"They're hevin' a good time," he began, nodding towards the dancers. "Dick's in his element to-night."

"Rhoda Gadsby makes him a good partner," replied Mrs. Larkins.

"Only fair, Mrs. Larkins, only fair. She's not a bad girl, but no real pardner fer my son Dick. I'm sorry her father is my opponent at the comin' election. He'll never win, mark my word. Gadsby's too full of notions. He wants to set the world on fire, an' has all kinds of new-fangled idees. He will never do fer a Councillor-never. What Glendow wants is a real practical man, one who understands human nater."

"But Mr. Gadsby is a superior man," replied Mrs. Larkins. "He reads much, and is trying to farm along scientific lines."

"Tryin' to farm! Yes, yer right thar, Mrs. Larkins. But that's about as fer as he's got. He has big idees, an' is allus talkin' about this parish bein' behint the times."

"And in what way?"

"Oh, as regards the schools. They don't teach enough branches, sich as botany, drawin' an' sich like. What do the childern of Glendow want with botany stuck into their brains? Let 'em learn to read, write an' cipher. Them things will pay. But as fer botany, who ever heerd of it helpin' a man to manage a farm, or a woman to sew, cook or make butter? Now, look at me, Mrs. Larkins. I never studied botany, an' behold my bizness. I don't know a bit about botany, an' here I'm runnin' fer a Councillor, an' lookin' forred to the Local House. No, no, this botany bizness is all nonsense."

"But," remonstrated Mrs. Larkins, "do you not enjoy the beautiful? Life should be more than the mere grubbing through dust and heat, grinding out our little day, wearing out the body and cramping up the soul in field, factory, office or behind the counter. Life is meant to be enjoyed, and whatever tends to enlarge our children's perspective, which will give them a love for the beautiful, will lessen the drudgery of life, and develop their characters. The Creator who made human beings in His own image, and endowed them with powers above the brute creation, surely intended that these divine faculties should be used and not allowed to lie dormant."

Mrs. Larkins spoke more strongly than was her wont. She was naturally a quiet woman. But this man's narrowness and ignorance nettled her. Farrington, however, was not in the least affected by such words; in fact he rather pitied anyone who did not see eye to eye with him.

"What ye say, Mrs. Larkins," he replied, "is very fine in theory. But the question is, 'Will it pay?' Fer them as likes sich things they may study 'em to their hearts' content. But what do sich people amount to? I seen the parson once stand fer a long time watchin' the settin' sun, an' when I axed 'im what he saw he looked at me sorter dazed like. 'Mr. Farrington,' sez he, 'I saw wonderful things to-night, past man's understandin'. I've been very near to God, an' beheld the trailin' clouds of His glory!' 'Parson,' sez I, 'What will ye take fer yer knowledge? How much is it worth? While ye've been gazin' out thar at that sunset I've been gazin' at these letters, an' I find I'm better off by twenty-five dollars by gittin' my eggs an' butter to market day afore yesterday, jist when the prices had riz. That's what comes of gazin' at facts sich as price lists an' knowin' how to buy an' sell at the right time. That's of more value than lookin' at all the flowers an' sunsets in the world!' The parson didn't say nuthin', but jist looked at me, while the men in the store haw-hawed right out an' told the joke all round. Xo, you may find music in ripplin' water, an' poetry in flowers, an' sunsets, as Phil Gadsby and the parson sez, but give me the poetry of a price list, an' the music of good solid coin upon my counter. Them's the things which tell, an' them's the things we want taught in our schools."

Just as Farrington finished, cries of fright fell upon their ears. Turning quickly towards the dancers Mrs. Larkins noticed that most of them had fallen back in little groups, leaving Stephen Frenelle and Dick Farrington alone in the middle of the room. The attitude of the two left no doubt as to the cause of the disturbance. With clenched fists they faced each other as if about to engage in a fierce struggle. The former's eyes glowed with an intense light, while his strained, white face betokened the agitated state of his feelings.

"Say that again!" he hissed, looking straight at his opponent. "Say it if you dare!"

Dick stood irresolute with the look of fear blanching his face at sight of the angry form before him. While he hesitated and all held their breath, Nellie Westmore moved swiftly forward, and laid a timid hand upon Stephen's arm.

"Stephen, Stephen!" she pleaded. "Stop! don't go any further! Be a man! Come, let us go home!"

Quickly he turned and looked into her eyes, and at that look the pallor fled his face, leaving it flushed and abashed. His clenched hands relaxed, and without a word he followed her to the door. As they donned their wraps and passed out into the night, sighs of relief at the termination of this startling incident were plainly heard. Dick gave a sarcastic laugh, and the dance continued as if nothing unusual had happened.

For a while neither Nellie nor Stephen spoke as they sped along the road, drawn by a magnificent chestnut mare. The night was clear, and the crescent moon rose high in the heavens. Not a breath of wind stirred the trees, and the only sound which broke the silence was the jingling bells keeping time to the horse's nimble feet.

"He called me a fool and a pauper!" Stephen at length exclaimed. "Did you hear him?"

"Certainly," came the reply. "How could any one help hearing him?"

"I'd have knocked him down if it hadn't been for you, Nellie."

"I'm glad you didn't, Stephen."

"But I'll show him a thing or two. I'll get even with him yet. I'll teach him to call me a fool and a pauper!"

"Why not get more than even with him? You can do it without any trouble."

Nellie spoke very impressively, and Stephen looked at her in surprise.

"I know I can do that, for he's nothing but a clown. But what else can I do?"

"I didn't mean that, Stephen. That is only getting even with your opponent in brute fashion. You will only be putting yourself on an equality with him. You want to get more than even, not by hitting back and returning abuse for abuse. No, not that way, but by rising above him in manhood."

"How? In what way, Nellie?"

"Settle down to steady work. Redeem your home. Show Dick and the people of Glendow that you are not a fool or a pauper, but a man. Oh, Stephen, we want to be proud of you—and I do, too."

"Do you, Nellie, really?"

"Indeed I do, Stephen."

For an instant only their eyes met. For an instant there was silence. But in that instant, that mere atom of time, there opened up to Stephen a new meaning of life. A virile energy rent the old husk of indifference, and a yearning, startling in its intensity, stabbed his heart, to "make good," to recover lost ground and to do something of which Nellie should be proud.

It was love—the golden key which had at last opened to the young man the mystic door of life's great responsibility.



Chapter IX

Beating the Devil

"Father, I am becoming uneasy about Dan."

Parson John and Nellie were walking slowly along the road from the neat little parish church. It was a Sunday morning. Not a breath of wind stirred the balmy and spring-like air. A recent thaw had removed much of the snow, leaving the fields quite bare, the roads slippery, and the ice on the river like one huge gleaming mirror.

"Why, what do you mean?" asked the parson. "What makes you uneasy about Dan?"

"He has been so restless of late."

"Doesn't he mind you?"

"Oh, yes. He is always ready and anxious to do anything I ask him. But there is a far-away look in his eyes, and sometimes he gives such a start when I speak to him. His old life was so rough and stirring, that I fear he misses it, and longs to be back there, again."

"But he is interested in his studies, is he not?"

"Yes, to a certain extent. But not as much as formerly. It is hard for him to settle down to steady work. He seems to be thinking and dreaming of something else. I cannot understand him at all. I love the lad, and believe he is much attached to us."

"What do you think we had better do?"

"I hardly know, father. But you might take him with you sometimes on your drives. He is passionately fond of Midnight, and it would liven him up. Why not let him go with you to the funeral at Craig's Corner this afternoon? He would be company for you, too."

"But I'm not coming home until to-morrow. I expect to spend the night there, and in the morning go overland to see the Stickles and take those good things you have been making for the sick man. You will need Dan to stay with you."

"No, I shall be all right. Vivien Nelson has asked me to go there to-night, so I shall get along nicely."

"Very well, dear," her father replied. "You are just like your mother, always planning for someone else, and planning so well, too."

Dan's heart thrilled with pride and delight as he sat by Parson John's side and watched Midnight swinging along at her usual steady jog when there was no special hurry. So intent was the one upon watching the horse, and the other upon his sermon, that neither noticed a man driving a spirited horse dart out from behind a sharp point on the left, and cut straight across the river. It was old Tim Fraser, as big a rogue as existed anywhere in the land. He was very fond of horses, and that winter had purchased a new flier. He was an incessant boaster, and one day swore that he could out-travel anything on the river, Midnight included. He laid a wager to that effect, which was taken up by Dave Morehouse, who imagined the race would never come off, for Mr. Westmore would have nothing to do with such sport. Old Fraser, therefore, set about to meet Parson John, but for some time had failed to make connection. Hearing about the funeral, he was determined that the race should come off that very Sunday, and in the presence of the mourners and their friends at that. He accordingly hid behind Break-Neck Point, and with delight watched the parson drive up the river, and at the right moment he started forth for the fray. As Fraser swung into line and was about to pass, Midnight gave a great bound forward, and it was all that Parson John could do to hold her in check, for she danced and strained at the reins as her rival sped on ahead. At length Fraser slowed down, dropped behind, and, just when Midnight had steadied down, up he clattered again. This he did three times in quick succession, causing Midnight to quiver with excitement, and madly to champ the bit. At length the climax was reached, for the noble beast, hearing again the thud of her opponent's hoofs, became completely unmanageable. With a snort of excitement she laid low her head, took the bit firmly between her teeth, and started up the river like a whirlwind. The more Parson John shouted and tugged at the reins the more determined she became. The ice fairly flew from beneath her feet, and the trailing froth flecked her black hide like driving snow. Neck and neck the horses raced for some time, while Fraser grinned with delight at the success of his scheme.

Before long the funeral procession came into view, making for the little church near the graveyard on the opposite shore. Parson John was feeling most keenly the position in which he was so unfortunately placed. He could see only one way out of the difficulty, and that was to leave Fraser behind. Therefore, before the first sleigh of the funeral procession was reached he gave Midnight the reins, and thus no longer restrained she drew gradually away from her opponent. On she flew, past the staring, gaping people, and for a mile beyond the church.

By this time Fraser was so far in the rear that he gave up the race. Beaten and crestfallen he turned to the left, made for the shore and disappeared.

At length Parson John was able to bring Midnight under control, when she trotted quietly down the river with a triumphant gleam in her handsome eyes. After the funeral had been conducted, a group at once surrounded the parson and questioned him concerning the strange occurrence on the river. Some were pleased with Fraser's ignominious defeat, and treated it as a huge joke. But others were sorely scandalized. What would the members of the other church in Glendow say when they heard of it? To think that their clergyman should be racing on the river, and on a Sunday, too, while on his way to attend a funeral—the most solemn of all occasions!

"Well, you see," continued the parson, after he had explained the circumstance, "Fraser is a hard man to deal with, and in some ways I am really glad it happened as it did."

"Why, what do you mean?" gasped several of the most rigid.

"It's just this way," and a twinkle shone in the parson's eyes. "Five and thirty years have I served in the sacred ministry of our Church. During the whole of that time I have endeavoured to do my duty. I have faced the devil on many occasions, and trust that in the encounters I did no discredit to my calling. I have tried never to let him get ahead of me, and I am very thankful he didn't do it this afternoon with Tim Fraser's fast horse."

* * * * *

Parson John had won the day, and the group dispersed, chuckling with delight, and anxious to pass on the yarn to others.

That same evening Mr. Westmore was seated comfortably in Jim Rickhart's cosy sitting-room. The family gathered around in anticipation of a pleasant chat, for the rector was a good talker, and his visit was always an occasion of considerable interest. A few neighbours had dropped in to hear the news of the parish, and the latest tidings from the world at large. They had not been seated long ere a loud rap sounded upon the door, and when it was opened, a man encased in a heavy coat entered.

"Is Parson John here?" were his first words.

"Yes," Mr. Rickhart replied. "He's in the sitting-room. Do you want to see him? Is it a wedding, Sam? You look excited."

"Should say not. It's more like a funeral. Old Tim Fraser's met with a bad accident."

"What!"

"Yes. He was drivin' home from the river this afternoon, when that new horse of his shied, and then bolted. The sleigh gave a nasty slew on the icy road, and upset. Tim was caught somehow, and dragged quite a piece. He's badly broken up, and wants to see the parson."

By this time Mr. Westmore had crossed the room, and stood before the messenger. A startled look was in his eyes, as he peered keenly into Sam's face.

"Tell me, is it true what I hear," he questioned, "that Fraser has been hurt?"

"Yes, sir, and wants you at once."

"Is he seriously injured?"

"Can't tell. They're goin' fer the doctor, but it'll be some time before he can get there. It's a long way."

"Poor Fraser! Poor Fraser!" murmured the parson. "He was a careless man. I was bitter at him this afternoon, and now he is lying there. Quick, Dan, get on your coat and hat; we must be off at once."

It did not take them long to make ready, and soon Midnight was speeding through the darkness. This time it was no leisurely jog, but the pace she well knew how to set when her master was forth on important business. Across the river she sped, then over hill and valley, which echoed with the merry jingle of the bells. For some time Parson John did not speak, and seemed to be intent solely upon Midnight.

"Dan," he remarked at length, as they wound slowly up a steep hill, "it's a mean thing, isn't it, to get many, many good things from someone, and never do anything in return, and not even to say 'Thank you?'"

The lad started at these words, and but for the darkness a flush would have been seen upon his face. "What does the parson mean?" he thought. "That was about what Farrington said. To get, and give nothing in return; to be a sucker and a sponger."

But the parson needed no reply. He did not even notice Dan's silence.

"Yes," he continued; "it's a mean thing. But that's just what Tim Fraser's been doing all his life. The good Lord has given him so many blessings of health, home, fine wife and children, and notwithstanding all these blessings, he's been ever against Him. He curses and swears, laughs at religion, and you saw what he did this afternoon."

"'Tis mean, awful mean," Dan replied, as the parson paused, and flicked the snow with his whip. "But maybe he's sorry, now, that he's hurt."

"Maybe he is, Dan. But it's a mean thing to give the best of life to Satan, and to give the dregs, the last few days, when the body is too weak to do anything, to the Lord. And yet I find that is so often done, and I'm afraid it's the case now."

When they reached Fraser's house they found great excitement within. Men and women were moving about the kitchen and sitting-room trying to help, and yet always getting into one another's way. Midnight was taken to the barn, Dan was led into the kitchen to get warm, while the parson went at once to the room where Tim was lying.

Dan shrank back in a corner, for he felt much abashed at the sight of so many strangers. He wanted to be alone—to think about what the parson had said coming along the road. And so Fraser was a sponger, and a sucker too, getting so many good things and giving nothing back. It was mean, and yet what was he himself but a sponger? What was he doing for Nellie and Parson John for what they were doing for him? They gave him a comfortable home, fed, clothed, and taught him, and he was doing nothing to pay them back. How disgusted his father would be if he only knew about it.

For the life of him Dan could not have expressed these feelings to anyone. He only knew that they ran through his mind like lightning, making him feel very miserable. His cheeks flushed, and a slight sigh escaped his lips as he sat crouched there in the corner with one small hand supporting his chin. No one heeded him, for all were too much excited over the accident to take any notice of a little boy.

"I said that horse would be the death of him," he heard a woman exclaim. "Tim's too old a man to drive such a beast as that."

"Oh, the beast's all right," an old man slowly replied, "but it was put to a wrong use, that's where the trouble came."

"Why, what do you mean?"

"Don't you know? Didn't you hear about what happened on the river this afternoon? Tim went there on purpose to meet the parson, and strike up a race. He's been boasting for some time that he would do it. The Lord has given that man much rope, and has suffered him long. But this was too much, and He's tripped him up at last."

"Peter Brown," and the woman held up her hands in astonishment, "how can you say such a thing about your old neighbour, and in his house, too, with him lying there in that condition?"

"I'm only saying what the rest know and think," was the calm reply. "I've told Tim time and time again right to his face that the Lord would settle with him some day. 'Tim,' said I, and it was not later than last fall that I said it, 'Tim, the Lord has been good to you. He's blessed you in every way. You've health, strength, and a good home. And what have you done for Him? What have you given in return? Nothing. You curse, revile and scorn Him on the slightest pretext. It's not only mean, Tim, but you'll get punished some day, and don't you forget it.' But he only swore at me, and told me to shut up and mind my own business and he would mind his. But my words have come true, and I guess Tim sees it at last."

Dan was sitting bolt upright now, with his hands clenched and eyes staring hard at the speaker. The words had gone straight to his little heart, with terrible, stinging intensity. This man was saying what Farrington and the parson had said. It must be true. But the idea of the punishment was something new. He had never thought of that before.

And even as he looked, a silence spread throughout the room, for Parson John was standing in the doorway. Upon his face an expression dwelt which awed more than many words, and all at once realized that the venerable man had just stepped from the solemn chamber of Death.



Chapter X

In Camp.

Nestling snugly among large stately trees of pine and spruce, the little log-cabin presented a picturesque appearance. Its one room, lighted by a small window, served as kitchen, living and sleeping apartments combined. It was warm, for the rough logs were well chinked with moss, while the snow lay thick upon the roof and banked up around the sides. This cabin had been recently built, and stood there by the little brook as an outward and visible sign of an inward change in the heart and mind of one of Glendow's sturdy sons.

The night Stephen Frenelle left Nellie at the Rectory after the drive home from the dance, he had fought one of those stern, fierce battles which must come to all at some time in life. As Jacob of old wrestled all night long for the mastery, so did Stephen in the silence of his own room. Sleep fled his eyes as he paced up and down, struggling with the contending thoughts which filled his heart. At times he clenched his hands and ground his teeth together as he pictured Dick Farrington standing in the Hall, hurling forth his taunting remarks. Then he longed for daylight to come that he might go to his house, call him forth, and give him the thrashing he so well deserved. He would drive that impudent, sarcastic smile from his face, and make him take back his words. A voice seemed to say to him, "Do it. You must do it if you consider yourself a man. He insulted you to your face, and people will call you a coward if you allow it to pass." But always there came to him that gentle touch on his arm; he heard a voice pleading with him to be a man, and saw Nellie looking at him with those large, beseeching eyes, and his clenched hands would relax. And thus the battle raged; now this way, now that. Which side would win? When at length the first streak of dawn was breaking far off in the eastern sky, and Stephen came forth from the Chamber of Decision, there was no doubt as to the outcome of the fight. His face bore the marks of the struggle, but it also shone with a new light. When his mother and Nora came downstairs they were astonished to see him up so early, the fire in the kitchen stove burning brightly, and the cattle and sheep fed. Usually Stephen was hard to arouse in the morning, and it was nearly noon before the chores were finished, and then always in a half-hearted way. They looked at each other, and wondered at the change which had taken place.

Although Stephen had won a victory over himself, he was yet much puzzled. He wished to redeem the homestead, but how should he set about the task? As he waited that morning while breakfast was being prepared, this was the great thought uppermost in his mind. He knew that when spring came there was the farm to work. In the meantime, however, during the days of winter when the ground was covered with snow, what could he do? Once aroused, it was needful for him to set to work as soon as possible. Mechanically he picked up the weekly paper lying on a chair and glanced carelessly at the headlines set forth in bold type. As he did so his attention was arrested by two words "Logs Wanted." He read the article through which told how the price of lumber had suddenly advanced, and that logs were in great demand. When Stephen laid down the paper and went into breakfast, the puzzle had been solved. What about that heavy timber at the rear of their farm? No axe had as yet rung there, no fire had devastated the place, and the trees stood tall and straight in majestic grandeur. A brook flowed near which would bear the logs down the river.

His mother's and sister's hearts bounded with joy as Stephen unfolded to them his plan. He would hire two choppers; one could go home at night, while the other, old Henry, could live with him in the little camp he would build. They would chop while he hauled the logs to the brook. Mrs. Frenelle and Nora would do most of the cooking at home, and Stephen, would come for it at certain times. Thus a new spirit pervaded the house that day, and Mrs. Frenelle's heart was lighter than it had been for many months. Stephen did not tell her the cause of this sudden change, but with a loving mother's perception she felt that Nellie's gentle influence had much to do with it all.

One week later the cabin was built, the forest ringing with the sturdy blows of axes and the resounding crash of some hoary pine or spruce. Although the work was heavy, Stephen's heart was light. Not only did he feel the zest of one who had grappled with life in the noble effort to do the best be could, but he had Nellie's approbation. He drank in the bracing air of the open as never before, and revelled in the rich perfume of the various trees as he moved along their great cathedral-like aisles, carpeted with the whitest of snow.

The two choppers were kept busy from morning dawn to sunset. They were skilled craftsmen, trained from early days in woodland lore. One, old Henry, thoroughly enjoyed his work and at times snatches of a familiar song fell from his lips as his axe bit deep into the side of some large tree.

"You did that well, Henry," Stephen one day remarked, as he watched a monster spruce wing its way to earth with a terrific crash.

"It's all in knowin' how," was the deliberate reply, as the old man began to trim the prostrate form. "Now, a greenhorn 'ud rush in, an' hack an' chop any old way, an' afore he knew what he was doin' the tree 'ud be tumblin' down in the wrong place, an' mebbe right a-top of 'im at that. But I size things up a bit afore I hit a clip. Havin' made up me mind as to the best spot to fell her, I swing to, an' whar I pint her thar she goes; that's all thar is about it."

"But doesn't the wind bother you sometimes?" Stephen inquired.

The chopper walked deliberately to the butt-end of the tree, and with the pole of his axe marked off the length of the log. Then he moistened his hands and drove the keen blade through the juicy bark deep into the wood.

"I allow fer the wind, laddie," he replied, "I allow fer that. When the good Lord sends the wind, sometimes from the North, sometimes from the South, I don't go agin it. Why, what's the use of goin' agin His will, an' it's all the same whether yer choppin' down a tree, or runnin' across the sea of Life fer the great Port beyon'. That's what the parson says, an' I guess he knows, though it seems to me that the poor man hisself has head-winds aplenty jist now."

Stephen asked no more questions then, being too busy. But that night, after supper, as the old man was mending his mittens he sat down by his side.

"Henry," he began, "how is it that the parson has head-winds? Do you think it's the Lord's will?"

"'Tain't the Lord's will, laddie," was the slow response. "Oh no, 'tain't His."

"Whose, then?"

"It's the devil's, that's whose it is, an' he's usin' sartin men in Glendow as human bellows to blow his vile wind aginst that man of God. That's what he's doin', an' they can't see it nohow."

"And so you think the parson had nothing to do with Billy Fletcher's gold. You think he is innocent?"

"Think it, laddie? Think it? What's the use of thinkin' it when I know it. Haven't I known Parson John fer forty years now. Can't I well remember when his hair, which is now so white, was as black as the raven's wing. An' why did it become white? I ax ye that. It's not old age which done it, ah no. It's care an' work fer the people of Glendow, that's what's done it. D'ye think I'd believe any yarn about a man that's been mor'n a father to me an' my family? Didn't I see 'im kneelin' by my little Bennie's bed, twenty years ago come next June, with the tears runnin' down his cheeks as he axed the Good Lord to spare the little lad to us a while longer. Mark my word, Stevie, them people who are tellin' sich stories about that man 'ill come to no good. Doesn't the Lord say in his great Book, 'Touch not Mine anointed, an' do My prophets no harm?' My old woman often reads them words to me, fer she's a fine scholar is Marthy. 'Henry,' says she, 'the parson is the Lord's anointed. He's sot aside fer a holy work, an' it's a risky bizness to interfere with eich a man.'"

Scarcely had the speaker finished when the door of the cabin was pushed suddenly open, and a queer little man entered. A fur cap was pulled down over his ears, while across his left shoulder and fastened around his body several times was a new half-inch rope.

"Hello, Pete," Stephen exclaimed, "You look cold. Come to the stove and get warm."

"Y'bet I'm cold," was the reply. "My fingers and nose are most froze."

"What's brought you away out here this time of the night?" questioned Stephen, "I thought you liked the store too well to travel this far from the fire."

"Bizness, Steve, bizness," and the man rubbed his hands together, at the same time taking a good survey of the cabin.

"You look as if you were going to hang yourself, Pete, with all that rope about your body. Surely you're not tired of living yet."

"No, no, Steve. Not on your life. There'd be no fun in that, an' it's fun I'm after this time."

"But I thought you said you were out on business, and now you say it's fun."

"Bizness an' fun, me boy. Bizness an' fun; that's my motto. My bizness this time is to pinch the Stickles' cow, an' the fun 'ill be to hear Stickles, Mrs. Stickles an' the little Stickles squeal. Ha, ha! Bizness an' fun, Steve. Bizness an' fun."

"What! You're not going to take away the only cow the Stickles have left?" cried Stephen in amazement.

"Sure. It's the boss's orders, an' he doesn't mean fun, either. Nuthin' but bizness with 'im; ah no, nuthin' but bizness."

"Farrington is a mean rascal!" and Stephen leaped to his feet, his fists clenched and his eyes flashing. "Hasn't he any heart at all? To think of him taking the only cow from a poor family when the husband is sick in bed! What does the man mean?"

"Don't git excited, me boy. It's only bizness, boss sez, only bizness. The heart has nuthin' to do with that."

"Business be blowed! It's vile meanness, that's what it is! And will you help him out with such work?"

"It's bizness agin, Steve. I've got to live, an' keep the missus an' kiddies. What else is there fer a feller to do?"

"But why is Farrington taking the cow in the winter time, Pete? Why doesn't he wait until the summer, and give the Stickles a chance?"

"It all on account of a woman's tongue. That's what's the trouble."

"A woman's tongue?"

"Yes, a woman's tongue, an' ye know it's Mrs. Stickles' without me tellin' ye. She told Tommy Jones, wot told Betty Sharp, wot told the boss, that she was mighty glad the parson beat 'im at the auction. So the boss got mad as blazes, an' has sent me fer the cow to pay what the Stickles owe 'im. That's all I know about it, lad, so good-bye to yez both, fer I must be off. I'm to stay the night at Tommy Jones', an' in the mornin' will go from there fer the cow. Bizness an' fun, Steve; bizness an' fun; don't fergit that," and the little old man went off chuckling in high glee.



Chapter XI

Guarding the Flock

It was nearing the noon hour, and the sun slanting through the forest lifted into bold relief the trailing shadows of the stately trees. A lively chickadee was cheeping from a tall spruce, and a bold camp-robber was hopping in front of the cabin door picking up morsels of food which were occasionally cast forth. Stephen was preparing dinner, and the appetizing smell drifted out upon the air. Not far away, perched upon the branch of a tree, a sleek squirrel was filling the air with his noisy chattering and scolding. His bright little eyes sparkled with anger at the big strange intruder into his domain, causing him to pour forth all the vitriol of the squirrel vocabulary. Suddenly his noisy commotion ceased, and he lifted his head in a listening attitude. Presently down the trail leading to the main highway the sound of bells could be distinctly heard. As they drew nearer their music filled the air, reverberating from hill to hill and pulsing among the countless reaches of the great sombre forest. Not a child in the parish of Glendow but knew that familiar sound, and would rush eagerly into the house with the welcome tidings, for did it not mean a piece of candy hidden away in most mysterious pockets, which seemed never to be empty? How often in the deep of night tired sleepers in some lonely farm-house had been awakened by their merry jingle, and in the morning husband and wife would discuss the matter and wonder what sick person Parson John had been visiting.

The bells grew more distinct now and brought Stephen to the door. Soon Midnight appeared swinging around a bend in the trail, with her fine neck proudly arched, ears pointed forward, and her large eyes keen with expectancy. The squirrel scurried away in a rage; the chickadee hopped to a safe retreat, and even the saucy camp-robber considered it wise to flap lazily to the top of the cabin.

"I'm glad to see you, Stephen," was Parson John's hearty greeting as he held out his hand. "Dan and I are on our way to visit the Stickles, and called in to see you in passing. What a snug place you have built here. I trust you are getting along nicely."

"Better than I expected," was the reply. "But, say, Parson, you're just in time for dinner. Let me put Midnight in the barn. She won't object, at any rate."

"What! is it that late?" and the worthy man glanced at the sun. "Dear me, how the time does fly! Well, then, if we will not be in the way I shall enjoy it very much, for it has been many a day since I have dined in the woods. But, wait," he cried, as Stephen was leading Midnight to the stable, "There's a basket of stuff, some pies, and I don't know what else, in the sleigh for hardy woodsmen, with Nellie's compliments. No, no, not that basket. It's for the Stickles. The smaller one; I think you'll find it in the back of the sleigh. There, that's it, with the green handle. It takes a large basket for all the little Stickles!" and the parson gave a hearty laugh.

What a dinner they had in the little cabin that day. Never did meat taste so good, and never did pie have such a delicious flavour as that which Nellie had made. The table and stools were rough, the food served on coarse dishes, and each one helped himself. But what did it matter? Their appetites were keen and the parson a most entertaining visitor. He told about the race on the river the day before, and of Tim Fraser's accident and sudden death, to which the choppers listened with almost breathless interest, at times giving vent to ejaculations of surprise.

"I'm sorry we have no milk to offer you," laughed Stephen, passing the parson a cup of black tea. "But at any minute now a cow may be passing this way and we might be able to obtain some."

"A cow passing! I don't understand," and Mr. Westmore stirred the sugar in his tea.

"Yes. The Stickles are losing their only cow. Farrington has sent Pete after her, and he should be along by this time."

"Stephen," and Parson John's face changed from its genial expression to one of severity, "do I understand you aright? Do you mean to tell me that Farrington is taking the Stickles' only cow?"

"Yes, I'm not joking. It's the solid truth. Pete stopped here on his way out last night, and told us all about it."

"Dear me! dear me!" sighed the parson, placing his hand to his head. "When will that man cease to be a thorn in the flesh? The Stickles are as honest as the sun, and Farrington knows it. This business must be stopped. Dan will you please bring out Midnight. We must hurry away at once."

Soon the little cabin was left behind and they were swinging out along the trail. The parson was quiet now. His old jocular spirit had departed, leaving him very thoughtful.

"The poor people! The poor people!" he ejaculated. "When will such things cease? Why will men dressed in a little brief authority try to crush those less fortunate? Dan, my boy, you may be a big man some day. You may get money, but never forget the poor. Be kind to them rather than to the powerful. They need kindness and sympathy, lad, more than others. My parents were poor, and I know how they toiled and slaved to give me an education. I well remember how they worked early and late until their fingers were knotted and their backs bowed. They are the noble ones who live in our midst, and though they may have little of this world's goods, they have great souls and are the real salt of the earth. Never forget that, boy."

Dan did not know how to reply to these words, but sat very still watching Midnight speeding on her way. The road wound for some distance through a wooded region and over several hills. At length it entered upon a settlement where the land was lean and rocks lifted their frowning heads above the surface. The few houses were poor, standing out grey and gaunt in the midst of this weird barrenness. But at every door Midnight was accustomed to stop. Well did she know the little voices which welcomed her, and the tiny hands which stroked her soft nose, or held up some dainty morsel of bread, potatoes or grass. But to-day there was none of this. She knew when the reins throbbed with an energy which meant hurry. Past the gateways she clipped with those long steady strides over the icy road, across a bleak stretch of country, down a valley, up a winding hill, and then away to the right through a long narrow lane to a lone farm-house.

As they approached a commotion was observed near the barn. Soon the cause was clearly manifest. Pete, assisted by someone, who proved to be Tommy Jones, had his rope about the horns of a black and white cow, and was endeavouring to lead her away. Mrs. Stickles and four little Stickles were filling the air with their cries of anger and protest. The cow, frightened by the noise, had become confused, and was trying to bolt towards the barn. Pete was tugging at the rope, while his assistant was belabouring her with a stout stick.

"Ye brutes!" Mrs. Stickles was shouting at the top of her voice. "What d'yez mean by thumpin' me poor Pansy in that way! But here comes the Lord's avengin' angel, praise His holy name! Stop 'em, Parson!" she shrieked, rushing towards the sleigh. "Smite 'em down, Parson, an' pray the Lord to turn His hottest thunderbolt upon Si Farrington's head!"

"Hush, hush, woman," Mr. Westmore remonstrated. "Don't talk that way. 'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. I will repay.'"

By this time the refractory cow had been brought to a state of partial subjection, and stood blinking at her captors as if uncertain what course to pursue. Leaving the sleigh, Mr. Westmore strode over to where the three were standing and laid his hand upon the rope.

"What's the meaning of this, Pete?" he asked. "Why are you troubling this family?"

"It's them that's troublin' me, sir," was the reply. "I'm jist here on bizness, an' it's bizness I mean. If ye'll jist keep that whirlwind of a woman away an' them squaking kids so I kin git this cratur clear of the barn-yard, she'll walk like a daisy."

"But why are you taking the animal? Don't you know it's their only cow, and it's very important that Mr. Stickles, who is sick in bed, should have fresh milk every day?"

"That's not my bizness, Parson. My bizness is to git the cow; so stand clear if ye please, fer I want to git away. I'm late as 'tis."

"Hold a minute, Pete," and the parson laid a firmer hand upon the rope. "Who sent you here after this cow?"

"The boss, of course."

"Mr. Farrington?"

"Sure."

"And he wants the cow in payment of a debt, does he?"

"Guess so. But that ain't none of my bizness. My bizness is to git the cow."

"How much is the debt, anyway?" the parson asked, turning to Mrs. Stickles, who was standing near with arms akimbo.

"Twenty dollars, sir. No mor'n twenty dollars. Not one cent more, an' Tony'll pay every cent when he comes from the woods."

"Well, then, Pete," and the parson turned towards the latter, "unfasten this cow, and go back to your master. Tell him that I will be responsible for the debt, and that he shall have the full amount as soon as I get home."

But Pete shook his head, and began to gather up the loose end of the rope into a little coil in his left hand.

"That ain't the 'boss's order, sir. 'Fetch her, Pete,' sez he, 'an' let nuthin' stop ye. If they hev the money to pay, don't take it. The cow's of more value to me than money.' Them's his very orders."

"Oh, I see, I see," Mr. Westmore remarked, as a stern look crossed his face, and his eyes flashed with indignation. "It's not the money your master wants, but only the pound of flesh."

"Boss didn't say nuthin' 'bout any pound of flesh. He only said 'the cow,' an' the cow he'll git if Pete Davis knows anything."

Quick as a flash Parson John's hand dove deep into his capacious pocket. He whipped out a clasp-knife, opened it, and with one vigorous stroke severed the rope about one foot from the cow's head.

"There!" he cried to the staring, gaping Pete. "Take that rope to your master, and tell him what I have done. Leave the matter to me. I alone will be responsible for this deed."

The appearance of Mr. Westmore at this moment was enough to awe even the most careless. His gigantic form was drawn to its fullest height. His flashing eyes, turned full upon Pete's face, caused that obsequious menial to fall back a step or two. Even a blow from the parson's clenched fist just then would not have been a surprise. His spirit at this moment was that of the prophets of old, and even of the Great Master Himself, upholding justice and defending the cause of the poor and down-trodden.

For an instant only they faced each other. Then, Pete's eyes dropped as the eyes of an abashed dog before his master. He stooped for the rope, which had fallen to the ground, and slowly gathered it into a little coil. But still he maintained his ground.

"Are you going?" demanded the parson.

"Yes," came the surly response. "I'm goin', but remember you hev interfered with Si Farrington's lawful bizness, so beware! I'll go an' tell 'im what ye say. Oh, yes, I'll go, but you'll hear from 'im again. Oh, yes, ye'll hear."

"Let 'im come 'imself next time fer the cow," spoke up Mrs. Stickles, who had been silently watching the proceedings. "I'd like fer 'im to come. I'd like to git me fingers into his hair an' across his nasty, scrawny face. That's what I'd like to do."

"Hold yer tongue!" shouted Pete, "an'——"

"There now, no more of that," commanded Mr. Westmore. "We've had too many words already, so take yourself off."

They watched him as he moved down the lane to the road. He was followed by Tommy Jones, who had stood through it all with mouth wide open, and eyes staring with astonishment. When they were at length clear of the place the parson gave a sigh of relief, and across his face flitted a smile—like sunshine after storm.



Chapter XII

Light and Shadow

Upon entering the house Mr. Westmore divested himself of his great-coat, and stood warming himself by the kitchen fire, while Mrs. Stickles bustled around, smoothing down the bedclothes and putting the room to rights in which her sick husband lay. The kitchen floor was as white as human hands could make it, and the stove shone like polished ebony. Upon this a kettle steamed, while underneath a sleek Maltese cat was curled, softly purring in calm content.

Dan, assisted by the little Stickles, stabled Midnight, after which he was conducted over to the back of the barn to enjoy the pleasure of coasting down an icy grade. The only sound, therefore, was Mrs. Stickles' voice in the next room as she related to "her man" the wonderful events which had just taken place. A slight smile of pleasure crossed the parson's face as he listened to her words and thought of the big honest heart beneath that marvellous tongue. The sun of the winter day was streaming through the little window and falling athwart the foot of the bed as Mr. Westmore entered the room and grasped the sick man's white, outstretched hand.

"God bless ye, sir," exclaimed Mr. Stickles, "fer what ye hev done fer me an' mine to-day. It ain't the first time by a long chalk. The Lord will reward ye, even if I can't."

"Tut, tut, man, don't mention it," Mr. Westmore replied as he took a seat by the bed. "And how are you feeling to-day, Mr. Stickles?"

"Only middlin', Parson, only middlin'. Simply joggin', simply joggin'."

Mrs. Stickles seated herself in a splint-bottomed chair, and picked up her knitting which had been hurriedly dropped upon the arrival of Pete Davis. How her fingers did work! It was wonderful to watch them. How hard and worn they were, and yet so nimble. The needles flew with lightning rapidity, clicking against one another with a rhythmical cadence; the music of humble, consecrated work. But when Mr. Westmore began to tell about Tim Fraser, and his sudden death, the knitting dropped into her lap, and she stared at the speaker with open-eyed astonishment.

"An' do ye mean to tell me," she exclaimed, when the parson had finished, "that Tim Fraser is dead?"

"Yes, it's only too true, Mrs. Stickles. Poor man—poor man!"

"Ye may well call 'im poor, Parson, fer I'm thinkin' that's jist what he is at this blessed minute. He's in a bad way now, I reckon."

"Hush, hush, Marthy," her husband remonstrated. "We must not judge too harshly."

"I'm not, John, I'm not, an' the parson knows I'm not. But if Tim isn't sizzlin', then the Bible's clean wrong," and the needles clicked harder than ever.

"It teaches us the uncertainty of life," replied Mr. Westmore. "It shows how a man with great strength, and health can be stricken down in an instant. How important it is to be always ready when the call does come."

"Ye're right, Parson, ye're surely right," and Mrs. Stickles stopped to count her stitches. "Wasn't John an' me talkin' about that only last night. I was readin' the Bible to 'im, an' had come to that story about poor old Samson, an' his hard luck."

"'It's very strange,' sez John, sez he to me, 'that when Samson lost his hair he lost his great strength, too. I can't unnerstan' it nohow.'"

"'Why, that's simple enough,' sez I to 'im. 'The Lord when He let Samson's strength rest in his hair jist wanted to teach 'im how unsartin a thing strength is. 'Why, anyone can cut off yer hair,' sez I, 'an' ye know, John,' sez I, 'ye don't allus have to cut it off, either, fer it falls out like yourn, John—fer yer almost bald.' Ain't them the exact words I said, John, an' only last night at that?"

"Yes, Marthy. That's just what ye said, an' we see how true it is. Tim Fraser was a powerful man as fer as strength an' health goes, but what did it all amount to? He lost it as quick as Samson of old. Ah, yes, a man's a mighty weak thing, an' his strength very unsartin, an' hangs by a slender thread. Look at me, parson. Once I was able to stan' almost anything, an' here I be a useless log—a burden to meself an' family."

"Don't say that, John, dear," remonstrated Mrs. Stickles wiping her eyes with her apron. "Ye know ye ain't a bother. Yer as patient as a fly in molasses. The fly is thar an' can't help it, an' so are you, John. It's the Lord's will, an' ye've often said so. He'll look after me an' the little ones. He's never forsaken us yit, an' I guess He won't if we stick to 'im."

"Your children are certainly a credit to you, Mrs. Stickles," remarked Mr. Westmore. "You should be proud of them."

"I am, sir, indeed I am," and the worthy woman's face beamed with pleasure. "But it takes a lot of 'scretion, Parson, to handle a big family. I've often said to John that children are like postage-stamps. They've got to be licked sometimes to do the work they were intended to do. But if ye lick 'em too much, ye spile 'em. Oh, yes, it takes great 'scretion to bring up a family."

"You certainly have used great discretion," replied Parson John, much amused at Mrs. Stickles' words. "I suppose those who are working out are just as dear as the four little ones at home?"

"They're all dear to me, sir, all dear. I kin count 'em all on me ten fingers, no more an' no less. Now some fingers are larger than t'others, and some smaller, an' some more useful than t'others an' do more work, but I couldn't part with one. So as I often tell John our children are jist like me ten fingers. I couldn't do without one of 'em—ah, no, bless their dear hearts."

The sound of little feet and childish voices caused them to look towards the kitchen. There they beheld the four little Stickles, with Dan in the midst, standing in a row by the stove.

"Ho, ho!" exclaimed the parson, rising and going towards them. "So here you are, as fresh and active as ever."

Diving deep into his pocket he brought forth a generous piece of home-made candy.

"Sweets for the sweet," he cried. "Now, who's to have this?"

At once a rush ensued and four little forms surrounded him.

"Wait, wait; not yet!" and the good man held the candy aloft. "Nothing given away here. You must earn every bit. All in a row now. There, that's better," and he lined them up, like a veteran schoolmaster, proud of his little class. "Come, I want your names. You begin," and he tapped the nearest to him on the shoulder.

"John Medley Stickles, sir," came the quick reply.

"A good name, my little man," and the parson patted him on the head. "May you be worthy of your namesake, that noble man of God—the first Bishop of this Diocese. Now next," and he pointed to the second little Stickles.

"Benjamin Alexander Stickles, sir,"

"Ha, ha. Named after your two grandfathers. Fine men they were, too. Now my little maiden, we'll hear from you."

"Martha Trumpit Stickles, sir," came the shy response.

"That's a good name, my dear, after your mother—and with her eyes, too. Just one more left. Come, my dear, what have you to say?"

"Ruth Wethmore Stickles, thir, if you pleath," lisped the little lass, with her eyes upon the floor.

At these words the parson paused, as if uncertain what to say. "Ruth, the gleaner," he at length slowly remarked. "Ruth Westmore. Ah, Mrs. Stickles, I little thought that day my dear wife stood sponsor for your baby here, and gave her her own name, how soon she would be taken from us. Four years—four long years since she went home. But come, but come," he hurriedly continued, noticing Mrs. Stickles about to place her apron to her eyes. "I have a question to ask each little one here, and then something is coming. Look, John, answer me, quick. How many Commandments are there?"

"Ten, sir," came the ready reply.

"What is the fifth one?"

"Honour thy father and mother, that thy days may be long in the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee."

"That's good, that's good. Don't forget that, my little man. The first commandment with promise. I taught your brother Tony that when he was a little lad, and I'm sure he hasn't forgotten it. Now, Bennie, what two things do we learn from these commandments?"

"My duty towards God, an' my duty towards my neighbour."

"Right, right you are. Now, Martha, what were you made at your baptism?"

"A member of Christ, a child of God, and an inheritor of the Kingdom of Heaven."

"Well done. I thought that would stick you, but I see you have learned your lesson well! It's Ruth's turn now. Can you tell me, my dear, what happened on Good Friday?"

"Jesus died, thir, on the Croth."

"And what took place on Easter Day?"

"He roth from the grave, thir."

"Good, good. Always remember that. Good Friday and Easter Day come very near together. 'Earth's saddest day and brightest day are just one day apart.'"

Mrs. Stickles' face beamed with pleasure as the parson praised the little class, and gave a piece of candy to each. Then he drew from his pocket a small package wrapped in white tissue paper tied with a piece of pink ribbon, and held it up before the wondering eyes of the little Stickles.

"From Nellie," he remarked. "Candy she made herself for the one who can best say the verses on the Christian Year she gave you to learn some time ago. Now, who can say them all through without one mistake?"

Instantly four little hands shot up into the air, and four pairs of sparkling eyes were fixed eagerly upon the coveted treasure.

"Well, Bennie, we'll try you," said the parson. "Stand up straight, and don't be afraid to speak out."

"Advent tells us Christ is here, Christmas tells us Christ is near—"

"Hold, hold!" cried Mr. Westmore. "Try again."

But the second attempt proving worse than the first, it was passed on to Martha. Bravely the little maiden plunged into the intricacies of the two first verses, but became a total wreck upon the third. Try as she might the words would not come, and tears were in her eyes when at length she gave up the attempt and waited for John Medley to conquer where she had failed. But alas! though starting in bravely he mixed Epiphany and Advent so hopelessly that the parson was forced to stop his wild wanderings.

"Dear me! dear me!" Mr. Westmore exclaimed. "What are we to do? Surely Ruth can do better than this."

With hands clasped demurely before her and her eyes fixed upon the floor, slowly the little maiden began to lisp forth the words while the rest listened in almost breathless silence.

"Advent telth uth Christ ith near; Christmath telth uth Christ ith here; In Epithany we trath All the glory of Hith grath."

Thus steadily on she lisped through verse after verse, and when the last was completed a sigh of relief was heard from Mrs. Stickles, while the parson clapped his hands with delight. How her eyes did sparkle as he handed her the little package, with a few words of encouragement, and how longingly the three others looked upon the treasure.

"Now," said Mr. Westmore, "we must be away. Nellie will wonder what has become of us."

"Not yet, sir, not yet!" cried Mrs. Stickles. "You must have a cup of tea first.' The water is bilin', an' it'll be ready in a jiffy. Did ye give Midnight any hay?" she demanded, turning to Bennie.

"Oh, ma!" came the reply. "I fergot all about it."

"There now, it's jist like ye. Hurry off this minute and give that poor critter some of that good hay from the nigh loft."

As the little Stickles and Dan scurried out of the room, Ruth still clutching her precious package, Mrs. Stickles turned to Mr. Westmore.

"There now, Parson, ye jist must wait, an' have that cup of tea, an' some of my fresh bread. We shan't tech Nellie's pies an' cake, cause ye kin hev her cookin' any time, bless her dear heart. How I wish she was here herself so I could look into her sweet face an' tell her meself how grateful I am."

Hardly had the parson seated himself at the table ere several piercing shrieks fell upon his ears. Rushing to the door he beheld John Medley hurrying towards the house with arms at right angles, and his face as pale as death.

"Child! Child! What is it?" shouted Mrs. Stickles.

"R-r-uth's k-k-illed! She f-f-ell from the la-la-der. Oh! Oh!"

Waiting to hear no more they hurried to the barn, and there they found the little form lying on the floor, still grasping in her hand the precious package.

"My poor lamb! My darlin' baby! are ye kilt, are ye kilt?" wailed Mrs. Stickles, kneeling down by her side. "Speak to me, my lamb, my little baby! Oh, speak to yer mammy!"

But no sign of recognition came from the prostrate child. Seeing this the mother sprang to her feet and wrung her hands in agony of despair.

"What will we do? Oh, what kin we do? My baby is kilt—my poor darlin'! Oh—oh—oh!"

Tenderly Parson John lifted the child in his arms, carried her into the house, and laid her on the settle near the stove. It was found that she was breathing, and soon a little water brought some color into her face. Presently she opened her eyes, and started up, but fell back again, with a cry of pain, fiercely clutching the package.

"What is it, dear?" asked the parson. "Where is the pain?"

"My leg! My leg!" moaned the child.

"Ah, I feared so," exclaimed Mr. Westmore, after a brief examination. "We must have the doctor at once. Is there anyone near who will go for him, Mrs. Stickles?"

"Not a man, sir, that's fit to go. They're all in the woods. Oh, what kin we do!"

"Don't worry, Mrs. Stickles," was the reassuring reply. "Midnight will go, and I will hold the reins. Come, Dan, the horse, quick."

As Midnight drew up to the door a few minutes later, Parson John came out of the house and affectionately patted the sleek neck of the noble animal.

"Remember, Midnight," he said, "you must do your best to-day. It's for the sake of the little lass, and she was getting hay for you. Don't forget that."



Chapter XIII

For the Sake of a Child

Night had shut down over the land as Midnight, with her long, swinging strides, clipped through the lighted streets of the prosperous little railway town of Bradin, and drew up at old Doctor Leeds' snug house. A fast express had just thundered shrieking by. A strong, cutting wind racing in from the Northeast was tearing through the sinuous telegraph wires with a buzzing sound, the weird prelude of a coming storm.

The worthy doctor was at home, having only lately returned from a long drive into the country. He and his wife, a kindly-faced little woman, were just sitting down to their quiet meal. Seldom could they have an evening together, for the doctor's field was a large one and his patients numerous.

"You have no engagement for to-night, I hope, Joseph," remarked his wife, as she poured the tea.

"No, dear," was the reply. "I expect to have one evening at home, and I'm very glad of it, too. I'm weary to-night, and am longing for my arm-chair, with my papers and pipe."

A sharp knock upon the door aroused them, and great was their surprise to see the venerable Rector of Glendow enter.

"Parson John!" cried the doctor, rushing forward and grasping his old friend's hand. "It's been months since I've seen you. What lucky event brought you here to-night? Did you miss the train? If so, I'm glad. My chessmen are moulding for want of use."

But the parson shook his head and briefly told of the accident in the barn.

"And so the little lass is in trouble, hey? More worry for Mrs. Stickles."

"And you will be able to go to-night, Doctor?"

"Certainly. Sweepstakes hasn't been on the road for two days, and is keen for a good run."

"But, my dear," remonstrated Mrs. Leeds, "are you able to go? You have been driving all day, and must be very tired. Why not rest a little first?"

"And let the poor child suffer that much longer! Not a bit of it."

"I have heard doctors say," remarked the parson, as he and Dan sat down to their supper, "that they get so hardened to suffering that at last it does not affect them at all. I am glad it is not true with you."

"The older I get," replied the doctor thoughtfully, stirring his tea, "the more my heart aches at the pains and sufferings of others, especially in little children. As soon as I hear of someone in distress I can never rest until I reach his or her side. There always comes to me a voice urging me to make haste. Even now I seem to hear that child calling to me. She is a sweet, pretty lass, and how often have I patted her fair little head, and to think of those blue eyes filled with tears, that tiny face drawn with pain, and her whole body writhing in agony. However, you know all about this, Parson, so what's the use of my talking."

"But I am glad to hear you speak as you do, Doctor. Over thirty years have I been in Glendow, and I become more affected by suffering the older I get."

The doctor looked keenly into Mr. Westmore's face, as if trying to read his inmost thoughts.

"Do you ever become weary of your work?" he at length asked. "Do you not long for a more congenial field?"

"I have often been asked that question, Doctor," the parson slowly replied, "but not so much of late. I am getting old now, and young men are needed, so I am somewhat forgotten. However, I am glad that this is so. Years ago when a tempting offer came to me from some influential parish, though I always refused, it disturbed me for days, until the matter was finally settled. Now I do not have such distractions, and am quite happy. In the quiet parish of Glendow I find all that the heart can desire. The labour to me becomes no more monotonous than the work of parents with their children. They often are weary in their toil for their little ones, but not weary of it. The body gives out at times, but not the love in the heart. And so I always find something new and fresh in my work which gives such a relish to life. I have baptized most of the young people in this parish, I have prepared them for Confirmation, given them their first Communion, and in numerous cases have joined their hands in holy wedlock. Some may long for a greater field and a wealthy congregation. But, remember, as the sun in the heavens may be seen as clearly in the tiny dewdrop as in the great ocean, so I can see the glory of the Father shining in these humble parishioners of mine, especially so in the children of tender years, as in the great intellects. As for travelling abroad to see the world and its wonders, I find I can do it more conveniently in my quiet study among my books. At a very small cost I can wander to all parts of the world, without the dangers and inconveniences of steamers and railroads. As to studying human nature, it is to be found in any parish. Carlyle well said that 'any road, this simple Entepfuhl road, will lead you to the end of the world,' and was it not the quaint and humble-minded Thoreau who expressed himself in somewhat the same way:

"'If with Fancy unfurled, You leave your abode, You may go round the world, By the Marlboro road.'"

The doctor rose from the table and grasped Mr. Westmore's hand.

"Thank you for those words," he said. "I have thought of those very things so often, and you have expressed my ideas exactly. I must now be away. You will stay all night, for I wish to have a good chat with you upon my return."

"Thank you very much," the parson replied, "but we must be off as soon as possible. My daughter is all alone and will be quite uneasy by my long absence. We shall go home by the way of Flett's Corner, and thus save three miles. But look, Doctor, don't send your bill to the Stickles. Send it to me. Now be sure."

"Tut, tut, man. Don't worry about the bills of others. Leave this matter to me. The Stickles won't have any cause for anxiety about the bill, and why should you? It's paid already."

What a noble picture these two men presented as they stood there! Both had grown old in a noble service for their fellow-men, and truly their grey heads were beautiful crowns of glory. One had charge of the cure of souls, the other of bodies, and yet there was no clashing. Each respected the work of the other, and both were inspired with the high motive which lifts any profession or occupation above the ordinary—the Christ-like motive of love.

Parson John remained for some time after the doctor had left, chatting with Mrs. Leeds, and when at length Midnight started on her homeward way it was quite late. They had not advanced far before the storm which had been threatening swept upon them. Although the night was dark, the roadbed was firm and Midnight surefooted. As they scudded forward the wind howled through the trees and dashed the snow against their faces. They fled by farm-houses and caught fleeting glimpses of the bright, cosy scenes within. Twice they met belated teams plodding wearily homeward. Without one touch of rein, or word of command, each time Midnight slowed down, swerved to the left and swung by. It was only when the dim, dark forms of the panting steeds loomed up for an instant on their right, and then disappeared into the blackness, were they aware of their presence. Occasionally the road wound for a mile or more through a wooded region, and in such places they found peace and shelter. Here the wind could not reach them, although they could hear its wild ravings in the tree-tops above. The snow came softly, silently down, and, although they could not see it falling, they could feel it flecking their faces and knew it was weaving its mystic robe over their bodies. In one place such as this a faint glimmer of light struggled through the darkness a short distance from the road.

"It's Stephen's cabin," the parson remarked. "It is a snug place on a night like this. I wonder what he is doing now. I wish we had time to call to give him a word of cheer."

About two hundred yards beyond the cabin they left the main highway and entered upon a lumber road. This latter was used in the winter time in order to avoid a large hill on the former and the huge drifts which piled from fence to fence. At first Midnight slowed down to a walk, but at length, becoming a little impatient to get home, she broke into a gentle trot. Then, in the twinkling of an eye, the sleigh gave a great lurch, and before a hand could be raised Dan found himself shooting over the parson and falling headlong into the soft yielding snow. Recovering himself as quickly as possible, and brushing the snow from his mouth, ears and eyes, he groped around to ascertain what had happened. Away in the distance he could hear a crashing sound as Midnight hurried along with the overturned sleigh. Then all was still. He called and shouted, but received no reply. A feeling of dread crept over him, and at once he started to walk back to the road. He had advanced but a few steps, however, when he stumbled and half fell over a form which he knew must be that of Parson John. He put out his hand and felt his coat. Then he called, but all in vain. Hastily fumbling in his pockets he drew forth several matches and tried to strike a light. His little hands trembled as he did so, and time and time again a draught blew out the tiny flame. In desperation he at length kneeled down upon the snow, sheltered the match with his coat, and ere long had the satisfaction of seeing the flame grow strong and steady. Carefully he held it up and the small light illumined the darkness for the space of a few feet around. Then it fell upon the prostrate form at his side. It touched for an instant the old man's face, oh, so still and white, lying there in the snow; and then an awful blackness. The light had gone out!



Chapter XIV

The Long Night

As Dan stood there in the darkness with snow to his knees, clutching between his fingers the extinguished match, the helplessness of his position dawned upon him. What had happened to the parson he could easily guess, for the place was full of old stumps, half protruding from beneath the snow. No doubt he had struck one of these in the fall. But of the result of the blow he could not tell, for placing his ear close down to the face he tried to detect some sign of life, but all in vain. Suppose the parson had been killed! He thought of Nellie, waiting anxiously at the Rectory. How could he tell her what had happened? Suddenly a new sense of responsibility came to him. Something must be done as quickly as possible, and he was the only one to do it. He thought of Stephen's cabin, which they had passed a short time before. He could obtain help there, and he must go at once. Taking off his own outer coat he laid it carefully over the prostrate man, and then struggled back to the road. Having reached this he imagined it would not take him long to cover the distance. But he soon found how difficult was the undertaking, and what a task it was to keep the road on such a night. The blackness was intense, and the snow, which all the time had been steadily falling, added to the difficulty. Every few steps he would plunge off into the deep snow, and flounder around again until he had regained the solid footing. The distance, which was not more than a mile, seemed never-ending. Still he plodded on, the thought of that silent form lying in the snow inspiring him with extra energy. At length, much exhausted, a welcome glimmer of light winged its way through the darkness. Dan's heart leaped within him. The place was near, and Stephen had not yet gone to bed. Panting heavily, and struggling unsteadily, he crept slowly forward, reached the door and pounded fiercely upon it with both doubled-up fists.

Slowly the door was opened, and great was Stephen's surprise to see the little snow-covered figure standing before him.

"Help! Come quick!" gasped Dan.

"What's wrong?" Stephen demanded, dragging the boy into the cabin. "Where's the parson?"

"Over there—in the snow—in the woods!"

"Sit down," said Stephen, noticing how weary and excited was the little lad. "Tell me now all about it."

Quickly and briefly Dan related about the drive through the storm, the accident on the "cut off," and Parson John's fall.

"Oh, God!" Stephen groaned when he had heard the story. "What will Nellie think? What will she say? It will break her heart! I must be off at once!"

Reaching for the lantern his hand trembled as he lighted it.

"Wait here," he commanded, "till I hitch Dexter to the pung; or no, you'd better come with me and give a hand. There is no time to lose."

Dan obeyed without a word and held the lantern while Stephen harnessed the horse.

"Where's Midnight?" Stephen asked, as he deftly drew the reins through the terrets.

"She ran away. I heard the sleigh crashing after her as she ran."

"She'll kill herself! But no, she's too wise for that. She'll go home and whinny at the door, and then what will Nellie think! We must hurry along as fast as possible. She will he frantic with fear."

"Guess we'd better bring the parson back to your place," Dan remarked as Dexter swung down the road.

"Bring him to my place!" exclaimed Stephen in surprise. "What can we do for him there?"

"Won't he need the doctor?"

"Yes, he may. But we can't go all the way to Bradin now."

"Guess you won't have to do that."

"Why, what do you mean?"

"He's at the Stickles'."

"At the Stickles'?"

"Yep. The little girl got hurt, so we went after the doctor."

"Oh, I see—I see now," Stephen mused. "That's a different matter. It's only three miles to the Stickles'. But the road will be bad to-night, for the wind's across country, and the drifts there pile fast and deep. But I shall go if necessary, even if I have to crawl on all fours. I won't have to do that, though, for Dexter will take me through if any horse can."

It did not take them long to cover the one mile of road between the cabin and the place where the accident had occurred. By the light of the lantern it was not difficult to find the spot. An uncanny feeling crept over them as they drew near, and saw the parson lying there in the snow just as Dan had left him. With the lantern in his hand Stephen leaped from the pung and looked intently into the face of the prostrate man. It did not take him long to ascertain that life still remained in his body, and a prayer of thankfulness went up from his heart as he thought of the dear old man and the anxious Nellie.

Quickly and as carefully as possible they lifted him into the pung, covered him with a warm robe, and then sped back to the cabin. As soon as they had laid him upon the bed, Stephen reached for a heavy coat hanging on the wall.

"I'm off now," he said. "You keep watch. I'll be back as soon as I can."

The injured man lay perfectly motionless, to all outward appearance dead. Dan stood looking at him for some time after Stephen had left, puzzled and bewildered. What could he do? What would Nellie think of him now? He sank upon the stool by the bedside And buried his face in his hands—a forlorn little creature, trying to think. Presently he glanced towards the bed, and gazed long and intently upon the parson's face. Many were the thoughts which crowded into his mind as he sat there. A deep affection for the old man had sprung up in his heart. To him he was like some superior being with his great strength and wonderful knowledge. Then to think he should care for him, Dan Flitter, so small, who could neither read nor write, who was nothing but a sponger. The thought of Farrington's insult came to him, and what he had said about the parson. It had rankled continually in his breast, and now it arose in greater force than ever. Why were the people saying such things about this good man? He had listened to men talking in the store and along the road. They had said and hinted many things, and he had been silent. But, though silent, his mind and heart had been at work. Often while lying in his little bed at night he had brooded over the matter. He longed to do something to clear the parson, and show the people that they were wrong. But what could he do? They would not listen to him. They hinted that the parson had stolen the gold, and what could he say? It needed more than words. These were the thoughts which had been beating through his brain for days, giving him at times that listless manner, far-away look, and lack of interest in his studies, which worried Nellie so much. So sitting on guard by the injured man's side this night with large, dreamy eyes, thoughtful face—more thoughtful than ordinary for a child of his age—he recalled the various scenes since the night of the fire. Suddenly his face flushed, the dreamy expression faded from his eyes, as the dim light of dawn is dispersed by the fulness of day. They shone with a new radiance as he turned them upon the parson's face. He rose to his feet and walked quickly up and down the room. He was once again a creature of the wild. The glory of a lofty purpose fired his blood. He had experienced it before when, out in the woods, he had followed the tracks of the nimble deer, or listened to the whirr of the startled pigeon. But now it was a nobler chase, a loftier purpose, in which the honour of a faithful friend was at stake.

A sound from the bed startled him. Glancing quickly in that direction he noticed the lips of the wounded man moving. No sign of consciousness, however, did he give. He was in another world, the strange, mysterious world, where the mind roams at will and language flows from the fountain-head of the inner being.

"'The blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was shed for thee—drink this—.'" He was in church at the Communion service, administering the cup.

"Four thousand dollars." He was at the auction now, eager and intent.

"Poor lassie, poor little lamb." This time it was the injured Stickles child. And thus he rambled on from one thing to another, while Dan stood like a statue in the room staring upon him. Suddenly he opened his eyes, looked around in a dazed manner, and then fixed them upon the boy's face. He moved a little, and at once a cry of pain escaped his lips.

"Dan! Dan!" he exclaimed. "What is the matter? Where am I, and what is the meaning of this pain in my shoulder?"

The look in his face was most pathetic, and Dan longed to do something to relieve his suffering.

"Does yer shoulder hurt much?" the lad asked.

"Yes, yes, the pain is intense. Tell me how it happened."

"We were chucked from the sleigh, an' I guess you struck a stump," was the reply.

"Is this Stephen's cabin?"

"Yep. He's gone fer the doctor, so I'm keepin' watch."

The parson remained very quiet, and did not speak for some time. He still felt confused, and his shoulder was giving him great pain. He realized, however, how much he owed to Dan. What if he had been alone when the accident occurred?

"Did you come back for Stephen?" he at length questioned.

"Yep."

"And you were not hurt? Are you sure?"

"Sure's I'm livin'."

"And you were not afraid to come alone to the cabin for help?"

"No, I didn't mind."

"You're a brave boy, Dan. You've done much for me to-night. Saved my life, in fact."

"Oh, I didn't do much. Not worth mentionin'," and the lad took his seat by the bedside.

How the time did creep by. Often Dan went to the door and looked out. He strained his ears in order to hear the sound of bells, but the wind moaning and tearing through the tree-tops alone fell upon his ears. At last, when his patience was almost exhausted, the door was flung open, and Doctor Leeds entered, covered with snow, and a most anxious look upon his face. It did not take long for the practised eye and hand to ascertain the trouble. The shoulder had been dislocated, and would have to be replaced.

Then the parson showed of what stuff he was made. Hardly a sound escaped his lips as the doctor, assisted by Stephen, performed the painful operation.

"There!" exclaimed the physician, as he bound up the wounded member, "we'll have you round again in a short time. Now, some would have squaked and yelled like a baby, but you're a man through and through." "Thank you, Doctor. You are very good. But how about the little lass? You didn't leave her for me? Tell me the truth," and the parson's eyes sought the doctor's face.

"Oh, don't you worry about her," was the good-natured reply. "Sweepstakes took me over the road like the wind, and I had the poor little leg all fixed up before Stephen arrived. She'll do very well now without my care. But come, we must get you home at once."

"Do you think I am able to go?"

"Able! certainly you're able. Home's the only place for you, though the journey may cause you some pain."

"And you will come too, Doctor? You muat be very tired, and need a good rest."

"Yes, I'm going with you. I'm not going to leave you yet. You're worth fifty ordinary men, and we must not run any risk. Besides that, sir, I do want a glimpse of your dear Nellie, and a little chat with her. I haven't rested my eyes upon her for months, and do you think I'm going to miss such an opportunity? No, sir, not a bit of it."

Mr. Westmore was forced to smile in spite of his weakness as he looked into the doctor's strong, rugged face.

"God bless you," he replied. "This isn't the first time you have been a firm friend to me. I can never forget how you stood day and night by the side of my dear wife, doing all in your power to keep her with us a little longer."

"Tut, tut, man," and the doctor turned away to hide a mistiness in his eyes. "She was worthy of it, and her like can't be found every day. But come, Steve has been waiting at the door for some time, and we must be away."



Chapter XV.

Deepening Shadows

As Nellie stood at the study window the Sunday afternoon her father left for Craig's Corner a sense of depression and loneliness stole over her. How much longer could her father continue those hard drives, she wondered. He was getting old. His hair was so white and his steps feeble. What was to become of him when he could perform his beloved work no longer? She knew very well how they were pressed for money, and how much had gone to help Philip in his fight in British Columbia. How many things had they gone without! Even mere common necessities had been given up. Naturally her mind turned to the auction, and the money her father had paid down for the farm. Four thousand dollars! Where had it come from, and why would her father never tell her, or speak about it in her presence? How often had she lain awake at night thinking about it all! Then to hear people more than hinting about Billy Fletcher's gold, and what had become of it, was at times more than she could bear. Never for a moment did she doubt her father, but often she longed to ask him for an explanation of the mystery. Was the money his own, or was he handling it for someone else? If so, why should he not tell her—his only daughter—who was so dear to him?

She was aroused by the arrival of several children from the houses nearest the Rectory. Every Sunday afternoon Nellie found her real enjoyment with her little class. She had known them all since their birth, and they loved her. How longingly they looked forward to that brief Sunday gathering. There were no harsh, strict rules here, no perfunctory opening and closing, and no lifeless lessons droned forth in a half-rebellious spirit. It was all joy and love. How their voices did ring as Nellie played on the little harmonium some sweet hymn attuned to childish hearts and minds. Then, after the lessons were over, there came the treat of the day—a story read from one of those marvellous books kept on a shelf in a corner all by themselves. When at last the story had been finished and the class dispersed, Nellie locked the doors, and made her way to Vivien Nelson's. What a hearty welcome she received from them all! To Mr. and Mrs. Nelson, hard-working, God-fearing people, she was as their own daughter. She and Vivien, their only child, had been playmates together at school, and their friendship had never languished. There Nellie felt at home. She knew that no matter what disagreeable things were being said about her father throughout the parish, no word of reproach or blame was ever mentioned in the Nelson home. Others might think what they liked about Parson John, but the Nelsons had known him too long in times of sorrow and joy to believe any evil of their old Rector.

Here Nellie stayed until the following afternoon, and then made her way home to have the house comfortable before her father came back. As the evening drew near she anxiously watched for his return. She saw the dull grey sky and knew that a storm threatened. As the darkness deepened and the wind raved about the house, and the snow beat against the north windows, her anxiety increased. The supper table stood ready in its snowy whiteness; the kettle sang on the stove and the fire in the sitting-room grate threw out its cheerful glow. It was a scene of peace and genial comfort contrasted with the raging of the elements outside. But Nellie thought nothing of this, for her heart was too much disturbed. Had anything happened to her father and Dan? It was some relief to know that the lad was along, for two were better than one should an accident occur. Her eyes roamed often to the little clock ticking away on the mantel-piece. Six-seven-eight-nine. The hours dragged slowly by. She tried to read, but the words were meaningless. She picked up her needlework, but soon laid it down again, with no heart to continue. Once more she glanced at the clock. Ten minutes after nine. She thought it longer than that since it had struck the hour. She arose to attend the kitchen fire, when a loud knock upon the front door startled her. She turned back, and stood for an instant in the centre of the room. Her heart beat fast, and her face paled. Tramps were frequently seen in Glendow, working their way from one place to another. At times they were impudent and tried to force an entrance into houses. It was a likely night for them to seek shelter, and suppose one were standing out there now! What could she, a lone woman, do? Another rap, harder than the first, fell upon her ears. Something must be done, and at once. Crossing the room and pausing near the door she demanded who was there.

"Sam Dobbins," came the reply, and Nellie breathed more freely as she unlocked the door, opened it and admitted the visitor.

"'Tis a blasted night," the man remarked as he tried to shake himself free from his mantle of snow and stamped upon the floor with his great heavy boots. "If I'd known 'twas so bad I'd never stirred one step."

"Is anything wrong?" questioned Nellie, fearful lest Sam was the bearer of ill news. "Have you seen my father?"

"Your father! Isn't he home?" and the man looked his surprise.

"No, he hasn't come yet, and I'm so uneasy."

"Well, I declare, and to think that I have come all the way to see him, and he's not here. When do you expect him?"

"I expected him home before dark, but now I don't know what to think. Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Dobbins? Won't you take a seat?"

"No, there's nothin' you kin do, miss. I've got to see the parson, and only him. I hate the job, but I've got to do it. I'm the only constable in the place, and I've got to do my duty."

At these words a startled look came into Nellie's face. She took a step forward and looked keenly into the man's eyes.

"What do you mean?" she demanded. "I know you're a constable, but what do you want of my father? Oh, please tell me, quick!"

"Now don't get excited, Miss," Mr. Dobbins kindly replied, looking with admiration upon the excited young figure before him. "Remember, I've nothin' against your father. Haven't I shod every horse he had since he came to this place, long before you were born. He's been a good customer of mine, and I ain't got nothin' agin him. I'm only doin' my duty as a constable."

"But I don't understand, Mr. Dobbins. You come here to arrest my father and——"

"Only to serve the summons, Miss," interrupted the blacksmith. "I ain't goin' to arrest him. He'll be asked to appear at the trial, that's all."

"Trial! what trial?"

"Oh, it's in connection with a cow."

"A cow!"

"Yes. It seems that Si Farrington's hired man, Pete Davis, was takin' away the Stickles' only cow, when your father appeared on the scene, cut the rope, set the cow free, and sent Joe off in a hurry. Farrington's in a rage, and says he'll make the parson smart fer what he did. He's goin' to take legal action, and so I've been sent to serve the summons. That's all I know about it, Miss. I'm real sorry, but what else could I do?"

Nellie made no reply when the man ceased. Words would not come. Her bosom heaved, and she placed her hand to her forehead in an abstracted manner. Her eyes were fixed full upon the constable's face, though she did not see him. Her thoughts were away from that room, out through the storm and darkness to an old grey-headed man battling somewhere with the tempest, for the sake of others. What had happened? What would he think when he reached home to find out what Farrington was doing?

The constable shifted uneasily from one foot to the other in an embarrassed manner before those pathetic eyes. He clutched his cap more firmly in his hands, and shuffled towards the door.

"Guess I'll go now, Miss," he stammered. "I'll step up the road to make a call and come back again. Maybe your father will be home then."

Nellie hardly heard the door open and close as the constable passed out into the night. She stood for awhile as if dazed, then sinking into a nearby chair she buried her face in her hands. The wind howled and roared outside, and the snow dashed and swirled against the window. A big grey cat rose from its position before the fire, came and rubbed its sleek fur against her dress, and gently purred for some attention. But Nellie did not heed it. How dark all seemed to her! One thing after another! Why were these clouds gathering so thick over her dear father's head? It did not seem possible that he could be kept in ignorance much longer. It was sure to be revealed through this last trouble.

A sound fell upon her ears which made her look quickly up. Was it the wind? She listened with fast-beating heart. Again it came—a pathetic whinny out in the yard. She sprang to her feet, and rushed to the back door. She knew that call, for how often had she heard it! Midnight was there, standing almost at the threshold. Her dim form could be seen as Nellie peered out. She hurried forth, heedless of the pelting storm, expecting to hear her father's voice. But no cheery greeting met her, neither could she find the sleigh. Feeling around with her hands she felt the trailing shafts, and the awful truth flashed upon her. An accident had happened! And what of her father? Forgetting the horse she turned back into the house, seized a cloak, threw it over her shoulders, and hurried out into the storm. How the wind did roar about her as she waded and half stumbled through the drifts, which were now filling the road. Anxiety lent speed to her feet. She dashed on her way, and at length almost breathless reached the Larkins' house. Upon the door she beat with her hands, and after what seemed a long time Mr. Larkins made his appearance.

"Nellie! Nellie!" he exclaimed in affright, as she staggered into the room. "What in the world is the matter? Tell me, quick!"

"F-father's—had—an—a-a-ccident. Midnight came home without the sleigh— dragging the shafts—oh, what can we do?"

"Do?" was the reply. "We shall do what we can! I shall harness the horses at once, get several of the neighbors, and go in search of him. Don't worry too much, Nellie. To be pitched out of the sleigh in the soft snow is not so bad. No doubt we shall meet him and Dan plodding wearily along."

This the worthy man said to calm Nellie's fears, though in his own heart there was real anxiety, and he was not long in placing the horses fast to the big sled. But before he left he stopped to turn Midnight into the barn floor, threw on her blanket, and left her quietly munching a liberal supply of hay.

Mrs. Larkins was not long in making her appearance, and did what she could to bring comfort to Nellie's anxious heart. She also went with her back to the Rectory to await her husband's return. How the time did drag by! At every wild gust of wind Nellie started and trembled. At length, however, the faint sound of bells was heard, and scarcely had the panting, snow-flecked horses stopped at the door ere Nellie, bare-headed, and with a shawl over her shoulders, appeared.

"Father, father!" she cried, as she rushed forward, and peered into the familiar face. "Are you safe?"

"Yes, dearie. I am home again," came the feeble response.

"Oh, thank God!" she replied, throwing her arms around his neck, and kissing him again and again. "What a night this has been—a horrible nightmare!"

"Come, lassie," demanded the doctor. "Away with you into the house. What are you doing out here in such a storm? We'll look after your dad."



Chapter XVI

For Sweet Love's Sake

All the next day the storm continued in its unabated fury. The roads were completely blocked from fence to fence, and all sources of communication in Glendow were cut off. Each house was a little world of its own, a lighthouse in the midst of an ocean of snow where the long drifts piled and curled like hungry foaming breakers.

"This is the first holiday I've had for some time," chuckled good Doctor Leeds as he leaned back comfortably in an easy-chair, and puffed away at his pipe. "No one can come for me to-day, that's certain."

Nellie, too, was glad, and as she watched the storm from the window a feeling of relief came into her heart.

"Dear storm," she said to herself. "How I love you to-day. You are a stern protector, keeping out all prying eyes and malignant tongues. Mr. Dobbins will not venture out while you are abroad, and so we will have peace a little longer."

Parson John passed a restless night, moaning much from the pain in his shoulder. Towards morning, however, he passed into a comfortable sleep, and did not wake until near noon. Nellie and the doctor had a long chat together. He told her about the accident, and she related to him the incident of the constable's visit to the Rectory.

"The brute!" roared the doctor, when Nellie had finished. "Farrington's a scoundrel! Why can't he leave decent people alone! He's always meddling with someone. He's never happy unless he's persecuting people. Oh, I've known him for years. And so he wants to have your father arrested, does he, for saving the Stickles' cow?"

"Yes," Nellie replied, "and I'm dreading the effect it will have upon my father."

"I see, I see," mused the doctor, while his eyes closed in a dreamy sort of a way. "It will not be for his good, that's certain. But there's a way, lassie, there's a way; don't forget that."

"What do you mean, Doctor?"

"I was just thinking what a villain Farrington is, and in what an underhanded way he works. But he leaves a loophole every time. Let me tell you something."

Then the doctor leaned over, and what he said brought back the colour into Nellie's face, and made her heart beat fast, and sent her about her household duties with a new spirit.

During the next night the storm cleared, and the morning sun transformed the vast, white fields into a shining, sparkling glory. Nellie was early astir, finished her household duties, cared for her father, who was steadily improving, ere the doctor made his appearance.

"I'm going to leave you in charge awhile this morning," she remarked as the latter was eating his breakfast. "The day is bright and those large drifts are so tempting, that I long for a snowshoe tramp. I have been in the house so long that I must have a breath of fresh air."

"Good!" replied the doctor. "It's just what you need. You had better make the most of it, too, while I am here, for as soon as the roads are broken I must be away. There are many patients to be looked after."

"Thank you, Doctor, very much. I know father will not mind my absence for a short time," Nellie responded, as she hurried away to make ready for her tramp.

A pretty figure she presented as she stood a little later before the door and bade the doctor good-bye. Snowshoeing she loved, and she had often travelled for miles with Stephen in the clear bracing air. But to-day she was not on pleasure bent, and her heart beat fast as she moved on her way. No sign of life did she see as steadily she plodded forward over the yielding snow. An hour later when she stood before Farrington's house and laid aside her snowshoes, her face was flushed with a healthy glow caused by the vigorous exercise. Her courage almost failed as she knocked upon the door, and waited for it to be opened. It was Mrs. Farrington who came, and great was her astonishment when she found who was there.

"Why, it's Nellie Westmore, I do declare!" she exclaimed. "Come right in, dear, and lay your wraps aside. I'm so glad to see ye. But how in the world did ye git here?"

"I snowshoed all the way," was the quiet reply, "and I have come to see Mr. Farrington. Is he in?"

"Why certainly. He's in the store. I'll call 'im at once," and Mrs. Farrington bustled off, wondering what in the world brought Nellie on such a morning.

As Farrington entered the house a few minutes later, Nellie rose to meet him. She knew that now was the crucial moment, and a prayer went up from her heart for guidance. She was surprised at her own calmness as she looked into the face of the man who was causing her so much worry.

"I'm very glad to see ye, Nellie," and Farrington stretched out a big fat hand. "Set down, please."

"No, thank you, Mr. Farrington," Nellie replied. "I prefer to stand. I do not wish to keep you long. I've come to see you this morning on behalf of my father."

"Umph!" ejaculated Farrington, as he threw himself into an easy-chair.

"You know," continued Nellie, "my father met with a bad accident night before last, and is now confined to his bed, and I have come to ask you not to let Mr. Dobbins trouble him while he is in his weak condition.. I feel quite sure you will do this."

"Ye want me to spare 'im, do ye?" Farrington blurted out. "Spare the man who has injured me above measure!"

"Indeed! And in what way?" Nellie applied.

"In what way? do ye ask. Why, didn't he outbid me in the Frenelle homestead? Doesn't he refuse to buy goods at my store; an' then, to cap it all, interfered with my hired man when he went after that cow? Hev I any right to spare 'im? Tell me that."

"You have the right of consideration for an old man. My father is aging fast, and any trouble worries him so much. He doesn't know about what you intend to do, and I hope I can prevail upon you to go no further."

Nellie's voice was low and pathetic, and she made some impression upon Farrington, for when she had finished he did not at once reply. He sat looking at her, thinking how pretty she was.

"Nellie," he at length remarked, "we've allus been very fond of ye. We've known ye ever sense ye was a baby, an' ye seem like one of our own. Ye hev a good eddication, an' bein' a lady ye are well fitted to adorn a good man's home. Now, our Dick is a most promisin' feller, who thinks a sight of ye, so if ye'd consent to look upon him favourably, it ud please us all mighty well. Besides——"

"Mr. Farrington!" interrupted Nellie, "what do you mean? What do I understand you to say? Do you——"

"Wait a minute, my dear," remonstrated Farrington. "It's jist as well fer ye to consider this reasonable proposition fust as last. Yer dad's gittin' old now, so he can't last much longer; an' ye'll hev a home."

"An' jist think, Nellie dear," spoke up Mrs. Farrington, "what an advantage it'll be to ye. Richard'll inherit the hull of our property some day. He will be a gentleman, an' the son of a gentleman, too—of a good old fambly. It'll be a very gratifyin' thing, too, fer ye to know that Richard's father was a Councillor of Glendow. So now, dear, give up that uncouth Frenelle boy, an' take on with our son Richard."

Nellie's cheeks were flushed a deep crimson now, and her eyes were flashing with an angry light. Her heart was filled with disgust at these cool, self-satisfied schemers. Had they been less confident of their own importance they would have realized that they were treading on dangerous ground. They could not comprehend that back of Nellie's quiet, reserved demeanour there was a moral courage which would rise to any height of self-sacrifice at the call of duty, or in defence of those she loved. They had known her from childhood, and to natures such as theirs her gentleness and retiring disposition were interpreted as weakness or lack of proper spirit. To be suddenly awakened from such an idea was startling in the extreme.