John did not quicken his steps to overtake him, as he had now and then done at such times, for the sake of getting the news of all that had happened while he was away. He turned and went down the green, and round by the lane and the high hedge which sheltered the manse garden, and giving himself no time to hesitate as to the wisdom of his intention, stopped at last at one of the doors of the long, low outbuildings of the manse. He had been in the place before with the lads, and knew it well. There was no one there; but the foaming milk-buckets indicated that some one would be there soon, and he waited.

He did not wait long. A light step came quickly over the round stones of the causey, and Allison entered, carrying the great earthen milk-dishes in her arms. It was a dark little place, and she had set them safely down before she saw the intruder. Then she did not utter a word, but stood looking at him with all her heart in her eyes. John held out his hand and took hers in a firm clasp, and "like a fool," as he told himself afterward, said that which it had never come into his mind to say until he saw her face.

"Allison," said he, with his eyes on hers, "why did you not tell me that it was your brother for whom your heart was sore?"

Her look changed to one of wonder.

"Surely I told you it was my brother. Who else could it be but my Willie?"

She grew pale, and would have withdrawn her hand, but he held it fast.

"I did not see him, but I have good news for you. Your brother has been a free man for two months and more. It must have been that they repented of their hard sentence, and when the summer came again he wearied, and was like to fall sick, and they let him go home. The man I saw had only good words to say of him. After the first he was patient and quiet. It was hard on him at first."

"My poor Willie!" said Allison.

"It seems that a friend went to see him in the early summer, a year ago, and he took heart after that and waited patiently."

"That must have been Mr Hadden," said Allison. "It was kind of him, and Willie would take hear when he heard that I had gotten safe away."

"You have not heard from your brother since?"

"Oh! no. How could I hear? He does not even know where I am."

"But you will write to him now?"

Allison's face fell.

"I darena do it. No letter can reach him but may first pa.s.s through our enemy's hand. He will be on the watch more than ever now. No, it will be ill waiting, but we can only wait."

"Do you mean that you must wait till you see him in America?" said John wondering.

"Yes, that must be the way. He will go to Alexander Hadden, and I will find him there. Yes, it may be a long time," and Allison's eyes filled with tears. "But now that I have heard that he is free, and that it is well with him, I can wait. Oh! yes, I can wait."

Allison held out her hand, and John knew it was time to go.

"I havena thanked you yet, but--"

"You have nothing to thank me for yet. If I only could do something for you!"

"You have done this. You have told me he is free and at his own home.

I have all the summer days grudged myself the sweetness of the light and the air, because I thought of him sitting in the darkness. And he has had it all, and now he may be on the sea! It has happened well, and I take it for a sign that the Lord is on our side."

"And you will not be troubled and anxious any more?"

"I will have hope now. And I thank you in my heart though I havena the words ready."

And then John went away.

Allison sat in the kirk that day a happy woman. Every one there must have noticed the change in her looks, only she sat in the end of the seat near the door, and the little porch hid her from a good many of the folk, and the side of her big bonnet was mostly turned toward the rest.

Little Marjorie saw her happy look, and raised herself up to ask her what she was thinking about that made her look so glad. Allison was thinking that her Willie might be sitting in the kirk at home listening to Dr Hadden's kind, familiar voice, and that in the afternoon he might be walking over his own land with Uncle Sandy, to see the sheep and get the air of the hills. She bowed her head and whispered softly, "Whisht, my lammie"; but she "smiled with her een," as Marjorie told her mother afterward, and the child was content.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

"Into the restful pause there came A voice of warning, or of blame, Which uttered a beloved name."

More than once since she had first seen her, Mrs Esselmont had asked, "Who is Allison Bain?"

Mrs Hume had not much to tell her. Of her family and friends she knew absolutely nothing. Of Allison herself she knew only what she had seen since she became an inmate of the manse, except that she had been Dr Fleming's patient in the infirmary, and afterward for a short time a nurse there. Dr Fleming probably knew more of her history than he had told to them.

"A good woman who had seen sorrow, he called her, and a good woman she is in every way, and a good servant, now that she seems to be growing content and cheerful. I own that she was a weight upon my mind at first. She is faithful, patient, true. Her only fault seems to be her reserve--if it can be called a fault to keep to herself what others have no right to ask her to disclose. She has greatly helped our Marjorie, and the child loves her dearly."

"Yes, that is easily seen. As to her reserve, there are some troubles that can be best borne in silence," said Mrs Esselmont. "And she has grown more cheerful of late."

"Much more cheerful. She is always quiet, and sometimes troubled with anxious thoughts, as one can see, but there is a great change for the better since the spring. It is, of late, as though some heavy weight had been taken from her heart."

In her lonely life, with little to interest her, either in her own home or in the neighbourhood, it was natural enough that the lady should give some thought to the strong, gentle, reticent, young woman, who seemed to her to be quite out of place as a servant in the manse. She would have greatly liked to win the girl's confidence, so that she might be the better able to give her help and counsel if the time should come when she should acknowledge her need of them. Until that time came, she told herself, she could offer neither help nor counsel. It was not for her to seek to enter into the secret of another woman's sorrow, since she knew from her own experience how vain are words, or even kindest deeds, to soothe the hurt of a sore and angry spirit.

"I might only fret the wound I fain would heal. And she is young and will forget in time whatever her trouble may be. And, when all is said, how can I think she is not in her right place, since she fills that place so well? G.o.d seems to be giving her the opportunity and the power to do for the child what has long seemed beyond hope, even to the mother, who is not one inclined to despond. I will not meddle in her concerns hastily, but oh! I would like if this Allison were ever in sore need of a friend, that she would come to me."

It was astonishing to herself when she considered the matter, how many of the lady's thoughts were given to this stranger.

"We are curious creatures," she mused. "It is little to my own credit to say it, but I doubt if this Allison had been just a decent, plain la.s.s like Kirstin, I might have been left to overlook her and her sorrows, though I might have helped her when I knew her need. I will bide my time, and when it comes I will do what I can for Allison Bain, whatever her need may be."

Almost every week Marjorie spent a day at Firhill, and she was usually carried there, or home again, in the arms of Allison; but there could be no lingering there because of all that was to be done at home. Marjorie needed no one to stay with her. If it were "a garden day," as she called it when it was fair and the wind blew softly, she was content to be quite alone for hours together. She could be trusted to walk no farther and make no greater exertion than was good for her.

In the house she had a book, or her doll, or the stocking she was knitting, to pa.s.s the time. In the garden she did not need these. She had the flowers first of all, the trees and the changing sky, the bees and the birds. The crows, which came and conversed together on the great firs beyond the wall, had much to say to her as well as to one another. She put their speech into words for her own pleasure, and looked with their eyes on the distant hilltops and into the valleys between, and saw what they saw there. A late laverock springing up now and then thrilled her with his song and set her singing also, or the cooing of the doves soothed her to peaceful slumber and happy dreams.

But there came a day when all did not go so well with the child. The sky was overcast and rain threatened; and Marjorie fretted and was "ill to do with," while her mother hesitated as to the propriety of her going to Firhill. The coming of the pony carriage decided the matter, however, and the child went away, a little ashamed of herself, but never doubting that all would be as usual when she reached the garden.

But she did not have a happy day. The weather was warm and close, and as the afternoon wore on the sky darkened, so that it was gloomy even in the garden, and a sudden pang of homesickness smote the child when they carried her into the deeper gloom of the house. She struggled bravely against it for a while, telling herself how foolish she was, and how ungrateful Mrs Esselmont would think her if she were to cry, or even seem to wish to go home before the time.

Poor little girl! She was ill and uncomfortable, and did not know it.

She thought herself only naughty and ungrateful; and when she could no longer keep back her tears, and in spite of a determination not to do so, cried out that she wanted her mother, she believed that the end of her happy days had come.

Into the confusion which all this caused, Allison came, earlier than usual, in the hope of getting the child home before the rain. At the sight of her, Marjorie's tears flowed faster than ever, but not for long. Allison's touch, and her firm and gentle words, soothed and quieted her. The broth which she had refused at dinner was brought her, and was eaten, and the worst was over.

But the rain was falling in torrents by this time, and while they waited, Marjorie fell asleep in Allison's arms.

It had not been a very good day for Mrs Esselmont. She was not strong, the heat and gloom had depressed her, and she sighed now and then as she sat beside Allison and the child in the darkening room. Allison wondered whether she had any new sorrow to trouble her.

"She is nearly done with all sorrow now. She must be glad of _that_,"

thought Allison.

"I hope they will not be anxious about you at home," said Mrs Esselmont, speaking softly not to waken Marjorie.

"No, madam, I don't think it. And Mrs Hume will be sure to send one of the lads with a lantern if the rain should keep on."