For there were all the brothers waiting to see her, and there was the little sister, who, when she went away, had been a tiny creature in a long white frock, whom Marjorie longed to see. She was a little la.s.s of two years now, rosy and strong as any brother of them all. She was in Allison's arms when the door was opened to admit them, and the pleasant confusion that followed maybe imagined, for it cannot be described.

That was but the beginning. During the next few days, many a one came to the manse to see the little maiden who had suffered so patiently, though she longed so eagerly to be strong and well like the rest. And now she was "strong and well," she told them all, and the eager, smiling face was "bonnier and sweeter than ever," her admiring friends agreed.

And those who could not come to see her, she went to see--auld Maggie and the rest. The schoolmistress was come to the end of all her troubles, before this time, and was lying at peace in the kirkyard. So were some others, that Marjorie missed from the kirk and from the streets, but there was room only for brief sorrow in the heart of the child.

In the course of a few days Marjorie and Allison were invited to drink tea at Mrs Beaton's, which was a pleasure to them both. Mrs Beaton read to them bits out of her John's last letters, which told a good many interesting things about America, and about John himself, and about a friend of his, who was well and happy there. Marjorie listened eagerly and asked many questions. Allison listened in silence, gazing into her old friend's kindly face with wistful eyes.

That night, when the child was sleeping quietly, Allison came back again to hear more. There was not much to hear which Allison had not heard before, for her brother wrote to her regularly now. She had some things to tell John's mother, which she had not heard from her son, though she might have guessed some of them. He had told her of his growing success in his business, and he had said enough about Willie Bain to make it clear that they were good friends, who cared for one another, and who had helped one another through the time when they were making the first doubtful experiment of living as strangers in a strange land. But Willie had told his sister of his friend's success in other directions, and he gave the Americans credit for "kenning a good man when they saw him."

"For," said Willie, "it is not just an imagination, or a way of speaking, to say, that in this land 'all men are free and equal.' Of course, there are all kinds of men--rich and poor, good, bad, and indifferent--here as in other lands. All are not equal in that sense, and all are not equally successful. But every man has a chance here, whether he works with his head or his hands. And no man can claim a right to be better than his neighbour, or to have a higher place than another because of his family, or his father's wealth. It is character, and intelligence, and success in what one has undertaken to do, that bring honour to a man here. At least that is the way with my friend.

If he cared for all that, he might have pleasure enough, and friends enough. He is very quiet and keeps close at his work.

"He has been a good friend to me--better than I could ever tell you, and nothing shall come between us to separate us, _that_ I say, and swear.

Sometimes I think I would like to go back to Gra.s.sie again, that I might give myself a chance to redeem my character there. But still, I do not think I will ever go. And so, Allie, the sooner you come the better.

There is surely no danger now after nearly three years."

All this Allison read to John's mother, and there was something more which, for a moment, she thought she would like to read that might give pleasure to her kind old friend. For Willie in his next letter had betrayed, that the "something" which was never to be permitted to come between the friends to separate them, was the good-will of pretty and wayward Elsie Strong, who since she had come home from the school, where she had been for a year or more, "has been as changeable as the wind with me," wrote poor Willie, and greatly taken up, and more than friendly with Mr Beaton whenever he came out to the farm. And then he went on to say, that he thought of going to look about him farther West before he settled down on land of his own. And he had almost made up his mind to go at once, and not wait till the spring, as he had at first intended to do.

The letter went on to say that John Beaton had bought land, and was going to build a house upon it.

"It is the bonny knowe with the maples on it, looking down on the lake, where John brought me that first day to breathe the fresh air. John saved my life that time, and I will never forget it, nor all his goodness to me since then. Of course, Mr Strong would not have sold a rod of it to any one else. But Elsie is an only child, and it would be hard for him to part from her.

"The more I think of it, the more I wish to go farther West before I take up land of my own--and you must come when I have got it--"

All this Allison glanced over in silence, but she could not bring herself to read it to Mrs Beaton.

"He has told her himself, doubtless, though she has no call to tell it to me. I am glad--or I would be glad but for the sake of Willie, poor lad."

And then, as she rose to go, the door opened, and Saunners Crombie came stumbling in.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

"Show me what I have to do, Every hour my strength renew."

"Mistress Beaton," said the old man, "it is a liberty I am taking to trouble you at this late hour. But I hae been at the manse to get speech o' Allison Bain, and if I dinna see her the nicht I kenna when I may see her, and it is of importance."

Allison came forward, and offered her hand with a smile.

"I am sorry that you have had the trouble of seeking for me," said she.

"That's neither here nor there. I am glad to see you safe hame again.

Ye hae been doin' your duty down yonder they tell me. May ye ay hae the grace to do it. I hae some words to say to ye. Will ye go with me, or will I say them here? I am just come hame from Aberdeen."

"And you are done out. Sit you down and rest yourself," said Mrs Beaton, as she rose. Allison put out her hand to stay her as she was about to leave the room.

"Bide still with me. Mr Crombie can have nothing to say to me, that you may not hear."

The old man was leaning forward with his hands on his knees, looking tired and ready to fall asleep where he sat. He roused himself as Allison spoke.

"That is as ye shall think yoursel'. This is what I hae to say to you.

I hae heard o' yon man again. I hae seen him. And I hae come to say to you, that it is your duty to go to him where he lies on his dying bed.

Ay woman! ye'll need to go. It's no' atween you and him now, but atween you and your Maker."

"It has come at last," said Allison, growing pale.

Mrs Beaton sat down beside her, and taking her hand, held it firmly in both hers.

"It was an accident," went on Crombie. "He had been drinking too freely, they say. He was in the town, and he set off late to go home, and was thrown from his horse. How it happened canna be said, but they found him in the morning lying by the dike-side, dead--it was supposed at first. But they carried him to the infirmary, and he is living yet.

He is coming to himself, and kens folk, and he _may_ live to leave the place, but it's less than likely."

"And who bade you come to Allison Bain with all this?" asked Mrs Beaton, gravely. "And are you quite sure it is true?"

"Oh! ay, it's true. I didna come to her with hearsays. I gaed mysel'

to the infirmary and I saw him with my ain een. And who bade me come here to her, say ye? It was the Lord himself, I'm thinking. The man's name wasna named to me, nor by me. I kenned him because I had seen him before. And it was borne in upon me that I should tell Allison Bain o'

his condition. Or wherefore should the knowledge of it have come to me who am the only one here beside yoursel' who kens how these twa stand to ane anither?"

But Mrs Beaton's heart sickened at the thought of what might be before Allison.

"What could she do for him if she were to go there? He is in good hands doubtless, and is well cared for. Has he been asking for her?"

"That I canna say. But ye may ken without my telling you, that there is no saying 'wherefore?' to a message from the Lord. And it is between the Lord and this woman that the matter is to be settled now."

But Mrs Beaton shook her head.

"I canna see it so. If he really needed her--if it were a matter of life and death--"

"A matter of life and death! Do ye no' see, woman, that it is for more than that? It is the matter of the saving of a soul! Do ye not understand, that a' the evil deeds o' a' his evil life will be coming back now on this man, and setting themselves in array against him, and no' among the least o' them the evil he brought on her and hers? And what kens he o' the Lord and His mercy? And what has he ever heard of salvation from death through faith in the Son of G.o.d?"

Mrs Beaton had no words with which to answer him, and they all were silent for a while. Then Crombie began again, more gently:

"And if he were to come out of his fever, with all the dreads and doubts upon him that hae been filling his nights and days, and if he were to see her face with a look of forgiveness on it, and the peace of G.o.d, it might encourage him to hope in G.o.d's mercy, and to lippen himsel'-- sinner as he kens himsel' to be--in the hands of Him who is gracious, and full of compa.s.sion and tender mercy. Think of the honour of being the means, in the Lord's hand, of saving a sinner like that!"

The old man had risen, and with his eyes on Allison's face, spoke earnestly, almost with pa.s.sion. But as he ended, he sank back into his chair again silent and exhausted. At a word now from Mrs Beaton, Allison rose and went out into the kitchen.

"Mr Crombie," said Mrs Beaton, softly, "it is a great thing that you are asking of Allison Bain. I know not what to say. I can speak no word to bid her go. I pray that she may be guided aright."

The old man answered nothing. He seemed utterly spent and helpless.

"You have had a long journey. You are quite worn out," said Mrs Beaton.

"Ay, have I. And it's no' just done yet, and there is a dark house and a silent at the end o't. But I'll win through it."

In a few minutes Allison came in quietly.

"Mr Crombie, you are to come with me to the fire. I have made some tea for you, and you must eat and drink before you try to go home."