 Chapter 9 A Sabbath Day's Work The Sabbath that followed the sugaring off was to Mamie the most remarkable Sabbath of her life up to that day. It was totally unlike the Sabbath of her home, which after the formal church parade, as Harry called it, in the morning, her father spent in lounging with his magazine and pipe, her aunt in sleeping or in social gossip with such friends as might drop in, and Harry and Mamie as best they could. The Sabbath in the minister's house as in the homes of his people was a day so set apart from other days that it had to be approached. The Saturday afternoon and evening caught something of its atmosphere. No frivolity, indeed no light amusement, was proper on the evening that put a period to the worldly occupations and engagements of the week. That evening was one of preparation. The house, and especially the kitchen, was thoroughly red up. Wood, water and kindlings were brought in, clothes were brushed, boots greased or polished, dinner prepared, and in every way possible the whole house, its dwellers and its belongings, made ready for the morrow. So when the Sabbath morning dawned, people awoke with a feeling that old things had passed away and that the whole world was new, the sun shone with a radiance not known on other days, he was shining upon holy things and lighting men and women to holy duties. Through all the farms the fields lay bathed in his genial glow at rest and the very trees stood in silent worship of the bending heavens. Up from stable and from kitchen came no sounds of work. The horses knew that no wheel would turn that day in labor, and the dogs lay sleeping in sunny nooks, knowing as well as any that there was to be no hunting or roaming for them that day, unless they chose to go on a free hunt, which none but light-headed puppies or dissipated and reprobate dogs would care to do. Over all things rest brooded, and out of the rest grew holy thoughts and hopes. It was a day of beginnings. For the past, broken and stained, there was a new offer of oblivion and healing, and the heart was summoned to look forward to new life and to hope for better things and to drink in all those soothing healing influences that memory and faith combined to give, so that when the day was done weary and discouraged men and women began to feel that, perhaps after all, they might be able to endure and even to hope for victory. The minister rose earlier on Sabbath than on other days, the responsibility of his office pressing hard upon him. Breakfast was more silent than usual, ordinary subjects of conversation being discouraged. The minister was preoccupied and impatient of any interruption of his thoughts, but his wife came to the table with a sweeter serenity than usual and a calm upon her face that told of hidden strength. Even Mamie could notice the difference, but she could only wonder the secret of it was hidden from her. Her aunt was like no other woman that she knew, and there were many things about her too deep for Mamie's understanding. After worship which was brief but solemn and intense, Lambert hurried to bring round to the front the big black horse, hitched up in the carry-all, and they all made speed to pack themselves in, Mamie and her aunt in front, and Huey on the floor behind with his legs under the seat, for when once the minister was himself quite ready and had got his great Mircham pipe going, it was unsafe for anyone to delay him a single instant. The drive to the church was an experience hardly in keeping with the spirit of the day, it was more exciting than restful. Black was a horse with a single aim which was to devour the space that stretched out before him with a fine disregard of consequence. The first part of the road, up to the church hill and down again to the swamp, was to Black, as to the others, an unmixed joy, for he was fresh from his oats and eager to go, and his driver was as eager to let him have his will. But when the swamp was reached and the buggy began to leap from log to log of the corduroy, Black began to chafe in impatience of the rain which commanded caution. Indeed, the passage of the swamp was always more or less of an adventure, the result of which no one could foretell, and it took all Mrs. Murray's steadiness of nerve to repress an exclamation of terror at critical moments. The corduroy was Black's abomination. He longed to dash through and be done with it, but however much the minister sympathized with Black's desire, prudence forbade that his method should be adopted. So from log to log and from hole to hole, Black plunged and stepped with all the care he could be persuaded to exercise, every lurch of the cariol bringing a scream from Mimi in front, and a delighted chuckle from Huey behind. His delight in the adventure was materially increased by his cousin's terror. But once the swamp was crossed and Black found himself on the firm road that wound over the sand hills and through the open pine woods, he tossed his great mane back from his eyes and, getting his head, set off at a pace that foreboded disaster to anything trying to keep before him, and in a short time drew up at the church gates, his flanks steaming and his great chest white with foam. "'My,' said Mimi, when she had recovered her breath sufficiently to speak, is that the church?' She pointed to a huge wooden building about whose door a group of men were standing. "'Uh-huh, that's it,' said Huey, but we will soon be done with the ugly old thing.' The most enthusiastic member of the congregation could scarcely call the old church beautiful, and to Mimi's eyes it was positively hideous. No steeple or tower gave any hint of its sacred character. Its weather-beaten clap-barred exterior, spotted with black knots as if stricken with some disfiguring disease, had nothing but its row of uncurtained windows to distinguish it from an ordinary barn. They entered by the door at the end of the church and proceeded down the long aisle that ran the full length of the building, till they came to a cross- aisle that led them to the minister's pew at the left side of the pulpit and commanding a view of the whole congregation. The main body of the church was seated with long box-pews with hinged doors, but the gallery that ran around three sides was fitted with simple benches. Immediately in front of the pulpit was a square pew which was set apart for the use of the elders and close up to the pulpit and, indeed, as part of this structure, was a presentor's desk. The pulpit was, to Mimi's eyes, a wonder. It was an octagonal box placed high on one side of the church, on a level with the gallery, and reached by a spiral staircase. Above it hung the highly ornate and altogether extraordinary sounding-board and canopy. There was no sign of paint anywhere, but the yellow pine of which seats, gallery, and pulpit were all made, had deepened with age into a rich brown, not unpleasant to the eye. The church was full, for the Indian lands people believed in going to church, and there was not a house for many miles around but was represented in the church that day. There they sat, row upon row of men, brawny and brown with wind and sun, a notable company worthy of their ancestry and worthy of their heritage. Them sat their wives, brown too, and weather-beaten, but strong, deep-busomed, and with faces of calm content, worthy to be mothers of their husbands' sons. The girls and younger children sat with their parents, modest, shy, and reverent, but the young men, for the most part, filled the back seats under the gallery, and a hearty lot they were, as brown and brawny as their fathers, but tingling with life to their fingertips, ready for anything and impossible of control except by one whom they feared as well as reverenced. And such a man was Alexander Murray, for they knew well that, live and brawny as they were, there was not a man of them but he could fling out of the door and over the fence if he so wished, and they knew, too, that he would be prompt to do it if occasion arose. Hence they waited for the word of God with all due reverence and fear. In the square pew in front of the pulpit sat the elders, hoary, massive, and venerable. The Indian lands' session were worth seeing. Great men they were, every one of them, accepting perhaps Kenneth Campbell, Kenny Krubak as he was called from his halting step. Kenny was neither hoary nor massive nor venerable. He was a short, grizzled man with snapping black eyes and a tongue for clever biting speech, and while he bore a stainless character no one thought of him as an eminently godly man. In public prayer he never attained any great length, nor did he employ that tone of unction deemed suitable in this sacred exercise. He seldom spoke to the question, but when he did people leaned forward to listen, and more especially the rose of the careless and ungodly under the gallery. Kenny had not the look of an elder, and indeed many wondered how he had ever come to be chosen for the office. But the others all had the look of elders and carried with them the full respect and affection of the congregation. Even the young men under the gallery regarded them with reverence for their godly character, but for other things as well. For these old men had been famous in their day, and tales were still told about the firesides of the people of their prowess in the woods and on the river. There was, for instance, Finley McEwen or McEwen, as they all pronounced it in that country, who for a wager had carried a four hundred pound barrel upon each hip across the long bridge over the Scotch River, and next him sat Donald Ross, whose very face with its halo of white hair bore benediction with it wherever he went, what a man he must have been in his day. Six feet four inches he stood in his stocking soles, and with a back like a barn door as his son Danny or Curly, now in the shanty with MacDonald Vane, used to say, in affectionate pride. Then there was Farquhar McNaughton, big, kindly, and good-natured, a mighty man with the axe in his time. Cursedy's Farquhar they called him for obvious reasons. But a good thing for Farquhar it was that he had had Cursedy at his side during these years to make his bargains for him, and to keep him and all others to them, else he would never have become the substantial man he was. Next to Farquhar was Peter McCrae, the chief of a large clan of respectable and none too respectable families, whom all alike held in fear, for Peter ruled with a rod of iron, and his word ran as law throughout the clan. Then there was Ian Moore McGregor, or Big John McGregor, as the younger generation called him, almost as big as Donald Ross and quite as kindly, but with a darker, sadder face. Something from his wilder youth had cast its shadow over his life. No one but his minister and two others knew that story, but the old man knew it himself, and that was enough. One of those who shared his secret was his neighbor and crony, Donald Ross, and it was worth the journey of some length to see these two great men, one with the sad and the other with the sunny face, stride off together, staff in hand, at the close of the Gaelic service to Donald's home, where the afternoon would be spent in discourse fitting the Lord's day and in prayer. The only other elder was Roderick McQuig, who sat not in the elder's pew, but in the Precentor's box, for he was the leader of Somedy. Straight Rory, as he was called by the irreverent, was tall, spare, and straight as a ramrod. He was devoted to his office, jealous of its dignity, and strenuous in his opposition to all innovations in connection with the service of praise. He was especially opposed to the introduction of those newfangled ranting tunes which were being taught to the young people by John Alec Fraser in the weekly singing school in the nineteenth, and which were sung at Mrs. Murray's Sabbath Evening Bible Class in the Little Church. Straight Rory had been educated for a teacher in Scotland and was something of a scholar. He loved school examinations, where he was the terror of pupils and teachers alike. His acute mind reveled in the metaphysics of theology which made him the dread of all candidates who appeared before the session desiring to come forward. It was too many an impressive sight to see Straight Rory rise in the presenter's box, feel round with much facial contortion for the pitch. He despised a tuning-fark, and then, straightening himself up till he bent over backwards, raised the chant that introduced the tune to the congregation. But to the young men under the gallery, he was more humorous than impressive, and it is to be feared that they waited for the presenter's weekly performance with a delighted expectation that never flagged and that was never disappointed. It was only the flash of the minister's blue eye that held their faces rigid in preternatural solemnity and forced them to content themselves with winks and nudges for the expression of their delight. As Mamie's eye went wandering shyly over the rows of brown faces that turned in solemn and steadfast regard to the minister's pew, Huey nudged her and whispered, There's Don, see, in the back seat by the window, next to Peter Rooock yonder the red-headed fellow. He pointed to Peter McCray, grandson of Peter the Elder. There was no mistaking that landmark. Look! cried Huey eagerly, pointing with terrible directness straight at Don to Mamie's confusion. Wish Huey said his mother softly. There's Randall's mother, said the diplomatic Huey, knowing well that his mother would rejoice to hear that bit of news. See, mother, just in front of Don there! Again Huey's terrible finger pointed straight into the face of the gazing congregation. Hush, Huey said his mother severely. Mamie knew a hundred eyes were looking straight at the minister's pew, but for the life of her she could not prevent her eye following the pointing finger till it found the steady gaze of Randall fastened upon her. It was only for a moment, but in that moment she felt her heart jump and her face grow hot, and it did not help her that she knew that the people were all wondering at her furious blushes. Of course the story of the sugaring off had gone the length of the land and had formed the subject of conversation at the church door that morning, where Randall had to bear a good deal of chaff about the young lady and her dislike of forfeits till he was ready to fight if a chance should but offer. With unspeakable rage and confusion he noticed Huey's pointing finger. He caught too Mamie's quick look with the vivid blush that followed. Unfortunately others besides himself had noticed this, and Don and Peter Ruach in the seat behind him made it the subject of congratulatory remarks to Randall. At this point the minister rose in the pulpit and all waited with earnest and reverent mean for the announcing of the psalm. The reverent Alexander Murray was a man to be regarded in any company and under any circumstances, but when he stood up in his pulpit and faced his congregation he was truly superb. He was above the average height of faultless form and bearing, athletic, active, and with a spring in every muscle. He had coal-black hair and beard and a flashing blue eye that held his people in utter subjection and put the fear of death upon evil doers under the gallery. In every movement, tone, and glance there breathed imperial command. Let us worship God by singing to his praise in the one hundred and twenty-first psalm, I to the hills will lift mine eyes from whence doth come mine aid. His voice rang out over the congregation like a silver bell, and Mamie thought she had never seen a man of such noble presence. Through the reading of the psalm the minister sat down and straight rory rose in his box, and after his manner began feeling about for the first note of the chant that would introduce the noble old tune St. Paul's. A few moments he spent twisting his face and shoulders in a manner that threatened to ruin the solemnity of the worshippers under the gallery, till finally he seemed to hit upon the pitch desired, and throwing back his head and closing one eye he proceeded on his way. Each line he chanted alone after the ancient Scottish custom, after which the congregation joined with him in the tune. The custom survived from the time when psalm books were in the hands of but few, and the lining of the psalm was therefore necessary. There was no haste to be done with the psalm. Why should there be? They had only one sabbath in the week, and the whole day was before them. The people surrendered themselves to the lead of straight rory with unmistakable delight in that part of the exercises of the day in which they were permitted to audibly join. But of all the congregation none enjoyed the singing more than the dear old women who sat in the front seats near the pulpit, their quiet old faces looking so sweet and pure under their snow-white munches. There they sat and sang and quavered, swaying their bodies with the tune in an ecstasy of restful joy. Mimi had often heard St. Paul's before but never as it was chanted by straight rory and sung by the Indian land's congregation that day. The extraordinary slides and slurs almost obliterated the notes of the original tune, and the little kick, as Mimi called it, at the end of the second line gave her a little start. Auntie, she whispered, isn't it awfully queer? Isn't it beautiful? Her aunt answered with an uncertain smile. She was remembering how these winding, sliding, slurring old tunes had affected her when first she heard them in her husband's church years ago. The stately movement, the weird quavers, and the pathetic cadences had in some mysterious way reached the deep places in her heart, and before she knew she had found the tears coursing down her cheeks and her breath catching in psalms. Indeed as she listened to-day, remembering these old impressions, the tears began to flow, till Huey, not understanding, crept over to his mother and to comfort her, slipped his hand into hers, looking fiercely at Mimi as if she were to blame. Mimi too noticed the tears and sat wondering, and as the congregation swung on through the verses of the grand old psalm, there crept into her heart a new and deeper emotion than she had ever known. Listen to the words, Mimi dear, whispered her aunt, and as Mimi listened, the noble words, born on the mighty swing of St. Paul's, lifted up by six hundred voices, for men, women, and children were singing with all their hearts, awakened echoes from great deeps within her as yet unsounded. The days for such singing are alas long gone, the noble rhythm, the stately movement, the continuous curving stream of melody that once marked the praise-surface of the old Scottish church have given place to the light staccato tinkle of the revival chorus, or the shorn and mutilated skeleton of the ancient psalm tune. But, while the psalm had been moving on in its solemn and stately way, Randall had been enduring agony at the hands of Peter Rewock, sitting just behind him. Peter, whose huge clumsy body was a fitting tabernacle for the soul within, laboured under the impression that he was a humorist, and indulged a habit of ponderous joking, trying enough to most people, but to one of Randall's temperament, exasperating to a high degree. His theme was Randall's rescue of Mimi, and the pauses of the singing he filled in with humorous comments that, outside, would have produced only weariness, but in the church, owing to the strange perversity of human nature, sent a snicker along the seat. Unfortunately for him, Randall's face was so turned that he could not see it, so he had no hint of the wrath that was steadily boiling up to the point of overflow. They were nearing the close of the last verse of the psalm, when Huey, whose eyes never wandered long from Randall's direction, uttered a sharp, oh my! There was a shuffling confusion under the gallery, and when Mimi and her aunt looked, Peter Rewock's place was vacant. By this time the minister was standing up for prayer, his eye too caught the movement in the back seat. Young men, he said sternly, remember you are in God's house, let me not have to mention your names before the congregation. Let us pray. As the congregation rose for prayer, Mrs. Murray noticed Peter Rewock appear from beneath the book board, and quietly slip out by the back door, with his hand to his face, and the blood streaming between his fingers, and though Randall was standing up straight and stiff in his place, Mrs. Murray could read from his rigid look the explanation of Peter's bloody face. She gave her mind to the prayer with a sore heart, for she had learned enough of those wild, hot-headed youths to know that before Peter Rewock's face would be healed, more blood would have to flow. The prayer proceeded in its leisurely way, indulging here and there in quiet reverie, or in exultant jubilation over the attributes, embracing in its worldwide sweep the interests of the kingdom far and near, and of that part of humanity included therein present and to come, and buttressing its petitions with theological argument systematic and unassailable. Before the close, however, the minister came to deal with the needs of his own people. Old and young, absent and present, the sick, the weary, the sin burdened, all were remembered with a warmth of sympathy, with a directness of petition, and with an earnestness of appeal that thrilled and subdued the hearts of all, and made even the boys, who had borne with difficulty the last half hour of the long prayer, forget their weariness. The reading of scripture followed the prayer. In this the minister excelled, his fine voice and his dramatic instinct combined to make this an impressive and beautiful portion of the service. But today much of the beauty and impressiveness of the reading was lost by the frequent interruptions caused by the entrance of latecomers, of whom, owing to the bad roads, there were a larger number than usual. The minister was evidently annoyed, not so much by the opening and shutting of the door, as by the inattention of his hearers, who kept turning round their heads to see who the new arrivals were. At length the minister could bear it no longer. My dear people, he said, pausing in the reading, never mind those coming in, give you heed to the reading of God's word, and if you must know who are entering, I will tell you. Yes, he added deliberately, give you heed to me, and I will let you know who these latecomers are. With that startling declaration he proceeded with the reading, but had not gone more than a few verses when click went the door latch. Not a head turned. It was Malcolm Monroe, slow going and good-natured, with his quiet little wife following him. The minister paused, looking toward the door, and announced, My dear people, here comes our friend Malcolm Monroe and his good-wife with him, and a long walk they have had. Come away, Malcolm, come away, we will just wait for you. Malcolm's face was a picture. Surprise, astonishment, and confusion followed each other across his stolid countenance, and with quicker pace than he was ever known to use in his life before he made his way to his seat. No sooner had the reading began again when once more the door clicked. True to his promise, the minister paused and cheerfully announced to his people, this, my friends, is John Campbell, whom you all know as Johnny Sarah, and we are very glad to see him, for indeed he has not been here for some time. Come away, John, come away, man, he added impatiently, for we are all waiting for you. Johnny Sarah stood paralyzed with amazement and seemed uncertain whether to advance or to turn and flee. The minister's impatient command, however, decided him, and he dropped into the nearest seat with all speed, and gazed about him as if to discover where he was. He had no sooner taken his seat than the door opened again, and some half-dozen people entered. The minister stood looking at them for some moments and then said in a voice of resignation, friends, these are some of our people from the island and there are some strangers with them, but if you want to know who they are you will just have to look at them yourselves, for I must get on with the reading. Needless to say, not a soul of the congregation, however, consumed with curiosity, dared to look around, and the reading of the chapter went gravely on to the close. To say that Mimi sat in utter astonishment during this extraordinary proceeding would give but a faint idea of her state of mind. Even Mrs. Murray herself, who had become accustomed to her husband's eccentricities, sat in the state of utter bewilderment, not knowing what might happen next, nor did she feel quite safe until the text was announced and the sermon fairly begun. Important as were the exercises of reading, praise, and prayer, they were only the opening services and merely led up to the event of the day which was the sermon, and it was the event not only of the day but of the week. It would form the theme of conversation and afford food for discussion in every gathering of the people until another came to take its place. Today it lasted a full hour and a half and was an extraordinary production. Calm deliberate reasoning, flights of vivid imagination, passionate denunciation, and fervid appeal marked its course. Its subject was the great doctrine of justification by faith, and it contained a complete system of theology arranged with reference to that doctrine. Ancient heresies were attacked and exposed with completeness amounting to annihilation. Modern errors into which our friends of the different denominations had fallen were deplored and corrected, and all possible misapplications of the doctrine to practical life guarded against. On the positive side the need, the ground, the means, the method, the agent, the results of justification, were fully set forth and illustrated. There were no anecdotes and no poetry. The subject was much too massive and tremendous to permit of any such trifling. As the sermon rolled on its majestic course the congregation listened with an attentive and discriminating appreciation that testified to their earnestness and intelligence. True one here and there dropped into a momentary dose, but his slumber was never easy, for he was harassed by the terrible fear of a sudden summons by name from the pulpit to awake and give heed to the message, which for the next few minutes would have an application so personal and pungent that it would effectually prevent sleep for that and some successive Sabbaths. The only apparent lapse of attention occurred when Donald Ross opened his horn's snuff-box, and after tapping solemnly upon its lid, drew forth a huge pinch of snuff and passed it to his neighbour, who, after helping himself in like manner, passed the box on. That the lapse was only apparent was made evident by the air of abstraction with which this operation was carried on, the snuff being held between the thumb and forefinger for some moments, until a suitable resting-place in the sermon was reached. When the minister had arrived at the middle of the second head he made the discovery, as was not frequently the case, that the remotest limits of the allotted time had been passed, and announcing that the subject would be concluded on the following Sabbath, he summarily brought the English service to a close and dismissed the congregation with a brief prayer, two verses of a psalm and the benediction. When Mamie realised that the service was really over, she felt as if she had been in church for a week. After the benediction the congregation passed out into the churchyard and disposed themselves in groups about the gate and along fences, discussing the sermon and making brief inquiries as to the wheel and ill of the members of their families. Mrs. Murray, leaving Huey and Mamie to wander at will, passed from group to group, welcomed by all with equal respect and affection. Young men and old men, women and girls alike, were glad to get her word. Today, however, the young men were not at first to be seen, but Mrs. Murray knew them well enough to suspect that they would be found at the back of the church, so she passed slowly around the church, greeting the people as she went, and upon turning the corner she saw a crowd under the big maple, the rendezvous for the younger portion of the congregation before church went in. In the centre of the group stood Ronald and Don, with Murdie, Don's eldest brother, a huge good-natured man beside them, and Peter Ruach with his cousin Alec and others of the clan. Ronald was standing, pale and silent, with his head thrown back, as his manner was when in passion. The talk was mainly between Alec and Murdie, the others crowding eagerly about and putting in a word as they could. Murdie was reasoning good-humoredly, Alec replying fiercely. It was good enough for him, Mrs. Murray heard Don interject in a triumphant tone to Murdie, but Murdie shut him off sternly. Wished Don, you are not talking just now. Don was about to reply when he caught sight of Mrs. Murray. Here's the minister's wife, he said in a low tone, and at once the group parted in shame-faced confusion. But Murdie kept his face unmoved, and as Mrs. Murray drew slowly near, said, in a quiet voice of easy good-humour, to Alec, who was standing with a face like that of a detected criminal, well, we will see about it tomorrow night, Alec, at the post office. And he faced about to meet Mrs. Murray with an easy smile, while Alec turned away. But Mrs. Murray was not deceived, and she went straight to the point. Murdie, she said quietly when she had answered his greeting, will you just come with me a little, I want to ask you about something. And Murdie walked away with her, followed by the winks and nods of the others. What she said, Murdie never told, but he came back to them more determined upon peace than ever. The difficulty lay not with the good-natured Peter, who was ready enough to settle with Ronald, but with the fiery Alec, who represented the non-respectable section of the clan McCrae, who lived south of the sixteenth, and had a reputation for wildness. Fighting was their glory, and no one cared to enter upon a feud with any one of them. Murdie had interfered on Ronald's behalf, chiefly because he was Don's friend, but also because he was unwilling that Ronald should be involved in a quarrel with the McCrae's, which he knew would be a serious affair for him. But now his strongest reason for desiring peace was that he had pledged himself to the minister's wife, to bring it about in some way or other. So he took Peter off by himself and, without much difficulty, persuaded him to act the magnanimous part and drop the quarrel. With Ronald he had a harder task. That young man was prepared to see his quarrel through at whatever consequences to himself. He knew the McCrae's and knew well their reputation, but that only made it more impossible for him to retreat. But Murdie knew better than to argue with him, so he turned away from him with an indifferent air, saying, Oh, very well. Peter is willing to let it drop. You can do as you please, only I know the minister's wife expects you to make it up. What did she say to you then? asked Ronald fiercely. She said a number of things that you don't need to know, but she said this whatever. He will make it up for my sake, I know. Ronald stood a moment, silent, then said, suddenly, I will too. And walking straight over to Peter he offered his hand, saying, I was too quick, Peter, and I am willing to take as much as I gave. You can go on. But Peter was far too soft-hearted to accept that invitation, and seizing Ronald's hand said heartily, Never mind, Ronald, it was my own fault. We will just say nothing more about it. There is the singing boys, said Murdie, come away, let us go in. He was all the more anxious to get the boys into the church when he saw Alec making toward them. He hurried Peter in before him, well pleased with himself and his success as peacemaker, but especially delighted that he could now turn his face toward the minister's pew without shame. And as he took his place in the back seat with Peter Ruach beside him, the glance of pride and gratitude that flashed across the congregation to him from the grey-brown eyes made Murdie feel more than ever pleased at what he had been able to do. But he was somewhat disturbed to notice that neither Ronald nor Don nor Alec had followed him into the church, and he waited uneasily for their coming. In the meantime St. Rory was winding his sinuous way through Coals Hill, the Gaelic rhythm of the psalm allowing of quavers and turns impossible in the English. In the pause following the second verse, Murdie was startled at the sound of angry voices from without. More than Murdie heard that sound, as Murdie glanced toward the pulpit he saw that the minister had risen and was listening intently. Behold the sparrow findeth out, chanted the presenter. You are a liar! The words in Alec's fiery voice outside fell distinctly upon Murdie's ear, though few in the congregation seemed to have heard. But while Murdie was making up his mind to slip out, the minister was before him. Quickly he stepped down the pulpit stairs, saw him book in hand, and singing as he went, walked quietly to the back door, and leaving his book on the windowsill passed out. The singing went calmly on for the congregation were never surprised at anything their minister did. The next verse was nearly through when the door opened and in came Don, followed by Alec, looking somewhat dishevelled and shaken up, and two or three more. In a few moments the minister came in, took his psalm book from the windowsill, and, striking up with the congregation, blessed is the man whose strength thou art, marched up to the pulpit again, with only an added flash in his blue eyes and a little more triumphant swing to his coattails, to indicate that anything had taken place. But Murdie looked in vain for Randall to appear, and waited, uncertain what to do. He had a wholesome fear of the minister, more especially in his present mood. Instinctively he turned toward the minister's pew, and, reading the look of anxious entreaty from the pale face there, he waited till the congregation rose for prayer, and then slipped out, and was seen no more in church that day. On the way home not a word was said about the disturbance, but after the evening worship when the minister had gone to his study for a smoke, Huey, who had heard the whole story from Don, told it to his mother and Mamie in his most graphic manner. It was not Randall's fault, mother, he declared. You know Peter would not let him alone, and Randall hit him in the nose and served him right, too. But they made it all up, and they were just going into the church again when that Alec McCray pulled Randall back, and Randall did not want to fight at all, but he called Randall a liar, and he could not help it, but just hit him. Who hit who, said Mamie? You're not making it very clear, Huey. Why, Randall, of course, hit Alec and knocked him over, too, said Huey, with much satisfaction. And then Alec, he is an awful fighter, you know, jumped on Randall and was pounding him just awful, the great brute. When out came Papa, he stepped up and caught Alec by the neck and shook him just like a baby, saying all the time, Would ye, I will teach you to fight on the Sabbath day, here, in with you, every one of you, and he threw him nearly into the door, and then they all skedaddled into the church, I tell you, Don said. They were pretty badly scared, too, but Don did not know what Papa did to Randall, and he did not know where Randall went, but he's pretty badly hurted, I am sure. That great big Alec McCray is old enough to be his father, wasn't it, mean of him mother? Poor Huey was almost in tears, and his mother, who sat listening too eagerly to correct her little boy's ethics or grammar, was as nearly overcome as he. She wished she knew where Randall was. He had not appeared at the Evening Bible-class, and Murdy had reported that he could not find him anywhere. She put Huey to bed and then saw Mimi to her room, but Mimi was very unwilling to go to bed. Oh, Auntie, she whispered as her aunt kissed her good night. I cannot go to sleep. And then, after a pause, she said shyly, Do you think he is badly hurt? Then the minister's wife looking keenly into the girl's face made light of Randall's misfortune. Oh, he will be all right, she said, as far as his hurt is concerned. That is the least part of his trouble. You need not worry about that. Good night, my dear. And Mimi, relieved by her aunt's tone, said, Good night, with her heart at rest. Then Mrs. Murray went into the study, determined to find out what had passed between her husband and Randall. She found him lying on his couch, luxuriating in the satisfaction of a good day's work behind him, and his first pipe nearly done. She at once ventured upon the thing that lay heavy upon her heart. She began by telling all she knew of the trouble from its beginning in the church, and then waited for her husband's story. For some moments he lay silently smoking. Oh, well, he said, at length knocking out his pipe. Perhaps I was a little severe with the lad. He may not have been so much to blame. Oh, Papa, what did you do? said his wife, in an anxious voice. Well, said the minister, hesitating, I found that the young rascal had struck Alec McCray first, and a very bad blow it was. So I administered a pretty severe rebuke and sent him home. Oh, what a shame, cried his wife in indignant tears. It was far more the fault of Peter and Alec and the rest, poor Randall. Now, my dear, said the minister, you need not fear for Randall. I do not suppose he cares much. Besides, his face was not fit to be seen, so I sent him home. Well, it—yes, burst in his wife, great, brutal fellow to strike a boy like that. Boy, said her husband. Well, he may be, but not many men would dare to face him. Then he added, I wish I had known. I fear I spoke. Perhaps the boy may feel unjustly treated. He is as proud as Lucifer. Oh, Papa, said his wife, what did you say? Nothing but what was true. I just told him that a boy who would break the Lord's day by fighting and in the very shadow of the Lord's house, when Christian people were worshiping God, was acting like a savage and was not fit for the company of decent folk. To this his wife made no reply, but went out of the study leaving the minister feeling very uncomfortable indeed. But by the end of the second pipe he began to feel that, after all, Randall had got no more than was good for him, that he would be none the worse of it, in which comforting conviction he went to rest and soon fell into the sleep which is supposed to be the right of the just. Not so his wife. Weird though she was with the long day, its excitements and its toils, sleep would not come. Anxious thoughts about the lad she had come to love as if he were her own son or brother kept crowding in upon her. The vision of his fierce, dark, stormy face held her eyes awake and at length drew her from her bed. She went into the study and fell upon her knees. The burden had grown too heavy for her to bear alone. She would share it with him who knew what it meant to bear the sorrows and the sins of others. As she rose she heard Fido bark and wine in the yard below, and going to the window she saw a man standing at the back door and Fido fawning upon him. Startled she was about to awaken her husband when the man turned his face so that the moonlight fell upon it and she saw Randall. Hasteily she threw on her dressing gown, put on her warm bedroom slippers and cloak, ran down to the door and in another moment was standing before him holding him by the shoulders. Randall she cried breathlessly, what is it? I am going away, he said simply, and I was just passing by and he could not go on. Oh Randall she cried, I am glad you came this way, now tell me where you are going. The boy looked at her as if she had started a new idea in his mind and then said, I do not know. And what are you going to do, Randall? Work there is plenty to do, no fear of that. But your father, Randall, the boy was silent for a little and then said he will soon be well and he will not be needing me, and he said I could go. His voice broke with the remembrance of the parting with his father. And why are you going, Randall? She said looking into his eyes. Again the boy stood silent. Why do you go away from your home and your father and all of us who love you? Indeed there is no one, he replied bitterly, and I am not for decent people. I am not for decent people. I know that well enough, there is no one that will care much. No one, Randall, she asked sadly. I thought. She paused looking steadily into his face. Suddenly the boy turned to her and putting out both his hands burst forth, his voice coming in dry sobs. Oh yes, yes, I do believe you, I do believe you. And that is why I came this way. I wanted to see your door again before I went. Oh, I will never forget you. Never, never. And I am glad I am seeing you. For now you will know how much. The boy was unable to proceed. His sobs were shaking his whole frame, and to his shy, highland scotch nature, words of love and admiration were not easy. You will not be sending me back home again, he pleaded, anticipating her. Indeed I cannot stay in this place after today. But the minister's wife kept her eyes steadily upon his face without a word, trying in vain to find her voice and the right words to say. She had no need of words for in her face, pale, wet with her flowing tears, and illumined with her grey-brown eyes, Randall read her heart. Oh, he cried again, you are wanting me to stay, and I will be ashamed before them all and the minister too. I cannot stay, I cannot stay. And I cannot let you go, Randall, my boy, she said, commanding her voice to speech. I want you to be a brave man, I don't want you to be afraid of them. Afraid of them, said the boy in scornful surprise, not if they were twice as more and twice as big. Mrs. Murray saw her advantage and followed it up. And the minister did not know the whole truth, Randall, and he was sorry he spoke to you as he did. Did he say that? said Randall in surprise. It was to him, as to anyone in that community, a terrible thing to fall under the displeasure of the minister and to be disgraced in his eyes. Yes indeed, Randall, and he would be sorry if you should go away, I am sure he would blame himself. This was quite a new idea to the boy, that the minister should think himself to be in the wrong was hardly credible. And how glad we would be, she continued earnestly, to see you prove yourself a man before them all. Randall shook his head, I would rather go away. Perhaps, but it's braver to stay and to do your work like a man. And then, allowing him no time for words, she pictured to him the selfish, cowardly part the man plays, who marches bravely enough in the front ranks until the battle begins, but who shrinks back and seeks an easy place when the fight comes on, till his face fell before her in shame. And then she showed him what she would like him to do, and what she would like him to be in patience and in courage, till he stood once more erect and steady. Now, Randall, she said, noting the effect of her words upon him, what is it to be? I will go back, he said simply, and turning with a single word of farewell, he sprang over the fence and disappeared in the woods. The minister's wife stood looking the way he went long after he had passed out of sight, and then, lifting her eyes to the radiant sky with its shining lights, he made the stars also, she whispered, and went up to her bed and laid her down and slept in peace. Her Sabbath day's work was done. In their visits to MacDonald Due, the minister and his wife never could see Randall. His aunt Kirsty could not understand or explain his reluctance to attend the public services, nor his unwillingness to appear in the house on the occasion of the minister's visits. He is busy with the fences and about the stables preparing for the spring's work, she said, but indeed he is very queer whatever and I cannot make him out at all. MacDonald Due himself said nothing. But the books and magazines brought by the minister's wife were always read. Indeed, when once he gets down to his book, his aunt complained, neither his bed nor his dinner will move him. The minister thought little of the boy's vagaries, but to his wife came many an anxious thought about Randall and his doings. She was more disappointed than she cared to confess, even to herself, that the boy seemed to be quite indifferent to the steadily deepening interest in spiritual things that marked the memories of her Bible class. While she was planning how to reach him once more, an event occurred which brought him nearer to her than he had ever been before. As they were sitting one evening at tea, the door unexpectedly opened and without announcement in-walked Randall, splashed with hard-riding, pale and dazed. Without a word of reply to the greetings that met him from all at the table, he went straight to the minister's wife, handed her an opened letter, and stood waiting. It was addressed to Randall himself, and was the first he had ever received in his life. It was from Yankee Jim, and read as follows. Dear Randall, the boss ain't feelin' like writin' much, and the rest of the boys is all broke up, and so he told me to write to you, and to tell you some pretty bad news. I don't know how to go about it, but the fact is, Mac Cameron got drowneded yesterday, tryin' to pull a little fool of a Frenchman out of the river just below the Lachine. We'd just got through the rough water, and were lyin' nice and quiet, gettin' things together again when that idiot Frenchman got tight, and got tryin' some fool-tricker other walk in a timber-stick, and got up-sought into the wet. I'da let him go, you bet, but Mac couldn't stand to see him bobbin' up and down, so he ripped off and in after him. He got him, too, but somehow the Varmin gripped him round the neck. They went down, but we got him out pretty quick, and the Frenchman came round all right, but somehow Mac wouldn't, choked, apparently, by that Tarnel little fool who ain't worth one of Mac's fingers, and if killin' him would do any good, then he wouldn't be livin' long. We are all feelin' pretty bad. We are comin' home on Thursday by Cornwall, eight or ten of us. The rest will go on with the rafts. The boss says better have rigs to meet us and Mac. That's all. I ain't no good at weepin', never was, wish I could somehow, it might ease off a fella a little, but tell you what, Randall, I ain't felt so queer since I was a boy lookin' at my mother in her coffin. There was nothing mean about Mac. He was good to the heart. He would do his work slick, and never a growl or a groan, and when you wanted a fella to your back, Mac was there. I know there ain't no use goin' on like this. All I say is, there's a pretty big hole in the world for us tonight. Boss says you'd better tell the minister. He says he's good stuff, and he'll know what to do at Mac's home. No more at present. Goodbye, yours truly, Jay Latham. The minister's wife began reading the letter, wondering not a little at Randall's manner, but when she came to the words, Mac Cameron got drowneded. She laid the letter down with a little cry. Her husband came quickly to her, took up the letter, and read it to the end. I will go at once, he said, and rang the bell. Tell Lambert to put black in the buggy immediately, Jesse, he said, when the maid appeared. Do you think you ought to go, my dear? Yes, yes, I shall be ready in a moment. But oh, what can we do or say? Perhaps you'd better not go, it will be very trying, said the minister. Oh, yes, I must go, I must, the poor mother. Then she turned to Randall as the minister left the room. You're going home, Randall, I suppose, she said. No, I was thinking I would go to tell the people. Donald Ross will go, and the Campbells, and Farquhar McNaughton's light wagon would be best for Mac, and then I will go round by the McGregors. Randall had been thinking things out and making his plans. But that will be a long round for you, said Mrs. Murray. Could not we go by the Campbells, and they will send word to Donald Ross? I think it would be better for me to go to make sure of the teams. Very well then. Goodbye, Randall, said the minister's wife, holding out her hand to him. But still Randall lingered. It will be hard on Bella Peter, he said, in a low voice, looking out of the window. Bella Peter? Bella McGregor? Yes, said Randall, embarrassed and hesitating. She was Mac's—Mac was very fond of her, whatever. Oh, Randall, she cried. Do you say so? Are you sure of that? Yes, I am sure, said Randall, simply. The boys in the shanty would be teasing Mac about it, and one day Mac told me something, and I know quite well. I will go to her, said Mrs. Murray. That will be very good, said Randall, much relieved, and I will be going with you that way. As Mrs. Murray left the room, Mamie came round to where Randall was standing and said to him gently, you knew him well, didn't you? Yes, replied Randall, in an indifferent tone, as if unwilling to talk with her about it. And you were very fond of him, went on Mamie. Randall caught the tremor in her voice and looked at her. Yes, he said with an effort. He was good to me in the camp. Many's the time he made it easy for me. He was next to Macdonald Vane with the axe, and, man, he was the grand fighter. That is, he added, adopting the phrase of the Macdonald gang, when it was a plain necessity. Then, forgetting himself, he began to tell Mamie how Big Mac had borne himself in the great fight a few weeks before. But he had hardly well begun when suddenly he stopped with a groan. But now he is dead. He is dead. I will never see him no more. He was realising for the first time his loss. Mamie came nearer him, and laying her hand timidly on his arm, said, I am sorry, Randall. And Randall turned once more and looked at her, as if surprised that she should show such feeling. Yes, he said, I believe you are sorry. Her big blue eyes filled suddenly with tears. Do you wonder that I am sorry? Do you think I have no heart at all? She burst forth impetuously. Indeed, I don't know, said Randall, why should you care? You do not know him. But haven't you just told me how splendid he was, and how good he was to you, and how much she thought of him? And Mamie checked her rush of words with a sudden blush, and then hurried on to say, besides, think of his mother and all of them. While Mamie was speaking, Randall had been scanning her face, as if trying to make up his mind about her. I am glad you are sorry, he said, slowly, gazing with so searching a look into her eyes, that she let them fall. At this moment Mrs. Murray entered ready for her ride. Is the pony come? she asked. Indeed it is the slouch I am, said Randall, and he hurried off to the stable, returning in a very short time with the pony saddled. You would not care to go with your uncle, Mamie? said Mrs. Murray as Lambert drove up black in the buggy. No, auntie, I think not, said Mamie. I will take care of Huey and the baby. Good-bye, then, my dear, said Mrs. Murray, kissing her. Good-bye, Randall, said Mamie, as he turned away to get his cold. Good-bye, he said awkwardly. He felt like lifting his cap, but hesitated to do anything so extremely unnatural. With the boys in that country such an act of courtesy was regarded as a sign of pride, if not of weakness. Their way lay along the concession line for a mile, and then through the woods by the bridal path to Peter McGregor's clearing. The green grass ran everywhere, along the roadside, round the great stump-roots, over the rough pasture fields, softening and smoothing wherever it went. The woods were flushing purple with just a tinge of green from the bursting buds. The balsams and spruces still stood dark in the swamps, but the tamaracks were shyly decking themselves in their exquisite robes of spring, and through all the bush the air was filled with soft sounds and scents. In earth and air, in field and forest, life, the new spring life, ran riot, how strangely impertinent death appeared, and how unlovely in such a world of life. As they left the concession road and were about to strike into the woods, Mrs. Murray checked her pony, and, looking upon the loveliness about her, said softly, how beautiful it all is. There was no response from Ronald, and Mrs. Murray, glancing at his gloomy face, knew that his heart was sore at the thought of the pain they were bearing with them. She hesitated a few moments, and then said gently, And I saw a new heaven and a new earth, and there shall be no more death. But still Ronald made no reply, and they rode on through the bush in silence, till they came to the clearing beyond. As they entered the brulee, Ronald chucked his colt, and holding up his hand said, Listen. Through the quiet evening air, sweet and clear as a silver bell, came the long musical note of the call that brings the cows home for the milking. It was Bella's voice. Far across the brulee they could see her standing on a big pine stump near the bars, calling to her cows that were slowly making toward her through the fallen timber, pausing here and there to crop an especially rich mouthful, and now and then responding to her call with soft lowings. Gently Bella chid them. Come, blossom, come away now, you are very lazy. Come, Lily, what are you waiting for? You slow old punk. Then again the long musical note. Co-boss. Co-boss. Co-boss. Ronald groaned aloud. Ah, hon. It will be her last glad hour, he said. It is a hard, hard thing. Poor child, poor child, said Mrs. Murray. The Lord help her. It will be a cruel blow. That it is a cruel blow, said Ronald bitterly, so bitterly that Mrs. Murray glanced at him in surprise and saw his face set in angry pain. The Lord knows best, Ronald, she said gravely, and loves best too. It will break her heart whatever, answered Ronald shortly. He healeth the broken in heart, said Mrs. Murray softly. Ronald made no reply, but let the colt take her way through the brulee toward the lane into which Bella had now got her cows. How happy the girl was! Joy filled every tone of her voice, and why not? It was the spring time, the time of life and love. Long winter was gone, and soon her brothers would be back from the shanties. And Mac too, she whispered to her happy heart. And are ye sure the news is true, and are ye sure he's wheel? Is this the time to think awark, ye jades fling by your wheel? For there's ne lakabut the huss, there's ne lakavah, there's little pleasure in the huss, when ur gudman zawah. So she sang, not too loud, for the boys were at the barn, and she would never hear the end of it. Well, Bella, you are getting your cows home. How are you, my dear? Bella turned with a scarlet face to meet the minister's wife, and her blushes only became deeper when she saw Ronald, for she felt quite certain that Ronald would understand the meaning of her song. I will go on with the cows, said Ronald in a hoarse voice, and Mrs. Murray alighting gave him her pony to lead. Peter McGregor was a stern man to his own family and to all the world, with the single exception of his only daughter, Bella. His six boys he kept in order with a firm hand, and not one of them would venture to take a liberty with him. But Bella had no fear of his grim face and stern ways, and just twiddled her father round her finger, as her mother said, with a great show of impatience. But in spite of all her petting from her big brothers and her father, Bella remained quite unspoiled, the light of her home and the joy of her father's heart. It had not escaped the father's jealous eye that Big Mac Cameron found occasion for many a visit to the boys on an evening when the day's work was done, and that from the meetings he found his shortest way home round by the McGregors. At first the old man was very gruff with him and was for-sending him about his business, but his daughter's happy face and the light in her eyes that could mean only one thing made him pause. And after a long and sleepless night he surprised his daughter the next morning with a word of gentle greeting and an unusual caress, and thenceforth took Big Mac to his heart. Not that any word or explanation passed between them, it had not come to that as yet, but Big Mac felt the change and gave him thenceforth the obedience and affection of a son. The old man was standing in the yard waiting to help with the milking. Ranald drove the cows in and then tying up the horses went straight to him. I bring bad news, Mr. McGregor, he said anxious to get done with his sad task. There has been an accident on the river and Mac Cameron is drowned. What do you say, boy? said Peter in a harsh voice. He was trying to save a Frenchman and when they got him out he was dead, said Ranald, hurrying through his tail for he saw the two figures coming up the lane and drawing nearer. Dead, echoed the old man, Big Mac, God help me. And they will be wanting a team, continued Ranald, to go to Cornwall tomorrow. The old man stood for a few moments looking stupidly at Ranald. Then lifting his hat from his grey head he said brokenly, my poor girl, would God I had died for him? Ranald turned away and stood looking down the lane shrinking from the sight of the old man's agony. Then, turning back to him, he said, the minister's wife is coming yonder with Bella. The old man started and with a mighty effort commanding himself said, now may God help me, and went to meet his daughter. Through the gloom of the falling night Ranald could see the frightened white face and the staring tearless eyes. They came quite near before Bella caught sight of her father. For a moment she hesitated till the old man without a word beckoned her to him. With a quick little run she was in his arms where she lay moaning, as if in sore bodily pain. Her father held her close to him, murmuring over her fond gaelic words, while Ranald and Mrs. Murray went over to the horses and stood waiting there. I will go now to Donald Ross, Ranald said in a low voice to the minister's wife. He mounted the colt and was riding off when Peter called him back. The boys will take the wagon to-morrow, he said. They will meet at the sixteenth at daylight, replied Ranald, and then to Mrs. Murray he said, I will come back this way for you, it will soon be dark. But Bella, hearing him, cried to her, oh, you will not go. Not if you need me, Bella, said Mrs. Murray putting her arms around her. Ranald will run in and tell them at home. This Ranald promised to do and rode away on his woeful journey. And before he reached home that night the news had spread far and wide, from house to house, like a black cloud over a sunny sky. The homecoming of the men from the Shanties had ever been a time of rejoicing in the community. The MacDonald gang were especially welcome for they always came back with honour and with the rewards of their winter's work. There was always a series of welcoming gatherings in the different homes represented in the gang, and there in the midst of the admiring company tales would be told of the deeds done and the trials endured, of the adventures on the river and the wonders of the cities where they had been. All were welcome everywhere and none more than Big Mac Cameron, brimming with good nature and with a remarkable turn for stories. He was the centre of every group of young people wherever he went, and at the bees for logging or for building or for cradling, Big Mac was held in honour, for he was second in feats of strength only to MacDonald Vane himself. It was with no common grief that people heard the word that they were bringing him home dead. At the sixteenth next morning before the break of day, Ronald stood in the gloom waiting for the coming of the teams. He had been up most of the night, and he was weary in body and sore at heart, but MacDonald Vane had trusted him, and there must be no mistake. One by one the teams arrived. First to appear was Donald Ross, the elder. For years he had given over the driving of his team to his boys, but to-day he felt that respect to the family demanded his presence on such an errand as this. And besides, he knew well that his son Danny, Mac's special chum, would expect him to so honour the homecoming of his dead friend. Peter McGregor, fearing to leave his daughter for that long and lonely day, sent his son John in his place. It was with difficulty that Mac's father, long John Cameron, had been persuaded to remain with the mother and to allow Murdie to go in his stead. The last to arrive was Farquhar MacNaughton, Christie's Farquhar, with his fine black team and new light wagon. To him was to be given the honour of bearing the body home. Gravely they talked and planned and then left all to Ranald to execute. You will see to these things, Ranald, my man, said Donald Ross with the air of one giving solemn charge. Let all things be done decently and in order. I will try, said Ranald simply. But Farquhar MacNaughton looked at him doubtfully. It is a pity, he said, there is not one with more experience he used but a lad. But Donald Ross had been much impressed with Ranald's capable manner the night before. Never you fear, Farquhar, he replied, Ranald is not one to fail us. As Ranald stood watching the wagons rumbling down the road and out of sight, he felt as if years must have passed since he had received the letter that had laid on him. The heavy burden of this sad news, that his uncle MacDonald Vane should have sent the word to him, brought Ranald a sense of responsibility that awakened the man in him, and he knew he would feel himself a boy no more. And with that new feeling of manhood stirring within him, he went about his work that day, omitting no detail in arrangement for the seemly conduct of the funeral. Night was falling as the wagons rumbled back again from Cornwall, bringing back the shanty men and their dead companion. Up through the sixteenth, where a great company of people stood silent and with bared heads, the sad procession moved, past the old church, up through the swamp, and so onward to the home of the dead. None of the MacDonald gang turned aside to their homes, till they had given their comrade over to the keeping of his own people. By the time the Cameron's gate was reached, the night had grown thick and black, and the drivers were glad enough of the cedar bark torches that Ranald and Don waved in front of the teams to light the way up the lane. In silence, Donald Ross, who was leading, drove up his team to the little garden gate and allowed the great MacDonald and Danny to a light. At the gate stood Long John Cameron, silent and self-controlled, but with face showing white and haggard in the light of the flaring torches. Behind him in the shadow stood the minister. For a few moments they all remained motionless and silent. The time was too great for words, and these men knew when it was good to hold their peace. At length MacDonald Vane broke the silence, saying in his great deep voice as he bared his head, Mr. Cameron, I have brought you back your son, and God is my witness, I would his place were mine this night. Bring him in, Mr. MacDonald replied the father gravely and steadily. Bring him in. It is the Lord, let him do what seemeth him good. Then six of the MacDonald men came forward from the darkness, curly and Yankee leading the way, and lifted the coffin from Farquhar's wagon, and reverently, with heads uncovered, they followed the torches to the door. There they stopped suddenly, for as they reached the threshold there arose a low, long, hearts-mighting cry from within. At the sound of that cry Reynolds staggered as if struck by a blow, and let his torch fall to the ground. The bearers waited, looking at each other in fear. Hushed Janet woman, said long John gravely, your son is at the door. Ah, indeed, that he is, that he is. My son, my son! She stood in the doorway with hands uplifted and with tears streaming down her face. Come in, Malcolm, come in, my boy, your mother is waiting for you. Then they carried him in and laid him in the room, and retiring to the kitchen sat down to watch the night. In half an hour the father came out and found them there. You have done what you could, Mr. Macdonald, he said, addressing him for all, and I will not be unmindful of your kindness, but now you can do no more. Your wife and your people will be waiting you. And please, God, in good time they will be seeing us, as for me I will neither go to my home nor up into my bed, but I will watch by the man who was my faithful friend and companion till he is laid away. And in this mind he and his men remained firm, taking turns at the watching all that night and the next day. As Macdonald finished speaking the minister came into the kitchen, bringing with him the mother and the children. The men all rose to their feet, doing respect to the woman and to her grief. When they were seated again the minister rose and said, My friends, this is a night for silence and not for words. The voice of the Lord is speaking in our ears. It becomes us to hear and to submit ourselves to his holy will. Let us pray. As Randall listened to the prayer he could not help thinking how different it was from those he was accustomed to hear from the pulpit, solemn, simple, and direct, it lifted the hearts of all present up to the throne of God, to the place of strength and of peace. There was no attempt to explain the mystery of the providence, but there was a sublime trust that refused to despair, even in the presence of impenetrable darkness. After the minister had gone Macdonald Vane took Randall aside and asked him as to the arrangements for the funeral. When Randall had explained to him every detail, Macdonald laid his hand on his nephew's shoulder and said kindly, It is well done, Randall. Now you will be going home and in the morning you will see your aunt and if she will be wishing to come to the wake to morrow night then you will bring her. Then Randall went home, feeling well repaid for his long hours of anxiety and toil. CHAPTER XI THE WAKE The wake was an important feature in the social life of the people of Indian lands. In ancient days in the land of their forefathers the wake had been deemed a dire necessity for the safeguarding of the dead, who were supposed to be peculiarly exposed to the malicious attacks of evil spirits. Hence with many lighted candles and with much incantation friends would surround the body through the perilous hours of darkness. It was a weird and weary vigil, and small wonder if it appeared necessary that the courage and endurance of the watchers should be fortified with copious draughts of mountain dew with bread and cheese accompaniments. And the completeness of their trust in the efficacy of such supports was too often evidenced by the condition of the watchers toward the dawn of the morning. And indeed if the spirits were not too fastidious and if they had so desired they could have easily flown away not only with the wake but with the wakeers as well. But those days and those notions had long passed away. The wake still remained, but its meaning and purpose had changed. No longer for the guarding of the dead, but for the comfort of the living the friends gathered to the house of morning and watched the weary hours. But Highland courtesy forbade that the custom of refreshing the watchers should be allowed to die out, and hence through the night once and again the whiskey, bread and cheese were handed around by some close friend of the family, and were then placed upon the table for general use. It was not surprising that where all were free to come and welcome to stay, and where anything like scantiness in providing or niggerliness in serving would be a matter of family disgrace, the wake often degenerated into a frolic if not a debauch. In order to check any such tendency it had been the custom of late years to introduce religious services begun by the minister himself and continued by the elders. As the evening fell a group of elders stood by the back door of Long John Cameron's sorrow-stricken home, talking quietly over the sad event and arranging for the exercises of the night. At a little distance from them sat Yankee, with round beside him, both silent and listening somewhat indifferently to the talk of the others. Yankee was not in his element. He was always welcome in the homes of his comrades, for he was ready with his tongue and clever with his fingers, but with the graver and religious side of their lives he had little in common. It was perhaps this feeling that drew him toward MacDonald Dew and Ranald, so that for weeks at a time he would make their house his home. He had no use for wakes as he said himself, and had it not been that it was one of the gang that lay dead within, Yankee would have avoided the house until all was over and the elders safely away. Of the elders only four were present as yet, Donald Ross, who was ever ready to bring the light of his kindly face to cheer the hearts of the mourners, Strait Rory, who never by any chance allowed himself to miss the solemn joy of leading the funeral psalm, Peter McCray, who carried behind his stern old face a heart of genuine sympathy, and Kenny Krubach, to whom attendance at funerals was at once a duty and a horror. Donald Ross, to whom all the elders accorded instinctively the place of leader, was arranging the order of the exercises. Mr. McCwigg, he said to Strait Rory, you will take charge of the singing, the rest of us will in turn give out a psalm and read a portion of scripture with a few suitable remarks and lead in prayer. We will not be forgetting, brethren, said old Donald, that there will be sore hearts here this night. Strait Rory's answer was a sigh so woeful and so deep that Yankee looked over at him and remarked in an undertone to Randall, he ain't so cheerful as he might be, he must feel awful inside. It is a sad and terrible day for the Camerons, said Peter McCray. Hi, it is sad indeed, replied Donald Ross. He was a good son and they will be missing him bad. It is a great loss. Yes, the loss is great, said Peter Grimly, but after all, that is a small thing. Strait Rory sighed again even more deeply than before. Donald Ross said nothing. What does the old duck mean anyhow, said Yankee to Randall. The boy made no reply, his heart was sick with horror at Peter's meaning which he understood only too well. I went on Peter, it is a terrible mysterious providence and a heavy warning to the ungodly and careless. He means me, I guess, remarked Yankee to Randall. It will perhaps be not a miss to any of us, said Kenny Krubach sharply. Indeed, that is true, said Donald Ross in a very humble voice. Yes, Mr. Ross said Peter ignoring Kenny Krubach, but at times the voice of providence cannot be misunderstood and it will not do for the elders of the church to be speaking soft things when the Lord is speaking in judgment and wrath. Donald was silent, while Strait Rory assented with a heart-rending, which stirred Yankee's bile again. What's he talking about? He don't seem to be using my language, he said, in a tone of wrathful perplexity. Randall was too miserable to answer, but Kenny was ready with his word. Judgment and wrath, he echoed quickly, the man would require to be very skillful whatever in interpreting the ways of providence and very bold to put such a meaning into the death of a young man such as Malcolm Yonder. The little man's voice was vibrating with feeling. Then Yankee began to understand. I'll be called blamed to a cinder, he exclaimed, in a low voice, falling back upon a combination that seemed more suitable to the circumstances. They ain't sending him to hell, are they? He shut up the knife with which he had been whittling with a sharp snap, and rising to his feet walked slowly over to the group of elders. Far be it from me to judge what is not to be seen, said Peter, but we are allowed and commanded to discern the state of the heart by the fruits. Fruits, replied Kenny quickly, he was a good son and brother and friend. He was honest and clean, and he gave his life for another at the last. Exactly so, said Peter, I am not denying much natural goodness, for indeed he was a fine lad, but I will be looking for the evidence that he was in a state of grace. I have not heard of any, and glad would I be to hear it. The old man's emotion took the sharpness out of Kenny's speech, but he persisted, stoutly. Goodness is goodness, Mr. McCray, for all that. You will not be holding the Armenian doctrine of works, Mr. Campbell, said Peter, severely. You would not be pointing to good works as a ground at salvation. Yankee, who had been following the conversation intently, thought he saw meaning in it at last. If I might take a hand, he said diffidently, I might contribute something to help you out. Peter regarded him a little impatiently. He had forgotten the concrete, for the moment, in the abstract, and was donning his armour for a battle with Kenny upon the fundamentals, hence he was not too well pleased with Yankee's interruption, but Donald Ross gladly welcomed the diversion. The subject was to him extremely painful. We will be glad, he said to Yankee, to hear you, Mr. Latham. Well, said Yankee, slowly, from your remarks I gathered that you wanted information about the doings of—he jerked his head toward the house behind him. Now I want to say, he continued, confidentially, you've come to the right shop, for I've ate and slept, I've worked and fought, I've lived with him by day and by night, and right through he was the straightest, whitest man I ever seen, and I won't accept the boss himself. Yankee paused to consider the effect of this statement, and to allow its full weight to be appreciated. Then he continued, Yes, sir, you may just bet your—you may be right well sure, correcting himself, that you're safe in given—here he dropped his voice and jerked his head toward the house again, in given the highest marks, full value and no discount, why, he went on with an enthusiasm rare in him, ask any man in the gang, any man on the river, if they ever seen or heard of his doing a mean or crooked thing, and if you find any feller who says he did, bring him here and buy— Yankee remembered himself in time, and I give you my solemn word that I'll eat him, hat and boots. Yankee brought his bony fist down with a whack into his hand, and he relapsed into his lazy drawl again. No, sir, rehass, if it's doons you're after, don't you be slow and bank in your little heap on his doons. Donald Ross grasped Yankee's hand and shook it hard, I will be thanking you for that word, he said earnestly. But Peter felt that the cause of truth demanded that he should speak out. Mr. Latham, he said solemnly, what you have been saying is very true, no doubt, but if a man is not born again he cannot see the kingdom of God, these are the words of the Lord himself. Born again, said Yankee, how? I don't seem to get you, but I guess the feller that does the right thing all round has got a pretty good chance. It is not a man's deeds, we are told, said Peter patiently, but his heart. There you are, said Yankee warmly, right again, and that's what I always hold to, it's the heart a man carries round in his inside, never mind your talk, never mind your act and up for people to see, give me the heart that is warm and red and beats proper time, you bet, say you're all right. Yankee gazed admiringly at the perplexed and hopeless Peter. I am afraid you are not remembering what the Apostle Paul said, Mr. Latham, said Peter determined to deal faithfully with Yankee. By the deeds of the law shall no flesh be justified. It was now Yankee's turn to gaze helplessly at Peter. I guess you have dropped me again, he said, slowly. Man, said Peter with a touch of severity, you will need to be more faithful with the word of God, the scriptures plainly declare, Mr. Latham, that it is impossible for a man to be saved in his natural state. Yankee looked blank at this. The prophet says that the plowing and sowing the very prayers of the wicked are an abomination to the Lord. Why, now you're talking, but look here, Yankee lowered his tone, look here you wouldn't go for to call. Here again he jerked his head toward the house. Wicked, would you? For if you do, why, there ain't any more conversation between you and me. Yankee was terribly in earnest. There is none righteous, no, not one, quoted Peter with the air of a man who forces himself to an unpleasant duty. That's so, I guess, said Yankee meditatively, but it depends some on what you mean. I don't set myself up for any copy book headline, but as men go, men say just like you here, I'd put, I'd put him alongside, wouldn't you? You expect to get through yourself, I judge? This was turning the table somewhat sharply upon Peter, but Yankee's keen, wide open eyes were upon him, and his intensely earnest manner demanded an answer. Indeed, if it will be so, it will not be for any merit of my own, but only because of the mercy of the Lord in Christ Jesus. Peter's tone was sincerely humble. Guess you're all right, said Yankee, encouragingly, and as for, as for him, don't you worry about that. You may be dead sure about his case. But Peter only shook his head hopelessly. You are sorely in need of instruction, Mr. Latham, he said, sadly. We cannot listen to our hearts in this matter. We must do honour to the justice of God, and the word is clear, ye must be born again, nothing else avails. Peter's tone was final. Then Yankee drew a little nearer to him as if settling down to work. Now look here, you let me talk a while. I ain't up in your side of the business, but I guess we are trying to make the same point. Now, supposing you was in for a house race, which I hope ain't no offence, seeing it ain't likely, but suppose, and to take first money, you had to produce a two-fifteen gate. Pretty good lick, says you. Now where will I get the nag? Then you set down and thinks, and says you, by gum, which of course you wouldn't, but supposing, says you, a bluegrass bread is the house for that gate. And you begin to inquire around, but there ain't no bluegrass bread stock in the country, and that race is creeping up close. One day, just when you was beginning to figure on taking the dust to the whole field, you sees a colt coming along the road, hitting up a pretty slick gate. Hello, says you, that looks likely. And you begin to negotiate, and you finds out that colt's all right in her times two-ten. Then you begin to talk about the weather and the crops until you finds out the price, and you offer him half-money. Then when you have fetched him down to the right figure, you pulls out your wad, thinking how that colt will make the rest look like a line of fence posts. But, hold on, says you, is this here colt bluegrass bread? Bluegrass not much, this here's gray eagle stock, north Virginia, he says he. Don't water, says you. What's the matter with the colt? says he. Nothin' only she ain't bluegrass, got to be bluegrass. But she's got the gate ain't she? Yes, the gate's all right, action fine, good looking too, nothing wrong, but she ain't bluegrass bread. And so you lose your race. Now, what kind of a name would you call yourself? Peter saw Yankee's point, but he only shook his head more hopelessly than before, and turned to enter the house, followed by straight Rory, still sighing deeply, and old Donald Ross. But Kenny remained a moment behind the others, and offering his hand to Yankee said, You are a right man, and I will be proud to know you better. Yankee turned a puzzled face to Kenny. I say, he inquired in an amazed voice. Do you think he didn't catch on to me? Kenny nodded. Yes, he understood your point. But look here, said Yankee. They don't hold that, that he is. Yankee paused. The thought was too horrible, and these men were experts and were supposed to know. It's hard to say, said Kenny diplomatically. See here, said Yankee, facing Kenny squarely. You're a pretty level-headed man, and you're up in this business. Do you think with them? No monkey-yang, straight talk now. Yankee was in no mood to be trifled with. He was in such deadly earnest that he had forgotten all about Ronald, who was now standing behind him, waiting, with white face and parted lips, for Kenny's answer. Wished, said Kenny, pointing into the kitchen behind, Yankee looked and saw Bella Peter and her father entering. But Ronald was determined to know Kenny's opinion. Mr. Campbell, he whispered eagerly and forgetting the respect due to an elder, he grasped Kenny's arm. Do you think with them? That I do not, said Kenny emphatically, and Yankee, at that word, struck his hand into Kenny's palm with a loud smack. I knew blamed well you were not any such dumb fool, he said, softening his speech in deference to Kenny's office and the surrounding circumstances. So saying he went away to the stable, and when Ronald and his uncle, MacDonald Vane, followed a little later to put up Peter McGregor's team, they heard Yankee inside, swearing with the fluency and vigor quite unusual with him. Wished, man, said MacDonald Vane sternly. This is no place or town to be using such language. What is the matter with you, anyway? But MacDonald could get no satisfaction out of him, and he said to his nephew, what is it, Ronald? It is the elders, Peter McCray and St. Rory, said Ronald sullenly. They were saying that Mac was—that Mac was— Look here, boss, interrupted Yankee. I ain't well up in scriptures, and I don't know much about these things, and them elders do, and they say, some of them, anyway, are sending back to hell. Now, I guess you're just as well up as they are in this business, and I want your solemn opinion. Yankee's face was pale, and his eyes were glaring like a wild beast. What I say is—he went on—if a feller like Mac goes to hell, then there ain't any, at least none to scare me, where Mac is will be good enough for me. What do you say, boss? Be quiet, man, said MacDonald Vane grievely but kindly. Do you not know you are near to blasphemy there? But I forgive you for the sore heart you have, and about poor Mac yonder, no one will be able to say for certain. I am a poor sinner, and the only claim I have to God's mercy is the claim of a poor sinner. But I will dare to say that I have hope in the Lord for myself, and I will say that I have a great deal more for Mac. I guess that settles it all right, then, said Yankee, drawing a big breath of content, and biting off a huge chew from his plug. But what the blank blank he went on savagely to these feller's means stirring up a man's feelings like that? Seem to be not a bad sort, either, he added meditatively. Indeed they are good men, said MacDonald Vane, but they will not be knowing Mac, as I knew him. He never made any profession at all, but he had the root of the matter in him. Ronald felt as if he had wakened out of a terrible nightmare, and followed his uncle into the house with a happier heart than he had known since he had received Yankee's letter. As they entered the room where the people were gathered, Donald Ross was reading the hundred-and-third psalm, and the words of love and pity and sympathy were dropping from his kindly lips like healing balm upon the morning hearts, and as they rose and fell upon the cadences of Coal's Hill, the tune straight rory always chose for this psalm. The healing sank down into all the sore places, and the peace that passeth understanding began to take possession of them. Softly and sweetly they sang, the old women swaying with the music. For as the heaven in its height, the earth surmounteth far, so great to those that do him fear his tender mercies are. When they reached that verse, the mother took up the song and went bravely on through the words of the following verse. As far as east is distant from the west, so far hath he from us removed in his love all our iniquity. As she sang the last words her hand stole over to Bella, who sat beside her quiet but tearless, looking far away. But when the next words rose on the dear old minor strains, such pity as a father hath unto his children dear, Bella's lip began to tremble, and two big tears ran down her pale cheeks, and one could see that the sore pain in her heart had been a little eased. After Donald Ross had finished his part of the exercises, he called upon Kenny Crubock, who read briefly and without comment the exquisite Scottish paraphrase of Luther's Little Gospel. Behold the amazing gift of love the Father has bestowed on us the sinful sons of men, to call us sons of God, and so on to the end. All this time Peter McCray, the man of iron, had been sitting with hardening face, his eyes burning in his head like glowing coals, and when Donald Ross called upon him for some words of exhortation and comfort suitable to the occasion, without haste and without hesitation the old man rose, and trembling with excitement and emotion he began abruptly. An evil spirit has been whispering to me, as to the Prophet of old, speak that which is good, but the Lord hath delivered me from mine enemy, and my answer is, as the Lord liveth, what the Lord said unto me, that will I speak, and it is not easy. As the old man paused a visible terror fell upon all the company assembled, the poor mother sat looking at him with the look of one shrinking from a blow, while Bella Peter's face expressed only startled fear. And this is the word of the Lord this night to me, the elder went on, his voice losing its tremor and ringing out strong and clear. There is none righteous, no not one, for all have sinned and come short of the glory of God. He that believeth shall be saved, and he that believeth not shall be damned. That is my message, and it is laid upon me as a sore burden to hear the voice of the Lord in this solemn providence, and to warn one and all to flee from the wrath to come. He paused long while men could hear their hearts beat. Then, raising his voice, he cried aloud, Woe is me, alas it is a grievous burden, the Lord pity us all and give grace to this stricken family to kiss the rod that smites. At this word the old man's voice suddenly broke, and he sat down amid an awful silence. No one could misunderstand his meaning. As the awful horror of it gradually made its way into her mind, Mrs. Cameron threw up her apron over her head and rocked in an agony of sobs, while Long John sat with face white and rigid. Bella Peter, who had been gazing with a fascinated stare upon the old elder's face while he was speaking his terrible words, startled by Mrs. Cameron's sobs, suddenly looked wildly about as if for help, and then with a wild cry fled toward the door. But before she had reached it a strong hand caught her, and a great voice deep and tender commanded her. Wait lassie, sit down here a minute. It was MacDonald Vane. He stood a short space silent before the people, then in a voice low, deep and thrilling, he began. You have been hearing the word of the Lord through the lips of his servant, and I am not saying but it is the true word. But I believe that the Lord will be speaking by different voices, and although I have not the gift, yet it is laid upon me to declare what is in my heart and a sore heart it is, and sore hearts have we all. But I will be thinking of a very joyful thing, and that is that he came to call not the righteous, but sinners, and that in his day many sinners came about him, and not one would he turn away. And I will be remembering a very great sinner who cried out in his dying hour, Lord remember me, and not in vain. And I am thinking that the Lord will be making it easy for men to be saved, and not hard, for he was that anxious about it that he gave up his own life, but it is not given me to argue only to tell you what I know about the lad who is lying, yonder, silent. It will be three years since he will be coming on the shanties with me, and from the day that he left his mother's door till he came back again, never once did he fail me in his duty in the camp or on the river or in the town, where it was very easy to be forgetting. And the boys would be telling me of the times that he would be keeping them out of those places. And it is not soon that Danny Ross would be forgetting who it was that took him back from the camp when the disease was upon him, and all were afraid to go near him, and for six weeks by day and by night watched by him, and was not thinking of himself at all. And sure I am that the lessons he would be hearing from his mother and in the Bible class and in the church were not lost on him whatever. For on the river, when the water was quiet and I would be lying in the tent reading, it is often that Mack Cameron would come in and listen to the word. Aye, he was a good lad. The great voice shook a little. He would not be thinking of himself, and at the last it was for another man he gave his life. MacDonald stood for a few moments silent, his face working while he struggled with himself. And then all at once he grew calm and throwing back his head, he looked through the door and pointing into the darkness said, And yonder is the lad, and with him a great company, and his face is smiling, and oh, it is a good land, a good land! His voice dropped to a whisper, and he sank into his seat. God preserve us, Kenny Kruback ejaculated. But old Donald Ross rose and said, Let us call upon the name of the Lord. From his prayer it was quite evident that for him at least all doubts and fears as to poor Mack's state were removed. And even Peter McRae subdued not so much by any argument of MacDonald Vane's as by his rapt vision followed old Donald's prayer with broken words of hope and thanksgiving. And it was Peter, who was early at the mant's next morning, to repeat to the minister the things he had seen and heard the night before. And all next day, where there had been the horror of unnameable fear, hope and peace prevailed. The service was held under the trees, and while the mother and Bella Peter sat softly weeping, there was no bitterness in their tears, for the sermon breathed of the immortal hope, and the hearts of all were comforted. There was no parade of grief, but after the sermon was over the people filed quietly through the room to take the last look, and then the family with Bella and her father were left alone a few moments with their dead while the MacDonald men kept guard at the door till the time for the lifting would come. After long John passed out, followed by the family, MacDonald Vane entered the room, closed the lid down upon the dead face, and gave the command to bear him forth. So, with solemn dignity as befitted them, they carried Big Mac from his home to Farquhar McNaughton's light wagon. Along the concession road passed the new church, through the swamp and on to the old churchyard the long procession slowly moved. There was no unseemly haste, and by the time the last words were spoken, and the mounds decently rounded, the long shadows from the woods lay far across the fields. Quietly the people went their ways homeward, back to their life and work, but for many days they carried with them the memory of those funeral scenes. And Randall, though he came back from Big Mac's grave, troubled with questions that refused to be answered, still carried with him a heart healed of the pain that had torn it these last days. He believed it was well with his friend, but about many things he was sorely perplexed, and it was this that brought him again to the minister's wife. End of chapter 11