But Sam was out of hearing by this time, though he was not making the greatest possible haste to the field.

"Perhaps I might help you to unload," said John from the dimness of the barn floor. The farmer did not hesitate a second.

"I don't know who you be, but I expect you are to be trusted to pitch the hay back as fast as I pitch it down. Go ahead."

John could be trusted, it seemed. The farmer did not succeed in embarra.s.sing him with the abundance of the great forkfuls which he threw down into the mow, and the team was backed out into the yard in what the farmer called "pretty considerable quick time." And then he saw William Bain sitting with John's plaid about him, on a bundle of hay in the corner.

"Well! it seems to me that we're goin' to have company," said he.

"We have been enjoying the fresh air up among your trees yonder. But I was afraid of the rain for the lad, who has been ill of late, so we ventured to take possession of your barn."

"All right. It's nothing catching he's had, is it? He'd better go right into the house, hadn't he?"

But Bain preferred to stay where he was, among the hay. John took his place on the hay-cart, and set out with the farmer to the field.

"Well, I shouldn't wonder if we saved most of it now. It's just possible--with your help," added he, nodding in a friendly way to John.

As they pa.s.sed the door of the farmhouse he called out:

"See here, Myra; there's company out there in the south barn. You tell grandma she'd better have him in, and see to him. There's nothing catching, you say? Well, the old lady will fix him up, and make him comfortable; and she'll like nothing better."

The rain "held up" for a while, and the farmer and his two men, with the help of John, wrought wonders. When, at last, the rain came down in torrents, the fragrant hay was all safe under cover, and the farmer was triumphant.

Of course John came to the house with him, and there he found Willie Bain sitting in a rocking-chair, content and smiling, under the guardianship of a lovely old woman, whose face told that her pleasure all her life had been found in pleasing and helping others. It was a good sight for John to see.

"He'll do now," said he to himself. "He has fallen into good hands. I only wish I might leave him here for a day or two. It would set him up again."

"Be you brothers?" said the farmer, as he caught the satisfied look with which John regarded the lad sitting at his ease among them.

"We are fellow-countrymen," said John, "and that makes brothers of us here in a strange land."

The evening was one to be remembered by these brothers, who had been strangers less than a month ago. A good many times in the course of his life has John told the story of that first evening in Jacob Strong's house. He has forgotten many things, and times, and places better worth remembering, perhaps, but he will never forget his first coming into that long, low room, through whose open windows shone in the afterglow from the west, when the first heavy shower was over.

There was a wide fireplace, and on high, bra.s.s andirons a bright wood fire was burning. Over it was a mantel-shelf on which were arranged candlesticks of bra.s.s and snuffer-trays, and various other things quaint and pretty. There was a tall clock in the corner, and a tall looking-gla.s.s between the windows. There was a secretary in another corner, with a book-case above it, and some pictures on the walls. The table was laid for tea, and the room and all that was in it was perfect in neatness. Grandma Strong was there waiting for them, and the farmer's wife and his "little daughter," as Jacob Strong called a slender girl of sixteen, who was leaning shyly on her grand mother's chair. He might well remember it, and his friend also, for it was a good day for them both which brought them there, and Jacob Strong and his household proved true friends to them.

Jacob Strong! John told his mother long afterward, that if the Bible had been searched from end to end to find a good name for a good man, none better than that could have been found for their new friend. Not that either of the patriarch's names fitted him exactly. He was not a "supplanter," and though he was on the right side, as no one who knew him well would deny or even doubt, yet if one had wished to tell his character in two words, it would not have been as "a soldier of G.o.d"

that one would have described him. But he was in many ways very like the patriarch, as we see him in the Bible story. He was wise, he was wily, he was patient. He could bide his time and secure his chance, and when it came to that, that he had to yield, of to humble himself, to meet loss, or to dispense beyond what was pleasing to a man who took reasonable satisfaction in getting and in holding, he could yet do it without wincing visibly. He was fortunate in being in the hands of two good women, his mother and his wife, who knew him well, and loved him well, and who were jealous for his honour before men, and for his singleness of heart before G.o.d.

Of course John's knowledge of his character came later, and by slow degrees. But even on this first night he was greatly interested in his talk, which was at once "worldly wise and heavenly simple," as he afterward heard one of his neighbours say. And Jacob was strong in nature as in name. He could "hold on." He had paid every dollar which his farm had originally cost him, by the work of his own hands on other men's farms. And with the help of his mother first, and then of his wife, "who each carried a good head on her shoulders," as he told John, he had made it pay. By and by he added another hundred acres to the first hundred, and later, when "the Western fever" set in, and people began to talk about prairie lands, and great wheat farms to be made out there in the Far West, one of his neighbours sold out to him, and Jacob's two hundred acres became four.

"And that is about as much as I want to have on my hands, till labour comes to cost less, which won't be for a spell, as things look now,"

said he.

All this he told to John while a second heavy shower kept him waiting.

Before the rain was over, Willie Bain was at rest for the night, in Mrs Strong's south chamber. Then John told all that was necessary for them to know about the lad,--how, though he had known friends of his at home, he had never seen the lad himself until he had met him by chance on the lake sh.o.r.e. Finding him alone and ill, he had taken him home and cared for him. Bain was better now, and would soon be well. Yes, he meant to stay in the country. As to himself, John could not say whether he would stay long or not; the chances were he would remain for a time.

Then when the rain seemed over, John rose to go. The folk where they lived might be troubled about them. He had something to do in the morning, but in the course of the day he would come back for his friend.

And with many thanks for their kindness to the lad, he took his departure.

Since William Bain had acknowledged his name, John thought it right that Mr Hadden should be informed of his arrival in the town, and next morning he went again to see him, at his place of business. He was a good deal surprised at the manner in which Mr Hadden received him. It was not at all as one receives a stranger, he thought, but the reason was soon made clear to him.

John Beaton was not altogether a stranger to Mr Hadden. His name had been mentioned in both letters which Allison had written, as one who had been willing to befriend her brother while he was in prison, and who wished still to befriend him since he was set free. John told of his meeting with the lad, of his illness, and his good fortune in falling into the hands of the kind people out at the farm.

"It must be the Strongs you are speaking of. Certainly he could be in no better hands, if he still needs to be taken care of. And the longer he is there, the better it will be for him."

"I would like well to leave him there for a while, if they were willing to keep him. I will see how things look when I go out for him to-night."

Of his own affairs or intentions John said nothing. He spent the rest of the morning in looking about him, in order to ascertain what sort of work there was to be done in the town, to which he might put his hand with a hope of success. There was building going on, and he came at last to a wide yard, where stone-cutting was done, and he said to himself, that if they would but give him a chance, he would fall to, and do his best for a while at least.

But he did not go to inquire at once. He stood thinking of the day when he first tried his hand on the granite of Aberdeen, and earned his shilling before he laid the hammer down again.

"I might have done better, but then I might have done worse," he admitted with not unreasonable satisfaction. "And if I take it up again, it need not be 'for a continuance,' as auld Crombie would say. I must see the lad fairly set to honest work, and then I may go my way."

He offered himself at the place, and was taken on at once. His wages were to be decided upon when his first day's work should be done, and it need not be said that his wages were of the best.

When he went to the Strong farm that night, he found that Mr Hadden had been there before him. Willie Bain's first word to him was:

"Why did you never tell me that ye had seen our Allie?"

"Do ye no' mind that, till last night you never told me your name? How was I to ken?" added John, as Willie hung his head. "I did ken you as soon as ever I saw your face. Yes, I have seen your sister. She is safe where she is. No evil hand can touch her, and in a while she is coming out here to you."

Poor Willie Bain was but weak yet, and the tears were running down his cheeks, while John told him in few words what his sister had been doing, how she had won the respect of all who had known her, and how she had now gone away from Scotland with a good friend, but was looking forward to the time when she might join her brother, so that they might have again a home together.

"And, Willie, my lad," added John, gravely, "if I had a sister like yours, I would make a man of myself for her sake."

"You are a man already," said Willie, with a sound which might have been either a laugh or a sob. "As for me--yes, I ken I havena been taking right care of myself for a while. I fell into ill hands down yonder.

But now I have you, and I _will_ be a man for Allie's sake."

There had been tokens visible of the fact that the young man had not been "taking care of himself," but John had spoken no word which betrayed his knowledge.

They were in the garden at this time, sitting in a wide, green walk, between high rows of currant-bushes, a great apple-tree making a grateful shade around them. By and by they rose and walked up and down, John lending his strength to help his friend's weakness; and he asked:

"Would you not like to stay here a little while?"

"Till I get my strength back again? Yes, I would like it well. I mean sometime to have land of my own, and could begin to learn here the new ways that are needed in a new country. Yes, I would like well to bide here for a while."

He spoke eagerly and hopefully.

"I wish Allie were here. There would be no fear then," said Willie, looking up at John with Allie's wistful eyes.

"She cannot come for a time. It is likely that she might be sought for here--in Mr Hadden's neighbourhood, I mean. But, Willie man, I think it is as well that she should not come just now, even for your sake. It _is you who_ would be _looking_ up to her, because she is wiser than you, and maybe stronger. She would lead, and you would follow. That might be well, in a way. But it would be better, it would be far more manly for you to learn to stand by your own strength--to walk by your own wisdom. Of course, I mean by the help of G.o.d, in all things," said John, gravely.

"Do ye ken Allie well?" asked Willie, looking up into his friend's face.

John hesitated a moment.

"I cannot say that I have known her long, or seen her often. But I know that she has borne much trouble well and bravely, and that she must be strong. And I know that she has walked warily and done wisely in difficult places, so that all those who _do_ know her well, respect her, and some few people love her dearly--my mother among the rest."

"You must tell me all about her some time," said Willie, with glistening eyes.