"Is it likely that he would listen to anything that an utter stranger would say to him?" said John.

He spoke coldly, as his mother noticed with pain. Allison did not notice it.

"But you would not seem like a stranger to him if you came from me. And anyway, ye wouldna be strangers long. You would like Willie, or you would be the first one who didna, all his life. And oh! he needs one wise, and strong, and good like you. The very touch of your hand would give him hope, and would keep him from losing heart--and, it might be, from losing himself--"

She stood, bending slightly toward him, her eyes, which in spite of his will and his reason had all these months haunted him by night and by day, looking into his. She stood in utter unconsciousness of herself or of him, save as one whose strength might help the weakness of another who was in sore need. No spoken words could have made clearer to him that he--John Beaton--was not in all her thoughts, save as a possible friend to the unknown criminal, who, doubtless, had well deserved his fate.

And to think of the life which lay before this woman, with this weak fool to share it--a woman among ten thousand!

"She will need strength for two, and her love will give it to her,"

thought John, a dull pain at his heart with which some self-contempt was mingled. But it was no time to consider himself with Allison's eyes on his face.

"I could trust him to you," said Allison, trying to smile, "because ye have a kind heart, though folk say ye're a wee hard whiles. But I ken what you have been to the lads at the manse to win them, and to warn them, and to keep them out of _mischief_. It would be the saving o' my Willie if you would but take him in hand."

"I would gladly help him, or any one in trouble," said John, "but how could I do it in secret?"

"But you needna do it in secret. It's not Willie that needs to hide.

When the prison-door opens to him he will be free to go where he likes-- to his own house, and his own land, to bide there at his pleasure. But he will have a sore heart in going to a desolate house. And the thought of going alone to a far-off land will dismay him. The help of such a friend as you is what he needs, though it may seem a strange thing in me to ask it from you."

"You have a right to all the help that I can give you, as has any one in trouble. But why should you not go to him yourself?"

"But that is what I cannot tell you. I would never be suffered to go with him if I were to be found. I have been asking you to help my Willie, but indeed it is myself that you will help most. I cannot go with him for both our sakes, but I will follow him. He will be watched through every step of the Way, and I would be brought back again from the ends of the earth. And then," added Allison her face falling into the gloom of which John had seen but little, but which his mother had seen often during the first days of their acquaintance, "then I should just lie down and die."

John made a sudden, impatient movement, and then he said:

"And what am I to say to this man from you?"

"Willie his name is--Willie Bain," said Allison, smiling faintly. "Oh!

ye'll ken what to say to him when ye see him. And ye are not to let him know that ye are sent from me till ye are sure of him. He is a lad who is moved by the first thought that comes, and his first thought when he hears of me will be to try to see me. And he must not try," repeated she, "for he will be watched, and then we will be parted forever."

There was a pause, and then John said:

"I will go to him, at any rate, and do what I can. I will faithfully help him, if he will let me--so help me G.o.d."

"I'm not feared for him now. You're strong and wise, and you can do what you like with Willie."

John did not seem to see the hand she held out to him. Allison went on:

"When he speaks of me, as he'll be sure to do, just hear him and say nothing till you are sure that he'll listen to reason--till he promises not to try to see me, but to have patience and wait. I can trust him to you, John Beaton, and I must go now."

He could not this time refuse to see the hand she held out to him. He took it in his and held it fast, while she looked at him with eyes full of light and longing. "John," said she softly, "ye'll mind what is said in the Book: 'I was in prison and ye came unto me.'" And then she turned to go.

It must be owned that was a sore moment to John Beaton. He neither spoke nor moved while she stood thus, nor when she bent down, kissed his mother's hand, and then without a word went away. For a time, which he did not measure, but which seemed long to his mother, he stood leaning on the back of her chair. His face was hidden in his hands, but happily she did not know that, and she waited till the first word should be spoken by him. In a little he "pulled himself together," and came forward into the light, which was but dim at the best. He snuffed the solitary candle, and then fell to stirring the fire, which, never very large, was in danger of disappearing under his hand. He added a dry peat, however, and it soon blazed up again.

"Yon's a strange story, mother," he said at last. "I hardly see the good of my meddling in it. I suppose I must go and see the man, anyway."

"Yes, ye canna do less than that," said his mother. "I'll do more.

I'll do my best to help one who seems much in need of help, but I cannot say that I am very hopeful as to what may come of it."

"Ye'll see when ye go what can be done. Poor la.s.sie. Her heart is in it."

"Yes," said John, "her heart is in it." And then they sat silent till another knock came at the door.

It was Robin Hume this time, who had been sent to ask for Mrs Beaton, who had not been at the kirk, and no one had got a chance to speak to John.

"My mother said I wasna to stay," said Robin. But he came forward into the room, now bright with firelight, and he stayed a good while, and had much to say about various matters, and the interest with which John seemed to listen and respond comforted Mrs Beaton concerning her son.

Of course there was something to be said about the coming winter and its work, and some other things came in as well. Then there was a little sparring and laughter between them, which, with a lightened heart, Mrs Beaton gently reproved, as not suitable for the Sabbath night. Then Robin rose to go, and John went with him to the door. But he did not linger there, or go out for a turn in the lane as he sometimes did, and as his mother thought he would be sure to do. He came in and fell to mending the fire again "for a last blaze," as he said.

"And, mother, is not it near time that we were beginning to think of the flitting that is before us?"

"It's early days yet, John," said his mother.

"And you will be loth to leave your little home, mother dear?"

"It has been home to us both, John, and I like the place. But any place will be home to me where you are, and if you think it wise to go I'll soon be ready. And so ye have made up your mind to go to the college, John?"

"I am not sure yet, but it is likely. Whether I do or not, I must be in Aberdeen all the winter, and I will be happier and safer in my mother's house than anywhere else. But I am sorry to disturb you, mother. Ye have got used with the place and are happy here."

"I can be happy anywhere where it is wise and right for you to be. But it is only August yet, and there is time enough to think about it."

"Yes, there is no hurry. But there are arrangements to be made. And mother I have been thinking, how would it do for us to have Robin with us for the winter? It would be a satisfaction to his father and mother, and a safeguard to him."

"Surely, if you wish it. It will make a difference, but only a cheerful difference. And it is a small thing to do for them who have been ay so friendly."

"Well, that is settled then, and I will look out for rooms, or for a wee house--that will be better wouldna it, mother dear?"

He did not need to ask. Anything that would please him would please his mother also. But she was not so cheerful and eager about this as she generally was about new plans and arrangements, John thought, and after a little they fell into silence.

John woke his mother out of her morning sleep when he came to bid her good-bye. She had only a single word to say to him:

"Dinna be long in coming home again, John," said she. And he promised that he would not be long.

He kept his promise, coming even sooner than he was expected, and when his mother saw his face she was glad. For there was on it no sign of either gloom or grieving. It was John, "at his best and bonniest," she said to herself with a glad heart, as he sat for a little while beside her bed, for his coming was late, as usual. She asked no questions. It was well with him, that was enough for her. As he rose to go, she said:

"I hope you have good news for Allison Bain." Then John sat down again.

There was not much to tell. John had not seen the man himself. He had been set at liberty before his time was out. As to what sort of a man he was, John had been told that after a month or two, when he had been first wild with anger and shame, and then sullen and indifferent, a change had come over him. A friend had come to visit him more than once, and had encouraged him to bear his trouble patiently, and had given him hope. But he had never spoken about himself or his affairs to any one else. The chances were he had gone home to his own place; but nothing, which his informant could repeat, had been heard from him since he went away.

"Poor Allison Bain!" said Mrs Beaton with a sigh.

"Surely it will be good news to her that he has been free all the summer days, and in his own house," said John.

"Yes, but of her he can ken nothing. And he must go to America, if he should go, with only a vague hope of some time seeing her on the other side of the sea. And she kens his weak will, and must fear for him.

She will likely be here in the Sabbath gloaming to hear what ye have to tell."

But it was otherwise ordered. John rose early, as was his custom, intent on getting all the good from the country air which could be got in a single day. It was a fair morning, clear and still. Only a pleasant sound of birds and breeze was to be heard. There was no one visible in the street. Most of the tired workers of the place were wont to honour the day of rest by "a lang lie in the mornin'," and the doors and windows of the houses were still closed. While he stood hesitating as to the direction he should take, out of the manse close sedately and slowly walked Fleckie and her companions, each dragging the long chain by which she was to be tethered; and after them limped cripple Sandy, whose Sunday duty at all times it was to see them safely afield.