Chapter One.

The longest day in all the year was slowly closing over the little village of Clayton. There were no loiterers now at the corners of the streets or on the village square—it was too late for that, though daylight still lingered. Now and then the silence was broken by the footsteps of some late home-comer, and over more than one narrow close, the sound of boyish voices went and came, from garret to garret, telling that the spirit of slumber had not yet taken possession of the place. But these soon ceased. The wind moved the tall laburnums in the lane without a sound, and the murmur of running water alone broke the stillness, as the gurgle of the burn, and the rush of the distant mill-dam met and mingled in the air of the summer night.

In the primitive village of Clayton, at this midsummer time, gentle and simple were wont to seek their rest by the light of the long gloaming. But to-night there was light in the manse—in the minister’s study, and in other parts of the house as well. Lights were carried hurriedly past uncurtained windows, and flared at last through the open door, as a woman’s anxious face looked out.

“What can be keeping him?” she murmured, as she shaded the flickering candle and peered out into the gathering darkness. “It’s no’ like him to linger at a time like this. God send he was at home.”

Another moment of eager listening, and then the anxious face was withdrawn and the door closed. Soon a sound broke the stillness of the village street; a horseman drew up before the minister’s house, and the door was again opened.

“Well, Janet?” said the rider, throwing the reins on the horse’s neck and pausing as he went in. The woman curtseyed with a very relieved face.

“They’ll be glad to see you up the stairs, sir. The minister’s no’ long home.”

She lighted the doctor up the stairs, and then turned briskly in another direction. In a minute she was kneeling before the kitchen hearth, and was stirring up the buried embers.

“Has my father come, Janet?” said a voice out of the darkness.

“Yes, he’s come. He’s gone up the stairs. I’ll put on the kettle. I dare say he’ll be none the worse of a cup of tea after his ride.”

Sitting on the high kitchen dresser, her cheek close against the darkening window, sat a young girl, of perhaps twelve or fourteen years of age. She had been reading by the light that lingered long at that western window, but the entrance of Janet’s candle darkened that, and the book, which at the first moment of surprise had dropped out of her hand, she now hastily put behind her out of Janet’s sight. But she need not have feared a rebuke for “blindin’ herself” this time, for Janet was intent on other matters, and pursued her work in silence. Soon the blaze sprung up, and the dishes and covers on the wall shone in the firelight. Then she went softly out and closed the door behind her.

The girl sat still on the high dresser, with her head leaning back on the window ledge, watching the shadows made by the firelight, and thinking her own pleasant thoughts the while. As the door closed, a murmur of wonder escaped her, that “Janet had’na sent her to her bed.”

“It’s quite time I dare say,” she added, in a little, “and I’m tired, too, with my long walk to the glen. I’ll go whenever papa comes down.”

She listened for a minute. Then her thoughts went away to other things—to her father, who had been away all day; to her mother, who was not quite well to-night, and had gone up-stairs, contrary to her usual custom, before her father came home. Then she thought of other things—of the book she had been reading, a story of one who had dared and done much in a righteous cause—and then she gradually lost sight of the tale and fell into fanciful musings about her own future, and to the building of pleasant castles, in which she and they whom she loved were to dwell. Sitting in the firelight, with eyes and lips that smiled, the pleasant fancies came and went. Not a shadow crossed her brow. Not a fear came to dim the light by which she gazed into the future that she planned. So she sat till her dream was dreamed out, and then, with a sigh, in which there was no echo of care or pain, she woke to the present, and turned to her book again.

“I might see by the fire,” she said, and in a minute she was seated on the floor, her head leaning on her hands, and her eye fastened on the open page.

“Miss Graeme,” said Janet, softly coming in with a child in her arms, “your mamma’s no’ weel, and here’s wee Rosie wakened, and wantin’ her. You’ll need to take her, for I maun awa’.”

The book fell from the girl’s hand, as she started up with a frightened face.

“What ails mamma, Janet? Is she very ill?”

“What should ail her but the one thing?” said Janet, impatiently. “She’ll be better the morn I hae nae doubt.”

Graeme made no attempt to take the child, who held out her hands toward her.

“I must go to her, Janet.”

“Indeed, Miss Graeme, you’ll do nothing o’ the kind. Mrs Burns is with her, and the doctor, and it’s little good you could do her just now. Bide still where you are, and take care o’ wee Rosie, and hearken if you hear ony o’ the ither bairns, for none o’ you can see your mamma the night.”

Graeme took her little sister in her arms and seated herself on the floor again. Janet went out, and Graeme heard her father’s voice in the passage. She held her breath to listen, but he did not come in as she hoped he would. She heard them both go up-stairs again, and heedless of the prattle of her baby sister, she still listened eagerly. Now and then the sound of footsteps overhead reached her, and in a little Janet came into the kitchen again, but she did not stay to be questioned. Then the street door opened, and some one went out, and it seemed to Graeme a long time before she heard another sound. Then Janet came in again, and this time she seemed to have forgotten that there was any one to see her, for she was wringing her hands, and the tears were streaming down her cheeks. Graeme’s heart stood still, and her white lips could scarcely utter a sound.

“Janet!—tell me!—my mother.”

“Save us lassie! I had no mind of you. Bide still, Miss Graeme. You munna go there,” for Graeme with her little sister in her arms was hastening away. “Your mamma’s no waur than she’s been afore. It’s only me that doesna ken about the like o’ you. The minister keeps up a gude heart. Gude forgie him and a’ mankind.”

Graeme took a step toward the door, and the baby, frightened at Janet’s unwonted vehemence, sent up a shrill cry. But Janet put them both aside, and stood with her back against the door.

“No’ ae step, Miss Graeme. The auld fule that I am; ’gin the lassie had been but in her bed. No, I’ll no’ take the bairn, sit down there, you’ll be sent for if you’re needed. I’ll be back again soon; and you’ll promise me that you’ll no leave this till I bid you. Miss Graeme, I wouldna deceive you if I was afraid for your mamma. Promise me that you’ll bide still.”

Graeme promised, awed by the earnestness of Janet, and by her own vague terror as to her mother’s mysterious sorrow, that could claim from one usually so calm, sympathy so intense and painful. Then she sat down again to listen and to wait. How long the time seemed! The lids fell down over the baby’s wakeful eyes at last, and Graeme, gathering her own frock over the little limbs, and murmuring loving words to her darling, listened still.

The flames ceased to leap and glow on the hearth, the shadows no longer danced upon the wall, and gazing at the strange faces and forms that smiled and beckoned to her from the dying embers, still she listened. The red embers faded into white, the dark forest with its sunny glades and long retreating vistas, the hills, and rocks, and clouds, and waterfalls, that had risen among them at the watcher’s will, changed to dull grey ashes, and the dim dawn of the summer morning, gleamed in at last upon the weary sleeper. The baby still nestled in her arms, the golden hair of the child gleaming among the dark curls of the elder sister as their cheeks lay close together. Graeme moaned and murmured in her sleep, and clasped the baby closer, but she did not wake till Janet’s voice aroused her. There were no tears on her face now, but it was very white, and her voice was low and changed.

“Miss Graeme, you are to go to your mamma; she’s wantin’ you. But mind you are to be quiet, and think o’ your father.”

Taking the child in her arms, she turned her back upon the startled girl. Chilled and stiff from her uneasy posture, Graeme strove to rise, and stumbling, caught at Janet’s arm.

“Mamma is better Janet,” she asked eagerly. Janet kept her working face out of sight, and, in a little, answered hoarsely,—

“Ay, she’ll soon be better, whatever becomes of the rest of us. But, mind, you are to be quiet, Miss Graeme.”

Chilled and trembling, Graeme crept up-stairs and through the dim passages to her mother’s room. The curtains had been drawn back, and the daylight streamed into the room. But the forgotten candles still glimmered on the table. There were several people in the room, standing sad and silent around the bed. They moved away as she drew near. Then Graeme saw her mother’s white face on the pillow, and her father bending over her. Even in the awe and dread that smote on her heart like death, she remembered that she must be quiet, and, coming close to the pillow, she said softly,—

“Mother.”

The dying eyes came back from their wandering, and fastened on her darling’s face, and the white lips opened with a smile.

“Graeme—my own love—I am going away—and they will have no one but you. And I have so much to say to you.”

So much to say! With only strength to ask, “God guide my darling ever!” and the dying eyes closed, and the smile lingered upon the pale lips, and in the silence that came next, one thought fixed itself on the heart of the awe-stricken girl, never to be effaced. Her father and his motherless children had none but her to care for them now.

Chapter Two.

“It’s a’ ye ken! Gotten ower it, indeed!” and Janet turned her back on her visitor, and went muttering about her gloomy kitchen: “The minister no’ being one to speak his sorrow to the newsmongering folk that frequent your house, they say he has gotten ower it, do they? It’s a’ they ken!”

“Janet, woman,” said her visitor, “I canna but think you are unreasonable in your anger. I said nothing derogatory to the minister; far be it from me! But we can a’ see that the house needs a head, and the bairns need a mother. The minister’s growing gey cheerful like, and the year is mair than out; and—”

“Whisht, woman. Dinna say it. Speak sense if ye maun speak,” said Janet, with a gesture of disgust and anger.

“Wherefore should I no’ say it?” demanded her visitor. “And as to speaking sense—. But I’ll no’ trouble you. It seems you have friends in such plenty that you can afford to scorn and scoff at them at your pleasure. Good-day to you,” and she rose to go.

But Janet had already repented her hot words.

“Bide still, woman! Friends dinna fall out for a single ill word. And what with ae thing and anither I dinna weel ken what I’m saying or doing whiles. Sit down: it’s you that’s unreasonable now.”

This was Mistress Elspat Smith, the wife of a farmer—“no’ that ill aff,” as he cautiously expressed it—a far more important person in the parish than Janet, the minister’s maid-of-all-work. It was a condescension on her part to come into Janet’s kitchen, under any circumstances, she thought; and to be taken up sharply for a friendly word was not to be borne. But they had been friends all their lives; and Janet “kenned hersel’ as gude a woman as Elspat Smith, weel aff or no’ weel aff;” so with gentle violence she pushed her back into her chair, saying:

“Hoot, woman! What would folk say to see you and me striving at this late day? And I want to consult you.”

“But you should speak sense yourself, Janet,” said her friend.

“Folk maun speak as it’s given them to speak,” said Janet; “and we’ll say nae mair about it. No’ but that the bairns might be the better to have some one to be over them. She wouldna hae her sorrow to seek, I can tell you. No that they’re ill bairns—”

“We’ll say no more about it, since that is your will,” said Mrs Smith, with dignity; and then, relenting, she added,—

“You have a full handfu’ with the eight of them, I’m sure.”

“Seven only,” said Janet, under her breath. “She got one of them safe home with her, thank God. No’ that there’s one ower many,” added she quickly; “and they’re no’ ill bairns.”

“You have your ain troubles among them, I dare say, and are muckle to be pitied—”

“Me to be pitied!” said Janet scornfully, “there’s no fear o’ me. But what can the like o’ me do? For ye ken, woman, though the minister is a powerful preacher, and grand on points o’ doctrine, he’s a verra bairn about some things. She aye keepit the siller, and far did she make it gang—having something to lay by at the year’s end as well. Now, if we make the twa ends meet, it’s mair than I expect.”

“But Miss Graeme ought to have some sense about these things. Surely she takes heed to the bairns?”

“Miss Graeme’s but a bairn herself, with little thought and less experience; and its no’ to be supposed that the rest will take heed to her. The little anes are no’ so ill to do with; but these twa laddies are just spirits o’ mischief, for as quiet as Norman looks; and they come home from the school with torn clothes, till Miss Graeme is just dazed with mending at them. And Miss Marian is near as ill as the laddies; and poor, wee Rosie, growing langer and thinner every day, till you would think the wind would blow her awa. Master Arthur is awa at his eddication: the best thing for a’ concerned. I wish they were a’ safe unto man’s estate,” and Janet sighed.

“And is Miss Graeme good at her seam?” asked Mistress Elspat.

“Oh ay; she’s no’ that ill. She’s better at her sampler and at the flowering than at mending torn jackets, however. But there’s no fear but she would get skill at that, and at other things, if she would but hae patience with herself. Miss Graeme is none of the common kind.”

“And has there been no word from her friends since? They say her brother has no bairns of his own. He might well do something for hers.”

Janet shook her head.

“The minister doesna think that I ken; but when Mr Ross was here at the burial, he offered to take two of the bairns, Norman or Harry, and wee Marian. She’s likest her mamma. But such a thing wasna to be thought of; and he went awa’ no’ weel pleased. Whether he’ll do onything for them in ony ither way is more than I ken. He might keep Master Arthur at the college and no’ miss it. How the minister is ever to school the rest o’ them is no’ easy to be seen, unless he should go to America after all.”

Mistress Smith lifted her hands.

“He’ll never surely think o’ taking these motherless bairns to yon savage place! What could ail him at Mr Ross’s offer? My patience! but folk whiles stand in their ain light.”

“Mr Ross is not a God-fearing man,” replied Janet, solemnly. “It’s no’ what their mother would have wished to have her bairns brought up by him. The minister kenned her wishes well on that point, you may be sure. And besides, he could never cross the sea and leave any of them behind.”

“But what need to cross the sea?” cried Mrs Smith; “It’s a pity but folk should ken when they’re weel aff. What could the like o’ him do in a country he kens nothing about, and with so many bairns?”

“It’s for the bairns’ sake he’s thinking of it. They say there’s fine land there for the working, and no such a thing as payin’ rent, but every man farming his own land, with none to say him nay. And there’s room for all, and meat and clothes, and to spare. I’m no’ sure but it’s just the best thing the minister can do. They had near made up their minds afore, ye ken.”

“Hoot, woman, speak sense,” entreated her friend. “Is the minister to sell rusty knives and glass beads to the Indians? That’s what they do in yon country, as I’ve read in a book myself. Whatna like way is that to bring up a family?”

“Losh, woman, there’s other folk there beside red Indians; folk that dinna scruple to even themselves with the best in Britain, no’ less. You should read the newspapers, woman. There’s one John Caldwell there, a friend o’ the minister’s, that’s something in a college, and he’s aye writing him to come. He says it’s a wonderful country for progress; and they hae things there they ca’ institutions, that he seems to think muckle o’, though what they may be I couldna weel make out. The minister read a bit out o’ a letter the ither night to Miss Graeme and me.”

“Janet,” said her friend, “say the truth at once. The minister is bent on this fule’s errand, and you’re encouraging in it.”

“Na, na! He needs na encouragement from the like o’ me. I would gie muckle, that hasna muckle to spare, gin he were content to bide where he is, though it’s easy seen he’ll hae ill enough bringing up a family here, and these laddies needing more ilka year that goes o’er their heads. And they say yon’s a grand country, and fine eddication to be got in it for next to nothing. I’m no sure but the best thing he can do is to take them there. I ken the mistress was weel pleased with the thought,” and Janet tried with all her might, to look hopeful; but her truth-telling countenance betrayed her. Her friend shook her head gravely.

“It might have done, with her to guide them; but it’s very different now, as you ken yourself, far better than I can tell you. It would be little else than a temptin’ o’ Providence to expose these helpless bairns, first to the perils o’ the sea, and then to those o’ a strange country. He’ll never do it. He’s restless now; and unsettled; but when time, that cures most troubles, goes by, he’ll think better of it, and bide where he is.”

Janet made no reply, but in her heart she took no such comfort. She knew it was no feeling of restlessness, no longing to be away from the scene of his sorrow that had decided the minister to emigrate, and that he had decided she very well knew. These might have hastened his plans, she thought, but he went for the sake of his children. They might make their own way in the world, and he thought he could better do this in the New World than in the Old. The decision of one whom she had always reverenced for his goodness and wisdom must be right, she thought; yet she had misgivings, many and sad, as to the future of the children she had come to love so well. It was to have her faint hope confirmed, and her strong fears chased away, that she had spoken that afternoon to her friend; and it was with a feeling of utter disconsolateness that, she turned to her work again, when, at last, she was left alone.

For Janet had a deeper cause for care than she had told, a vague feeling that the worldly wisdom of her friend could not help her here, keeping her silent about it to her. That very morning, her heart had leaped to her lips, when her master in his grave, brief way, had asked,—

“Janet, will you go with us, and help me to take care of her bairns?”

And she had vowed to God, and to him, that she would never leave them while they needed the help that a faithful servant could give. But the after thought had come. She had other ties, and cares, and duties, apart from these that clustered so closely round the minister and his motherless children.