XVIII.

GOOD-BY AND JOY BE WITH US ALL!

"All things we cannot know. At sea

As when a good ship saileth,

Our steps within the planks are free,
Beyond all cunning faileth,"

"Maiden, thou hast heard the lesson,
As my tongue hath strength to tell,
Typed for thee in flowery garden;
Take it now and use it well.
Winged words are lightly spoken,
With the breath the sermon dies;
But the precept of the moment
Tasks a lifetime, to the wise."

-Blackie.

OY, as well as grief, is a wakeful spirit. Angus

Joy,

slept none that blessed Sabbath night, and as he found it impossible to banish thoughts of Scotia, he set them all to thanksgiving. Even if she refused to pardon him-if she refused to give him again the troth he had so angrily returned to her-yes, even if her love for him was dead, he could still rejoice in the purity and perfection of his ideal woman. He could still love her and believe in her and keep her exquisite memory to sweeten all his after life.

In the gray light before dawning he left Edinburgh. He reached Kirkton in the afternoon, refreshed himself at the little inn there, and hired a gig to take him to Yarrow Bell. And as he began to climb the mountain road, Angus remembered the great hills shoul

dering one another; and the silvery, shining waters leaping from crag to crag, until they reached the valley. The heather was in bloom, and the little companies. of sheep resting in it looked white as snow in its violet haze.

Here and there a shepherd was strolling up or down the hillsides, and one at a great altitude was singing, to the exquisite minors of St. Mary's, the twenty-third psalm :

The Lord's my shepherd, I'll not want;

He makes me down to lie,

In pastures green he leadeth me

The quiet waters by.*

Far off and far down, the happy pastoral sought out all the sweet, silent places. The singer stood on a jutting rock overlooking the road and the valleys far away, and Bruce, lifting his eyes, could just catch his tall figure, standing clearly out against the blue Cheviots behind him. His voice was the voice of a strong man rejoicing to sing of goodness and mercy, rejoicing to tell heaven and earth

In pastures green he leadeth me
The quiet waters by.

Bruce lifted the lines with him, and so singing went up to the Bell.

He reached the great iron gates of Yarrow Towers just as the psalm was finished, and there he sent back the gig, and went through them, with the four last lines lingering on his lips and making melody in his heart. Goodness and mercy all my life

Shall surely follow me ;

And in God's house forever more,
My dwelling place shall be.

* Scotch Psalms; version allowed by General Assembly of Church of Scotland.

The great stillness and greenness of the place made him feel as if he was in a dream. The perfect confidence of the animals and birds made him feel as if he was in Eden. The hare looked at him shyly from her form; the squirrel from its branch. The dappled deer browsing under the oaks had no fear. The birds with their newly-fledged families twittered to him about the heat, and the difficulty of the young birds flying in it. He was impatient to see Scotia, but he did not hurry; he felt only that he was gathering hope and strength with every step he took.

Just where the park became the fruit garden, he saw a form he knew among the raspberry standards. "Mother! Mother!"

He did not speak loudly, but what word has such an insinuating power-insinuation that is almost authority. Ann turned very quickly at the first call. She came to meet him gladly, all her movements expressing joy and welcome. Never before had she been so handsome in her son's eyes. Her white gown, her black silk apron, the rough straw hat tied down with a ribbon, the little rush basket full of berries in her hand, made her look, in her ripe and ample beauty, like the goddess of some ancient garden.

"My dear Angus! Oh, but you are welcome!" "My dear mother! I have come with good

"Have you received the 'call' to Free St. Mungo's yet?"

"I have accepted it-that is another thing. I am come about Scotia."

"Oh, Angus, I'm feared there is nae gude news about her."

"She is innocent of all that I have blamed her for

she is pure as a 'new opened lily-she is true as you are, mother."

"Weel, weel, I'm glad to hear tell o' such wonders." "Where? when can I see her?"

"You can gae wi' me straight to her side. You can gae wi' me this vera minute. If you hae come to put wrong right, the sooner you get about the business, the better."

They were within the large cool hall. All was very quiet. Ann pointed to a lofty door, and then passed out of her son's sight. She had the self-denial of a great nature. She was capable of resigning all share in joy she could not heighten. Angus opened the door. It moved so perfectly, so smoothly on its hinges that Scotia was not aware of his entrance.

She sat in a deep, low chair by the open window. She had a book in her hand, but it was a closed book; her eyes were out-looking; she had the gaze of one who is seeing things invisible. Indeed, she was at that moment looking backward to hours forever gone, She was thinking of Bruce, and thinking of him with great tenderness. She had come to that point where anger was dead, and she had begun to make excuses for her lover; and had begun even to find in his supersensible and supersensitiveness of conscience, a noble and excellent trait. And after all, he was not to blame. He believed her guilty on the evidence not of words, but of his own senses. Perhaps he oughtperhaps he ought—

She was at this point in her solitary argument, when she heard Bruce's step upon the carpet. It was dulled by the soft, thick pile, but she detected its peculiarity in a moment. She rose quickly and steadied herself by leaning upon the back of her chair. Bruce was

approaching her. His face had a story in it. She looked at him eagerly, inquisitively; she was white as her white gown. Her lips parted slightly, and she uttered a thin, sharp cry.

He stood before her. His attitude was that of grief and contrition. "Miss Rodney," he said, “I have wronged you from the first to the last. I was too hasty. I never ought to have doubted you for a moment. I am unworthy of your love, because of my doubt. Forgive me, if you can! Love me again, if you can!"

Scotia stepped forward; she put her arms around his neck; she said, oh, such words, such sweet words of pardon. There are no sweeter, no more divine words, spoken on earth, than those love whispers when it forgives. She mingled them with happy tears. She sealed them with fondest kisses.

Angus seated her again in her chair and drew his own close by her side. Holding her hands, he told her all that Sarah Latham had confessed to him. Scotia listened now without anger. The trouble was over. Angus was closer than ever to her, she could afford to forgive, even those who were not sorrywho still kept the secret of their wrong-doing. She heard with a happy indifference the particulars, and then turned the conversation on Bruce's own prospects. She had heard he was to have the call to Free Saint Mungo's in Edinburgh. Was it true? Was it not a very large congregation? Was it not a great honor?

They were talking of these things when Ann and Lady Yarrow entered. Lady Yarrow gave Bruce her hand, but she said, with a shake of her head, "So you have come at last, sir. I think shame of your loitering."