"It would need to be that, even here, in some ways, I suppose, and a new beginning might be easier there."

"Have you been thinking about all that, mother?"

"Surely! What else have I to think about but that which concerns you, who have your life before you?"

"And wouldna you be afraid of the long voyage, and the going to a strange land and leaving all behind you?"

"I would have my fears, I daresay, like other folk; but I would have few to leave if you were away; and I would have you to welcome me."

"I might come home for you in the course of a year or two."

"You could hardly do that without interfering with your work, whatever it might be. But I might come to you with some one else. I feel strong and well now."

"You are none the worse for the winter, mother?"

"None the worse, but much the better," said she cheerfully. And then she paused to consider whether it would be wise to say more.

"It will hurt him, but it may help him as well," she thought; and then she said aloud:

"I am far stronger than I was when I came here, and in better health every way. I may tell you now, since it is over, that all the last summer I was afraid--ay, sore afraid, of what might be before me. But I had a few words with Dr Fleming about myself, and he bade me put away my fears, for I had mistaken my trouble altogether. It was a great relief to my mind, and he helped my body as well. I am a stronger woman to-day than I ever thought to be."

John, remembering the lingering illness of an aunt, knew or guessed what her fear had been, and he grew white as he met her eyes.

"Are you sure, mother," said he hoa.r.s.ely, "that you are now safe from all fear?"

"As sure as the word of a skillful doctor and honest man can make me.

Yes, I think I may say I have no fear now."

"And you kept this dread to yourself! Oh! mother! mother!" said John, covering his face with his hands.

She had been enduring this trial--this great dread, in one way worse to meet than suffering itself would have been; while he, full of himself and his own plans and disappointments, had been taking no heed.

"I have great reason to be thankful," said Mrs Beaton softly; "and, John lad, what could I do, but keep my fears to myself till I was quite sure? You had your own trouble to bear, as I could well see, and it would have made mine none the less to add to your pain."

"Oh! mother! mother!" was all her son could say.

"John," said Mrs Beaton, after a time, "I think you might tell your mother!"

John raised his head and laughed, but there were tears in his eyes as he came over to her, and stooping, he softly kissed her. "Do you need to be told, mother?" said he.

These were the very first words which had pa.s.sed between them concerning the sorrow which had come to them both through Allison Bain, and they were nearly all that were ever spoken.

"I grieved for you, John, and I feared for you; but I trusted Allison Bain. If she does not love him, he is in no danger, I said. If she loves him, she will withstand him for his own sake."

"Be content, mother. She withstood me, whether she loved me or not."

"I thank G.o.d for you both. May He ever lead you in His own way!"

Of course a voyage was to be taken. There was some hesitation as to whether John should avail himself of the opportunity offered by a ship which was to sail at once to bring home timber from Norway, or wait a little longer for the _Griffin_, an emigrant vessel, bound for Quebec.

There were already great steam vessels crossing the ocean--not many of them, however, at this time, but the long voyage would be rather an advantage in John's case, and he made up his mind to go by the _Griffin_. But he said nothing to make any one suppose that he did not intend to return with her. There would be time enough to decide as to the length of his stay, when he had seen the country.

So the mother and son bade one another farewell for a while, and Mrs Beaton was the more courageous of the two when it came to the last words between them. But they did not linger over last words. Robert Hume had come to say good-bye to his friend, and to take care of Mrs Beaton on her homeward journey to Nethermuir, and he was amazed at John's "down-heartedness."

"Oh! man! if I only had your chance! Or if I were going with you!" said he, and John echoed his wish.

He had been a good many days out of sight of land, before he began to take himself to task for his utter inability to feel, or to profess an interest in that which was going on about him. He was, indeed, very down-hearted, as Robert had said. He said in his foolishness:

"My days are past. My purposes are broken off, even the thoughts of my heart."

And he told himself that, except for his mother's sake, it did not matter whether he made his home in America or in Scotland, or whether he should ever make a home at all. But this melancholy did not continue long. Little by little the salt winds brought him health and strength.

They blew away his foolish fancies, and soothed the smart of a pain real, and ill to bear. Then he began to see and to interest himself in that which was going on in the little world around him.

There were all sorts of people in it--fathers and mothers, and little children, young men and maidens. There were doubtful characters among them, it is to be supposed; some of them seemed to be poor enough, and some were evidently "well-to-do." All were alike cheerful and not afraid of the future, for they were all looking forward to having land of their own and a fair chance in the new world.

John made acquaintance with many, and made friends with a few, and got good, and tried to do good among them. There is time to make acquaintance during a voyage which lasts for weeks, and the seventh week was over before they anch.o.r.ed within sight of the citadel of Quebec.

There are letters still in existence in John's handwriting--great sheets, larger than common foolscap, written in small, even characters, like "copper-plate," and so written that every available hairbreadth of s.p.a.ce is covered, except that part which, when the elaborate process of folding was accomplished, was left blank for the address. There are a good many of these letters, and there is great variety both as to matter and to manner among them, some of them being addressed to his mother and others to the minister and to Robert. Altogether, they might afford material for a very full account of John's first impression of the scenery, the climate, the character of the people, the state of morals and manners, of education and religion in the new country to which he had come.

When they fell into John's hands many years after they were written, he enjoyed the reading of them greatly. He was very proud of the handwriting for one thing, and pleased with the evidence they gave of his patient and faithful efforts to satisfy his correspondents, both as to the quant.i.ty and the quality of the information conveyed.

His descriptions of natural scenery, of the grand river Saint Lawrence, the mountains, the islands, the great falls of Niagara, were very fine--"perhaps a little too fine"--he acknowledged. But his opinions as to the state of morals and manners, education and religion, and American inst.i.tutions generally, were greatly modified by the time he read his letters again; his "first impressions" may therefore be omitted in his story, and his adventures also, which were not of extraordinary interest, even to himself, until he came to the town of Barstow in the United States, the only town in all America which at that time had any special attraction for him.

In those days Barstow used to be spoken of as a Western town; but so many new States have been made since then, and so many towns and cities have risen up far to the westward, that it is now regarded as belonging to the eastern part of the great republic. It was not a large town when John Beaton first saw it. It had a few long, tree-shaded streets, where the great square, white houses, stood far apart, with pleasant lawns and gardens about them. Even the business streets were wide and clean, and had trees growing in them; and, altogether, "the place gave one the idea of plenty of elbow room," as John told Robert Hume in the first letter which he wrote there.

But he did not tell Robert or any one else why he had turned his face thitherward.

Before Dr Fleming had ended the sentence which declared that a sea voyage would be the best thing for his patient, John was saying to himself, that to the town of Barstow, where Alexander Hadden lived, and where William Bain was likely to go at last, wherever he might be lingering now, he should first direct his steps when his voyage was ended. If such a thing were possible, Allison's heart should be set at rest concerning her brother.

But now that he was there, for a reason which he could not well have declared to any one, he hesitated to apply to Mr Hadden for the information which he desired. It would be more natural and more agreeable to them both, he thought, that meeting William Bain as it were by chance, he should claim him as a countryman, and strive to win his confidence first of all. Afterward, he might be able to help and influence him. And it was too likely that he would need both help and influence.

That this lad who, not through wickedness perhaps, but through weakness and folly, had brought sorrow on all who loved him, would have strength and wisdom to resist all temptation, and begin a new life in a new land, was hardly to be believed. Alone, homesick, remorseful, there was little hope of his doing well without help from some one.

"And whatever else I may do, I must first find Willie Bain and help him as he may need, for Allison's sake."

But time was precious, and John's purse was not very deep; and if he were to see anything of this wonderful country, he told himself, he must not linger long in Barstow. But he did linger day after day. He did not seem to care so very much for seeing the country. He was growing well and strong, and to get health and strength was his motive for crossing the sea. He was as well here as elsewhere, and here he must stay. It seemed to be "borne in upon him," that there was something for him to do in the place.

When several days had pa.s.sed, he made up his mind that he would go to the bank and see Mr Hadden, and he went. It was too late to see him that day. Mr Hadden had gone home. On that night something happened.

John met the man whom he was seeking, face to face.

It could be no one else, he said to himself. For the eyes which met his for a moment were the beautiful, sad eyes of Allison Bain. "Now, G.o.d guide me!" said John in strong entreaty, and then he followed the lad.

He followed him down one street and up another, and out into the country along the lake sh.o.r.e. The stranger moved more slowly as he went on and stopped at last; and, leaning upon a broken fence, looked out long upon the water.

"I'm not so very strong yet," said John to himself, as he paused also, for his heart was beating hard and his hands trembled.

While he hesitated whether he should speak at once or wait a while, the lad turned and began to retrace his steps. John addressed him as he pa.s.sed. "Can you tell me if I am on the right road to--to--Jericho?"

said he, at a loss for a name. "No, I cannot tell you. I am a stranger here."

"A stranger? So am I. And you are a Scotchman, I ken by your tongue.