"The child! Ah! yes, I see, and a bonny little creature she is," said Mr Rainy, offering his hand to Marjorie. "And whose child may she be?"

"She is the child of my master and mistress. I have been in service all this time, and I need help from no one."

"In service! Yes, and among decent folk, I'll be bound! Well! well!

And doubtless you will be able to account for every day and hour that has gone by since you--were lost sight of. That is well."

"It might be well if there were any one who had a right to call me to account," said Allison, coldly.

Mr Rainy had turned with them, and they were walking down the street together.

"A right? The less said about rights the better. But this I will say, you have a right to look upon me as a friend, as your father did before you. And I have a right to expect it from you. Your father trusted me, and it will be for your good to trust me likewise."

"Yes, he trusted you. And if I needed help that you could give, I might come to you for it. But I have only to ask that you forget that you have seen me. Not that it matters much now; I have got over my first fear. I must bid you good-day. We are on our way to see Doctor Fleming. But first we are going down to the sands."

And then Allison made him a courtesy which minded Marjorie of Mrs Esselmont. Then they went down another street together, and left him standing there.

Mr Rainy had been for many years the friend and legal adviser of the laird of Blackhills, and more than once, in his visits to the great house on the laird's business, he had given counsel to Allison's father with regard to his affairs. He had been with him when he was drawing near his end, and had done, what, at that late day, could be done, to set his affairs in order, and to secure, that which he possessed, for the benefit of those he left behind. He had known all the circ.u.mstances of Allison's unfortunate marriage. He had not spared Brownrig when the matter was discussed between them, but in no measured terms had declared his conduct to have been cowardly, selfish, base.

But when Allison disappeared so suddenly, he had done his utmost to find her. That a woman might begin by hating a man, and yet come to love him when he was her husband, he believed to be possible. At the least Allison might come to tolerate her husband if she did not love him. She might come, in time, to take the good of her fine house and of the fine things, of which there was like to be no stint in it, and live her life like the rest, when her first anger at his treacherous dealing was over.

For her own sake, for the sake of her good name, and the respect he owed to the memory of her father, Mr Rainy left no means untried, that might avail to discover her. He never imagined it possible that she would remain within a short day's journey of the place where all her life had been spent.

Of late he had come to believe that she was dead. And he said to himself, that if she could have been laid to her rest beside her father and her mother, no one need have grieved for her death. For her marriage could hardly have been a happy one. All her life long she had forgotten herself, and lived only for her father and mother, because she loved them, and because they needed her. For the same reason she would have laid herself down in the dust, to make a way for her young scamp of a brother to pa.s.s over to get his own will. But for the man who had married her she had professed no love, and even in his fine house it might have gone ill with them both.

"But it is different now," he said to himself, as he went down the street. "Brownrig is a dying man, or I am much mistaken, and he has known little of any one belonging to him for many a year and day. And his heart is softening--yes, I think his heart must be softening. He might be brought to make amends for the ill turn he did her when he married her. As for her, she will hear reason. Yes, she must be brought to hear reason. She seemed to ken Dr Fleming. I will see him.

A word from a man like him might have weight with her. I will see him at once."

Mr Rainy lost no time. He needed to say his say quickly, for the doctor had much before him in his day's work. The patience with which he listened, soon changed to eager interest. "It is about Brownrig--the man whose horse fell with him in the street--that I want to ask. He was brought to the infirmary lately. You must have seen him."

Then in the fewest possible words that he could use, Mr Rainy told the story of Allison Bain.

"I met her in the street, and the sight of me hurt her sorely, though she did not mean that I should see it. I came to you because she named your name, and I thought you might help in the matter."

Dr Fleming listened in silence. He had never forgotten Allison Bain.

He had never been told her story before; but through some words spoken by Mr Hadden, and later by Mr Hume, he knew that she _had_ a story, and that it was a sad one. It was not necessary for him to say all this to Mr Rainy, who ended by saying:

"What I want you to tell me is, whether the man is likely to live or to die." And then he added, with an oath, "If I thought he might live, I would not lift my finger to bring a woman like her, into the power of a man like him. Certainly I would not do so against her will. But if he is to die--that is another thing."

Doctor Fleming was not the kind of man to be taken altogether into his confidence as to the motive he had in desiring to bring these two together, and he said no more.

"I will see the man to-day," said the doctor, gravely.

As one door opened to let Mr Rainy out, another opened to admit Allison and Marjorie. It was Marjorie who spoke first.

"My father said I was to come and see you, doctor. I am little Marjorie Hume. You'll mind on me, I think."

Doctor Fleming laughed, and lifting the little creature in his arms, kissed her, "cheek and chin."

"My little darling! And are you quite well and strong?"

"Oh! yes. I'm quite well and strong now--just like other bairns. I'm not very big yet," added she, as he set her down again. "But I am well.

Allie will tell you."

Allison, who had remained near the door, came forward smiling.

"She is much better indeed," said she.

"You should say quite well, Allie dear," urged Marjorie, in a whisper.

"Yes, I may say quite well. Her father wished us to come and see you before going home. Or rather, he wished you to see the child. But your time is precious."

"Where are you staying? At the old place with Mrs Robb? Well, I will come round and see you this evening. I have a good many questions to ask. You were not thinking of leaving to-day?"

No, they were to remain a day to rest, and some one was to meet them when they left the mail-coach to take them home. The doctor asked a question or two and let them go, but his eyes followed them with interest till they pa.s.sed round the corner out of sight.

When he came to see them in the evening, he found Marjorie sleeping on the sofa, while Allison sat by her side with her work in her hand. It happened well, for the doctor had some questions to ask which could be answered all the more clearly and exactly, that the child need not be considered in the matter. They spoke softly, not to disturb her, and in answer to the doctor's questions Allison told briefly and directly all that he wished to know. Indeed, he could not but be surprised at the fulness and the clearness of the account which she gave, of all that the doctor had done. The minutest details of treatment were given; and sometimes the reason, and the result, almost as fully and effectively as they were written down, in a letter which had been sent him by Dr Thorne. To this letter he referred for a moment, and as he folded it up, he said:

"The child fell into good hands. Dr Thorne is a skilful doctor and a wise man. That is well seen in his works and his words."

"Yes," said Allison. "You are right there."

She had spoken very quietly and gravely up to this time. Now the colour came into her cheeks, and her eyes shone as she went on.

"I could never tell you all his goodness. At first he seemed just to wish to please his friend, Mrs Esselmont. I doubt whether he had much hope of helping the child at first. And then he took up the case in full earnest, for the sake of science, or just for the pleasure of seeing what wonderful things skill and patience could do for help and healing. But in a while, it was not just a _case_ with him. He soon came to love her dearly. And no wonder he loved the gentle little creature, ay patient and cheerful and making the best of everything, even when they hurt her, or wearied her, with this thing or that, as whiles they had to do. Not a child in a thousand would have borne all she has come through, to have health and strength at last. And not a doctor in a thousand could have brought her through, I hope, sir, you will excuse my saying so much," said Allison, pausing suddenly, as she caught the look with which Doctor Fleming was regarding her.

"Oh! yes. I understand well." And then he opened his letter and read a line or two.

"'It is a remarkable case altogether. The pleasure I have taken in it has paid me ten times over for my trouble.'"

"I am sure of it," said Allison, speaking low and eagerly. "I could never tell you all his kindness. You see it was not just saving a life.

It was a far greater thing to do than that. It would not have been so very sad a thing for a child like her to have died, to have been spared the trouble that comes into the life of even the happiest, though many would have missed her sorely. But she might have lived long, and suffered much, and grown weary of her life. It is from that that she has been saved, to happy days, and useful. It will be something to see her father's face when his eyes light upon her. And the doctor speaks in earnest, when he says he took pleasure in helping the child."

Doctor Fleming looked up from his letter and smiled, and then read a few words more from it.

"'You will understand and believe me when I say, that her firm and gentle nurse has done more for the child than I have done. Without her constant, wise and loving care, all else could have availed little. She is a woman among a thousand--a born nurse--'"

Allison laughed softly though the tears came to her eyes.

"Did he say that? He is kind. And I am glad, because--if a time should come when--"

And then she paused as she met Marjorie's wondering eyes. The doctor had something to say to the child, but he did not linger long. He had come with the intention, also, of saying something to Allison of Brownrig's condition. But he could not bring himself to do it.

"I will wait for a day or two, to see how it is like to be with him. He is not in a fit state to be moved, as the sight of her would be likely to move him. And even if I knew he were able to bear it, I could not by any words about him, spoil her happy homecoming."

"A happy homecoming!" It was that truly. When they came to the mill, where the houses on that side of the town begin, Marjorie would have liked to leave the gig, with which Robert had gone to meet them, at the point where they left the mail-coach, that all the folk might see that she could walk, and even run, "like the other bairns." And then everybody would see how wise her father and mother had been in sending her away to a good man's care. But Robert laughed at her, and said there would be time enough for all that in the days that were coming, and Allison bade her wait till her father and mother might see her very first steps at home.

The time of their homecoming was known, and there were plenty of people to see them as they pa.s.sed down the street. Every window and door showed a face which smiled a welcome to the child. As for Marjorie she smiled on them all, and nodded and called out many a familiar name; and there were happy tears in her eyes, and running down her cheeks, before she made the turn which brought the manse in sight.

And then, when they stopped at the door, her father took her in his arms, and carried her into the parlour where her mother was waiting for her, and set her on her own little couch which had never been removed all this time, and then the door was shut. But not for very long.