"Yes, I'm going away. Yes, I'm sorry, and I'm glad, but I'm not afraid, because our Allison is going with me. Oh! yes, I'm glad. I'm going to see new things and places--me that was never ten miles away from home in all my life! And I'm going to come home strong and well, like the other bairns to help my mother and them all. And my mother has my sister now to take my place. It's my father that I'm sorriest for. But I'll come home strong and well, and then he'll be glad that he let me go."

She said the same to the bairns who lingered on their way home from the school to speak to her as they pa.s.sed. She was coming home again well and strong, and she would be happy, having Allison all to herself; and though she was sorry to leave them, she was not afraid.

Allison had no formal leave-takings. She had been very busy all day, and came down-stairs after seeing Marjorie quietly asleep, doubtful whether she should go to say good-bye to Mrs Beaton and the schoolmistress or not. The question was decided for her.

"Allison," said Mrs Hume, as she pa.s.sed the parlour-door, "I think it would be but kind to ask Mrs Beaton if she has any message to send to her son. You could leave it with Robin if you should not chance to see him yourself in the town. Are you very tired?"

"I am not so very tired. Yes, I will go now," said Allison.

So she turned down the lane and went round by the green, as she had gone so many times before, not without some troubled thoughts of her own.

She found Mrs Beaton sitting alone in the firelight.

"Come away in, Allison. I have been expecting you," said she.

Allison sat down at her bidding, and gave Mrs Hume's message.

"I hope you may see him. But I have nothing to say or to send. He will be home soon. And you are glad to be going, Allison, for the sake of the child?"

"Yes, I am glad to be going."

"But you are not sorry that you came here? You have been content?"

"No. I had to go away from home. I am not sorry I came here.

Everybody at the manse has been kind."

"And you have been good to them and to me. I am glad to have kenned you, Allison Bain," but Mrs Beaton sighed as she said it.

What could Allison answer? Indeed, what was to be said between these two? Nothing, unless all might be said. A word might have broken the spell of silence between them, but the word was not spoken.

"It would make her unhappy to know that her secret had been told to us,"

thought Mrs Beaton. And Allison thought: "His mother would be grieved, if she knew all; and she never need know. He will forget me when I am gone away."

And so, after a few quiet words about other matters, they said "good-bye" to one another. Allison lingered a moment, looking down with wistful eyes on the gentle old face of her friend.

"Have you anything to say to me, Allison Bain?"

But Allison shook her head. "Nothing that it would please you to hear; and it is all over now, and I am going away."

"Yes, you are going away. I may not be here when you come back again, and I must say one thing to you. I trust you, Allison Bain. I believe you to be good and true, whatever trouble may have come into your life by the ill-doing of others. May the Lord have you in His keeping, and bring you safe through all trouble 'into a large place.' Kiss me, my dear."

Allison stooped and kissed her, and went away without a word. As she turned from the door a hand was laid upon her arm, and a voice said:

"Is it you, Allison Bain? I would like a word wi' ye. I'll no' keep ye lang."

Allison was tired and sad at heart, and she longed to be alone. She could not but yield, however, to the entreating voice of the mistress, and she crossed the street to her door. The lamp was lighted, and a small, bright fire burned on the hearth, and one of the chairs had been taken down from the high dresser for the expected visitor.

"Sit ye doon, Allison," said the schoolmistress. "I saw ye when ye gaed into Mistress Beaton's, and I waited for you, but I winna keep ye lang.

And ye're going farawa'? Are ye glad to go? And are ye ever comin'

back again?"

"I must come back with Marjorie. Whatever happens, I must bring home the child to her father and her mother," said Allison, gravely.

"Ay, ye must do that, as ye say, whatever should happen. And may naething but gude befall ye. I'll miss ye sairly; ye hae been a great divert to me, you and the minister's bairn thegither--especially since the cloud lifted, and ither things happened, and ye began to tak' heart again. Do ye mind the 'Stanin Stanes' yon day, and a' the bairns, and John Beaton wi his baps? Oh! ay. I'll miss ye mair than ye ken."

The old woman sat for a time looking in silence at Allison, then she said:

"Eh! woman! It's weel to be the like o' you! Ye're young, and ye're strong, and ye're bonny; and ye hae sense and discretion, and folk like ye. It's nae ance in a thousand times that a' these things come to a woman thegither. Ye mind me o' mysel' when I was young. I had a' that ye hae, except the sense and discretion. But that's neither here nor there, at this late day," added she, rising.

Allison sat watching her as she took a key from its hiding-place and opening the big chest in the corner, searched in it for a while. When the old woman raised herself up and turned toward Allison again, there lay on the palm of her hand a gold ring. It was large and ma.s.sive, and had evidently been rubbed and polished lately, for it shone bright in the light as she held it up to the lamp.

"Look ye at it," said the mistress. "Until this day I have never, for forty years and mair, set e'en upon it. I hae been twice marriet-- though folk here ken naething about that--and this was my first marriage ring. It was my mother's before me, and her mother's before her. It held a charm, they said, to bring happy days, but it brought none to me--he died within the year. The charm was broken, maybe, because I was a wilfu' la.s.sie--an undutifu' daughter. But it may work again wi' you.

Take it, and put it on your finger."

But Allison refused it, and put her hands behind her.

"And what for no'? It's my ain to give or to keep as I like. Ye needna be feared," said Mistress Jamieson, with offence. "But why should ye wish to give it to me?"

"Because I hae naebody else to gi'e it to. There's not, to my knowledge, one living that ever belonged to me. I may be dead before ye come back again. And I like ye, Allison Bain. And the ring may keep evil from ye, if ye wear it on your hand."

Allison looked anxiously into the old woman's eager face. What did she mean? Why did she offer to her a marriage ring? Did she know more than others knew about her? Was a new danger coming upon her? She must not anger her, at any rate. So when the old woman took her hand again she did not resist.

"There is the charm written on the inside of it, 'Let love abyde till death devyde.' Ye'll see it by the daylicht."

But the ring was far too large for Allison's finger. It slipped from it and fell to the ground.

"Eh! me! is that an ill sign, think ye?" said the mistress.

"It is a sign that your grandmother was a bigger woman than me," said Allison with an uncertain smile. "It is very kind of you, Mistress Jamieson, to think of giving it to me, but--"

"It's a pity. But it's yours. On your hand it would hae keepit awa'

evil. Ye must put it on a ribbon and hang it roun' ye're neck, and it may do the same. It will keep ye in mind yoursel', if it minds naebody else."

Allison gazed at her with eyes full of trouble. But in the face so deeply marked with the cares and sorrows and discontents of many years, she saw nothing to awaken distrust or fear. There were tears in the pale, sunken eyes, and the tremulous movement of the lips told only of kindly interest. Whatever she knew or suspected, Allison felt that the old woman did not mean her harm.

"Why should you be so kind to me--a stranger?" said she gently.

"I hardly ken mysel', except that I wish ye weel. And then ye mind me o' my ain youth, partly that ye're sae like what I once was, and partly that ye are sae different. I can see _now_ where I gaed wrang. And ye hae your life afore ye. Hae patience, and make the best of it that ye may."

"I'll try," said Allison humbly. And so they parted.

Allison got a glimpse of the grim old face among those who were standing about the door to see them set off in the morning. And she never saw it more. Before Allison came back to Nethermuir again the schoolmistress was done with her toils, and troubles, and discontents, and was at rest.

And Allison never knew what the old woman might have known or guessed of her life before she came to the manse.

There were a good many others there to see the travellers away.

Marjorie was in the "gig" with her father and mother, who were to take her to join Mrs Esselmont at Firhill, so her time for tears was not come, nor was theirs. The child looked round on the faces of her friends and smiled and nodded, and was sorry, and glad, at the same time, but she was not, as she had told them, in the least afraid of what might be before her.

The same might be said of her father and mother--with a difference.

They were glad, and they were sorry, and the mother was a little fainthearted for them both at the thought of the long days, that lay before them. But they were not afraid. They trusted their child in the Good Hand which had "led them all their life long until now," and they had confidence in Allison Bain.