And when a sudden smile came, or a bright glance, or a murmur of song, she was telling herself that his time was nearly over; that he would soon be free again to go faraway over the sea, where, with kind help from Mr Hadden, he would begin a new life, and all would be well with him once more. Yes, and they might be together again.

But this could not be for a long time. She must not even try to see her brother. For Brownrig would be sure to have a watch set on him when he was free. And Brownrig--having the law on his side, as he had said in the hearing of many, on the night of the dark day on which her father was buried, raising his voice that she too might hear him, the door being locked and barred between them--Brownrig would come and she would be found, and then lost forever.

"For," said Allison to herself, "I should have to drown myself then, and make an end of it all."

She was standing on the edge of Burney's Pot, near the mill-dam, when she said this to herself, and she shuddered as she looked down into the grey water.

"But it will never come to that! Oh! no, mother, it will never come to that. But to save myself from that man, even to end all would surely be no sin."

But these thoughts did not haunt and terrify her now, as her doubts and dreads had done during the winter. She had no time for brooding over the past. Every hour of the day was more than full with all she had to do, and there were no long, dark evenings, when she had only her wheel and her own thoughts for company.

And there was Marjorie. Marjorie had something to do with her thoughts through all the hours of the day. She was always there to lift or to lay down, to carry here or to carry there, to speak to or to smile upon.

And she grew sweeter and dearer every day. Above all, the time was hastening, and Willie would soon be free. That thought made all the days bright to Allison.

And so she grew, not light-hearted, but reasonable and patient in her thoughts of all that had befallen them, and, at most times, hopeful as to all that might lie before them.

The neighbours who, at her first coming among them, had been inclined to resent her gloom and her silence, were ready now, for the sake of her friendly looks, to forgive the silence which she kept still. Even in the kirk she was like another woman, they said, and didna seem to be miles awa', or dreaming, or in fear.

Of this change Allison herself was conscious, when she thought about it.

The minister's words did not seem "just to go by" her as they used to do. She listened and took her portion with the rest of the folk, and was moved, or glad, or doubtful, or afraid, as they were, and thought about all she had heard afterward, as doubtless some of the rest did also.

She was not desirous now, as she had been at first, for more than her own turn of staying at home from the kirk. This was partly because little Marjorie was sometimes able to go there; and when she went she was carried in Allison's arms, where she rested, sometimes listening to her father's voice, and sometimes slumbering through the time. But it was partly, also, because there came now and then a message to Allison there.

For some of the good words spoken must be for her, she thought, since the minister said they were for all. Allison was not good at remembering sermons, or even "heads and particulars," as Robin was. For a long time she had heard nothing but the minister's voice, and carried away no word of his, either for correction or instruction. His sermons were "beyond her," as she said. They meant nothing to her. But now and then a good word reached her out of the Book; and sometimes a word of the minister, spoken, as was the way in those days, as a comment on the psalm that was to be sung, or on the chapter that was read, touched her, strangely enough, more even than the words of the Book itself, with which she had been familiar all her life.

One day in early summer she carried her wee Marjorie to the kirk with a sad heart. For the Sabbath-days were the worst to bear, since she had least to do, and more time for thinking. All the morning her thoughts had been with "her Willie," shut in between stone walls, away from the sunshine and the sweet air, and she was saying to herself: Would the shame and the misery of it all have changed him, and would he come out, angry and reckless, a lost laddie? Oh! if she could only go to meet him at the very door, and if they could get away together over the sea, to that country so great and wide that they might easily lose themselves in it, and so pa.s.s out of the sight and out of the thoughts of all who had known them in their happy youth, before trouble had come! Might it not be? And how could it be? Might she not set Brownrig and his wicked wiles at naught, and go with her brother to save him?

And then the minister's voice was heard: "Fret not thyself because of evildoers." And so on: "Commit thy way unto the Lord. Trust also in Him and He shall bring it to pa.s.s."

"Bring it to pa.s.s!" In the midst of her trouble and longing, Allison had almost uttered the words aloud, as though they had been spoken to her alone of all the listening people, and then Marjorie stirred in her slumber and brought her to herself again.

"Rest in the Lord. Wait patiently for Him. Fret not thyself because of him who prospereth in the way, because of the man who bringeth wicked devices to pa.s.s."

Surely those words were for her! And she heard no more till he came to the good man whose "steps are ordered of G.o.d."

"Though he fall, he shall not be utterly cast down, for the Lord upholdeth him with His hand.

"I have been young, and now am old; yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread."

And then Robin touched his mother's hand. For Allison had drawn her big black bonnet over her face to hide from the folk in the kirk the tears which were falling fast on the bright hair of the little sleeper. Mrs Hume made no sign that she saw them, but she prayed silently for the sorrowful woman who all the long winter had kept her sorrow to herself.

"Say nothing, Robin," said she, when they rose to go out together. "She will be the better for her tears, or rather for that which made them flow."

To herself Robin's mother said:

"She will surely speak now, and open her heart to comfort."

She had a while to wait for that, but a change came over Allison as the summer days went on. She was restless sometimes, and anxious and afraid. She had an air of expectation as though she were waiting for something, and sometimes she had the look of one eager to be up and away.

One night when Mrs Hume went up to see her little daughter in her bed, she found Allison writing. She said nothing to her and did not seem to see, and waited in expectation of hearing more. But she never did.

For Allison's courage failed her and the letter was never sent. It was written to Dr Fleming, who had been kind to her in the infirmary, and it told him of her brother who was in prison, and asked him to visit him and to be kind to him, as he had been to her. But after it was written she was afraid to send it.

No. She must wait and have patience. Willie must go away alone over the sea, as they had agreed together in the only letters that had pa.s.sed between them since he was a prisoner. Mr Hadden would befriend him as he had promised, and she would follow him when the right time came.

"But it is ill waiting," said Allison to herself. "It is ill waiting."

In those days many a word came to her as she sat in the kirk or in the parlour at worship-time, which set her thinking. Some of them strengthened her courage and gave her hope, and some of them made her afraid. For she said to herself:

"Are these good words for me?"

They we're for the minister and for the minister's wife, doubtless, every promise of them all, and for many more who heard them spoken. But were they for her?

"For," said she, "'if I regard iniquity in my heart, the Lord will not hear my prayer.' And I'm no' sure of myself. 'Love your enemies,' the Book says, and I doubt there's hatred in my heart to one man.

"Or maybe it is only fear of him and anger. I think if I could only get well away from him, and safe from the dread of him, I would hate him no longer. I would pity him. I pity him now, even. For he has spoiled his own life as well as mine, and what with anger and shame, and the pity of some folk and the scorn of others, he must be an unhappy man.

Yes, I _am_ sorry for him. For the fault was partly mine. I should have stood fast whatever befell. And how is it all to end?"

CHAPTER TWELVE.

"A man may _choose_ to _begin_ love, but not to end it."

The spring pa.s.sed quickly and summer came on, and then something happened which made a little stir of pleasure in the manse, and in the pleasure Allison shared, because of little Marjorie. Mrs Esselmont came home.

Mrs Esselmont had been, in former days, one of the great ladies of the shire, and, with a difference, she was one of its great ladies still.

Marjorie had been "kirstened after her," as they used to call it in that country. The child was "Marjorie Esselmont Hume," and she was right proud of her name.

But Mrs Esselmont did not come back this time to Esselmont House, which had been the home of the Esselmonts for many a year and day. Her husband was dead and her sons also, and the great house, and the wide lands which lay about it, had pa.s.sed to another Esselmont, a stranger, though of the same blood. She came back, as indeed she had gone away, a sorrowful woman, for she had just parted from her youngest and dearest daughter, who was going, as was her duty, to Canada with her soldier husband.

The acquaintance of Mrs Esselmont and the minister had commenced soon after the coming of Mr Hume--then little more than a lad--a "missioner"

to Nethermuir. At the bedside of one whom the lady had long befriended, they met by chance--if one may so speak of a meeting which was the beginning of so much to them both. The poor woman in whom both were interested was drawing nigh to the end of all trouble, and these two did not meet again for years.

The next meeting was in no sense by chance. In a time of great sorrow Mrs Esselmont came to the minister for help, because she remembered how his words, spoken in G.o.d's name, had brought peace to one who had sinned and suffered, and who was sore afraid as the end drew near. And that was the beginning of a lasting friendship between them.

They had not met often during the last few years. Mrs Esselmont had lived much in England with her daughters, and had only once returned to her own house during the summer. Now she said she must look upon Firhill as her permanent home, and she did not speak very cheerfully when she said it.

For though she was a good woman, she was not of a cheerful nature, and she had had many a trouble in the course of her life. Some of them had been troubles to which, at the time, it seemed wrong for her to submit, but which it was in vain, and worse than in vain, to resent. They were troubles which could only be ignored as far as the world was concerned, but which, she told herself, could never be forgotten or forgiven. They were all over now, buried in graves, forgiven and forgotten. But the scars were there still of wounds which had hurt sorely and healed slowly, and now she was looking sadly forward to a solitary old age.

She had been long away, but Marjorie had not been allowed to forget her.

Gifts and kind wishes had come often to the child from her friend, and her name had often been named in the household. But her coming was a shock to Marjorie. What she had imagined of the writer of the letters which she had heard read, and of the giver of the gifts which she had received, no one could say. But the first glimpse which she got of the tall form, shrouded in trailing, black garments, and of the pale face, encircled by the border of the widow's cap, and shaded by the heavy widow's veil, struck her with something like terror, which must have ended in tears and sobs and painful excitement, if her mother had not seen the danger in time and carried her away.

"Poor darling! I fear she is no stronger as time goes on," said the lady gently.

"Yes, we think her a little stronger. Indeed we think there is a decided change for the better since spring opened. She is able to stand now, and even to walk a little in the garden. But she is very frail still, our poor little girl," said the mother with a sigh.

"What has helped her, do you think?"