said Robin. "There's no harm done yet, my lad. You need not fear that ill will come from speaking your secret thoughts to your mother."

"But other folk's secret thoughts?" said Robin.

No ill came of it this time. Of course Mrs Hume had told her husband of Robert's words, and of some thoughts of her own, which she had kept to herself hitherto. Her husband's first idea was that it was a pity that she should not have a chance of a few words with John. But that was not her idea; and, besides, it was not possible, for various reasons.

"He needs a kind word from some one, but not from me. I am not well pleased with John at present. And it would hardly be wise to give him 'a piece of my mind,' now that he is down-hearted. It is you who must go."

It must be remembered that at this time Mrs Hume did not know all that was to be known of John and his troubles. As for the minister, he was scarcely as much moved as his wife thought he ought to have been by the tale she had told.

"There is no fear of him, if that is all that ails him," said he.

Still he loved John and longed to help him, and a visit might do both him and his mother good. So he made up his mind to go and see them without loss of time.

It all happened well, though it happened without forethought or planning on his part or on theirs. They rejoiced at his coming. "You have done him good already," Mrs Beaton's eyes said to the minister, when she came in and found them together. John sat erect and cheerful, taking his part in the conversation, and though after a little he grew weary and bent his head on his hand as the talk went on, he was more like himself than he had been yet, his mother told the minister, when she went to the door with him, as he was going away. Though he had already said good-night to John, he turned back to say it once more.

"I am afraid I have wearied you, lad," said he; "and you were weary enough before I came--weary of time and place, and of the words and ways of other folk, and of your own thoughts. I would like well to have the guiding of you for the next month, and I have but a day. Will you put yourself into my hands, John, for one day?"

"Ay, that I will, and for as many as you like."

"We'll take one day of it first, if to-morrow be fair."

The day was all that could be desired; clear, but with clouds now and then, moving before the breeze, to make shadows for their delight, upon land and sea.

They took a boat at the wharf and sailed away toward the north, having a mutual friend--"auld Boatie Tamson"--for captain and pilot and crew.

There was health in the smell of the sea, strength in every breath of the salt air, and rest and peace alike in their talk and in their silence, and all went well.

After a time, when they had left the town far behind them, they turned landward to a place which Mr Hume had known in the days of his youth, and which he had sought with pleasure, more than once since then. Auld Boatie knew it also, and took them safely into the little cove which was floored with shining sands, and sheltered on three sides by great rocks, on which the sea birds came to rest; on the other side it was open to the sea. Here he left them for the day.

They had not many appliances for the comfort of the invalid, but they had all that were needed. A pillow and a plaid spread on the sand made his bed, and another plaid covered him when the wind came fresh. In the unexplored basket which Mrs Beaton had provided they had perfect faith for future needs, and so they rested and looked out upon the sea.

They had not much to say to one another at first. Mr Hume had brought a book in his pocket, from which he read a page now and then, sometimes to himself and sometimes to his friend; and as John lay and listened, looking away to the place where the sky and ocean met, he fell asleep, and had an hour and more of perfect repose.

How it came about, I cannot tell, but when he opened his eyes to meet the grave, kind eyes of the minister, looking down upon him, there came to him an utter softening of the heart--a longing unspeakable for the rest and peace which comes with the sympathy, be it voiced or silent, of one who is pitiful and who understands.

The minister put forth his hand and touched the hand of his friend.

"You have been at hard and weary work of late, John, or shall I say, you have been fighting a battle with a strong foe? and it has gone ill with you."

John had no words with which to answer him. His lips trembled and the tears rose to his eyes.

That was the beginning. They had enough to say to one another after a little time; but not a word of it all is to be written down. Of some things that pa.s.sed between them neither ever spoke to the other again.

Before all was said, John "had made a clean breast of it" to the minister, and had proved in his experience, that "faithful are the wounds of a friend," and that "a brother is born for adversity." They had been friends before that day. Thenceforth they were brothers by a stronger tie than that of blood.

When John was brought home to his mother that night, she could not but be doubtful of the good which their day had done him. But he was rested and cheerful in the morning, and she was not doubtful long. As time pa.s.sed, she could not but see that he was less impatient of his weakness and his enforced idleness; that he was at peace with himself, as he had not been for many a day, and that he was looking forward to renewed strength with a firmer purpose and a more hopeful heart.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

"And so, taking heart, he sailed Westward, not knowing the end."

Dr Fleming was by no means satisfied with the progress which his patient was making. He had called at the house with Mr Hume, and had expressed himself very decidedly as to the desirableness of a change for the young man, but he did not approve of Nethermuir, and he startled them all by saying:

"What you need is a sea voyage. It will take time and it will take money, but it is the very thing you need to make a new man of you. And the sooner you go the better." And then he went away.

"You should go to America, John, where so many are going these days,"

said the minister.

Mrs Beaton looked from one to the other with appealing eyes; and seeing this, John said nothing. Not a word more was spoken on the subject that day nor the next. On the third, as they sat together by the fireside in the gloaming, Mrs Beaton said:

"Well, John, what do you think?"

"Well, mother, I think the worst is over. I am growing stronger every day."

His mother smiled and shook her head.

"You havena won far on yet," said she. "But it was about the voyage to America that I was wishing to hear."

"It might do me good, but it is not absolutely necessary, I suppose."

"You might take a voyage without going so far as America."

"Yes, that is true."

"And the sooner the better for us both," said his mother, after a pause.

"A voyage to America would be as safe as any other, though it would be a long one."

"Yes, it would be a long voyage. America is far, faraway. And when you were once there, you might take it in your head to bide there."

"And you wouldna like that, mother?"

"I mightna like it, but it might be for your good, for all that."

"It wouldna be for my good to go away anywhere and leave my mother behind me," said John gravely. "Would you come with me, mother?"

"No, lad; no. I couldna do that for several reasons. But if you were to go there, and should see a prospect of prosperous days, I might follow you."

"Would you, mother dear?"

John rose and walked up and down the room a good many times. His mother waited with patience till he sat down again.

"Well, John?" said she.

"Do you mean it, mother?"

"Surely I mean it, or I wouldna say it. I should like better that you should content yourself at home. But it would be a new beginning."

"Yes, it would be a new beginning," said John gravely.