and thankfulness.

The days that followed were very busy ones.  Scotty was often at the
Grange; not altogether because inclination turned his feet thither, but
because there was much business to settle.  Lieutenant Herbert wanted
to return soon to England, and he would not leave until his new friend
had received due restitution and more.  Scotty wanted nothing; the look
in Isabel's eyes was enough, but Harold would not listen.  No, he must
have the Grange and all that pertained to it, he declared; for the
Captain and his sister had long thought of going back to England to end
their days.  "So," he concluded, "when you are through that college
course, which it appears you must take, you and Bluebell can settle
down here to farming; and good luck go with you, because I don't envy
you your lot!"

But Scotty and Isabel cared very little whether they were envied or
not.  Their own happiness was sufficient.

And so Ralph Stanwell came into his inheritance at last, and by the
right road, the road of truth and equity, which, though it may often
descend by the way of the cross, is sure and straight and leadeth unto
life eternal.

      *      *      *      *      *

The day before he left to take up his studies in the city, Scotty went
down to the Grange and brought Isabel up, ostensibly to spend the day
with Kirsty, but really because they wanted to say farewell among their
old haunts.  The girl had spent the afternoon at Big Malcolm's and as
evening fell and Scotty prepared to take her home, they went round to
the side of the house and sat for a few moments under the Silver Maple.
Lake Oro was a sea of gems flashing between the dusky points of the fir
trees.  The hilltops were flushed with rose, the valleys steeped in
purple, and the vesper sparrows filled the golden twilight with their
music.

"Scotty," said the girl softly, "I've been reminded all day of the
psalm Granny Malcolm taught us here--'Thou hast beset me behind and
before and hast laid Thine Hand upon me!'"

And Scotty, whose mind held the vivid remembrance of a great
temptation, to which he had almost yielded and from which he had been
saved that wonderful night in the wilderness, added: "'Such knowledge
is too wonderful for me.  It is high.  I cannot attain unto it.'"

And a little breeze, dancing up from the golden bosom of Lake Oro,
tossed the green canopy above their heads and showed that every dark
emerald leaf had its silver lining.




THE END













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