f 
 
 a 
 
THE BAIENS. 
 
*,;'■; 
 
THE BAIRNS; 
 
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 >* 
 
 OR, 
 
 JANET'S LOVE AND SERVICE 
 
 A STORY FROM CANADA. 
 
 BY 
 
 THE AUTHOR OF "CHRISTIE REDFERN'S TROUBLES;" 
 "the orphans of olbn elder, a story f 'COTTXSH life;" 
 
 t 
 
 LONDON: 
 HODDER.AND STOUGHTON, 
 
 27, PATERNOSTER ROW. 
 MDCCCLXZ. 
 
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r-r :■'■. tr-Oi.. '"? r-'l VT:. .>.%'V 
 
 THE BAIENS; 
 
 JANET'S LOVE AND SERVICE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE longest day in all flie year was slowly closing over 
 the little village of Clayton. There were no loiterers 
 now at the comers 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 somo 
 late home-comer, and over more than one narrow dose, tlie 
 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 alon^ibroke the stillness^ as the guigle of 
 the bum, and the rush pf the distant mill-dam met and 
 mingled in the air of the sum!tii^ bi^hi 
 
 In the primitive visage ot^ (^yt6%\ at this midsummer 
 time, gentle and simpli^ were wont to'se^k their rest by the 
 light of the long gloabiing. Biit. to-night there was light in 
 the manse— in the mihister's study, an^ in other parts of the 
 house as well. Lights wet« carried hurriedly past uncur- 
 tained windows, and flared at last through the open door, as 
 a woman's anxious face looked ouir 
 
 "What can be keeping him?** she murmured, as she 
 shaded the flickering can^e and peered out into the gather- 
 ing darkness. "It's no' like him to linger at a time like thi& 
 God send he was at hom&" 
 
 Another moment of eager listening, and then the anzioiis 
 
 7 
 
8 jaijet's love and service. 
 
 face was withdrawn and the door closed.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 curte- 
 seyed with a very relieved face. 
 
 " They '11 bf^ glad to see you up the stairs, sir. The minis- 
 ter's no' long home." 
 
 She lighted the doctor up the stairs, and then turned brisk- 
 ly ii ; another direction. In a minute she was kneeling before 
 the kitchen hearth, and wa.u stirring up che buried embers. 
 
 " Has my father come, Janet ? " said a voice out of the 
 darkness. 
 
 " Yes, he 's come. He 's gone up the stairs. 1 11 put on the 
 kettle. I dare say he 11 be none the worse of a cup of tea after 
 his ride." 
 
 Sitting on the high kitchen dresser, her cheek dose 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 "bljndin' harself " 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 dosed, 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. 1 11 go whei> 
 «ver papa comes down." 
 
 She listened for a minute. Then her thoughts went aw&j 
 
Janet's love and sebviob. 9 
 
 to otlier things — ^to her father, who had been away all day ; 
 to her mother, who was not quite well to-night, and had gone 
 np 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 talo 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 Ups 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 Hosie 
 wakened, and wantin* her. You 11 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 iUI " 
 
 " What should ail her but the one thing ? '* said Janet, im- 
 patiently. " She 11 be better the mom I hae nae doubt" \ 
 
 Graeme made no attempt to take the child, who held out 
 her hands toward her. 
 
 "I must go to her, Janei** 
 
 "Indeed, Miss Graeme, you'll do nothing o' the kind. 
 jMrs. Bums is with her, and the doctor, and it *s Kttle good; 
 lyou could do her just now. Bide still where you are, and 
 Itake care o* wee Eosie, and hearken if you hear ony o*; 
 "le ither bairns, for none o' you can see your Tn».TnTnft the 
 ■^hi" . 
 
 Graeme took her little sister in her arms, and seated he^ • 
 
10 J-iNET's LOVE AND SEBYIOE. 
 
 self on the floor again. Janet went out^ and Graeme be\rd 
 her father's voice in the passaga 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 be- 
 fore she heard another sound. Then Janet came in again, 
 and this time she seemed ic 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 hps could scarcely utter a sound. 
 
 " Janet 1 — tell me 1 — my mother." 
 
 " Save us lassie I I had no mind of you. Bide still. Miss 
 Graeme. You munna go there," for Graeme with her little sis- 
 ter in her arms was hastening away. " Your mamma 's no 
 waur than she 's been afore. It 's only me that does na 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 fright* 
 ened 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, T 11 no' take the 
 bairn, sit down there, you 11 be sent for if you 're needed. 1 11 
 be back again soon ; and you 11 promise me that you 11 no 
 leave this till I bid you. Miss Graeme, I would 'na deceive 
 you, if I was afraid for your mamma. Fjromise me that you 11 
 bide stilL" 
 
 Graeme promised, awed by the earnestness of Janet, and 
 by her own vague terror as to her mother's mysterious sor- 
 row, that could dvim from one usually so calm, sympathy so 
 intense and painful Then she sat down again to listen and 
 to waii How long the time seemed I The lids fell down 
 
JASTEr's LOVE AND BEBYIOB. 11 
 
 over the baby's wakeful eyes at last, and Graeme, gathering 
 her own frock over the UtUe limbs, and murmuring loving 
 words to her darling, listened stilL 
 
 The flames ceased to leap and glow on the hearth, the shad- 
 ows no longer danced upon the wall, and gazing at the 
 strange faces and forms that smiled and beckoned to herj 
 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 Lad risen among them at the watcher's vrJl, 
 changed to dull grey ashes, and the dim dawn of the summer 
 morning, gleamed in at last upon the weary sleeper. The 
 baby still nettled in her arms, the golden hair of the child 
 gleaming among the dark curls of the elder sister as their 
 cheeks lay dose 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. Jan it kept 
 her working face out of sight, and, in a little, answered 
 hoarsely, 
 
 *' Ay, she 11 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 haxk, 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 
 
12 
 
 janbt'b love and serviob.' 
 
 father bending over her. Even in the awe and dread that 
 smote on her heart hke death, she remembered that she must 
 be quiet, and, coming dose to the pillow, she said softly, 
 
 "Mother." 
 
 The dying eyes came back from their wandering, and fas- 
 tened on her darhng's face, and the white Hps 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 I With only strength to ask, " God guide my 
 darling ever I " and the dying eyes dosed, and the smile lin- 
 gered upon the pale lips, and in the silence that came next, 
 one thought fixed itself on the heart of the awenstridien girl, 
 never to be eSaced, Her father and his motherless children 
 had none but her to care for them now. 
 
 ■* •(■ -'< ■. 
 
 •:i ''- 
 
 U: 
 
 
 -"''S,*; 'i.-j j.ftj ,vr''y'.... :" 
 
 v/ (.1 
 
 -• :. i ..... >■ ■ jJx 
 

 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ^ ^ ITT 'S a' ye ken ! Gotten ower it, indeed 1 " and Janet 
 I turned her back on her Ticdtor, and went mutter* 
 ing about her gloomy kitchen : " The minister no' being one 
 to speak his sorrow to the newsmonging folk that ft ^quent 
 your house, they say he has gotten ower it^ do they ? It 's a' 
 theykeni" 
 
 " Janet, woman," said her visitor, ^* I canna but think you 
 are unreasonable in your anger. I said nothing derogatory 
 to the minister ; for be it from me I 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-^. — '* ' • ":^ ^v.:i:^^ '--[M ";<>m f^v 
 
 "Whisht, woman Binna say it, Speak sense if ye 
 maun speal^" said Janets with a gesture of disgust and 
 anger. 
 
 "Wherefore should I no' say it?" demanded her visitor. 
 "And as to speaking sens^ -^ — . But 1 11 no' trouble you. 
 It seems you have Mends in such plenty that you can affocd 
 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 stiD, woman 1 Friends dinna fall out for a single 
 ill word. And what with ae thing and anither I dinna wed 
 ken what I 'm saying or doing whiles. Sit down : it 's you 
 that 's unreasonable now." 
 
 This was Mistress Elspat Smith, Che wife of a former— 
 "no' that ill afl^" as he Cautiously expressed it—a &r more 
 important person in the oarish than Janets the minister's 
 maid^rf-all^ort It was a oondescension on her part to 
 
14 janbt's love Aim sebyioe. 
 
 ooxne into Janet's kitchen under any drcomstanoei^ tshe 
 fhonght ; and to be taken up sharply for a friendly word 
 was not to be bcme. But they had been friends all their 
 lires ; and Janet " kenned hersel' as gade 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 1 "What would folk say to see yon and me 
 striving at this late day ? And I want to consult yon." 
 
 ** But yon should speak sense yourself, Janet/' said her 
 friend. 
 
 "Folk maun speak as it's given them to speak," said 
 Janet ; " and we 11 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 yon. 
 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 
 
 sore." 
 
 " Seven only," said Janet, under her breath. " She got 
 one of them safe home with her, thank Qod. 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 I" said Janet scornfully, "there's no 
 fear o' ma 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 
 thiogs. 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 lees ^)erienoo ; and its no' to be supposed that the 
 
 ■!,,•.«»..; 
 
- -^ janet'b love and bekvioe. 15 
 
 rest will take heed to her. The Httle anes are no' bo ill to 
 do with ; but these twa laddies are just spirits o* misohiei^ for 
 as quiet as Norman looks ; and they come home from the 
 school with torn dothes, till Miss Graeme is just dazed with 
 mending at them. And Miss Marian is near as ill as the 
 laddies ; and poor, wee Bosie, 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 up to man's 
 estate/' and Janet sighed. 
 
 " And is Miss Graeme good at her seam ?" asked Mistress 
 Elspat. 
 
 "0 ay ; she's no' that ill. She's better at her sampler 
 and at the flowering than at mending torn jackets, howeyer. 
 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 her's." 
 
 Janet shook her head. 
 
 "The minister doesna think that I ken; but when Mr. 
 Boss 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 plestsed. Whether he 11 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 over to school the rest o' them is no' easy to be 
 seen, unless he should go to America after alL" ^^ i s- v 
 
 Mistress Smith lifted her hands. . >,r^' 
 
 " He 11 never surely think o' taking these iliotherless babns 
 [to yon savage place! What could ail him at Mr. Boss's 
 [offer? My patience I but folk whiles stand in their ain 
 [light" 
 
 " Mr. Boss is not a God-fearing man," replied Janet, soV 
 ly. " It's no' what their mother would have wished to 
 
16 JANET^S TX>VB A17D SBBYIOE. 
 
 
 have her bairns brought up by him. The minister kenned 
 her wishes well on that point, you may be sure. And be- 
 sides, he could never cross the sea and leave any of them 
 behind" 
 
 "But what need to cross the sea?" cried Mrs. SmitL 
 ''It's a pity but folk should ken when they^ 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 ii They say 
 there 's fine land there for the working, and no such a thing 
 as payin' rent, but every man forming 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 fdend. " Is 
 the minister to sell rusiy knives and glass beads to the 
 Indians? That's what they do in yon country, as I've 
 read in a book mysell Whatna like way is that to bring 
 up a fomily ? " 
 
 " Losh, woman, there 's othw folk there beside red Indians ; 
 folk that dinna scruple to even themselves with the best in 
 Britain, no' lesa You should read the newEfpapers, woman. 
 There 's one 'Tohn 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 tmth at once. The 
 minister is bent on this fiile's errand, and you're encourag* 
 ing in ii" 
 
 - " Na, na I 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 
 hell hae iU enough bringing up a family here, and these 
 
Janet's love ajud se^yic^. 17 
 
 laddies needing more ilka year that goes o'er their heads. 
 And they say yon 's a grand country, and fine eddication to 
 he 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 mis- 
 tress was weal pleased with the thought," and Janet tried 
 with all her might to look hopeftd ; but her truth-telling 
 countenance beti'ayed 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* Provi- 
 dence to expose these helpless bairns, first to the perils o 
 the sea, and then to those o' a strange country. Hell 
 never do it He 's restless now and unsettled ; but when 
 tune, that cures most troubles, goes by, he '11 think better of 
 it, and bide where he is." 
 
 Janet made no reply, but in her heart she took no suoh 
 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 rever- 
 enced for his goodness and wisdom must be right, she 
 thought ; yet ishe 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. '. i '-mM- 
 
 For Janet had a deeper cause for care than she had told, a 
 ^ague feeling that the worldly wisdom of her friend could not 
 help her here, keeping her silent about it to her. That very 
 j morning, her heart had leaped to her lips, when her master 
 jin his grave^ brief way had asked, 
 
 a 
 
18 JANET^S LOVE AND SEEVICE. 
 
 "Janet, will you go with us, auu 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, apait from these that 
 clustered sc closely round the minister and his motherless 
 children. 
 
 A mile or two down the glen stood the little cottage that 
 had for a long time been the home of her widowed mother, 
 and her son. More than half required for their maintenance 
 Janet provided. Could she forsake them ? Could any duty she 
 owed to her master and his children make it right for her to 
 forsake those whose blood flowed in her veins ? True, her 
 mother was by no means an aged woman yet, and her son 
 was a well-doing helpful lad, who would soon be able to take 
 care of himself. Her mother had another daughter too, but 
 Janet knew that her sister could never supply her place to 
 her mother. Though kind and well-intentioned, she was 
 easy minded, not to say thriftless, and the mother of many 
 bairns besides, and there could neither be room nor comfort 
 for her mother at her fireside, should its shelter come to be 
 needed. 
 
 » Day after day Janet wearied herself going over the matter 
 in her mind. " If it were not so far," she thought, or " if her 
 mother could go with her." But this she knew, for many rear 
 sons, could never be, even if her mother could be brought to 
 consent to such a plan. And Janet asked herself, " "What 
 would my mother do if Sandy were to die? And what 
 would Sandy do if my mother were to die? And what 
 would both do if sickness were to overtake them, and me far 
 away ? " till she quite hated herself for ever thinking of put- 
 ting the wide sea between them and her. 
 
 There had been few pleasures scattered over Janet's rough 
 path to womanhood. Not more than two or three mornings 
 r/.nce she could remember had she nsen to other than a life 
 of labor. Even duiing the bright brief years of her married 
 
janet'b loye akd service. it 
 
 life, she had known Kttle respite from toil, ibr her hvisband 
 had been a poor man, and he had died suddenly, before her 
 son was bom. With few words spoken, and few tears shed, 
 saye what fell in secret, she had given her infant to her mo- 
 ther's care, and gone back again to a servant's place in the 
 minister's household. There she had been for ten years the 
 stay and right hand of her beloved friend and mistress, 
 " working the work of two," as they told her, who would 
 have made her discontented in her lot, with no thought from 
 year's end to year's end, but how she might best do her 
 duty in the situation in which God had placed her. 
 
 But far away into the future — ^it might be years and years 
 hence — she looked to the time when in a house of her own, 
 she might devote herself entirely to the comfort of her 
 mother and her son. In this hope she was content to strive 
 and toil through the best years of her life, living poorly and 
 saving every penny, to all appearance equally indifferent to 
 the good word of those who honored her for her faithfulness 
 and patient labor, and to the bad word of those who did not 
 scruple to call her most striking characteristics by less honor- 
 able names. She had never, during all these years, spoken, 
 even to her mother, of her plans, but their fulfilment was none 
 the less settled in her own mind, and none the less dear to her 
 because of that. Could she give this up? Could she go 
 away from her home, her friends, the land of her birth, and 
 be content to see no respite from her labor till the end? 
 Yes, she could. The love that had all these years been 
 growing for the children she had tended with almost a 
 mother's care, would make the sacrifice possible — even easy 
 to her. But her mother? How could she find courage to 
 tell her that she must leave her alone in her old age ? The 
 thought of parting from her son, her " bonny Sandy," loved 
 with all the deeper fervor that the love was seldom spoken — 
 even this gave her no such pang as did the thought of turn- 
 ing her back upon her mother. He was young, and had his 
 hfe before him, and in the many changes time might bring, 
 she could at least hope to see him again. But her mother. 
 
20 Janet's love Aim sesvioe. 
 
 already vergmg on the three-score, she could never hope to 
 see more, when once the broad Atlantic rolled between 
 them. 
 
 And so, no wonder if in the misery of her indecision, 
 Janet's words grew fewer and sharper as the days wore on. 
 With strange inconsistency she blamed the minister for his 
 determination to go away, but suffered no one else to blame 
 him, or indeed to hint ihat he could do otherwise than what 
 was wisest and best for all. It was a sore subject, this 
 anticipated departure of the minister, to many a one in Clay- 
 ton besides her, and much was it discussed by all. But it 
 was a subject on which Janet would not be approached. She 
 gave short answers to those who offered their services in the 
 way of advice. She preserved a scornful silence in the pre- 
 sence of those who seemed to think she could forsake her 
 master and his children in their time of need, nor was she 
 better pleased with those who thought her mother might be 
 left for their sokes. And so she thought, and wished, and 
 planned, and doubted, till she dazed herself with her vain ef- 
 forts to get light, and could think and plan no more. 
 
 " I '11 leave it to my mother herself to decide," she said, at 
 last ; " though, poor body, what can she say, but that I maun 
 do what I think is my duty, and please myself The Lord 
 above kens I hae little thought o* pleasin' myself in this 
 matter." And in her perplexity Janet was ready to think her 
 case an exception to the general rule, and that contrary to all 
 ei^rience and observation, duty pointed two ways at once. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE time came when the decision could no longer be 
 delayed. The minister was away from home, and 
 before his return it would be made known formally to his 
 people that he was to leaye them, and after that the sooner 
 his departure took place it would be the better for all con- 
 cerned, and so Janet must brace herself for the task. 
 
 So out of the dimness of her spotless kitchen she came 
 one day into the pleasant light of May, knowing that before 
 she entered it again, she would have made her mother's heart 
 as sore as her own. All day, and for many days, she had 
 been planning what she should say to her mother, for she felt 
 that it must be farewell. i ;% >?» 
 
 " If you know not of two ways which to choose, take that 
 which is roughest and least pleasing to yourself, and the 
 chances are it will be the right one," said she to hersel£ ''I 
 read that in a book once, but it 's ill choosing when both are 
 rough, and I know not what to do.*' » : n 
 
 Out into the brightness of the Spring day she came, with 
 many misgivings as to how she was to speed in her errand. 
 
 " It 's a bonny day, bairns," said she, and her eye wandered 
 wistfully down the village street, and over the green fields, to 
 the hills that rose dunly in the distance. The mild air softly 
 fanned her cheek, pleasant sights were round her everywhere, 
 and at i\\e garden gate she lingered, vaguely striving under 
 their infr uence to cast her burden from her. 
 
 " I mun hae It ower," she muttered to herself as she went 
 on. In each hf Jid she held firmly the hand of a child. 
 Marian and Httle Will were to go with her for safe keeping ; 
 
 (21) 
 
22 * Janet's love and beevioe. 
 
 the lads were at the school, and in her absence Graeme was 
 to keep the house, and take care of htUe Eose. 
 
 " Oh, Janet I '* she exclaimed, as she went down the lane a 
 bit with them ; " I wish I were going with you, it 's such a 
 bonny day." 
 
 But Janet knew that what she had to say, would be better 
 said without her presence, so she shook her head. 
 
 " You know Miss Graeme, my dear, you mun keep the 
 house, and we would weary carrying wee Bosie, and she could 
 neyer go half the distance on her feet ; and mind, if ony 
 leddies call, the short bread is in the ben press, and gin they 
 begin with questions, let your answe}.*s be short and ceevil, 
 like a gude bairn, and take gude caie o' my bonny wee lily," 
 added she, kissing the pale little girl as she set her down. 
 " But I needna tell you that, and we '11 soon be back again." 
 
 The children chattered merrily all the way, and busy with 
 her own thoughts, Janet answered them without knowing 
 what she said. Down the lane, and over the bum, through 
 green fields, till the bum crossed their path again they 
 went, " the near way," and soon the solitary cottage in the 
 glen was in sight. It was a very humble home, but very 
 pleasant in its loneliness, Janet thought, as her eye fell on it 
 The cat sat sunning herself on the step, and through the 
 open door came the hum of the mother's busy wheel. Draw 
 ing a long breath, Janet entered. 
 
 " Weel, mother," said she. 
 ' **Weol, Janet, is this you, and the bairns? I doubt yon 
 hadna weel leavin' hame the day," said her mother. 
 
 " I had to come, and this day 's as good as another. It 'a 
 a bonny day, mother." | 
 
 *' Ay, its a bonny day, and a seasonable, thank God. Come 
 in by bairns, I sent Sandy over to Femie a while syne 
 It *s near time he were hame again. I 'U give you a piece, and 
 you Tl go down the glen to meet him," and, wdl pleased, away 
 they went ^i '^- .. .,,.1 _,^: 
 
 ... ** I dare say you 11 be none the waur of your tea, Janei^ 
 woman," said her mother, and she put aside her wheel, and 
 
JAI^Et's love and eEBYIOE. 28 
 
 entered with great zeal into her preparations. Janet strove 
 to have patience with her burden a little longer, and sat still 
 listening to her mother's talk, asking and answering qae»< 
 tions on indifferent subjects. There was no pause. Janet 
 had seldom seen her mother so cheerful, and in a Uttle she 
 found herself wondering whether she had not been exaggerat- 
 ing to herself her mother's need of her. 
 
 " The thought ought to give me pleasure," she reasoned, 
 but it did not, and she accused herself of perversity, in not 
 being able to rejoice, that her mother could easily spare her 
 to the duties she believed claimed her. In the earnestness 
 of her thoughts, she grew silent at last, or answered her mother 
 at random. Had she been less occupied, she might have per* 
 ceived that her mother was not so cheerful as she seemed, for 
 s:)ariy a look of wistful earnestness was fastened on her 
 daughter's face, and now and then a sigh escaped her. > ••.. 
 
 They were very much alike in appearances, the mother and 
 daughter. The mother " had been honnier in her youth, than 
 ever Janet had," she used to say herself, and looking at her 
 still ruddy cheeks, and clear grey eyes, it was not difficult to 
 believe it. She was fresh-looking yet, at sixty, and though 
 the hair drawn back under her cap was silvery white, her 
 teeth for strength and beauty, might have been the envy of 
 many a woman of half her years. She was smaller than 
 Janet, and her whole appearance indicated the possession of 
 more activity and less strength of body and mind than her 
 daughter had, but the resemblance between them was still 
 striking. She had seen many trials, as who that has Hved 
 for sixty years, has not ? but she had borne them better than 
 most, and was cheerful and hopeful still. When they were 
 fairly seated, with the httle table between them, she startled 
 Janet, by coming to the point at once. - - 
 
 " And so they say the minister is for awa* to America after 
 all. Is that true?" -'n>v;^'v£*i*:?-^y)ijii*''j,y^i;iv^^ vk^'^ 
 
 " Oh, ay 1 it is tiae, as ill news oftenest is," said Janet^ grave- 
 ly. " He spoke to me about it before he went away. It *s 
 all settled, or will be before he comes hame the mom." 
 
24 JANEI^'S LOVE AND BEBVIOE. 
 
 i( 
 
 Ay, as you say, it 's ill news to them that he 's leaving. 
 Bat I hope it may be for the good o' his young &mily. 
 There 's many a one going that road now." 
 
 " Ay, there 's more going than will better themselves by the 
 change, I doubi It 's no like that all the fine tales we hear 
 o' yon country can be true." 
 
 " As you say. But, it 's like the minister has some other 
 dependence, than what 's ca'ed about the country for news. 
 What 's this I hear about a friend o' his that 's done weel 
 there?" 
 
 Janet made a movement of impatience. 
 
 ''Wha should he be, but some silly, book-learned body, 
 that bides in a college there awa'. I dare say he would be wecl 
 pleased in any country, where he could get plenty o* books, 
 and a house to hold them in. But what can the like o' him 
 ken o' a young family and what 's needed for them. If he 
 had but held his peace, and let the minister bide where he is, 
 it would hae been a blessing, I 'm sure." 
 
 Janet suddenly paused in confusion, to find herself argu- 
 ing on the wrong side of the question. Her mother said 
 nothing, and in a minute she added, 
 
 "There's one thing to be said for it, the mistress aye 
 thought weel o' the plan. Oh I if she had been but spared 
 to them," and she sighed heavily. 
 
 " You may weel say that," said her mother, echoing her 
 sigh. " But I 'm no sure but they would miss her care as 
 much to bide here, as to go there. And Janet, woman, there's 
 aye a kind Providence. He that said, ' Leave thy fatherless 
 children to me,' winna forsake the motherless. There 's no 
 fear but they *11 be brought through." 
 
 "I hae been saying that to myself ilka hour of the day, 
 and I believe it surely. But oh, mother," Janet's voice failed 
 her. She could say no more. -_.■'--■'■-,■-■ r.,. .,.-^_z..:.. 
 
 :; "I ken weel, Janet," continued her mother, gravely, "it 
 will be a great charge and responsibiUty to you, and I dare 
 say whiles you are ready to run away from it. But you "D do 
 better for them than any Hving woman could do. The love 
 
Janet's love and bervioe. 25 
 
 yaa bear them, wiD give you wisdom to guide them, and 
 when strength is needed, there 's no fear but you 11 got it 
 The back is aye fitted for the burden. Let them gang or let 
 them bide, you canna leave them now." 
 
 She turned her face away from her mother, and for her life 
 Janet could not have told whether the tears that were stream- 
 ing down her cheeks, were falling for joy or for sorrow. 
 There was to be no struggle between hei and her mother. 
 That was well ; but with the feeling of rehef the knowledge 
 brought, there came a pang — a foretaste of the homesick- 
 ness, which comes once, at least, to every wanderer from his 
 country. By a strong effort she controlled herself, and 
 foimd voice to say, 
 
 " I shall never leave them while they need me. I could 
 be content to toil for them always. But, ah I mother, the 
 going awa* over the sea " 
 
 Her voice failed her for a minute, then she added, 
 
 " I hae wakened every momin' with this verse of Jeremiah 
 on my mind : ' Weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan 
 him, but weep sore for him that goeth away, for he shall re- 
 turn no more nor see his native country.' " Janet made no 
 secret of her tears now. 
 
 " Hoot fie, Janet, woman," said her mother, affecting anger 
 to hide far other feehnga " You are misapplyin' Scripture 
 altogether. That was spoken o' them that were to be carried 
 away captive for their sins, and no* o' honest folk, followin* 
 the leadings o' Providence. If there *s ony application it *s 
 to me, I 'm thinldn'. It 's them that bide at hame that are 
 bidden weep sore ;" and she seemed much inclined to follow 
 the injunction. She recovered in a minute, however, and 
 
 added, iji"..X ,,^,:,;..;.;..' ^,.|^,v:.:.C-ft,-::: ...■,»; ^;.^^-ij>,h: .J^-^t;^ ,,>!-:?;. -/tixi a 
 
 " But I *m no* going to add to your trouble. You dinna 
 need me to tell you I'll have Httle left when you're awa.* 
 But, if it *s your duty to go with them, it canna be your duty 
 to bide with me. Youwinna lose your reward striving in 
 behalf o' these motherless bairns, and the Lord will hae me 
 and Sandy in his keeping, I dinna doubt'* 
 
Janet's love aud berviob. 
 
 ^ There was a long silence after this. Each knew what the 
 other suffered. There was no need to speak of it, and so 
 they sat without a word ; Janet, with the quiet tears falling 
 now and then over her cheeks ; her mother, grave and firm, 
 giving no outward sign of emotion. Each shrunk, for the 
 other's sake, from putting their fears for the future into 
 words ; but their thoughts were busy. The mother's heart 
 ached for the great wrench that must sever Janet from her 
 child and her home, and Janet's heart grew sick with the 
 dread of long weary days and nights her mother might have 
 to pass, with perhaps no daughter's hand to dose her eyes 
 at last, till the thoughts of both changed to supplication, 
 fervent though unuttered ; and the burden of the prayer of 
 each was, that the other might have strength and peace. 
 
 The mother spoke firsi " When will it be ? " 
 
 **It canna be long now. The sooner the better when once 
 it's really settled. There are folk in the parish no weel 
 pleased at the minister for thinking to go." 
 
 " It 's for none to say what 's right, and what *s wrang, in 
 the matter," said the mother, gravely. "I hae nae doubt 
 the Lord will go vsdth him ; but it will be a drear day fur 
 plenty besides me." 
 
 " He 's bent on it. Go he will, and I trust it may be for 
 the best," but Janet sighed drearily. 
 
 "And how are the bairns pleased with the prospect?" 
 asked her mother. ■ ,. • •- v.^iff 
 
 r "Ah I they're weel pleased, bairn-like, at any thought o' 
 a changa Miss Graeme has her doubts, I whiles think, but 
 that shouldna count ; there are few things that look joyfiil 
 to her at the present time^ She 's ower hke hei* father vHith 
 her ups and downs. She hasna her mother's cheerful 
 spirit.* *■! ?*■' 
 
 " Her mother's death was an awfu' loss to Miss Graeme, 
 poor thing," said the mother. 
 
 ** Aye, that it was — ^her that had never kent a trouble but 
 by readin' o' the^ in printed books. It was an avrfu' waken* 
 ing to her. Sb'3 has never been the same dinoe, and I doubt 
 
Janet's love and eervioe. ^itf^^ 
 
 it will be long till she has the same light heart again. She 
 tries to fill her mother's place to them all, and when she 
 finds she oanna do it, she loses heart and patience with her^ 
 sell But I hae great hope o' her. She has the ' single eye,' 
 and God will guide her. I hae nae fear for Miss Graeme." 
 
 And then they spoke of many things — ^settling their little 
 matters of business, and arranging their plans as quietly as 
 though they looked forward to doing the same thing every 
 month during the future years as they had done during the 
 pasi Nothing was forgotten or omitted ; for Janet well 
 knew that all her time and strength would be needed for the 
 preparations that must soon commence, and that no time so 
 good as the present might be found for her own personal 
 arrangements. Her httle savings were to be lodged in safe 
 hands for her mother's use, and if anything were to happen 
 her they were to be taken to send Sandy over the sea. It 
 was all done very quietly and calmly. I will not say that 
 Janet's voice did not ialter sometimes, or that no mist came 
 between the mother's eyes and the grave face on the other 
 side of the table. But there was no sign given. A strong 
 sense of duty sustained them. A firm belief that however 
 painfcQ the future might be, they were doing right in this 
 matter, gave them power tv look calmly at the sacrifice that 
 must cost them so much. 
 
 At length the children's voices were heard, and at the 
 somid, Janet's heart leaped up with a throb of pain, but in 
 words she gave no utterance to the pang. 
 
 "Weel, Sandy, lad, is this you," said she, as with mingled 
 
 shyness and pleasure the boy came forward at his grand< 
 
 mother's bidding. He was a well-grown and healthy lad, 
 
 with a frank face, and a thick shock of light curls. There 
 
 [Was a happy look in his large blue eyes, and the smile came 
 
 [very naturally to his rather large mouth. To his mother, at 
 
 Ithe moment, he seemod altogether beautiful, and her heart 
 
 jcried out agamst the great trial that was before her. Sandy 
 
 with his hand in her's, while bis grandmother ques- 
 
 ioned him about the errand on whidh he hud been sent, and 
 
23 jai^et's loye Am) sebyioe. ^ 
 
 ihe had time to quiet herseli But there was a look on her 
 face as she sat there, gently stroking his fair hair Tclth her 
 hand, that was sad to sea Marian saw it with momentary 
 wonder, and then coming up to her, she laid her arm gently 
 over her neck and whispered, 
 
 " Sandy is going with us too, Janet There will be plenty 
 of room for us alL" 
 
 " I 've been telling Menie that I canna leave grannie," said 
 Sandy, turning gravely to his mother. " You 11 hae Normaa 
 and Harry, and them a', but grannie has none but me." 
 
 " And wouldna you like to go with us too, Sandy, man ? " 
 asked his mother^ with a pang. 
 
 " To yon fine country John Ferguson tells us about ? " said 
 Sandy, with sparkling eyea " That I would, but it wouldna 
 be right to leave grannie, and she says she 's ower old to go 
 so far away — and over the greac sea too." 
 
 " Nae, my lad, it wouldna be right to leave grannie by 
 herself and you 11 need to bide here. Think aye first of 
 what is right, and there will be no fear of you." 
 
 " And are you goin' mother ? " asked Sandy, gravely. 
 
 " I doubt 1 11 need to go, Sandy lad, with the bairns. But 
 I think less of it, that I can leave you to be a comfort to 
 grannie. I 'm sure I needna bid you be a good and obedient 
 laddie to her, when " 
 
 It needed a strong effort on her part to restrain the bitter 
 cxy of her heart 
 
 " And will you never come back again, mother? " 
 
 **I dinna ken, Sandy. Maybe no. But that *s no' for us 
 to consider. It is present duty we maun think o'. The rest 
 is in the Lord's hands." . ■ ^ ' l » 
 
 'What else could be said ? That was the sum. It was duty, 
 and the Lord would take care of the rest And so they 
 parted with outward calm ; and her mother never knew that 
 that nighty Janet, sending the children home before her, sat 
 down in the lane, and " grat as if she would never greet 
 mair." And Janet never knew, till long years afterwards, 
 how that uighi^ and many a night, Sandy woke from the 
 
Janet's love jkiro sebyioe. 29 
 
 soimd sleep of childhood to find his grandmother praying 
 and weeping, to think of the parting that was drawing near. 
 Each could be strong to help the other, but alone, in silence 
 and darkness, the poor shrinking heart had no power to 
 cheat itself into the belief that bitter suffering did not lie 
 before ii 
 
 
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 ■ U.; r /j..; ii;^5.-,;< 0^ 
 
 CHAPTER IV. '^^ 
 
 IT was worship time, and the bairns had gathered round 
 the table with their books, to wait for their father's com- 
 ing. It was a fair sight to see, but it was a sad one too, for 
 they were motherless. It was all the more sad, that the bright 
 , faces and gay voices told how Uttle they realized the great- 
 ness of the loss they had sustained. They were more gay 
 than usnal, for the elder brother had come home for the sum> 
 mer, perhaps for always ; for the question was being eagerly 
 discussed whether he would go back to the college again, or 
 whether he was to go with the rest to America. 
 
 -Arthur, a quiet, handsome lad of sixteen, said little. He 
 was sitting with the sleepy Will upon his knee, and only put 
 in a word now and then, when the others grew too loud and 
 eager. He could have set them at rest about it, for he knew 
 that his father had decided to leave him in Scotland till his 
 studies were finished at the college. - iv « 
 
 *' But there 's no use to vex the lads and Graeme to-night," 
 he said to himself ; and he was right, as he had not quite 
 made up his mind whether he was vexed himself or not. The 
 thought of the great countries on the other side of the globe^ 
 and of the possible adventures that might await them ther^ 
 had charms for him, as for every one of his age and spirit 
 But he was a sensible lad, and realized in some measure the 
 advantage of such an education as could only be secured by 
 remaining behind, and he knew in his heart that there was 
 reason in what his father had said to him of the danger there 
 was that the voyage and the new scenes in a strange land 
 might unsettle his mind from his books. It cost him som» 
 thing to seem content, even while his father was speaking to 
 (30) 
 
Janet's loye akd sebyiob. 31 
 
 liim, and he knew well it would giieve the rest to know ho 
 was to be left behind, so he would say nothing about it, on 
 this first night of his homecoming. 
 
 There was one sad ioioe among them ; for even Arthur's 
 homecoming could not quite chase the shadow that had &Ilen 
 on Graeme since the night a year ago while she sat dreaming 
 her dreams in the firehght. It was only a year or little more, 
 but it might have been three, judging from the change in 
 her. She was taller and paler, and older-looking since then. 
 And yet it was not so much that as something else that so 
 changed her, Arthur thought, as he sat watching her. The 
 change had come to her through their great loss, he knew ; 
 but he could not have understood, even if it had been told 
 him, how much this had changed life to Graeme. He had 
 suffered too more than words could ever telL Many a time 
 his heart had been ready to burst with unspeakable longiuf 
 for his dead mother's loving presence, her voic^ her smile, 
 her gentle chiding, till he could only cast himself down and 
 weep vain tears upon the ground. 
 
 Graeme had borne aU this, and what was worse to her, the 
 hourly missing of her mother's counsel and care. Not one 
 day of all the year but she had been made to feel the bitteiv 
 ness of their loss ; not one day but she had striven to fill 
 her mother's place to her father and them all, and her nightly 
 heartbreak had been to know that she had striven in vain. 
 "As how could it be otherwise than vain," she said often to 
 herself, " so weak, so foolish, so impatient." And yet through 
 all her weakness and impatience, she knew that she must 
 never cease to try to fill her mother's place still. 
 
 Some thought of aU this came into Arthur's mind, as she sat 
 there leaning her head on one hand, while the other touched 
 from time to time the cradle at her side. Never before had 
 he realized how sad it was for them all that they had lost 
 their mother, and how dreary life at home must have been 
 all the year. 
 
 "Poor Graeme I and poor wee Rosie I" he says to himself 
 stooping over the cradle. 
 
82 Janet's LOVE Ain> SEKVIOB. 
 
 " How old is Rofide?" aaked he, suddenly. .1 . , . , 
 
 " Near three years old," said Janei 
 
 " She winna be three till August,'* said Graeme in the same 
 breath, and she turned beseeching eyes on Janei For this 
 was becoming a vexed question between them — ^the guiding 
 of poor wee "Roeie. Janet was a disciplinarian, and ever 
 declared that Bosie " should go to her bed like ither folk ;" 
 but Graeme could never find it in her heart to vex her da^ 
 ling, and so the cradle still stood in the down-stairs parlor 
 for Bosie's benefit, and it was the elder sister's nightly 
 task to soothe the fretful little lady to her unwilling slum- 
 bera ' -. 
 
 ..-i But Graeme had no need to fear discussion to-night. Ja* 
 net's mind was full of other thoughts One cannot shed 
 oceans of tears and leave no sign ; and Janet, by no means 
 sure of herself sat with her face turned from tiie Hght, in* 
 tently gazing on the very small print of the Bible in her hand. 
 On common occasions the bairns would not have let Janet's 
 sflence pass unheeded, but to-night they were busy discuss* 
 'ing matters of importance, and except to say now and then, 
 ''Whist, bairns I your father will be here I" she sat without 
 a word. 
 
 There was a hush at last, as a step was heard descending 
 the stairs, and in a minute their father entered. It was not 
 fear that quieted them. There was no fear in the fran^ 
 eager eyes turned toward him, as he sat down among them. 
 His was a face to win confidence and respect, even at the first 
 glance, so grave and earnest was it, yet withal so gentle and 
 mM. In his children's hearts the sight of it stirred deep 
 love, which grew to reverence as they grew in years. The 
 calm that sat on that high, broad brow, told of confiicts passed, 
 and victory secure, of weary wandering through desert places, 
 over now and scarce remembered in the qniet of the resting* 
 place he had found. His words and deeds, and his chas* 
 tened views of earthly things told of a deep experience in 
 " that life which is the heritage of the few — ^tiiat true life of 
 
Janet's love and sebyiob, 16$ 
 
 God in the soul with its strange, rich secrets, both of joy 
 and sadness/' whose peace* the world knoweth not o^ which 
 naught beneath the sun can ever more disturb. ^ 
 
 " The minister is changed — greatly changed." Janet had 
 said many times to herself and others during the last few 
 months, and she said it now, as her eye with the others 
 turned on him as he entered. But with the thought there 
 came to-night the consciousness that the change was not such 
 a one as was to be deplored. He had grown older and 
 graver, and more silent than he used to be, but he had grown 
 to something higher, purer, hoUer than of old, and like a sud- 
 den gleam of light breaking through the darkness, there 
 flashed into Janet's mind the promise, "All things shall 
 work together for good to them that love God." Her lips 
 had often spoken the words before, but now her eyes saw the 
 fulflllment, and her failing faith was strengthened. If that 
 bitter trial, beyond which she had vainly striven to see aught 
 but evil, had indeed wrought good for her beloved friend and 
 master ; need she fear any change or any trial which the 
 future might have in store for her? r « '^ 
 
 " Tt will work for good, this pain and separation," mur- 
 mured she. " I 'm no' like the minister, but frail and foolish, 
 and wilful too whiles, but I humbly hope that I am one of 
 those who love the Lord." 
 
 "Well, bairns r said the father. There was a gentle stir 
 and movement among them, though there was no need, for 
 Graeme had already set her Mher's chair and opened the 
 Bible at the place. She pushed aside the cradle a Uttle that 
 he might pass, and he sat down among them. 
 
 "Well tiake a Psalm, to-night," said he, after a minute's 
 turning of the leaves from a " namey chapter" in Chronicles^ 
 the usual place. He chose the forty-sixth. 
 
 " God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in 
 trouble. 
 
 " Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed, 
 though the mountains be cast into the midst of the seai" 
 
 8 
 
84 Janet's love Am> sebyiob.*" 
 
 And thus on through the next, 
 
 " He shall choose our inheritance for us, the excelleni^ of 
 Jacob, whom he loved." 
 
 And still on through the next till the last verse, 
 
 " This God is our God forever and ever. He will be our 
 guide, even unto death," seemed like the triumphant ending 
 of a song of praise. 
 
 Then there was a momentary hush and pause. Never 
 since the mother's voice had grown silent in death had the 
 voice of song risen at worship time. They had tried it more 
 than once, and failed in bitter weeping. But Janet, fearful 
 that their silence was a sin, had to-night brought the hynm- 
 books which they always used, and laid them at Arthur's 
 side. In the silence that followed the reading Graeme looked 
 from him to them, but Arthur shook his head. He was not 
 sure that his voice would make its way through the lump 
 that had been gathering in his throat while his father read, 
 and he felt that to fail would be dreadful, so there was silence 
 stilL 
 
 There was a Httle lingering round the fire after worship 
 was over, but when Arthur went quietly away the boys soon 
 followed. Graeme would fain have staid to speak a few 
 words to her Either, on this first night of his return. He was 
 sitting gazing into the fire, with a face so grave that his 
 daughter's heart ached for his loneliness. But a peevish voice 
 from the cradle admonished her that she must to her task 
 again, and so with a quiet "good night, papa," she took her 
 little sister in her arms. Up stairs she went, murmuiing 
 tender words to her "wee birdie," her "bonny lammie," 
 her " little gentle dove," more than repaid for all her weari- 
 ness and care, by the fond nestling of the little head upon 
 her bosom ; for her love, which was more a mother's than a 
 sister's, made the burden light. > 
 
 The house was quiet at last. The boys had talked them> 
 selves to sleep, and the minister had gone to his study agaio. 
 This had been one of Bosie's " weary nights." The voices 
 of her brothers had wakened her in the parlor, and Graeme 
 
Janet's loye and servioe. 85 
 
 had a long walk with the fretful child, before she was soothed 
 to sleep again. But she did sleep at last, and just as Janet 
 had finished her nightly round, shutting the windows and 
 barring the doon^ Graeme crept down stairs, and entered the 
 kitchen. The red embers still glowed on the hearth, but 
 Janet was in the very act of " resting the fire " for the night. 
 
 "Ohl Janet," said Graeme, "put on another peat I'm 
 cold, and I want to speak to you." 
 
 " Miss Graeme ! You up at this time o' the night I What 
 ails yon cankered feiry now ? " ' ' ' ' ^^ ' • • '^ ** "^ 
 
 " Oh, Janet ! She 's asleep long ago, and I want to speak 
 to you." And before Janet could remonstrate, one of the dry 
 peats set ready for the morning fire was thrown on the em- 
 bers, and soon blazed brightly up. Graeme crouched down 
 before it, with her arm over Janet's knee. 
 
 "Janet, what did your mother say? And ohl Jaxiet^ 
 
 Arthur says my father ** Turning with a sudden move* 
 
 ment, Graeme let her head fall on Janef s lap, and biurst into 
 tears. Janet tried to lift her faca 
 
 "Whist! Miss Graeme! What ails the lassie? It's no' 
 the thought of going awa', surely? You hae kenned this 
 was to be a while syne. You hae little to greet about, if yoa 
 but kenned it — ^you, who are going altogether." 
 
 " Janet, Arthur is to bide in Scotland." 
 
 " Well, it winna be for long. Just till he 's done at the 
 college. I dare say it 's the best thing that can happen him 
 to bide. But who told you ? " 
 
 "Arthui told me after we went up stairs to-night. And, 
 oh ! Janet I what will I ever do without him ? " 
 
 " Miss Graeme, my dear ! You hae done without him these 
 two years already mostly, and even if we all were to bide in 
 Scotland, you would hae to do without him still. He could 
 na' be here and at the college too. And when he *s done 
 with that he would hae to go elsewhere. Families canna aye 
 bide together. Bairns maun part" 
 
 " But, Janet, to go so far and leave him I It will seem al- 
 most hke death." 
 
36 Janet's loye and behvioe. 
 
 h *' But) lassie it's no' depib. There's a great difference. 
 And as for seeing him ugoin, that is as the Lord wills. 
 Anyway, it doesna bejome you to cast a slight on your 
 father's judgment, as though he had decided unwisely in this 
 matter. Do you no' think it will cost him something to part 
 from his first-bom son ? " 
 
 "But, Janet, why need he part from him ? Think how 
 much better it would be for him, and for us all, if Ai\Jiur 
 should go with us. Arthur is almost a man." 
 
 " Na, lass. He 11 no' hae a man's sense this while yet 
 And as for his goin' or bidin', it 's no' for you or me to seek 
 for the why and the wherefore o' the matter. It might be 
 better — ^more cheery — ^for you and us all if your elder brother 
 were with us, but it wouldna be best for him to go, or your 
 father would neyer leave him, you may be su^e o' that." 
 J There was a long silence. Graeme sat gazing into the 
 dying embers. Janet threw on another peat, and a bright 
 blaze sprang up again. ■ > ^' ' I. 
 
 "Miss Graeme, my dear, if it 's a wise and right thing for 
 your father to take you all over the sea, the going or the 
 biding o' your elder brother can make no real difference 
 You must seek to see the rights o' this. J£ your father hasna 
 him to help him with the bairns and — ither things, the more 
 he 11 need you, and you maun hae patience, and strive no' to 
 disappoint him. You hae muckle to be thankful for — ^you 
 that can write to ane anither like a printed book, to keep ane 
 anither in mind. There 's nae fear o' your growiu' out o' 
 acquaintance, and he '11 soon follow, you may be sure. Oh, 
 lassie, lassie ! if you could only ken I " 
 
 Graeme raised herself up, and leaned both her arms on 
 Janet's lap. 
 
 " Janet, what did your mother say ? " 
 
 Janet gulped something down, and said, huskily, 
 
 " Oh I she said many a thing, but she made nae wark about 
 ii I told your &.ther I would go, and I wilL My mother 
 doesna object" 
 
 "And Sandy?" said Graeme, softly, for there was somfr 
 
Janet's love and sebyioe. 87 
 
 thing working in Janet's fsKie, which she did not like to 
 
 fiAA 
 BOO* 
 
 "Sandy wUl aye hae my mother, and shell hae Sandy. 
 But, lassie, it winna bear speaking about to-night Gang 
 awa' to your bed." 
 
 Graeme rose, but did not go. 
 
 " But couldna Sandy go with us ? It would only be one 
 more. Surely, Janet " a r ; . • 
 
 Janet made a movement of impatience, or entreaty, Graeme 
 did not know which, but it stopped her. { 
 
 " Na, na I Sandy couldna leave my mother, even if it would 
 be wise for me to take him. There 's no more to be said 
 about that." And in spite of herselJ^ Janet's tears gushed 
 forth, as mortal eyes had never seen them gush before, since 
 she was a herd lassie on the hills. Graeme looked on, hushed 
 and frightened, and in a Httle, Janet quieted herself and 
 wiped her face with her apron. 
 
 " You see, dear, what with one thing and what with an- 
 other, I 'm weary and vexed to-night, and no' just mysell 
 Matters will look more hopeful, both to you and to me, the 
 morn. There's one thing certain. Both you and me hae 
 much to do that maun be done, before we see saut water, 
 without losing time in grumblin' at what canna be helped. 
 What with the bairns' clothes and ither things, we winna 
 need to be idle ; so let us awa' to our beds that we may be 
 1^) betimes the mom." ' ■ ■•■• '- ^^v'--^' ■■y^:-.''<^'^- ;j^:fei? ^}: 
 
 Graeme stiU lingered. ' a. v^y^t 
 
 " 0, Janet ! if my mother were only here I How easy it 
 all would be." ? ; * 
 
 "Ay, lass! I hae said that to myself many a time this 
 while. But He that took her canna do wrong. There was 
 some need for it, or she would hae been here to-nighi You 
 maun aye strive to fill her place to them alL" 
 
 Graeme's tears flowed forth afresh. 
 
 " Janet ! I think you 're mocking me when you say fhati 
 How could / ever fill her place ? " 
 
 " No* by your ain strength and wisdom sorely my lam- 
 
88 Janet's lote abd bebvigb. 
 
 xoia Bat it would be limiiing His grace to say He cazma 
 make you all you should be — all that she was, and that is 
 saying mudkle ; for she was wise far by the common. But 
 now gang awa' to your bed, and dinna forget your good 
 words. There 's no fear but you will be in God's keeping 
 wherever you go." . 
 
 Janet was right ; they had need of all their strength and 
 patience during the next two month& When Janet had con- 
 fidence in herself she did what was to be done with a will* 
 But she had Httle skill in making purchases, and less experi- 
 ence, and Graeme was little better. Many things must be 
 got, and money could not be spent lavishly, and there was 
 no time to lose. >. - 
 
 But, with the aid of Mrs. Smith and other kind friends, 
 their preparations were got through at last. Purchases were 
 made, mending and making of garments were accomplished, 
 and the labor of packing was got through, to their entire 
 satis&otion. 
 
 The minister said good-bye to each of his people separately, 
 either in the kirk, or in his own home or theirs ; but he 
 shrunk from last words, and from the sight of all the sorrow- 
 ful &ces that were sure to gather to see them go ; so he went 
 away at night, and stayed with a friend, a few miles on their 
 way. But it was the &irest of summer mornings — the mist 
 just lifting from the hills — and the sweet air filled with the 
 laverock's song, when Janet and the baixos looked their last 
 upon their home. . t- 
 
 ' , '. I :'■,'''-.""" .>r--, •■ : .'• ■ -"■--. ■'■ w A: ■.%""■ <f^. 
 
 ' ^'■' 
 
 ' -^O-A^ i 
 
 ^t'; 
 
 ■'■■?■:':. 
 
 '■■•r 
 
 ■ ^^-'S- 
 
 'i'.;:-t 
 
 - 
 
 
 
 - -, 
 
 
f:.t^^♦.■• 
 
 
 '■'''A 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THET found themselves on board the "Steadfast" at 
 last. The day of sailing was bright and beautiful, a 
 perfect day for the sea, or the land either ; but the wind rose 
 in the night and the rain came on, and a very dreary morn- 
 ing broke on them as the last glimpse of land was fading in 
 the distance. 
 
 " Oh I how dismal I " murmured Graeme, as in utter dis* 
 comfort she seated herself on the damp deck, with her little 
 sister in her arms. All the rest, excepting her father, and not 
 excepting Janet, were down with sea-sickness, and even Nor- 
 man and Harry had lost heart under its depressing influence. 
 Another hour in the dose cabin, and Graeme felt she must 
 yield too— and then what would become of Bose ? So into a 
 mist that was almost rain she came, as the day was breaking, 
 and sat down with her little sister upon the deck. For a 
 nunute she closed her eyes on the dreariness around, and 
 leaned her head on a hencoop at her side. Bose had been 
 fretful and uneasy all nighty but now well pleased with the 
 new sights around her, she sat still on her sister's lap. Soon 
 the cheerful voice of the Captain startled Graeme. 
 
 " Touch and go with you I see. Miss EUiott I am afraid 
 you will have to give in Uke the rest** 
 
 Graeme looked up with a snule that was sickly enough. 
 
 " Not if I can help it»*' said she. 
 
 " Well, you are a brave lass to think of helping it with a 
 face like thai Come and take a quick walk up and down 
 the deck with me. It will do you good. Set down the 
 I bairn,'* for Graeme was rising with Bose in her arms. " No 
 [harm will come to her, and you don't look fit to caity your* 
 
 (39) 
 
Janet's love and seevicI)'. 
 
 seli Sit yon there, my wee fairy, till we come back again. 
 Here, Euthven," he called to a young man who was walking 
 up and down on the other side of the deck, " come and try 
 your hand at baby tending. That may be among the work 
 required of you in the backwoods of Canada, who knows ? " 
 I The young man came forward laughing, and Graeme sub* 
 mitted to be led a^ay. l^e L'ttle lady left on the deck 
 seemed very much inclined to resent the unceremonious dis- 
 'posal of so important a penion, as she was always made to 
 feel herself to be. But she took a look into the face of her 
 new friend and thought better of it. His face was a good 
 one, frank and kindly, and Bose suffered herself to be lifted 
 up and placed upon his knee, and when Graeme came back 
 again, after a brisk walk of fifteen minutes, she found the lit- 
 tle one, usually so fretful and "ill to do with," laughing 
 merrily in the stranger's arms. She would have taken her, 
 but Bose was pleased to stay. 
 
 " You are the very :^st stranger that ever she was wiUing 
 to go to,*' said she, gratefully. Looking up, she did not won- 
 der at Bosie's fancy for the face that smiled down upon her. 
 ■I ought to feel myself highly honored,'* said he. 
 1 think we 11 give him the benefit of little Missy's prefer- 
 ence," said Captain Armstrong, who had been watching 
 Graeme with a Httle amused anxiety since her walk was ended 
 The color that the exercise had given her was fast fading 
 from her face, till her very Ups grew white with the deadly 
 sickness that was coming over her. 
 
 " You had best go to the cabin a wee while. You must 
 ffive up, I think," said he. 
 
 Graeme rose languidly. 
 
 "Yes, I'm afraid so. Come Bosie." \ -"-r--,^ .. 
 
 " Leave the little one with me," said Mr. Buthven. And 
 that was the last Graeme saw of Bosip for the next twelve 
 houi*s, for she was not to escape the misery that had fallen so 
 heavOy upon the rest, and very wearily the day passed. It 
 passed, however, at last, and the next, which was calm and 
 bright as heart could wish, saw them all on deck again. 
 
 

 janet'b love and serviob. ' 41 
 
 They came with dizzy he>ids and uncertain steps it is tnze, 
 but tlio sea air soon brought color to their cheeks, and 
 strength to their limbs, and their sea life fairly began. 
 
 But alas 1 for Janet The third day, and the tenth found 
 her still in her berth, altogether unable to stand up against 
 the power that held her. In Tain she struggled against 
 it The Steadfast's slightest motion was sufficient to over- 
 power her quite, till at last she made no effort to rise, but lay 
 there, disgusted with herself and aH the world. On the calm- 
 est and fairest days, they would prevail on her to be helped 
 up to the deck, and there amid shawls and pillows she would 
 sit, enduring one degree less of miseiy than she did in the 
 close cabin below. . ; ] 
 
 " It was just a judgment upon her," she said, " to let her 
 see what a poor conceited body she was. She, that had been 
 making mucMe o' herself as tliough the Lord couldna take 
 care o* the bairns without her hs ip." 
 
 It was not sufficient to be told hourly that the children 
 were well and happy, or to see it with her own eyes. This 
 aggravated her trouble. " Useless body that I am." And 
 Janet did not wait for a sight of a strange land, to begin to 
 pine for the land she had left, and what with seasickness and 
 homesickness together, she had very Httle hope that she 
 would ever see land of any kind again. 
 
 The lads and Marian enjoyed six weeks of perfect happi- 
 ness. Graeme and their father at first were in constant fear 
 of their getting into danger. It would only have provoked 
 disobedience had all sorts of climbing been forbidden, for 
 the temptation to try to outdo each other in their imitation 
 of the saQors, was quite irresistible ; and not a rope in the 
 rigging, nor a comer in the ship, but they were familiar with 
 before the first few days were over. "And, indeed, they 
 were wonderfully preserved, the foolish lads," their father 
 acknowledged, and grew content about them at last 
 
 Before me Ues the journal of the voyage, faithfully kept in 
 a big book given by Arthur for the purpose. A full and com- 
 plete history of the six weeks might be written from it, but I 
 
42 janet's love and sebvioe. 
 
 forbear. Norman or Harry, in language obscurely nautical, 
 notes daily the longitude or the latitude, and the knots they 
 make an hour. There are notices of whales, seen in the dia* 
 tance, and of shoals of porpoises seen near at hand. There 
 are stories given which they have heard in the forecastio, and 
 hints of practical jokes and tricks played on one another. 
 The history of each sailor in the ship is given, from " hand- 
 some Frank, the first Yankee, and the best singer " the boys 
 ever saw, to Father Abraham, the Dutchman, " with short 
 legs and shorter temper.'' 
 
 Graeme writes often, and daily bewails Janet's continued 
 illness, and rejoices over " wee Rosie's " improved health and 
 temper. With her account of the boys and their doings, she 
 mingles emphatic wishes " that they had more sense," but 
 on the whole they are satisfactory. She has much to say of 
 the books she has been reading — ''a good many of Sir 
 Walter Scott's that papa does not object to," lent by Allan 
 Buthven. There are hints of discussions with him about 
 the books, too ; and Graeme declares she "has no patience " 
 with AUan. For his favorites in Sir Walter's books are sel- 
 dom those who are persecuted for righteousness' sake ; and 
 there are allusions to batties fought with him in behalf of 
 the good name of the Old Puritans — men whom Graeme de- 
 lights to honor. But on the whole it is to bo seen, that 
 Allan is a favorite with her and with them all. ► ' w^^^iv 
 '^ The beautiful Bay of Boston was reached at last, and with 
 an interest that cannot be told, the littie party — ^including 
 the restored Janet — ^regarded the city to which they were 
 drawing near. Their ideas of what they were to see first in 
 the new world had been rather indefinite and vague. Far 
 more familiar with the early history of New England — with 
 such scenes as the landing of the pilgrims, and the departure 
 of Roger Williams to a still more distant wilderness, than 
 with the history of modem advance, it was certainly not such 
 a city they had expected to see. But they gazed with ever in- 
 creasing delight, as they drew nearer and nearer to it through 
 the beautiful bay. 
 
jAllTFr's LOYE AJSdi BEBYIOE. 43 
 
 "And ibis is the wonderful new world, that promises so 
 much to us all/' said Allan. 
 
 " They have left unstained what there they found. 
 Freedom to worship God," 
 
 murmured Graeme, softly. "I'm sure I shall like the 
 American people." ^ '^ 
 
 But Allan was taking to heart the thought of parting from 
 them all, more than was at all reasonable, he said to himseli^ 
 and he could not answer her with a jest as he might at 
 another time. ' ' ^ = t 
 
 " You must write and tell me about your new home," said 
 he. " f 
 
 "Yes — the boys will write; we will all write. I can 
 hardly beHeve that six weeks ago we had never seen you. 
 Oh 1 I wish you were going with us," said Graeme. 
 
 "Allan will see Arthur when he comes. Arthur will want 
 to see all the country," said Norman. 
 
 " And maybe he will like the Queen's dominions best, and 
 wish to settle there," said AUan. 
 
 " Oh I but we shall see you long before Arthur comes," 
 said Graeme. " Is it very far to Canada ? " 
 
 " I don't know — ^not very far I suppose. I don't feel half 
 so hopeful now that I am about to know what my fate is to 
 be. I have a great dread on me. I have a mind not to 'go 
 to my uncle at all, but seek my fortune here." 
 
 "But your mother wouldna be pleased^" said Graeme, 
 gravely. ...... ^... ,,,»-,. .rv.,f;j....,v 
 
 " No. She has great hopes of what my unde may do for 
 me. But it would be more agreeable to me not to be con* 
 I fined to one course. I should like to look about me a little, 
 [before I get fairly into the treadmill of business." 
 
 In her heart Graeme thought it an excellent thing for 
 [Allan that he had hi» uude to golb. She had her own ideas 
 Etbout young people's lookmg about them, with nothing par- 
 ^icular to do, and quite agreed with Janet and Dr. Watts as 
 the work likely to be found for them tc do. But ahe 
 
 /,.f' ■ 
 
44 Janet's love and servioe. 
 
 thought it would be very nice for them all, if instead of 
 settiag off at once for Canada, Allan might have gone with 
 them for a little while. Before she could say this, however, 
 Janet spoke. 
 
 " Ay, that 's bairn-like, though you hae a man's stature. 
 I dare say you would think it a braw thing to be at naebody's 
 bidding ; but, my lad, it 's ae' thing to hae a friend's house, 
 and a welcome waiting you in a strange land like this, and it 's 
 anither thing to sit solitary in a bare lodging, eveil though 
 you may hae liberty to come and go at your ain wilL If 
 you 're like the lads that I ken* maist about, you '11 be none 
 the worse of a Httle wholesome restraint Be thankful for 
 your mercies. 
 
 Allan laughed good-humoredly. 
 
 But really, Mrs. Nasmyth, you are too hard on me. Just 
 think what a country this ia Think of the mountains, and 
 rivers and lakes, and of all these wonderful forests and 
 prairies that Norman reads about, and is it strange that I 
 should grudge myself to a dull counting-room, with all these 
 things to enjoy ? It is not the thought of the restraint that 
 troubles me. I only fear I shall become too soon content 
 with the routine, till I forget how to enjoy anything but the 
 making and counting of money. I am sure anything would 
 be better than to come to that." 
 
 " You '11 hae many things between you and the like o' that^ 
 if you do your duly. You have them you are going to, and 
 them you hae left — ^your mother and brother. And though 
 you had none o* them, you could aye find some poor body to 
 be kind to, to keep your heart soft Are you to bide in your 
 uncle's house?" ? v '^ Ji 
 
 " I don't know. Mrs. Peter Stone, that was home last 
 year, told us that my unde lives in the country, and his 
 clerks live in the town anywhere they like. I shall do as the 
 rest do I suppose. All the better — ^I shall be the more able 
 to do what I like with my leisure." 
 
 ** Ay, it 's aye Uberty that the like o' yon delight in. Weel, 
 see that you make a good use of it, that 's the chief thiiig> j 
 
Janet's love and servioe. ^6 
 
 Bead your Bible and gang to the kirk, and there 's no fear o' 
 you. And dinna forget to write to your mother. She 's had 
 many a weary thought about you 'ere this time, 1 11 warrant" 
 
 "I daresay I shall be content enough. But it seems like 
 parting from home again, to think of leaving you all. My 
 bonnie wee Bosie, what shall I ever do without you?" said 
 Allan, caressing the Httle one who had clambered on his knee. 
 
 " And what shall we do without you ? " exclaimed a chorus 
 of voices ; and Norman added, 
 
 " What is the use of your going all the way to Canada^ 
 when there *s enough for you to do hera Come with iia, 
 Allan, man, ar " never mind youi* unde.** 
 
 "And what will you do for him, in case he should give his 
 unde up for you?" demanded Jaiiet, sharply. 
 
 " Oh 1 he 'U get just what we "^U get oursdves, a chance to 
 make his own way, and I doubt whether he'U get more 
 where he's going. I've no faith in rich undes." Allan 
 laughed. ;,r . ,„. .'" ":■■=.--> ^^.t'^'teb; 
 
 " Thank you, Norman, lad. I must go to Canada firsts 
 
 however, whether I stay there or not. Maybe you will see 
 
 me again, sooner than I think now. Surely, in the great 
 
 ^town before us, there might be found work, and a place for 
 
 me. 
 
 Far away before them, strddied the twinkling hghts of 
 |the town, and silence fell upon them as they watched them. 
 In another day they would be among the thousands who 
 lived, and labored, and suffered in it. What awaited them 
 there ? Not that they feared tlae future, or doubted a wel- 
 come. Indeed, they were too young to think much of pos- 
 sible evils. A new life was opening before them, no fear 
 but it would be a happy one. (ji^raeme had seen more trouble 
 than the rest, being older, and she was naturally less hope- 
 ful, but then she had no fear for them all, only the thought 
 that they were about to enter on a new, untried life, made 
 her exdted and anxious, and the thought of parting with 
 their friend made her sad. 
 
 As for Janel^ she was herself again. Her oourage retoiih 
 
46 Janet's lote and seryioe. 
 
 _"«:r.' 
 
 ed wh^i the sea-sickiiess departed, and now she was ready 
 "to put a stout heart to a stiff brae" as of old. "DisjaskLt 
 lookmg" she was, and not so strong as she used to be, but 
 she was as active as ever, and more than thankful to be able 
 to keep her feet again. She had been busy all the morning, 
 overhauling the belongings of the family, preparatory to 
 landing, much to the discomfort of all concerned. All the 
 morning Graeme had submitted with a passably good grace 
 to her cross-questionings as to the « guiding" of this and 
 that, while she had been unable to give personal supervision 
 to family matters. Thankful to see her at her post again, 
 Graeme tried to make apparent her own good management 
 of matters in general, during the voyage, but she was only 
 partially successful. There were far more rents and stains, 
 and soiled garments, than Janet considered at all necessary, 
 and besides many familiar articles of wearing apparel were 
 missing, after due search made. In vain Graeme begged 
 her never to mind just now. They were in the big blue 
 chest, or the little brown one, she couldna just mind where 
 she had put them, but of course they would be found, when 
 all the boxes were opened. 
 
 " Maybe no," said Janet. " There are some long fingers, 
 I doubt, in the steerage yonder. Miss Graeme, my dear, wo 
 would need to be carefu*. If I 'm no' mistaken, I saw one o' 
 Norman's spotted handkerchiefs about the neck o' yon lang 
 Johnny Heeman, and yon little Irish lassie ga 'ed past me 
 the day, with a pinafore very like one o' Menie's. I maun ha' 
 a look at it again." 
 
 " Oh, Janet ! never mind. I gave wee Norah the pinafore, 
 and the old brown frock besides. She had much need of them. 
 And poor Johnny came on board on the pilot boat you ken, 
 and he hadna a change, and Norman gave him the hand* 
 kerchief and an old waistcoat of papa's, — and — " 
 
 Janet's hands were uplifted in consternation. 
 
 *' Keep 's and guide 's lassie — ^that I should say such a word. 
 Your papa hadna an old waistcoat in his possession. What 
 fbr did you do the Uke o' that ? The like o' Norman or 
 
.Janet's love and sebvioe^ 47 
 
 Menie might be excused, but you that I thought had some 
 sense and discretion. Your father's waistcoat 1 Heard any- 
 body ever the like ? You may be thankful that you hae some- 
 body that kens the value of good clothes, to take care of you 
 and them — " 
 
 " Oh ! I 'm thankfiQ as you could wish," said Graeme, ' 
 laughing. " I would rather see you sitting there, in the midst 
 of those clothes, than to see the Queen on her throne. I 
 confess to the waistcoat, and some other things, but mind, 
 I 'm responsible no longer. I resign n^ office of general 
 care-taker to you. Success to you," and Graeme made for 
 the cabin stairs. She turned again, however. 
 
 " Never heed, Janet, about the things. Think what it must 
 be to have no change, and we had so many. Poor wee 
 Norah, too. Her mother's dead you ken, and she looked so 
 
 miserable." 
 
 ♦ 
 
 Janet was pacified. ' 
 
 " Weel, Miss Graeme, 1 11 no' heed. But my dear, it *s no* 
 like we 11 find good clothes growing upon trees in this land, 
 more than in our own. And we had need to be careful I 
 wonder where a' the strippet pillow slips can be ? I see far 
 more of the fine ones dirty than were needed, if you had 
 been careful, and guarded them." 
 
 But Graeme was out of hearing' before she came to this. 
 
 They landed at last, and a very dreary landing it was. 
 They had waited for hours, till the clouds should exhaust 
 themselves, but the rain was still falling when they left the 
 ship. Eager and excited, the whole party were, but not 
 after the anticipated fashion. Graeme was surprised, and a 
 Uttle mortified, to find no particular emotions swelling at her 
 heart, as her feet touched the soil which the Puritans had 
 rendered sacred. Indeed, she was too painfully conscious, 
 that the sacred soil was putting her shoes and frock in jeop- 
 ardy, and had two much trouble to keep the umbrella over 
 Marian and herself, to be able to give any thanks to the suf- 
 ferings of the Pilgrim fathers, or mothers either. Mr. EUiobw 
 had been on shore in the morning, and had engaged rooms 
 
^,. ~ Janet's love and bervioe. 
 
 for them in a quiet street, and thither Allan Buthven, carry- 
 ing little Bose, was to conduct them, while he attended to 
 the proper bestowment of their baggage. '^ r '?i 
 
 This duty Janet fain would have shared with him. Her 
 reyerence for the m'nister, and his many excellencies, did 
 not imply entire confidence in his capacity, for that sort of 
 business, and when he directed her to go with the bairns, it 
 was with many misgivings that she obeyed. Indeed, as the 
 loaded cart took its departure in another direction, she ex- 
 pressed herself morally certain, that they had seen the last 
 of it, for she fuUy beUeved that, "yon sharp-looking lad 
 could carry it ofif from beneath the minister's nose." 
 
 Dread of more distant evils was, however, driven from her 
 thoughts by present necessities. The din and bustle of the 
 crowded whar^ would have been sufficient to " daze" the so- 
 berminded countiy-woman, without the charge of Httle Will, 
 and unnumbered bundles, and the two "daft laddies for- 
 by." On their part, Norman and Harry scorned the idea of 
 being taken care of, and loaded with baskets and other mov- 
 ables, made their way through the crowd, in a manner that 
 astonished the bewildered Janet. 
 
 "Bide awee, Norman, man. Harry, you daft-laddie, where 
 are you going? Now dinna throw awa* good pennies for such 
 green trash." For Harry had made a descent on a fruit stall, 
 and his pockets were turned inside out in a twinkling. 
 
 " Saw ever anybody such cheatry," exclaimed Janet, as 
 the dark lady pocketed the coins with a grin, quite unmind- 
 ful of her expostulations. "Harry lad, a fool and his money 
 is soon parted. And look I see here, you hae' set down the 
 basket in the dubs, and your sister's bed gowns will be all 
 wet. Man ! hae you no sense ?" i ri; Vt, 
 
 "Nae muckle, I doubt, Janet," said Harry, with an exag> 
 gerated gesture of humility and penitence, turning the 
 basket upside down, to ascertain the extent of the mischief. 
 " It 's awfu' like Scotch dubs, now isn 't it ? Never mind, 1 11 
 give it a wash at the next pump, and it 'ill be none the worse* 
 Qive me Will's hand, and 1 11 take care of him." 
 
Janet's love and sibvicb. 49 
 
 "Take care o* yourself, and leave Will with me. But, 
 dear me, where 's Mr. Allan ?" For their escort had disap- 
 peared, and she stood alone, with the baskets and the boys 
 in the rainy street. Before her consternation had reached a 
 climax, however, Buthven reappeared, having safely bestowed 
 the others in their lodgings. Like a discreet lad, as Janet 
 was inclined to consider him, he possessed himself of Will, 
 and some of the bundles, and led the way. At the door 
 stood the girls, anxiously looking out for them. « 
 
 If their hostess had, at first, some doubt as to the sanity 
 of her new lodgers, there was Uttle wonder. Such a confusion 
 of tongues her American ears had not heard before. Graeme 
 condoled with Will, who was both wet and weary. Janet 
 searched for missing bundles, and bewailed things in general 
 Marian was engaged in a friendly scuffle for an apple, and 
 Allan was tossing Bosie np to the ceiling, while Norman, 
 perched on the bannisters high above them all, waved his left 
 hand, bidding farewell, with many words, to an imaginary 
 Scotland, while with his right he beckoned to the "brave 
 new world" which was to be the scene of his wonderful 
 achievementsandtriumphs. -' '^ . . • n 
 
 The next day rose bright and beautiful. Mr. Elliott had 
 [gone to stay with his friend Mr. Oaldwell, and Janet was 
 [over head and ears in a general "sorting" of things, and 
 le no objections when it was proposed that the boys and 
 Graeme should go out with Allan Buthven to see the town, 
 [t is doubtful whether there was ever so much of Boston seen 
 one day before, without the aid of a carriage and pair. It 
 ras a day never to be forgotten by the children. The enjoy- 
 lent was not quite unmixed to Graeme, for she was in con 
 it fear of losing some of them. Harry vxis lost sight of 
 )r awhile, but turned up again with a chapter of adventures 
 his finger ends for their amusement. 
 The crowning enjoyment of the day was the treat given by 
 i Buthven on their way home. They were very warm 
 id tired, and hungry too, and the low, cool room down some 
 )B into which they were taken, was deUghlfuL There was 
 8 
 
50 Janet's love and srRvicE. 
 
 never such fruit — ^ihere were never 8u>3h cakes as these that 
 were set before them. As for the ice croam. it was — ^inexpres- 
 sible. In describing the feast afterwards, Marian could never 
 get beyond the ice cream. She was always at a loss for ad* 
 jectives to describe ii It was like the manna that the Chil- 
 dren of Israel had in the wilderness, she thought, and surely 
 they ought to have been content with ii 
 
 Graeme was the only one who did not enjoy it thoroughly. 
 She had an idea that tiiere were not very many guineas left 
 in Allan's purse, and she felt bound to remonstrate with him 
 because of his extravagance. 
 
 " Never mind, Graeme, dear," said Norman ; " Allan winna 
 have a chance to treat us to manna this while again ; and 
 when I am Mayor of Boston, I '11 give him manna and quails 
 too." 
 
 They came home tired, but they had a merry evening. 
 Even Graeme " unbent," as Harry said, and joined in the 
 mirth; and Janet had enough to do to reason them into 
 quietness when bed-time came. 
 
 ** One would thiok when Mr. Allan is going away in tho« 
 morning, you might have the grace to seem sorry, and let us 
 have a while's peace," said she. 
 
 If the night was merry, the morning farewells were sad 
 indeed, and long, long did they wait in vain for tidings of 
 Allan Buthven. 
 
 I -I,'. •■ 
 
 
 ').y.•^■ ,ri.;. •• ■"(.'«. „ „yv y •• ., .. -■■'- I . 
 
 „T>i :. 
 
 
'■sM''; -"f^'^^^^l fHi' viTjift '^ 
 
 ,-, • jj 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 UT where *s the town ?" 
 
 The bairns were standing on the highest step of 
 
 ^ting-house, gazing with eyes full of wonder and de- 
 
 on the scene before them. The meeting-house stood on 
 
 ^h hill, and beyond a wide sloping field at the foot of the 
 
 Merleville pond, like a mirror in a frame of silver and 
 
 Beyond, and on either side, were hills rising behind 
 
 the most distant covered with great forest trees, "the 
 
 under which the red Indians used to wander," Graeme 
 
 kpered. There were trees on the nearer hills too, sugaries, 
 
 thick pine groves, and a circle of them round the margin 
 
 [of Ihe pond. Over all the great Magician of the season had 
 
 fwaved his wand, and decked them in colors dazzling to the 
 
 eyes accustomed to the grey rocks and purple heather, and 
 
 [to the russet garb of autumn in their native land. 
 
 There were farmhouses too, and the scattered houses along 
 [the village street looking white and fair beneath crimson 
 iples and yellow beech trees. Above hung a sky undim- 
 led by a single doud, and the air was keen, yet mild with 
 the October sunshine. They could not have had a lovelier 
 time for the first glimpse of their new home, yet there was 
 echo of disappointment in Harry's voice as he asked, 
 "Where's the town?" 
 
 They had been greatly impressed by the description given 
 
 lem of Merleville by Mr. Sampson Snow, in whose great 
 
 ragon they had been conveyed over the twenty miles of coun- 
 
 roads that lay between the railway and there new home. 
 
 "I was the first white child bom in the town," said Samp- 
 
 )n. « I know every foot of it as well as I do my own bam, 
 
 (51^ 
 
62 Janet's love and sebtioe. 
 
 and I don't want no better place to live in than Merlovtlle. 
 It don't lack but a fraction of being ten miles square. Bight 
 in the centre, perhaps a l^e south, there 's abo at the pret- 
 tiest pond you ever saw. There are some first-rate farms 
 there, mine is one of them, but in general the town is better 
 calculated for pasturage than tillage. I shouldn't wonder 
 but it would be quite a manufacturing place too after a speU, 
 when they 've used up all the other water privileges in the 
 State, lliere 's quite a faU in the Merle river, just before ic 
 runs into the pond. We 've got a fullin'-miU and a grist-mill 
 on it now. They 'd think everything of it in your country. 
 
 " There *s just one meetin'-house in it. That 's where your 
 pa 11 preach if our folks conclude to hire him a spell. The 
 land 's about aU taken up, though it haint reached the high- 
 est point of cultivation yei. The town is set off into nine 
 school-districts, and I consider that our privileges are first* 
 rate. And if it 's nutting £iiid squirrel-hunting you 're after, 
 boys, all you have to do is to apply to Uude Sampson, and 
 hell arrange your business for you." 
 
 "Ten mUes square and nine school-districts!" Boston 
 could be nothing to it, surely, the boys thought The incon- 
 sistency of talking about pasturage and tillage, nutting and 
 squirrel-hunting in the populous place which they imagined 
 Merleville to be, did not strike them. This was literally their 
 first glimpse of MerleviUe, for the rain had kept them within 
 doors, and the mist had hidden all things the day before, and 
 now they looked a little anxiously for the city they bad pic- 
 tured to themselves. 
 
 "But Norman I Harry 1 I think this is far better than a 
 town," said Marian, eagerly. "Eh, Graeme, isna yon a 
 bonny water V r v * « 
 
 " Ay, it 's grand," said Graeme. " Norman, this is far bet- 
 ter than a town." , , . -^ , ^^f^/t 
 
 The people were beginning to gather to service by this ' 
 time ; but the children were too eager and too busy to heed 
 them for awhile. With an interest that was half wonder, half 
 delight, Graeme gazed to the hills and the water and the 
 
Janet's love astd sebyioe. 
 
 te 
 
 lovely sky. It might be the "bonny day" — ^the mild air and 
 
 the sunshine, and the now fair scene before her, or it might 
 
 be the knowledge that after much care, and many perils, they 
 
 [rvere all safe together in this quiet place where they were to 
 
 [find a home ; she scarce knew what it was, but her heart felt 
 
 [strangely light, and lips and eyes smiled as she stood there 
 
 lolding one of Marian's hands in hers, while the other wan 
 
 [dered through the curls of Will's golden hair. She did not 
 
 3eak for a long time ; but the others were not so quiet, but 
 
 whispered to each other, and pointed out the objects that 
 
 }leased them most 
 
 "Yon's Merle river, I suppose, where we see the water 
 'lancing through the trees." 
 
 " And yonder is the kir^ard," said Marian, gravely. " It 's 
 lo' a bonny place." , ,, 
 
 "It 's bare and lonely-looking," said Harry. 
 
 "They should have yew trees and ivy and a high wall, like 
 irhere mamma is," said Marian. 
 
 "But this is a new country; things are different here," 
 lid Norman. 
 
 " But surely they might have trees." 
 
 " And look, there are cows in it The gate is broken. It 's 
 
 pity." 
 
 "Look at yon road that goes round the water, and then 
 
 between the hills through the wood. That 's bonny, I 'm 
 
 wee. 
 
 " And there 's a white house, just where the road goes out 
 )f sight I would like to live there." 
 
 " Yes, there are many trees about it, and another house 
 m this side." 
 
 And so they talked on, till a familiar voice accosted them. 
 
 leir friend Mr. Snow was standing beside them, holding a 
 )retty, but delicate little girl, by the hand. He had been 
 [watching them for some tima 
 
 " Well how do you like the looks of things ? " . 
 
 " It 's bonny here," said Marian. 
 
 " Where 's the town ?" asked Harry, promptly. 
 
54 jAirarr's love and bebvioe. 
 
 DJJr. Snow made a motion with his head, intended t< indi> 
 cate the scene before them. 
 
 " Lacks a fraction of being ten miles square." 
 
 "It's aU trees,** said Uttle Will - ' ■% 
 
 " Wooden ooimtry, eh, my little man ? " 
 
 " Cooniiy I yes, it *s more like the country than lUce a 
 town," said Harry. " ' ^ 
 
 " Well, yes. On this side of the water, we can afford to 
 have oar town^ as big as some folks' countries," said 1!^. 
 Snow, gravely. 
 
 " But it 's like no town I ever saw," said Norman. " There 
 are no streets, no shops, no market, no anything that makes 
 a town." 
 
 "There 's freedom on them hills," said Wc, Snow, waving his 
 hand with an aur. 
 
 During the journey the other day, Mr. Snow and the lado 
 had discussed many things together ; among the rest, the 
 institutions of their respective countries, and Mr. Snow had, 
 as he eiqpressed it, " Set their British blood to bihn," by hints 
 about " aristocracy," " despotism," and so on. " He never 
 had had such a good time," he said, afterwards. They were 
 a littie firey, but first-rate smart boys, and as good natnred 
 as kittens, and ho meant to see to them. He meant to 
 amuse himself with them too, it seemed. The boys fired up 
 at once, and a hot answer was only arrested on their lips, by 
 the timely interference of Graeme. 
 
 " Whist, Norman. Harry, mind it is the Sabbath-day, and 
 look yonder is papa coming up with Judge Merle," and turn- 
 ing smilingly to Mr. Snow, she added, " We like the place 
 very much. It*s beautifiQ everywhere. It's far bonnier 
 than a town. I 'm glad there 's no town, and so are the boys, 
 though they were disappointed at first" 
 
 ** No town ?" repeated Mr. Snow. .', ', 
 
 But there was no time for e]q)lanation8. Their father had 
 reached the steps, and the children were replying to the 
 greeting of the Judge. Judge Merle, was in the opinion of 
 the majority, the greatest man in Merleville, if not in the 
 
Janet's loyb aitp bebyiob. 55 
 
 conntiy. The childrcoi had made his acqnamtance on Satnr* 
 day. He had brought them with his own hands, through 
 the rain, a pail of sweet milk, and another of hominy, a cir- 
 Gumstance which gave them a high idea of his kindness of 
 heart, but which sadly oyertumed all their preooncdved no- 
 tions with regard to the dignity of his office. Janet, who looked 
 on the whole thing as a proper tribute of respect to the min- 
 ister, augured weU from it, what he might expect in his new 
 parish, and congratulated herself accordingly. The children 
 were glad to see him, among the many strangers around 
 them, and when Mr. Snow gave him a famitiar nod, and a, 
 " Morning Judge," Graeme felt a little inclined to resent the 
 familiarity. The Judge did not resent it, however. On the 
 contrary, when Mr. Snow, nodding sideways toward the min- 
 ister, said, " He guessed the folks would get about fitted this 
 time," he nodded as familiarly back, and said, " He should n't 
 wonder if they did." 
 
 There are no such churches built in New England now, 
 as that into which the minister and his children were led by 
 the Judge. It was very large and high, and full of vrindowa 
 It was the brilliant light that struck the children firsts accus- 
 tomed as they had been to associate with the Sabbath wor^ 
 shii^ the dimness of their father's little dhapel in Olayton. 
 Norman the mathematician was immediately seized with a 
 perverse desire to count the panes, and scandalized Qxaeme 
 by communicating to her the result of his calculation, just as 
 her &ther rose up to begin. 
 
 How many people there were in the high square pews, and 
 in the galleries, and even in the narrow aisles. So many, 
 that Graeme not dreaming of the quiet nooks hidden among 
 the hills she had thought so beautiful, wondered where they 
 could come from. Keen, intelligent feces, many of them 
 ere, that turned toward the minister as he ix)se ; a little 
 ard and fixed, perhaps, those of the men, and &r t do delicate, 
 
 d care-worn, those of the women, but earnest^ thoughtful 
 many of them were, and kindly v^ithaL 
 
 Afterwards— years and years afterwards, when the bairns 
 
jy6 Janet's love and bebvioe. 
 
 had to shut their eyes to recall their father's faoe, as it gleamed 
 down npon them from that strange high pnlpit, the old people, 
 used to talk to them of this first sermon in Merleville. There 
 was a charm in the Scottish accent, and in the earnest maimer 
 of the minister, which won upon these people wonderfully. B 
 was heart speaking to heart, an earnest, loving, human 
 heart, that had sinned and had been forgiven, that had snf* 
 fered and had been comforted ; one who, through all, had bj 
 God's grace struggled upwards, speaking to men of like pas- 
 sions and necessities. He spoke as one whom God had given 
 a right to warn, to counsel, to console. He spoke as one 
 who must give account, and his hearers listened earnestly. 
 So earnestly that Deacon Fish forgot to hear for Deacon 
 Slowcome, and Deacon Slowcome forgot to hear for people 
 generally. Deacon Sterne who seldom forgot anything which 
 he beheved to be his duty, &uled for once to prove the ortho- 
 dox of the doctrine by comparing it with his own, and 
 received it as it fell from the minister's lips, as the veiy word 
 of God. 
 
 "He means just as he says," said Mr. Snow to yoimg 
 Mr. Greenleal^ as he overtook him in going home that afl»D 
 noon. " He wasn't talking just because it was his business 
 to. When he was a telling us what mighty things the grace 
 of Otod can do, he believed it himself} I guess." 
 
 " They all do, don't they ?" said Mr. Greenleaf. 
 
 ** WeU, I do n't know. They all say they do. But there 's 
 Deacon Fish now," said Mr. Snow, nodding to that worthy, 
 as his wagon whirled past, " he don't begin to think that 
 grace or anything else, could make me such a good man u ] 
 he is." 'mi Avi ^.5. ' ■ -^^ijii;-; , 
 
 Mr. Greenleaf laughed. ^ h 
 
 " If the vote of the town was taken, I guess it would he 
 decided th&t grace wouldn't have a great deal to do." 
 
 "Well, the town would make a mistaka Deacon Fiih{ 
 ain't to brag of for goodness, I don't think ; but he 's a sight : 
 better than I be. But see here, Squire, don't yon think Hi { 
 new minister 11 about fit? " 
 
Janet's love and service. 5T 
 
 "Hell fit we," said the Squire. "It is easy to see that 
 he is not a common man. But he won't fit the folks here, or 
 they won't fit him. It would be too good luck if he were to 
 stay here." :>^.r-e,J ha.^ ..rtv«a: ;* - 
 
 "Well, I don't know about that. There are folks enough 
 in the town that know what 's good when they hear it, and 
 I guess they 11 keep him if they can. And I guess he Tl 
 stay. He seems to like the look of things. He is a dreadful 
 mild'Spoken man, and I guess he won't want much in the 
 way of pay. I guess you had better shell out some yourself 
 Squire, /mean ta" 
 
 "You are a rich man, Mr. Snow. You can afiford it" 
 
 "Come now. Squire, that's good. I 'ye worked harder 
 for every dollar I 've got, than you 've done for any ten you 
 ever earned." 
 
 The Squire shook his head. 
 
 " You don't understand my kind of work, or you would n't 
 say so. But about the minister? If I were to pledge my- 
 self to any amount for his support, I should feel just as 
 [ though I were in a measure responsible for the right arrange- 
 ment of all things with regard to his salary, and the paying 
 of it Anything I have to do with, I want to have go right 
 [along without any trouble, and imless Merle ville folks do 
 [differently than they have so far, it won^ be so in this 
 
 itter." 
 
 " Yes, I should n't wonder if there would be a hitch before 
 f ong. But I guess you 'd better think before you say no. I 
 ^less it 11 pay in the long run." 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Snow. Ill take your advice and think 
 )f it," said Mr. Ghreenleaf, as Sampson stopped at his own 
 
 ite. He watched him going up the hill 
 
 "He *s goin' along up to the widow Jones* now, 1 11 bet 
 
 should n't wonder if he was a goin' to lose me my chance 
 ^f getting her place. It kind o' seems as though I ought to 
 lave it ; it fits on so nice to mine. And they say old Skin- 
 lint is going to foreclose right offi 1 11 have to make things 
 U pretty tight this winter ; if I have to raise the ca? h. But 
 
68 
 
 JANET 8 LOVE AND SEBVIOE. 
 
 it does seem as if I ought to have ii Maybe it 's Celesiaa 
 the Squire wants, and not the leurm.'' 
 
 He came back to dose the gate which, in his earnestness, 
 he had forgotten, and leaned for a moment over it. 
 
 "Well, now, it does beat alL Hwe have I been forgetting 
 all about what I have heard over yonder to the meeting- 
 house. Deacon Sterne need n't waste no more words to i 
 
 I 
 
 prove total depravity to me. I 've got to know it pretty weD 
 by this time ; " and, with a sigh, he turned toward the hoim 
 
 • If''- .''. l.:--V ?''-•:■■* ^.--t" ■4'''' T -.H'fKf ."*«*• •i.U- 
 ■ '■'■ . • ---. • •■. .■■'.' — . ..; .'■ .;. .•,-. -.Cf, vV . y.'.'a^' 
 
 *''Nf iJt '■ 
 
 
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 L (ii' 
 
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 *■••< 
 
 
 'If -v^-r.'T^. ';^>»i'■i^-v*"■ 
 •>r)»■' / •!';,! 'S-f'i':?' :^ ■ [■■■'■*ly- ■■;*' 
 
 ■ .' I ■ '• / 
 
 
 i^%^'l%i'f^.' ^(^rttA 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 |HE next week was a busy one to alL Mr. Elliott^ dar- 
 ing that time took up his lesidence at Judge Merle's^ 
 [nly ma^ng daily visits to tiie little brown house behind the 
 ts where Janet and the bairns were putting things to 
 fht& There was a great deal to be done, but it was lovely 
 feather, and all were in excellent ^spirits, and each did some- 
 to help. The lads broke sti<:^ and carried water, and 
 Let's mammoth washing was accomplished in an incredibly 
 lort time ; and before the week was over the little brown 
 louse began to look like a home. 
 A great deal besides was accomplished this week. It was 
 >t all devoted to helping, by the boys. Norman caught 
 ie squirrels in a trap of his own invention, and Harry 
 Lot as many with Mr. Snow's wonderful rifle. They and 
 ian had made the circuit of the pond, over rocks, through 
 les and brambles, over brooks, or through them, as the 
 ;e might be. They came home tired enough, and in a 
 tte which naturally suggested -thoughts of another mammoth 
 }hing, but in high spirits with their trip, only r^retting 
 it Graeme and Janet had not 4)een with them. It wag 
 ij nigliti after a very -busy week, and Janet had her 
 ideas about the enjoyment oi such a ramble, and was 
 a little put out with them for "their thoughtless raining 
 their clothes and- shoon." But the minister had oome 
 le, and theore was but a thin partition between the room 
 it must serve himVfer study and parlor, and the general 
 ^m for the family, and they- got off with a slight xepii* 
 id, much to their surprise and delight-. For to tell the 
 Janet's patience with the baiime^ exhanstless in most 
 
 **■ * 
 
 59 
 
00 Janet's love and service. 
 
 drcamstances, was wont to give way in the presence pf 
 "torn dothes and rained shoon." 
 
 The next week was hardly so successfol It was cold and 
 rainy. The gold and crimson glories of the forest disappeared 
 in a night, and the earth looked gloomy and sad under a 
 leaden sky. The inconveniences of the Ettle brown house 
 became more apparent now. It had been declared, at first 
 sight, the very worst house in Merleville, and so it was, even 
 under a dear s^ and brilliant sunshine. A wretched place 
 it looked. The windows dattered, the chmmey smoked, 
 latches and hinges were defective, and there were a score of 
 other evils, which Janet and the lads strove to remedy with- 
 out vexing their father and Graeme. A very poor place it 
 was, and small and inconvenient besides. But this could 
 not be cured, and therefore must be endured. The house 
 occupied by Mr. EUiott's predecessor had been burned down, 
 and the little brown house was the only unoccupied house in 
 the villaga When winter should be over something might 
 be done about getting another, and in the meantime the{y 
 must make the best of it. 
 
 The people were wonderfully kind. One man came to 
 mend windows and doors, another to mend the chimney. 
 Orrin Green spent two days in banking up the housa 
 Deacons Fish and Slowcome sent their men to bring t^ 
 wood ; and apples and chickens, and pieces of beef were sent 
 in by some of the village people. 
 
 There were some drawbacks. The wood was, green, and 
 made more smoke than heat ; and Janet mortally o£fended 
 Mr. Green by giving him his dinner alone in the kitchen. 
 Every latch and hinge, and pane of glass, and the driving of 
 every nail, was charged and deducted from the half yearns 
 salary, at prices whidi made Janet's indignation overflow. 
 This latter drcumstance was not known, however, tilll the half 
 year was done ; and in the meantime it hdped them aD 
 through this dreary time to find their new friends so kind. 
 
 In the course of time, things were put to rights, and the 
 little bare place began to look wonderfully oomfortabk 
 
janet'b love and servioe. 61 
 
 With warm carpets on the floors, and warm curtains on the 
 windows, with stools and sofas, and tables made out of pack- 
 ing boxes, disguised in various ways, it began to have a look 
 of home to them all. 
 
 *rhe rain and the clouds passed away, too, and the last 
 part of November was a long and lovely Indian summer. 
 Then the explorations of the boys were renewed with delight 
 Graeme and Bosie and Will went with the rest, and even 
 Janet was beguiled into a nutting excursion one afternoon. 
 She enjoyed it, too, and voluntarily confessed it. It was a 
 fair view to look over the pond and the village lying so 
 quietly in the valley, with the kirk looking down upon it 
 from above. It was a fine country, nobody could deny ; but 
 Janet's eyes were sad enough as she gazed, and her voice 
 shook as she said it, for the thought of home was strong at 
 her heart 
 
 In this month they made themselves thoroughly acquainted 
 with the geography of the place, and with the kindly in- 
 mates of many a farm-house besides. And a happy month 
 it was for them alL One night they watched the sun set 
 between red and wavering douds, and the next day woke to 
 behold " the beauty and mystery of the snow." Far away 
 to the highest hill-top ; down to the very verge of pond and 
 brook ; on every bush, and tree, and knoll, and over every 
 silent valley, lay the white garment of winter. How strange ! 
 how wonderful I it seemed to their unaccustomed eyes. 
 
 " It 'minds me of white graveKilothes," said Marian, with a 
 shudder. 
 
 "'Whist, Menie," said her sister. "It makes me think 
 of how full the air will be of bonnie white angels at th^ 
 resarrecti(m-day. Just watch the flakes floating so quietly in 
 the air." 
 
 " But, Graeme, the angels will be going up, and ** 
 
 " WeQ, one can hardly tell by lookipg at ^em, whether the 
 snow-flakes are coming down or going up, they float about 
 so silently. They mind me of beautiful and peaceful 
 things." 
 
^ jai^et's love and bebvioe. 
 
 ** But, Graeme, it looks cold and droaiy, and all the bonnie 
 flowers are covered in the dark." ■' ■■ 
 
 "Meniel There are no flowers to be covered now, and 
 the earth is weary with her summer work, and will rest and 
 sleep under the bonnie white snow. And, dear, you mustns 
 think of dreary* things when you look out upon the snow, 
 for it will be a long time before we see the green grass and 
 the bonnie flowers again," and Graeme sighed. » 
 
 But it was with a shout of dehght that the boys plunged 
 headlong into it, roUing buu tumbling and tossing it at 
 one another in a way that was " perfect ruination to their 
 clothes ; " and yet Janet had not the heart to forbid it B 
 was a holiday of a new kind to them ; and their enjoyment 
 was crowned and completed when, in the afternoon, Mr. 
 Snow came down with his box-sleigh and his two handsome 
 greys to give them a sleigh-ride. There was room for them 
 all, and for Mr. Snow's little Emily, and for half a dozen 
 besides had they been there ; so, well wrapped up wifli 
 blankets and buffalo-robes, away they went. Was there ever 
 anything so delightful, so exhilarating? Even Graeme 
 laughed and clapped her hands, and the greys flew over the 
 ground, and passed every sleigh and sledge on the road. 
 
 " The bonnie creatures I " she exclaimed ; and Mr. Snov, 
 who loved his greys, and was proud of them, took the oft 
 repeated exclamation as a compliment to himseli^ and drore 
 in a way to show his favorites to the best advantage. Away 
 they went, up hill and down, through the village and over 
 the bridge, past the mill to the woods, where the tall hem' 
 locks and cedars stood dressed in white "like brides." Marian 
 had no thought of sorrowful things in her heart now. Thejf 
 oame home again the other way, past Judge Merle's and tlu 
 school-house, singing and laughing in a way that made the ; 
 sobeivminded boys and girls of Merleville, to whom sleigh-rid- 
 ing was no novelty, turn round in astonishment as they passed. 
 The people in the store, and the people in the blackBmith'b | 
 ahop, and even the old ladies in their warm kitdiens, openti | 
 the door and looked out to see the cause of the pleasant op j 
 
Janet's love and bebyioe. " C3 
 
 roar. All wex« merry, and aU gave voice to their mirth except 
 Mr. Snow's little Emily, and she was too full of astonishment 
 at the others to think of saying anything hersell But none 
 of them enjoyed the ride more than she, though it was not 
 her first by many. None of them all remembered it so weU, 
 or spoke of it so often. It was the beginning of sleigh-rid- 
 ing to them, but it was the beginning of a new life to little 
 Emily. * ■- ;^^- '- '-(''> ■'■''■- *:!■-■•■■>'■ .1'^ ;\,-,vj;v:?.;t;. ,■fi^./:^..^:.. 
 
 " Isna she a queer little creature ? " whispered Harry to 
 Graeme, as her great black eyes turned from one to another 
 fall of grave wonder, o;. i: 1 ..^ .^ i.; a >4^ "-^ ^^ ^ 
 
 " She 's a bonnie little creature," said Graeme, caressing 
 the little hand that had found its way to hers, " and good, 
 too, I 'm sure." 
 
 " Grandma don't think so," said the child, gravely. 
 
 " No 1 " exclaimed Harry. " "What bad things do you do ? " 
 
 " I drop stitches and look out of the window, and I hate 
 to pick over beana" .„,. - . .... ..„^ 
 
 Harry whistled. 
 
 " What an awful wee sinner 1 And does your grandma 
 punish you ever ? Does she whip you ? " 
 
 The child's black eyes flashed. 
 
 "She daren't Father wouldn't let her. She gives me 
 ^stints, and sends me io bed." 
 
 " The Turk I " exclaimed Harry. « Eun away from her, 
 
 id come and bide with us." 
 
 ••Hush, Harry," said Graeme, softly, "grandma is Mr. 
 
 low's mother." 
 
 There was a pause. In a little Emily spoke for the first 
 me of her own accord. 
 
 " There are no children at our house," said sh& 
 "Poor wee lammie, and you are lonefy sometimes," said 
 i^raeme. 
 
 "Yes; when lather's gone and mother's siok. Then 
 lere's nobody but grandma." 
 " Have you a doll ? " asked Menie. 
 ** No : I have a kitten, though." 
 
64 JAlTEl's LOVE AND BESTIOE. 
 
 "Ah I you must come and play with my dolL She is a 
 perfect beauty, and her name is Flora Macdonald," 
 
 Menie's doll had become mach more valuable in her esti- 
 mation since she had created such a sensation among the 
 little Merleville girls. 
 
 " Will you come ? Mr. Snow," she said, dimbing upon the 
 front seat which Norman shared with the driver, "won't 
 you let your Uttle girl come and see my doU ? " 
 
 " Well, yes ; I guess so. If she 's half as pretty as yon 
 are, she is well worth seeing." 
 
 Menie was down again in a minute. 
 
 " Tes, you may come, he says. And bring your kitten, 
 and we 11 play all day. Graeme lets us, and doesna send xu 
 to bed. Will you like to come ? " 
 
 " Yes," said the child, quickly, but as gravely as ever. 
 
 They stopped at the little brown house at last, with a 
 shout that brought their father and Janet out to see. AH 
 sprang lightly down. Little Emily staid alone in the sleigh. 
 
 " Is this your little girl, Mr. Snow ? " said Mr. EUiott, tak- 
 ing the child's hand in his. Emily looked in his face as 
 gravely and quietly as she had been looking at the children 
 all the afternoon. ; • .. ,i^^- 1-^.-,^; .yir'rr;,.m^i¥x.-:^i4:-.im'&^ 
 
 " Yes ; she 's your Marian's age, and looks a little like her, 
 too. Don't you think so Mrs. Nasmyth ?" 3^ t* 
 
 Janet, thus appealed to, looked kindly at the child. 
 
 <* She might, if she had any flesh on her bones," said she. 
 '* Well, she don't look ragged, that 's a fact," said her lather. 
 
 The cold, which had brought the roses to the cheeks of 
 the little Elliotts, had given Emily a blue, pinched lool^ 
 which it made her fother^s heart ache to see. 
 
 "The bairn's cold. Let her come in and waim herseli^" 
 said Janet, promptly. There was a chorus of entreatieii 
 from the children. 
 
 " Well, I don't know as I ought to wait. My horses don't 
 like to stand much," said Mr. Snow. 
 
 " Never mind waiting. If it 's too far for us to taike her 
 home, you can come down for her in the evening." 
 
Janet's love akd bebyiob. 05 
 
 Emily looked at her father wistfuDy. ~ ' >trn: ■ . ; - 
 
 " Would you like to stay, dear ? " asked he. 
 " Yes, sir." And she was lifted out of the sleigh by Janet, 
 and cairied into the house, and kissed before she was set 
 
 dovm. 
 
 " 1 11 be along down ad)er dark, sometime," said Mr. Snow, 
 as he drove away, - ' 
 
 Little Emily had never heard so mnch noise, at least so 
 much pleasant noise, before. Mr. Elliott sat down beside the 
 bright wood fire in the kitchen, with Marian on one knee 
 and the Uttle stranger on the other, and listened to the 
 exclamations of one and all about the sleigh ride. , ;!} : 
 
 " And hae you nothing to say, my bonnie wee lassie ? " said 
 be pushing back the soft, brown hair from the little grave 
 face. "What is your name, Uttle one ? " :',v-?i ;;jj 
 
 "Emily Snow Arnold," answered she, promptly. . / rrj J 
 
 " Emily Arnold Snow," said Menie, laughrug. 
 
 "No; Emily Snow Arnold. Grandma says I am not 
 s own little girl My father is dead." ,.^j 
 
 She looked grave, and so did the rest ' ; ;/ 
 
 " But it is just the sama He loves you." 
 
 " 0, yes I " There was a bright look in the eyes for onoe. 
 
 "And you love him all the same ? " 
 
 "0,yea" 
 
 So it was. Sampson Snow, with love enough in his heart 
 
 ir half a dozen children, had none of his own, and it was 
 lavished on this child of his wife, and she loved him 
 'ly. But they did not have "good times" up at their 
 
 use the little girl confided to Graeme. ' 
 
 " Mother is sick most of the time, and grandma is cross 
 
 ways ; and, if it wasn't for father, I don't know what we 
 
 Indeed, they did not have good times. Old Mrs. Snow 
 always been strong and healthy, altogether unconscious 
 nerves," and she could have no sympathy and very little 
 foe his son's siddy vnfe. She had never liked her, even 
 
 en she was a girl, and her girlhood was past^ and she had 
 
66 
 
 ^ 
 
 janbt'8 love and bebviob. 
 
 been a soirowfol widow before her son brought her home as 
 his wife. So old Mrs. Snow kept her place at the head of the 
 household, and was hard on everybody, but more especially 
 on her son's wife and her httle girL If there had been chil- 
 dren, she might have been different ; but she almost resented 
 her son's warm affection for his htUe stepdaughter. At any 
 rate she was determined that little Emily should be brought 
 np as diildren used to be brought up when tihe was young, 
 and not spoiled by over-indulgence as her mother had been ; 
 and the process was not a pleasant one to any of them, and 
 "good times " were few and far between at their house. 
 
 Her acquaintance with the minister's children was the b&> 
 ginning of a new life to Emily. Her Either opened his eyes 
 with astonishment when he came into Janet's bright kitdien 
 that night and heard his Uttle girl laughing and clapping her 
 hands as merrily as any of them. If anything had been 
 needed to deepen his interest in them all, their kindness to 
 the diild would have done it ; and from that day the minister 
 and his children, and Mr& Nasmyth, too, had a firm and 
 tme friend in Mr. Snow. 
 
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 :?^'' -i;:.?'- 
 
 CHAPTER VII!. 
 
 FROM the time of their arrival, the minister and his family 
 excited great curiosity and interest among the good 
 people of Merleville. The minister himself as Mr. Snow 
 told Mrs. Nasmyth, was " popular." Not, however, that any 
 one among them all thought him faultless, unless Mr. Snow 
 himself did. Every old lady in the town saw something in 
 him, which she not secretly deplored. Indeed, they were 
 more unanimous, with regard to the minister's &ults, than 
 old ladies generally are on important subjects. The matter 
 was dispassionately discussed at several successive sewin<^- 
 drdes, and when Mrs. Page, summing up the evidence, sol> 
 emnly declared, "that though the minister was a good 
 man, and a good preacher, he lacked considerable in some 
 things which go to make a man a good pastor," there was 
 scarcely a dissenting voice. 
 
 Mm. Merle had ventured to hint, that, " they could not ex- 
 pect everything in one man," but her voice went for nothing, 
 as one of the minister's offences was, having been several 
 times in at the Judge's, while he sinfnJUy neglected others of 
 his flock. 
 
 "It 'shandy by," ventured Mrs. Merle, again. But the 
 Judge's wife was no match for the blacksmith's lady, and it 
 was agreed by all, that whatever else the minister might b^ 
 he was "no hand at visiting." True he had divided the 
 town into districts, for the purpose of regularly meeting tho 
 people, and it was his custom to announce from the pulpit, 
 the neighborhood in which, on certain days, he might be ex- 
 pected. But that of course, was a formal matter, and not at 
 all like the afiEectionate intercourse that ought to ecdst bo- 
 
 (67) 
 
Ag JANET'b LOVB and 8EEVI0E. 
 
 tween a pastor and his people. " He might preach like 
 Paal," said Mrs. Page, " but unless on week days he water- 
 ed the seed sown, with a word in season, the harvest would 
 nerer be gathered in. The minister's face ought to be a fa- 
 miliar sight in every household, or the youth would never 
 be brought into the fold," and the lady sighed, at the case of 
 the youth, scattered over the ten miles square of Merlevilla 
 The minister was not sinning in ignorance either, for she 
 herself had told ^^rn his duty in this respect. 
 
 « And what did he say ?" asked some ona 
 
 ** Oh 1 he didn't say much, but I could see that his con- 
 science wasn't easy. However, there has been no imptove- 
 ment yet^" she added, with grave severity. 
 
 ''He hain't got a horse, and I've heard say, that deacon 
 Fish charges faim six cents a mile for his horse and cutter, 
 whenever he has ii He could n*t afford to ride round much 
 at that rate, on five hundred dollars a year." 
 
 This bold speech was ventored by Miss Rebecca Fettimore, 
 Mrs. Captain Liscome's hdp, who took turns with that lady, 
 in attending the sewingKiircle. But it was well known, that 
 she was always " on the c& side," and Mrs. Page deigned no 
 reply. There was a moment's sUenoe. 
 
 "EE heard Mr. Snow say so, in Page's shop yesterday," 
 added Bebecca» wh6 always gave herautiiority, when she re- 
 peated an item of news. Mrs. Fish, took her up sharply. 
 
 "Sampson Snow had better let the minister have his 
 horse and cutter, if he can afford to do it, for nothing. Mr. 
 Fish can't" 
 
 "My goodness, Mis' Fish, I wouldn't have said a word, 
 if I 'd thought you were here^" said Bebecca» with an embar- 
 rassed laugh. 
 
 "Mr. Snow often drives the minister, and thinks himself 
 well paid, just to have a talk with him," said a pretty black- 
 oyed girl, trying to cover Rebecca's retreat But Bebeooa 
 would n't retreat 
 
 '*I didn't mean any offence, Mis' Fish, and if it ain't so 
 about the deacon, you can say so now, before it goes further." 
 
JAKET's love and 8EBVI0K. 60 
 
 But it was not to be contradicted, and that Mrs. Fish well 
 knew, thongh what business it was of anybody's, and why the 
 minister, who seemed to be well ofi^ should n't pay for the use 
 of a horse and cutter, she could n't understand. The subject 
 was changed by Mrs. Slowcome. 
 
 '* He must have piles and piles of old sermons. It don't 
 seem as though he needs to spend as much time in his study, 
 as Mrs. Nasmyth tells about." 
 
 Here there was a murmur of dissent. Would sermons 
 made for the British, be such as to suit free-bom American 
 citizens ? the children of the Puritans ? The prevailing feel- 
 ing was against such a supposition. ' ''' ' * '- ' **^' 
 
 "Old or new, I like them," said Oelestia Jones, the pretty 
 black-eyed girl, who had spoken before. " And so do others, 
 who are better judges than L" ^'iK- f^r 
 
 " Squire Greenlea^ I suppose," said Buby Fox, in a loud 
 whisper. " He was up there last Sunday night ; she has been 
 aching;' to tdl it aU the afternoon." 
 
 Odestia's black eyes flashed Are at the speaker, and the dy 
 Buby said no more. Indeed, there was no more said about 
 the sermons, for that they were something for the Merleville 
 people to be proud o^ all agreed. Mr. Elliott's preaching 
 had filled the old meeting-house. People who had never 
 been regular churchgoers came now ; some from out of the 
 town, even. Young Squire Greenlea^ who seemed to have the 
 prospect of succeeding Judge Merle, aa the great man of 
 Merleville, had brought over the judges from Bizford, and 
 •they had dined at the minister's^ and had come to church on 
 Sunday. Young Squire Ghneenleaf was a triumph of himself. 
 He had never been at meeting "much, if any," smce he had 
 completed his legal studies. If he ever did go, it was to the 
 Episcopal church at Bixford, which, to the liberal Mrs. Page, 
 looked considerably like coquetting with the scarlet woman. 
 Now, he hardly ever lost a Sunday, besides going sometimes 
 to conference meetings^ and maldng frequent visits to the 
 minister's house. Having put all these things together, and 
 oonndered the matter, Mrs. Page came to the <y^BcluiBon, 
 
'i^O Janet's love aot) bebvicb. 
 
 that the squire was not in so hopeless a condition as she had 
 been wont to suppose, a fact, which on this occasion, she took 
 the opportunity of rejoicing over. The rest rejoiced too. 
 There was a murmur of dissent from Miss Pettimore, but it 
 passed unnoticed, as usual There was a gleam which look- 
 ed a little like scorn, in the black eyes of Miss Celestia, which 
 said more plainly than Miss Pettimore's words could have 
 done, that the squire was better now, than the most in 
 Merleville, but like a wise young person as she was, she ex- 
 pended all her scornful glances on the shirt sleeve she was 
 making, and said nothing. 
 
 The minister was then allowed to rest a little while, and the 
 other members of the family were discussed, with equal in- 
 terest Upon the whole, the conclusion arrived at was pretty 
 favorabla But Mrs. Page and her friends were not quite 
 satisfied with Graeme. As the minister's eldest daughter, 
 and " serious," they were disposed to overlook her youthful- 
 ness, and give her a prominent place in their circle. But 
 Graeme hung back, and would not be prevailed upon to take 
 such honor to herself and so some said she was proud, and 
 some said she was only shy. But she was kindly dealt with, 
 even by Mrs. Page, for her loving care of the rest of the chil- 
 dren, had won for her the love of many a motherly heart 
 among these kind people. And she was after all but a child, 
 litOe more than fifteen. 
 
 There were numberiess stories afloat about the boys, — their 
 mirth, their mischiel^ their good scholarship, their respect 
 and obedience to their father, which it was not beneath the 
 dignity of the ladies assembled to repeat and discuss. The 
 boys had visited faithfully through the parish, if their father 
 had not, and almost everywhere they had won for them- 
 selves a welcome. It is true, there had been one or two 
 rather serious scrapes, in which they had involved themselves, 
 and other lads of the village ; but kind-hearted people forgot 
 the mischief sooner than the mirth, and Norman and Ha^ 
 were very popular among old and young. 
 
 But the wondw of wonders, the riddle that none oould 
 
jaiibt'b love and bxbyioe. 71 
 
 read, the anomaly in MerleviJle sodely was Janei^ or Mrs. 
 Nasmyth, as she was generally callecL In refusing one of the 
 many invitations which she had shared with the minister and 
 Graeme, she had thought fit to give society in general a piece 
 of her mind. She was, she said, the minister's servant, and 
 kenned her place better than to offer to take her tea with him 
 in any strange house ; she was obliged for tho invitation all 
 the same. ' ■ -^^ .-vy^'^^ 
 
 " Servant I " echoed Mrs. Sterne's help, who was staying to 
 pass the evening, while her mistress went home " to see about 
 
 supper." ••■'^._. , ■■ ■ . ■ ..;, .^,,, .,.■.. .^,,^ V. „.■. ,^:. ': 
 
 And, " servant 1 " edioed the young lady who assisted Mrs. 
 Merle in her household affiurs. "^ > g-v^rjt 
 
 "111 let them see that I think myself just as good as 
 Queen Victoria, HI do live out," said another dignified aux- 
 iliary. -:--s:,-v-*v 
 
 *' She must be a dreadful mean-spirited creatur&" 
 
 " Why, they do say she '11 brush them great boys' shoes. 
 I saw her myself through the study door, pnll off Mr. Elliott's 
 boots as humble as could be." 
 
 " To see that little girl pouring tea when there 's company, 
 and liSxB. Nasmyth not sitting down. It 's ridiculous." 
 
 *' I wouldn't do so for the Presidenil " 
 
 ''Well, they seem to think everything of her/' said MiflB 
 Pettimore, speaking for the first time in this connection. 
 
 '''Why, yes, she does just what she has a mind to about 
 house. And the way them children hang about her, and fcun 
 over her, I never se& They tell her everything, and these 
 boys mind her, as they do their fatheir." 
 
 "And if any one comes to pay his minister's tax, it's 
 always, 'ask Mrs. Nasmyth,' or, 'Mrs. Nasmyth will teU 
 you.'" 
 
 " They oould n't get along vdthout her. If I was her I 'd 
 show them that I was as good as them, and no servant." 
 
 " She 's used to it. She 's been brought up so. But now 
 that she 's got here, I should think she 'd be sick of it" 
 
 " I suppose 'servant ' there, means pretfy much what ' help' 
 
72 JASVfB LOTE ASD BEBYIOE. 
 
 does here. There don't seem to be diflference enongb to talk 
 about," said Rebecca. 
 « I see considerable difference/' said Mrs. Merle's young 
 
 lady. 
 «It beats all," said another. "^ - * ^^ ' ^*J* 
 
 Yes, it did beat aU. It was incomprehensible to these 
 dignified people, how Janet could openly acknowledge herself 
 a servant, and yet retain her self-respect. And that '* Mrs. 
 Nasmyth thought considerable of herself," many of the curious 
 ladies of Merleyille had occasion to know. The relations ex- 
 isting between her and "the bairns," could not easily be 
 understood. She acknowledged herself their servant, yet she 
 reproved them when they deserved it, and that sharply. She 
 enforced obedience to all rules, and governed in all household 
 matters, none seeking to dispute her r^ht. They went to 
 her at all times with their troubles and their pleasures, and 
 she sympathized with them, advised them, or consoled 
 them, as the case might need. That they were as the Tery 
 apple of her eye, was evident to all, and tiiat they loTed her 
 dearly, and respected her entirely, none could fail to see. 
 
 There were stories going about in the illage to proye that 
 she had a sharp tongue in her head, aud this her vrarmest 
 friends did not seek to deny. Of course, it was the duty of 
 aU the female part of the congr^ation to visit at the minifr 
 tar's house, and to give such advice and assistance, with re* 
 gsrd to the arrangements^ as might seem to be required of 
 them. It is possible they took more interest in the matter 
 than if there had been a mistress in the house. " More liber* 
 ties^" Janet indignantly declared, and after the first visitation 
 or two she resolutely set her face against what she called the 
 answering of impertinent questiona According to her ovm 
 oonfession, she gave to several of them, whose interest in their 
 afliurs vros expressed without due discretion, a ** dovmsetimg," 
 and Graeme and the boys, and even Mr. Elliott, had an idea 
 that a downsettmg from Janet must be something serious.- 
 It is true her victhns' ignorance of the Scottish tongue mu8t< 
 have taken the edge a littleoff her sharp words, but there was 
 
\ 
 
 JANET*B LOVE AND SEBYIOE. 73 
 
 no mistaking her indignant testimony, as regarding "upset* 
 tin' bodies," and "meddlesome bodies," that bestowed too 
 mnoh time on their neighbors' affieurs, and there was some in- 
 dignation felt and expressed on the subject 
 
 But she had her friends, and that not a few, for sweet words 
 and soft came veiy naturally to Janet's lips when her heart 
 was touched, and this always happened to her in the presence 
 of suffering and sorrow, and many were the sad and sick that 
 her kind words comforted, and he: willing hands reheved. 
 For every sharp word brought up against her, there could be 
 told a kindly deed, and Janet's friends were the most numer- 
 ous at the sewing-circle that night. 
 
 MeileviUe was by no means on the outskirts of civilization, 
 though viewed from the high hill on which the old meeting)* 
 house stood, it seemed to the children io be surrounded with 
 woods. But between the hills lay many a fertile valley. Ex- 
 cept toward the west^ where the hills became mountains^ it 
 was laid out into farms, nearly aU of which were occupied, 
 and veiy pleasant homes some of these farmhouses were. 
 The village was not large enough to have a sodeiy within it* 
 self independent of the dwellers on these farms, and all the 
 people, even to the borders of the " ten miles square," con- 
 sidered themselves neighbors. They were very socially 
 indiued, for the most part, and MerlevUto was a ve(^ pleasant 
 place to live in. 
 
 Winter was the time for visiting. There was ^ery little 
 f ormalily in their entertainments. Nuts and apples, or dough- 
 nuts and cheese^ was usually the extent of their e£Ebrts in the 
 way of refreshments, except on special occasions, when formal 
 invitations were given. Then, it must be eonfessed, the chief 
 aim of each housekeeper seemed to be to surpass aU others 
 in the excellence and variety of the good things provided. 
 But lor the most part no invitations were given or needed, 
 they dropped in on one another in a. friendly way. 
 
 The minister's family were not overlooked. Scarcely an 
 erening passed but some of their neighbors came in. Indeed, 
 this happened too frequentiy for Janet's patience, for she 
 
74 Janet's loye Aim bebtiob. ' 
 
 soiely begradged the time taken from the minister's booba^ 
 to the entertainment of "ilka idle body that took leave to 
 come in." It gave her great delight to see him really inter- 
 ested -with visitors, but she set her face against his being 
 troubled at all hours on every day in the week. 
 
 *<If it*s anything particular 1 11 tell the minister you're 
 here," she used to say ; "but he bade the baims be quiet, 
 and I doubt he wouldna Uke to be disturbed. Sit down a 
 minute, and 111 speak to Was Graeme, and I dare say the 
 minister will be at leisure shortly." s >/ • r- - 
 
 QeaaenJlj the visitoi; by no means displeased, sat down in 
 her bi%ht kitchen for a diat with her and the children. It 
 was partly these evening visits that won for ]!ilrs. Nasmyth 
 her populariiy. Even in her gloomy days — and she had 
 some days gloomy enough about this time — she would exert 
 herself on such an occasion, and with the help of the young 
 people the visitor was generally well entertained. Such 
 singing of songs, such telling of tales, such discussions as 
 were carried on in the pleasant firelight I There was no such 
 thing as time lagging there, and often the nine o'clock wor* 
 ship came before ttie visitor was aware. 
 
 Even Judge Merle and young Squire Greenleaf were some* 
 times detained in the kitchen, if they happened to come in on 
 a night when the minister was more than usually engaged. 
 
 "For you see, sir," said she, on one occasion, " what with 
 ae tiling and what with anither, the minister has had so many 
 inteimptions this week ahready, that I dinna like to disturb 
 him. But if you ll sit down here for a minute or two, I dare- 
 say hell be ben and 111 speak to Miss Graem&" 
 
 ** Mr. Elliott seems a dose student," said the Judge, as he 
 took the offered seat by the fire. 
 
 "Ay, is he. Though if you are like tiie lave o* the folk, 
 youTl think no more o' him for that. Folk o* my country 
 judge o' a minister by the time he spends in his study ; 
 but here he seems hardly to be thought to be in the way of 
 his duty, unless he 's oa'ing about from house to house, heark- 
 ening to ilka sold wife's tale." 
 
 * 
 
janet'b lovb and bebyioe. 75 
 
 "Bat," said the Judge, much amused, "the minister has 
 been studying all his life. It seems as though he might 
 draw on old stores now.** * t * ;• 
 
 "Ay, but out o' the old stores he must bring new matter. 
 The minister 's no one that puts his people off with ' cauld 
 kail het again,' and he canna make sermons and rin here and 
 there at the same timcj." , , ) ■^■■''. -.■'^■K^'l^-mM-- 
 
 " And he can't attend to visitors and make sermons at the 
 same time. That would be to the point at present^" said the 
 Judge, laughing, " I think 1 11 be going." 
 
 "'Deed, no, sir," said Janet, earnestly; "I didna mean you. 
 I 'm aye glad to see you or any sensible person to converse 
 with the minister. It cheers him. But this week it's been 
 worse than ever. He has hardly had an unbroken hour. But 
 sit still, sir. He would be ill pleased if jou went away with- 
 out seeing him." 
 
 " 1 11 Efpeak to papa» Judge Merle," «aid Graeme. 
 
 " Never mind, my dear. Come and speak to me yourseH 
 I think Mrs. Nosmyth is right The minister ought not to 
 be disturbed. I have nothing particular to say to him. I 
 came because it's a pleasure to come, and I did not think 
 about its being so near the end of the week." 
 
 Graeme looked rather anxiously from him to Janet. 
 
 " My dear, you needna trouble yoursell It 's no' folk like 
 the Judge and young Mr. Greenleaf that will be likely to take 
 umbrage at being kept waiting a wee while hera It 's folk 
 like the 'smith yonder, or Orrin Green, the upsettan' body. 
 But you can go in now and see if your papa's at leisure^ 
 and tell him the Judge is here." 
 
 "We had Mr. Greenleaf here awhile the ither nighi^" she 
 continued, as Graeme disappeared. " A nice, pleasant spoken 
 gentleman he is, an no' ae bit o' a Yankee." 
 
 The Judge opened his eyes. It was rather an eqaivocal 
 compliment^ considering the person to whom she spoke. But 
 he was not one of the kind to take offence, as Janet justly 
 said. 
 

 CHAPTER IX. * ^,^n i U.V 
 
 OTHER £ayorites of Mr& Nasmyth's were Mr. Snow and 
 the schoolmaster, and the secret of her interest in 
 them was their interest in the bakns, and their visits were 
 made as often to the kitchen as to the study. Mr. Snow had 
 been their Mend from the very first He had made good his 
 promise as to nntthig and sqoirrel-hunting. He had tanght 
 them to skate, and given them their first sleighride ; he had 
 helped them in the making of sleds, and never came down to 
 the village bat with his pockets full of rosy apples to the lit- 
 tle one& They made many a day pleasant for his little girl, 
 both at his honse and thdrs ; and he thought nothing too 
 much to do for tibose who were kind to Emily. 
 
 Janet's kind heart had been touched, and her i^rtfailiTig 
 energies exercised in behalf of Mr. Snow's melancholy, ner- 
 vous wife. In jxpoa the monotony of her life she had burst 
 like a ray of wintry sonshine into her room, brightening it to 
 at least a momentary cheerfDlnes& Dming a long and tedious 
 lOneaB^ from which she had suffered, soon after ti^ie minister's 
 arrival in Merleville, Janet had watched with her a good 
 many nights, and the only visit which the partially-restored 
 invalid made during the winter which stirred so much pleas- 
 ant life among them, was at the minister's, where she was 
 WonderfoUy cheered by l^e kindness of them aU. But it was 
 seldom that she could be prevailed upon to leave her warm 
 room in wintry weather, and Sampson's visits were made 
 alone, or in company with little Emily. 
 
 The 6(sho6hnaster, Mr. Isaac Newton Foster, oame often, 
 parfly because he liked the lads, and partly because of his 
 fondness for mathematics. The nifrht of his visit was alwavs 
 (76) 
 
Janet's loyb Aira> sebvioe. 77 
 
 honored by the light of an extra candle, for hig appearance 
 was the signal for the bringing forth of slates and books, and 
 it was wonderful what pleasure they all got together from 
 the mysterious figures and symbols, of which they never 
 seemed to grow weary. 
 
 Graeme, from being interested in the progress of her broth* 
 ers, soon became interested in their studies for their own 
 sake, and Mr. Foster had not a moFe docile or sucoessfol 
 pupil than she became. Janet had her doubts about her 
 "taking up with books that were fit onJiy iar laddies,'* hut 
 "Mr. Foster proved, with many words, that her ideas were 
 altogether old-fashioned on the subject^ and as the minister 
 did not object^ and Qraeme herself had great delight in it, 
 she made no objections. Her first opinion on the school- 
 master had been that he was a well-meaning, harmless lad, 
 and it was given in a tone which said plainer than words, 
 that little more could be put forth in his favor. But by and 
 by, as she watched him, and saw the influence for good which 
 he exerted over the lads, keeping them from mischiel^ and 
 really interesting them in their studies, she came to have a 
 great respect for Mr. Foster. 
 
 But all the evenings when Mr. Foster was with them w<ere 
 not given up to lessons. When, as sometimes happened, Mr. 
 Snow or Mr. Greenleaf came in, something much more excite 
 ing took the place of Algebra. 1^. Greenleaf was not usually 
 the chief speaker on such occasions, but he had the faculty 
 of making the rest speak, and having engaged the lads^ and 
 sometimes even Graeme and Jacet, in the discussion of some 
 exciting question, often the comparative merits of the institu- 
 tions of their respective countries, he would leave the burden 
 of the argument to the willing Mr. Foster, while he assumed 
 the position of audience, or put in a word now and then, as 
 the occasion seemed to require. They seldom lost their tem- 
 pers when he was there, as they sometimes did on less favored 
 occasiona For Janet and Janet's bairns were prompt to do 
 battle where the honor of their country was concerned, and 
 though Mr. Foster was good nature itself he sometimes 
 
78 JANET'S LOVE AND SEEViaK. 
 
 o£Ebnded. He could not oonscientioiisly withhold the sapo- 
 rior light which he owed to his birth and education in a land 
 of lib^ty, if he might dispel the darkness of old-world preju- 
 dice in which his friends were enveloped. Mr. Snow was 
 ready too with his hints about " despotism" and " aristocracy/' 
 and on such occasions the lads never failed to throw them- 
 selves headlong into the thick of the battle, with a fierce de- 
 sire to demoli^ things in general, and Yankee institutions 
 in particular. It is to be feared the disputants were not 
 always veiy consistent in the arguments they used ; but 
 their earnestness made up for their bad logics and the hot 
 words spoken on both sides were never remembered when 
 the morrow came. 
 
 A chance word of the master's had set them all at it, one 
 night when Mr. Snow came in ; and books and slates were 
 forgotten in the eagerness of the dispute. The lads were 
 in danger of forgetting the respect due to Mr. Foster, as 
 their teacher, at such times ; but he was slow to resent it, 
 and Mr. Snow's silent laughter testified to his enjoyment of 
 this particular occasion. The strife was getting warm when 
 Mr. Greenleaf s knock was heard. Norman was in the act 
 of hurling some hundred thousands of black slaves at the 
 schoolmaster's devoted head, while Mr. Foster strove hard 
 to shield himself by holding up "Britain's wretched ojpera- 
 tiyes and starving poor." ?'*■ ? ' ^ "^ ^'i ' 
 
 **Oome along. Squire," said Mr. Snow. "We want you 
 to settle this UtUe difficulty. Mrs. Nasmyth ain't going to 
 let yon into the study just now, at least she would n't let me. 
 The minister 's busy to-nighi" 
 
 Mr. Greenleaf, nothing loath, sat down and drew Marian 
 to his knee. 
 
 Neither Norman nor Mr. Foster was so eager to go on as 
 Mr. Snow was to have them; but after a little judicious 
 staring up on his part, they were soon in "full blast," as he 
 whispered to his friend. The discussion was about slavexy 
 this time, and need not be given. It was not confined to 
 lionnan and Mr. Foster. All the x^ had somethiiig to 
 
JAISTEt'b LOy£ AND 8EB7I0E. 79 
 
 say ; eyen Janet joined when she thought a side throst would 
 be of use. But Norman was the chief speaker on his side. 
 The subject had been discussed in the village School Lyceum, 
 and Norman had distinguished himself there ; not exactly 
 by the deamess or the strength of his arguments — certainly 
 not by their originaUty. But he thundered forth the lines 
 beginning "I would not haye a slaye," etc., to the intense 
 ddight of his side, and to at least the momentary discomfi- 
 ture of the other. . ,..■ ^ .jvi <>i4- 
 
 To-night he was neither yery logical nor yery reasonable^ 
 and Mr. Foster complained at last. . .^> >>! v. 
 
 "But, Norman, you don't keep to the point.*' i -.iv 
 
 " Talks all round the lot," said Mr. Snow. 
 
 "I'm afraid that is not confined to Norman," said Mr. 
 Greenleal . ,,,..,,, 
 
 "Norman is right, anyway," pronoimced Menie. 
 
 " He reasons in a circle," said the master. "And because 
 slavery is the only flaw in " 
 
 " He only flaw 1" said Norman, with awful irony. ' ' 
 
 "Well, yes," interposed Mr. Snow. "But we have had 
 enough of the Constitution for to-nighi Let 's look at our 
 country. It can't be beaten any way you take ii Physically 
 or morally," pursued he, wilh great gravity, "it can't be 
 beaten. There are no such mountains, rivers, nor lakes as 
 cur's are. Our laws and our institutions generally are just 
 about what they ought to be. Even foreigners see that, and 
 prove it, by coming to share our privileges. Where will you 
 find such a general dif^ion of knowledge among all classes ? 
 Glasses? There is only one dasa All are free and 
 equal." ,„. ..,:,.. ,^.,;^.....,^a: 
 
 "Folk tTimlnTig themselves equal doesna make them 
 equal," said Mrs. Nasmyth, to whom the last remark had 
 been addressed. " For my part, I never saw pride — ^really 
 to call pride — ^till I saw it in this fine country o' yours — ^ilka 
 ane thinking himself as good as his neighbor." 
 
 "Well — so they b& Liberty and equality is our ticket." 
 
 '*Bat ye 're no' a' equal There's as mudde difference 
 
80 Janet's love and sebviob. . 
 
 among folks here as elsewhere, whatever be your tiokat 
 There are folk coming and going here, that in my oomitiy 
 I wonld ^ve sent round to the back door ; but naething 
 i^hort of the company of the minister himself will serve 
 them. Gentlemen like the Judge, or like Mr. Greenleaf 
 here, wHl sit and bide the minister's time ; but upsettin' 
 bodies such as I could name " 
 
 ** Well, I would n't name them, I guess. General principleg 
 are best in such a case," said Mr. Snow. " And I am willing 
 to oonfess there is among us an aristocracy of merii Tour 
 friend the Judge belongs to that and your fiither, Wm 
 Graeme ; and I expect Squire Greenleaf will, too, when he 
 goes to Oongress. But no man is great here just because 
 his father was before hiuL Everybody has a chance. Now, 
 on your side of the water, * a man must be just what his 
 father was.' Folks must stay just there. That 's a fact." 
 
 "You seem to be weel informed," said Janet, drily. 
 
 " Ah I yes ; I know all about it. Anybody may biow any- 
 thing and everything in this country. We 're a great people. 
 Ain't that so, Mr. Foster ? " 
 
 "It must be granted by all unprejudiced minds, that 
 Britain has produced some great men," said Mr. Foster, 
 breaJdng out in a new spot, as Mr. Snow whispered to the 
 Squire. 
 
 " Surely that would be granting too much," said Norman. 
 
 *'But," pursued Mr. Foster, "Britons themsdves confess 
 that it is on this Western Continent that the Anglo-Saxon 
 race is destined to triumpL Descended from Britons, a 
 new element has entered into their bbod, which shall which 
 
 must — which " .:.: a...../ -..w. ......V --..,"....; .:^.;v". :V;^ 
 
 "Sounds considerable like the glorious Fourth, don't it?" 
 whispered Mr. Snow. 
 
 "Which hasna put muclde flesh on their bones as yet," 
 said the literal Mrs. Nasmyth. 
 
 "I was about to say that—that " 
 
 " That the British can lick all creation, and we can lick the 
 British," said Mr. Snow. 
 
janbt'b love and bebyioe. 81 
 
 ** Any oruds inyolyiiig a trial of strengUi, would prove oar 
 saperiority/' said Mr. Foster, taking a new start. 
 
 " That 's been proved already," said Mr. Snow, watching 
 the sparkle in Graeme's eye. She laughed merrily. 
 
 " No, Mr. Snow. They may fight it oat without me to- 
 night." ■'''"'" ' "'"■■■' "-'''^^ 
 
 "I am glad you are growing prudent. Mrs. Nasmytb, 
 you would n't believe how angry she was with me one night" 
 
 *' Angry 1 " repeated Graeme. *' Ask Gelestia.'' r;!r?r^r ^ 
 
 ** Well, I guess 1 should n*t have much chance between 
 Celestia and you. But I said then, and I say now, you'll 
 make a first-rate Yankee girl yourself before seven years." 
 
 " A Tankee I " repeated her brothers. 
 
 " A Tankee," echoed Menie. 
 
 "Hush, Menie. Mr. Snow is laughing at us," said 
 Graeme. 
 
 "I would rather be just a little Scotch lassie, than a 
 Yankee Queen," said Menie, firmly. 
 
 There was a laugh, and Menie was indignant at her 
 brothers for joining. 
 
 ''You mean a president's wife. We don't allow queens 
 here — ^in this free country," said Mr. Snow. 
 
 "Bat it is dreadfal that you should hate us so," said the 
 Squire." 
 
 " I like you, and the Judge. And I like Mrs. Merle." 
 
 "And is that all?" asked Mr. Snow, solemnly. 
 
 "I like Emily. And I like you when you don't vez 
 Graeme." 
 
 "And who else ? " asked Mr. Greenlea^ ' '^ 
 
 "I like Celestia. She's nice, and doesna ask questions. 
 And so does Graeme. And Janet says that Celestia is a lady. 
 
 on't you like her ? " asked Menie, thinking her friend un- 
 
 sponsive. 
 
 "You seem to be good at asking questions yourself Menie, 
 
 y woman," interposed Mrs. Nasmyth. "I doubt you 
 
 ould be in your bed by this time." But Mr. Snow caused 
 
 diversion from anything so melancholy. 
 5 
 
v^ 
 
 83 
 
 JANBT's love and 8BRTICB. 
 
 ** And don't Consin Gelostia like mo 7 " askod he. 
 
 *'7e8 ; she said yon were a good friend of hen ; bat is 
 yoor eonsin ? " 
 
 "Well, not ezaetly — ^we're not very near consins. Bat I 
 lee to her some, and mean to. I like her." 
 
 The Btady door opened, and there was no time for an 
 answer from any one ; bat as Mr. Snow went ap the hill he 
 ■aid to himself: <^Yds, I shall see to her. She is smart 
 enough and good enough for him if he does expect to {^o to 
 Congress. > r ] 
 
 ■■■'■ ^i:-> r:-^':j ,^■*.•,'^ 
 
 ',■ -, • " ■ "V ' * 
 
 * '' ' ',.'-» ■"**■»" .■•■ i '^ i-' ■ 
 
 
 
 .!. 
 
 ■J t"'«"5!:', 
 
 '••M.v fiy 
 
 •-,:;f 
 
■!■■' .'■■> 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 ^i nr UEE the wood fires," said Graeme. "They axe far 
 I dearer than the peat fires at homa" 
 
 They were sitting, Graeme and Janet, according to their 
 nsnal custom, a little after the others had all gone to bed. 
 The study-door was dosed, though the light still gleamed 
 beneath it ; but it was getting late, and the minister would 
 not be out again. 
 
 Graeme might well admire suoh a wood fire as that be- 
 fore which they were sitting. The fore^tick had nearly 
 burned through, and the brands had fallen over the and- 
 irons, but the great badtlog flowed with light and heat, 
 though only now and then a bright blaze leapt up. It was 
 not yeiy warm in the room, however, ezcr t for their faces, 
 and Graeme shivered a little as she drew i. ver to the fire, 
 and hardly heeding that Janet did not answer her, JeQ to 
 dreaming in ^e firelight 
 
 Without, the rude Mardi winds were roaring, and within, 
 too, for that matter. For though carpets, and curtains^ and 
 listings nailed over seams might keep out the bitter frost 
 when the air was still, the east winds of March swept in 
 through every cradc and crevice, chilling them to the bone. 
 It roared wildly among the boughs of the great elms in the 
 yard, and the tall wdl-sweep creaked, and the bucket swung 
 to and fire with a noise that came through Graeme's dream 
 and disturbed it at last Looking up suddenly she became 
 aware that the gloom that had been gathering over Janet for 
 many a day hung darkly round her now. She drew near to 
 her, and laying her arms down on her lap in the old faahioii, 
 said softly : 
 
 (83) 
 
84 Janet's lots and bebviob. 
 
 "The winter's near over now, Janei" 
 
 " Ay, thank the Lord for that, any way," said Janet She 
 knew that Graemd's words and moyement were an invitation 
 to tell her thoughts, so she bent forward to collect the scat- 
 tered brands and settle the forenstick, for she felt that her 
 thoughts were not of the land to bear telling to Graeme or 
 to any ona As she gathered them together between the 
 andirons, she sighed a sigh of mingled sorrow and impa* 
 tieno& And the light that leapt suddenly up made the cloud 
 on her brow more visible. For the winter that had been so 
 full of enjoyment to all the rest had been eu time of trial to 
 Janei ^ / , 
 
 To the young people, the winter had brought numberless 
 pleasure& The lads had gone to the school, where they were 
 busy and happy, and the httle ones had been busy and 
 happy at home. None had enjoyed the winter more than 
 Graeme. The change had been altogether beneficial to 
 Rose ; and never since their moiJier's death had the elder 
 sister been so much at ease about her. There was little to 
 be done in the way of making or mending, and, with leisure 
 at her disposal, she was falling into her old habits of read- 
 ing and dreaming. She had been busy teaching the little 
 ones, too, and at night worked with her brothers at *heir 
 lessons, so that the winter had been profitable as well as 
 pleasant to her. At all times in his study, amid the silent 
 friends that had become so dear to him, Mr. Elliott could be 
 content ; and in his efforts to become acquainted with his 
 people, their wants and tastes, he had been roused to some- 
 thing like the cheerfulness of former years. 
 
 But to Janet the winter had been a time of conflict, a 
 bog struggle with unseen enemies ; and as she sat there in 
 the dim firelight^ she was telling herself sorrowfully that she 
 would be \7orsted by them at last Homesickness, blind and 
 unreasoning, had t^en possession of her. Night by night 
 she had lain down with the duU pain gnawing at her heart 
 Morning by morning she had risen 'ik with the inSippeas* 
 able yearning for her home, a longing that would not be 
 
Janet's love akd bbbyioe. 8& 
 
 stilled, to walk again throngli familiar scenes, to look again 
 on familiar faces. 
 
 The first letters from home, so longed for by all, so wel- 
 comed and rejoiced ovw by the rest, brought little oomfort 
 to her. Arthur's letters to his father and Graeme, so dear 
 and fall of all they wished to hear about, '* so like a printed 
 book," made it all the harder for her to bear her disappoint- 
 ment over Sandy's obscure, ill-spelt and indifferently-written 
 letter. She had of old justly prided herself on Sandy's 
 ** hand o' write ; " but she had yet to learn the difference 
 between a school-boy's writing, with a copper-plate setting 
 at the head of the page, and that which must be the re- 
 sult of a first encounter with the combined difficulties of 
 writing, spelling and composition. 
 
 » Poor Sandy 1 He had labored hard, doubtless, and had 
 done his best, but it was not satisfactory. In wishing to be 
 minute, he had become mysterious, and, to the same end, 
 the impartial distribution through aU parts of the letter of 
 capitals, commas and full stops, had also tended. There was 
 a large sheet closely written, and out of the whole but two 
 dear ideas could be gathered. Mr. More of the paridi school 
 was dead, and they were to have a new master, and that 
 Mrs. Smith had changed her mind, and he was not to be at 
 Saughleas for the winter after alL 
 
 There .were other troubles too, thbt Janet had to bear 
 alone. The cold, that served to brace the others, chilled 
 her to the bone. Unaccustomed to any greater variation of 
 temperature than might be very well met by the putting on 
 or taking off of her plaid, the bitter cold of the New Eng- 
 land winter, as she went out and in about her work, was 
 felt keenly by her. She could not resist it, nor guard herself 
 against it. Stove-heat was unbearable to her. An hour 
 spent in Mrs. Snow's hot room often made her un£t for any- 
 thing for hours after ; and sleigh riding, which never failed 
 to exdte the children to the highest spirits, was as fatal to 
 her comfort as the pitdiing of the ** Steadfast" had been. 
 To say that she was disappointed with herself in view of all 
 
S6 jAinr's LOVE akd bebvige. 
 
 ibia, is, by no means, saying enongL She was angry at her 
 My, and called herself "siUy body" and "useless body," 
 striving with aU her might to throw the burden from 
 
 Then, again, ^th only a few exceptions, she did not like 
 the peopled They were, in. her opinion, at the same time, 
 extravagant and penurious, proud and mean, ignorant, yet 
 wise " above what is written," self-satisfied and curioua The 
 &ct was^ her ideas of things in general were disarranged by 
 the state of affiurs in Merleville. She never could make out 
 *'who was somebody and who was naebody;" and what 
 made the matter more mysterious^ they did not seem to know 
 themselves. 
 
 Mrs. Judge Merle had made her first visit to the minister's 
 in company with the wife of the village blacksmith, and if 
 there was a lady between them Mr& Page evidently believed 
 it to be herself. Mrs. Merle was "a nice motherly body, 
 that sat on her seat and behaved herself while Mrs. Page 
 went hither and thither, opening doors and spying Girlies, 
 speiring about things she had no concern with, like an ill- 
 bred woman as she is; and passing her remarks on the 
 minister and the preaching, as if she were a judge." Both 
 of them bad invited her to visit them very kindly, no doubt ; 
 but Janet had no satisfaction in this or in anything that oon- 
 oemed theuL She was out of her element. Things were 
 quite different from anything she had been used with. She 
 grew depressed and doubtful of herself and no wonder tiiat 
 a gloom was gathering over her. 
 
 Some thought of all th'j came into Graeme's mind, as she 
 sat watching her while she gathered together the brands with 
 unsteady hands, and with the thought came a little remorse. 
 Sho had been thinking little of Janet and her trials all these 
 days she had been passing so pleasantly with her books, in 
 the comer of her father's study. She blamed herself for her 
 thoughtlessness, and resolved that it should not be so in 
 f utcire. In the mean time, it seemed as though she must say 
 something to chase the shadow from the kind face. But she 
 
Janet's lots and bbbyiob. 87 
 
 did not know what to say. Janet set down the tongB, and 
 raised herself with a sigh. Graeme drew nearer. 
 
 "What is itk Janet?" asked she, laying her hand caress- 
 ingly on her'& " Winna you tell me ? " 
 
 Janet gave a startled look into her face. {;^t# 
 
 « "What is what, my dear?" » : .. . 
 
 " Something is yezing yon, and you winna teU me," said 
 Graeme, reproadbfoUy. 
 
 ** Hoot^ husie t what should ail me. I 'm weel enongh." 
 
 " Yon are wearying for a letter, maybe. Dut it 's hardly 
 time yet, Janei" i' 
 
 *<I 'm no weaiyin'the night more than nsuaL And if Igot 
 a letter, it mightna giye me maoUe comfort." 
 
 " Then something ails yon, and you winna tell me," said 
 Graeme again, in a grieyed Toioe. 
 
 ''My v^ear, I hae naething to telL" 
 
 <*Is it me^ Janet? Hae I done anything? You ken I 
 wouldna willingly do wrong ? " pleaded Graeme. , 
 
 Janet pnt her fingers oyer the girl's Up& 
 
 "Whist, my lammie. It's naething— or naething ihat 
 can be helpit," and she struggled fiercely U> keep back the 
 flood that was swelling in her fall heart Graeme said no- 
 thing, bat stroked the toil-worn hand of her friend, and, at 
 last, laid her cheek down upon it 
 
 " Lassie, lassie I I canna help it," and the long pent up 
 flood gashed forth, and the tears fell on Graeme's bent head 
 like rain. Graeme neither moyed nor spoke, bat she prayed 
 in her heart that Gk>d woold comfort her friend in her un- 
 known sorrow ; and by the first words she spoke she knew 
 that she was comforted. ^' ' '''-'-^ •'-' 
 
 "lam an auld fale, I belieye^ or a spoiled bairn, that doeena 
 ken it's ain mind, and I think I 'm growing waur ilka day," 
 and she paused to wipe the tears from her face. 
 
 "But what is it, Janet? " asked Graeme, softly. 
 
 "It's naething, dear, naething that I can teU to mortal 
 I dinna ken what has come ower me. It 's just as if a giant 
 bad a gripe o' me. and moye I canna. But surelyl 11 be set 
 free in time." 
 
g$ jaitet'b lots and ^bbtiob. 
 
 There was notiung Graeme oonld say to this ; but sihe laid 
 her cheek down on Janet's hand again, and there were tears 
 
 tiponit 
 
 » Now dinna do that, Miss Graeme," cried Janet, struggling 
 with another wave of the returning flood. " What will come 
 o' us if you give way. There 's naething ails me but that 
 I *m an auld fale, and I canna help that^ you ken." 
 
 ''Janet, it was an awful sacrifioe you made, to leave your 
 mother and Sandy to come with u& I never thought till to- 
 night how great it must have been.'^oii \>im-i 
 
 " Ay, lassie. 1 11 no deny it, but dinna think that I grudge 
 it now. It wasna made in a right spent, and that the Lord 
 is showing me. I thought you couldna do without me " 
 
 "We couldna, Janet" 
 
 ** And I aye thought if I could be of any use to your father 
 and your father's bairns, and could see them contented and 
 weU in a strange land, that would be enough for me. And I 
 hae gotten my wish. You 're a' weel, and wed contented, 
 and my heart is lying in my breast as heavy as lead, and no 
 strength of mine can lift the burden. God help^me." 
 
 ** God will help you," said Graeme, sofUy. " It is the sore 
 homeuckness, l&e the captives by Babel stream. IBiut the 
 Lord never brought you here in anger, and, Janet, it will 
 pass away." 
 
 "Weel, it maybe. That 's what my mother said, or some* 
 thing like ii He means to let me see that yon can do withr 
 out me. But 1 11 bide still awhile, anyway." 
 
 Graeme's taioe was full of dismay. 
 
 « Janet I what could we ever do without you ? " 
 
 ** Oh, you could learn. But I 'm not going to leave you 
 yet The giant shallna master me with my will But, oh 1 
 lassie, whiles I think the Lord has turned against me fbr my 
 self-seeking and pride." 
 
 " But Janet^*^ said Graeme, gravely, " the Lord never turns 
 against hit; own people. And if anybody in the world is free 
 from selfHfwehing it is you. It is for us you are living, and 
 not for yonrsell" 
 
janei'b love and sebyiob. 89 
 
 Janet shook her head. 
 
 ** And, Janets when the bonnj spring days come, the giant 
 wiU let you go. The weight will be lifted of^ I 'm sure it wilL 
 
 And, Janet, about Sandy . You may be sure o* him. If 
 
 you had been there to guide him, he might have been will- 
 fol, and haye gone astray, like others. But now the Lord 
 will have him. in His keeping, for, Janet^ if ever a fatherless 
 chfld was left to the Lord, you left Sandy for our sakes, and 
 He will never forsake him, never, never ! ** 
 
 Janet's tears were falling softly now, like the bright drops 
 after the tempest is over, and the bow of promise is about to 
 span the heavens. • • • 
 
 - "And, Janet, we all love you dearly." Graeme liaii risen, 
 and put her arms round her neck by this time. " Sometimes 
 the boys are rough, and don't seem to «are, but they do care ; 
 and I'm thoughtless, too, and careless," she added, humbly, 
 "but I was that with my mother, whiles, and you ken I 
 loved her dearly." And the cry of pain that came with the 
 words, told how dearly her mother was remembered stilL 
 Janet held her dose. , 
 
 " And, Janets you must 'mind me. of things, as my mother 
 used to do. When I get a book, you ken I forget things, 
 and you winna let me do wrong for my mother's, sake. We 
 have no mother, Janet, and what could we do without you ? 
 And all this pain will passf^way, and jou will grow light* 
 hearted again." 
 
 And so it was. The worst was over after that night 
 Much more was said before they separated, and Graeme 
 realized, for the first time, some of the discomforts of their 
 present way of living, as far as Janet was concerned. House- 
 keeping afiairs had been left altogether in her hands, and 
 everything was so different from all that she had been accus- 
 tomed to, and she was slow to learn new ways. The produce 
 system was a great embarrassment to ber. This getting " a 
 pickle meal" from one,, and "a cum tawties" from another, 
 she oould not endure. It was " livLig from hand to mouth " 
 at bestk to say nothing of the uncomfortable doubts now and 
 
90 jANin'e LOTS akd sebviob. 
 
 then, as to whether the articles brought were intended as 
 presents, or as the payment of the "minister's tax," as the 
 least delicate among the people called it. 
 
 ** And, my dear, I just wish your father would get a settle- 
 ment with Uiem, and we would begin again, and put aething 
 down in a book For I hae my doubts as to how we are to 
 make the two ends meet Things mount up you ken, and we 
 maun try and guide things." 
 
 Graeme looked grave. " I wonder what my father thinks," 
 said she. Janet shook her head. 
 
 " We mauna trouble your father if we can help ii The 
 lost minister they had had enough ado to live, they say, and 
 he had fewer baim& I 'm no' feared but we 'U be provided 
 for. And, Miss Graeme, my dear, you 11 need to begin and 
 keep an account again." 
 
 Janet's voice had the old cheerful edio in it by this time, 
 and Graeme promised, with good heart, to do all she could 
 to keep her father's mind easy, and the household accounts 
 straight 
 
 Weeks passed on, and even before the bonliy spt&ig days 
 had come, the giant had let Janet go, and she was her own 
 cheerful self again. The letter that- Harry brought in with 
 a shout before March was over, was a very different letter 
 from the one that had caused Janet to shed such tears of 
 disappointment on that sad November, though Sandy was 
 the writer stilL The two only intelligible items of news 
 which the last one had conveyed, were repeated here, and 
 enlarged upon, with reason. A new master had oome to the 
 school, who was taking great pains with all the lads, and es- 
 peciaUy with Sandy, " as you will soe by this letter, mother," 
 he wrote, ** I hope it will be better w(Mrth reading than the 
 last" 
 
 If Mrs. Smith had dianged her mind, it was all for good. 
 Janet was no more to think of her mother as living by her^ 
 Ldl^ in the lonely cot in the glen, but farthor up in another 
 cottage, within sight of the ^oor of Saughleas. And Sandy 
 was to go to the school a while yet» and there was no fear 
 
Janet's love and sekvice. 
 
 91 
 
 but something woald be found for liim to do, either on the 
 farm, or in the garden. And so his mother was to set her 
 heart at rest about them. 
 
 And her heart was set at rest ; and Janet sang at her wcrk 
 again, and cheered or chid the b.^irns according as they needed, 
 but never more, though she had many cares, and troubleri not a 
 few, did the giant ho!d her in his grasp again. 
 
 
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 V. CHAPTER IX ^>,-h-4^:^.t 
 
 ' ' nV yf^*^ GRAEME," said Janet, softly opening the study 
 IVLdoor, and looking in. Graeme was at her side in 
 
 a moment. 
 
 " Never mind putting by yonr book, I only want to tell 
 you, that I *m going up the brae to see Mrs. Snow awhile. 
 It 's no* cold, and m take the bairns with me. So just give 
 a look at the fire now and then, and have the kettle boiling 
 gin tea time. I winna bide late." 
 
 Graeme put down her book, and hastened the preparations 
 of the little ones. « • - 
 
 " I wish I could go with you, Janet. How mild and bright 
 itisto^lay." • a 
 
 " But your papa mustna be left to the keeping of fires, and 
 the entertainment of chance visitors. You winna think long 
 with your book, you ken, and we 11 be home again before it 's 
 dark." ■■:"?^ ; .". ■',■'■7' ; 
 
 « Think long V*^ edioed Graeme. " Not if I *m left at peace 
 with my book — ^I only hope lo one will come." 
 
 "My dear r remonstrated Janet, "that's no' hospitable. 
 I daresay if anybody comes, you '11 enjoy their company for 
 a change. You maun try and make friends with folk, like 
 Menie here." 
 
 Graeme laughed. "It's easy for Menie, she's a child. 
 But I have to behave myself like a grown woman, at least, 
 with most folk. I would fax rather have the afternoon to 
 myself." 
 
 She watched them down the street, and then betook her* 
 self to her book, and her accustomed seat at the study win- 
 dow. Life was very pleasant to Graeme, these days. She 
 (92) 
 
Janet's lote and bebyioe. 98 
 
 did not manifest her lightpheartedness by outward signi ; she 
 was almost always as quiet as sorrow and many cares had 
 made her, since her mother's death. But it was a quiet al- 
 ways cheerful, always ready, to change to grave talk with 
 Janet, or merry play with the little ones. Janef s returning 
 cheerfulness banished the last shade of anxiety from her 
 mind, and she was too young to go searching into the future 
 for a burden to bear. ' ... ..w. 
 
 She was last growing into companionship with her father. 
 She knew that he loved and trusted her entirely, and she 
 strove to deserve his confidenca In aU matters concerning 
 her brothers and sisters, he consulted her, as he might have 
 consulted her mother, and as well as an elder sister could, 
 she fulfilled a mother's duty to them. In other matters, her 
 father depended upon her judgment and discretion also. 
 Often he was beguiled into forgetting what a diild she still 
 was, while he discussed with her, subjects more suited for 
 one of maturer years. 
 
 And it was pleasant to be looked upon with respect and 
 consideration, by the new friends they had found here. 
 She was a little more than a child in years, and shy and 
 doubtful of herself withal, but it was very agreeable to be 
 treated like a woman, by the kind people about her. Not 
 that she would have confessed this. Not that she was even 
 conscious of the pleasure it gave her. Indeed, she was wont 
 to declare to Janet, in private, that it was all nonsense, and 
 she wished that people would not speak to her always, as 
 though she were a woman of wisdom and experience. But 
 it was agreeable to her all the same. ' ' ' " 
 
 She had her wish that afternoon. Nobody came to dis> 
 tnrb them, till the failing light admonished her that it was 
 time to think of Janet, and the teakettle. Then there came 
 a knock at the door, and Graeme opened it to Mr. Greenleai 
 If she was not glad to see him, her looks belied her. He 
 did not seem to doubt a welcome from her, or her father either, 
 as he came in. 
 
 What die charm wa% that beguiled Mr. Greenleaf into 
 
94 Janet's love aiw service. 
 
 spending so many hours in the minister's study, the good 
 people of Merleville found it difficult to say. The squire's 
 ill-concealed indiflference to the opinions of people gener- 
 ally, had told against him always. For once, Mrs. Page had 
 been too charitable. He was not in a hopeful state, at least, 
 in her sense of the term, and it might be doubted, whether 
 frequent intercourse with the minister, would be likely to en- 
 courage the young man to the attainment of Mrs. Page's 
 standard of excellence. But to the study he often came, 
 and he was never a.n unwelcome guest. 
 
 "If I am come at a wrong time, tell me so," said he, as he 
 shook hands with Mr. Elliott, over a table covered with books 
 and papers. 
 
 "You can hardly do that," said the minister, preparing to 
 put the books and papers away. " I am nearly done for the 
 night. Excuse me, for a minute only." 
 
 Graeme lingered talking to their visitor, till her father 
 should be quite at liberty. 
 
 " I have something for you," said Mr. Greenleaf, in a min- 
 ute. Graeme smiled her thanks, and held out her hand for 
 the expected book, or magazine. It was a note this time. 
 
 " From Celestia !" she exclaimed, coloring a little. 
 
 Graeme did not aspire to the honor o^ Celestia's confi- 
 dence in all things, but she knew, or could guess enough, 
 about the state of affairs between her friend and Mr. Green- 
 leaf, to be wonderfully interested in them, and she could not 
 help feeling ahttle embarrassed, as she took the note from 
 his hands. 
 
 " Read it," said he. 
 
 Graeme stooped down to catch the firelight. The note 
 was very brief. Celestia was going away, and wished Graeme 
 to come and see her, to-morrow. Mr. Greenleaf would fetch 
 her. 
 
 "Celestia, going away I" she exclaimed, raising herself up. 
 
 *• Yes," said he, " have you not heard it ?" 
 
 " I heard the farm was to be sold, but I hoped they would 
 still stay in Merleville." 
 
Janet's love and service. 95 
 
 " So did I," said Mr. Greenleaf, gravely. 
 
 "When will they go?" 
 
 " Miss Jones, is to be a teacher, in the new seminary at 
 Rixford. They are going to live there, and it cannot be very 
 long before they go." 
 
 ''To her uncle?" 
 
 "No, Celestia thinks her mother would not be happy 
 there. They will live by themselves, with the children." 
 
 "How sorry Celediia wiU be to go away," said Graeme, 
 sadly. 
 
 "She will not be persuaded to stay," said Mr. Greenleaf. 
 
 Graeme darted a quick, embarrassed look at him, as much 
 as to say, " Have you asked her ? " He answered her in words. 
 
 "Yes, I have tried, and failed. She does not care to stay." 
 
 There was only sadness in his voice ; at least, she detected 
 nothing else. There was none of the bitterness which, 
 while it made Celestia's heart ache that afternoon, had made 
 her aU the more determined to do what she believed to be 
 right. 
 
 " Oh I it 's not that," said Graeme, earnestly, " I 'm sure she 
 cares. I mean if she goes, it will be because she thinks it 
 right, not because she wishes it." 
 
 " Is it right to make herself and me unhappy ? " 
 
 "But her mother and the rest They are in trouble; it 
 would seem like forsaking them." 
 
 " It need not. They might stay with her." 
 
 " I think, perhaps — ^I don't tnink — " Graeme hesitated, 
 and then said hurriedly, 
 
 " Are you rich, Mr. Greenleaf? " He laughed. 
 
 " I beUeve you are cue of those who do not compute riches 
 by the number of dollars one possesses. So I think, to you I 
 may safely answer, yes. I have contentment with little, and 
 on such wealth one pays no taxes." 
 
 "Yes; but — I think,— oh, I can't say what I think; but, 
 I 'm sure Celestia is right. I am quite aure of that." 
 
 Mr. Greenleaf did not look displeased, though Greame feared 
 he might, at her bold speech. 
 
96 Janet's love and service. 
 
 " I don't believe I had better take you to see her to-morrovr. 
 You will encoui-age her to hold out against me." 
 
 " Not against you. She would never do that. And, besides, 
 it would make no difference. Celestia is wise and strong, 
 and will do what she beheves to be right." 
 
 " Wise and strong," repeated Mr. Greenleaf, smiling, but 
 his face grew grave in a minute again. Mr. Elliott made a 
 movement to join them, and Graeme thought of her neglected 
 teakettle, and hastened away. 
 
 " Never mind," she whispered, " it will all end well Things 
 always do when people do right." 
 
 Mr. Greenleaf might have some doubt as to the truth of 
 this comforting declaration in aU cases, but he could have 
 none as to the interest and good wishes of his little friend, so 
 he only smiled in reply. Not that he had really many serious 
 doubts as to its ending well. He had more than once that 
 very afternoon grieved Celestia by saying that she did not care 
 for him; but, if he had ever had any serious trouble on the 
 subject, they vanished when the first touch of anger and dis- 
 appointment had worn away, giving him time to acknow- 
 \edge and rejoice over the " strength and wisdom " so un- 
 hesitatingly ascribed by Graeme to her friend. So that it 
 was not at all in a desponding spirit that he turned to reply, 
 when the minister addressed him. 
 
 They had scarcely settled down to one of their long, quiet 
 talks, when they were summoned to tea by Graeme, and be- 
 fore tea was over, Janet and the bairns came home. The 
 boys had found their way up the hill v^hen school was over, 
 and they all came home together in Mr. Snow's sleigh. To 
 escape from the noise and confusion which they brought wdth 
 them, Mr. Greenleaf and the minister went into the study 
 agaia. 
 
 During the silence that succeeded their entrance, there 
 came into Mr. Greenleaf s mind a thought that had been 
 often there before. It was a source of wonder to him that 
 a man of Mr. Elliott's intellectual power and culture should 
 content himself in so quiet a place as Merleville, and to-night 
 
JANL^'S -uVE AND SERVICE, 97 
 
 he ventured to give expression to his thoughts, Mr. Elliott 
 smiled. 
 
 " I don't see that my being content to settle down here for 
 life, is any more wonderful than that you should have done 
 so. Indeed, I should say, far less wonderful You are young 
 and have the world before you." 
 
 " But my case is quite different. I settle here to get a 
 Hving, and I mean to get a good one too, and besides," added 
 he, laughing, " Merleville is as good a place as any other to go 
 to Congress from; there is no American but may have that 
 before him you know." 
 
 " As for the living, I can get here such as will content me. 
 For the rest, the souls in this quiet place are as precious as 
 elsewhere. I am thankful for my field of labor. 
 
 Mr. Greenleaf had heard such words before, and he had 
 taken them "for what they were worth," as a correct thing 
 for a minister to say. But the quiet earnestness and simph- 
 city of Mr. Elliott's manner struck him as being not just a 
 matter of course. 
 
 " He is in earnest about it, and does not need to use many 
 words to prove it. There must be something in it." He did 
 not answer him, however. 
 
 "There is one thing which is worth consideration," con- 
 tinued Mr. Elliott, " you may be disappointed, but I cannot 
 be so, in the nature of things." 
 
 " About getting a living? " said Mr. Greenleaf, and a vague 
 remembrance of Deacons Fish and Slowcome made him move 
 uneasily in his chair. 
 
 " That is not what I was thinking of, but I suppose I may 
 be sure of that, too. * Your bread shall be given you, and 
 your water sure.' And there is no such thing as disappoint- 
 ment in that for which I really am laboring, the glory of God, 
 and the good of souls." 
 
 " Well," said Mr. Greenleaf, gravely, " there must be some- 
 thing in it that I don't see, or you will most assuredly be dis- 
 appointed. It is by no means impossible that T may have 
 my wish, men of humbler powers than mine— I may say it 
 6 
 
98 JANET^B LOVE AND SEEVIOB. 
 
 without vanity— have risen higher than to the Congress of 
 our country. I don't look upon mine as by any means a 
 hopeless ambition. But the idea of your ever seeing all the 
 crooked natures in Merleville made straight ! Well, to say 
 the least, I don't see how you can be very sanguine about 
 it." 
 
 " Well, I don't say that even that is beyond my ambition, 
 or beyond the power of TTini whom I serve to accomplish. 
 But though I may never seo this, or the half of this accom- 
 plished, it does not follow that I am to be disappointed, 
 more than it follows that your happiness will be secured 
 when you sit in the Congress of this great nation, or rule in 
 the White House even, which is not beyond your ambition 
 cither, I suppose. You know how a promise may be *kept to 
 the ear and broken to the heart,' as somebody says." 
 
 " I know it is the fashion to speak in that way. We learn 
 in our school books, all about the folly of ambition, and the 
 unsatisfying nature of poUtical greatness. But even if the 
 attainment must disappoint, there is interest and excitement 
 in the pursuit. And, if you will allow me to say so, it is not 
 so in your case, and to me the disappointment seems even 
 more certain." 
 
 Mr. Elliott smiled. 
 
 ** I suppose the converse of the poet's sad declaration may 
 be true. The promise maybe broken to the eye and ear, and 
 yet fulfilled divinely to the heart. I am not afraid." 
 
 "And, certainly," thought the young man, " he looks calm 
 and hopeful enough." 
 
 "And," added Mr. Elliott, "as to the interest of the 
 pursuit, if that is to be judged by the importance of the end 
 to be attained, I think mine may well bear comparison t© 
 yours." 
 
 ' " Yes, in one sense, I suppose— though I don't understand 
 it. I can imagine an interest most intense, an engagement 
 — a happiness altogether absorbing in such a labor of love, 
 butr— I was not looking at the matter from your point of 
 view." 
 
Janet's love and seevioe. 99 
 
 «■ 
 
 'But from no other point of view can the subject be fairly 
 seen," said Mr. Elliott, quietly. 
 
 " Well, I have known few, even among clergymen, who have 
 not had their eyes turned pretty frequently to another side 
 of the matter. One ought to be altogether above the neces- 
 sity of thinking of earthly things, to be able to enjoy throwing 
 himself wholly into such a work, and I fancy that can be 
 said of few." 
 
 "I don't understand you," said Mr. Elliott. "Do you 
 mean that you doubt the sincerity of those to whom you 
 refer." 
 
 " By no means. My thoughts were altogether in anothei 
 direction. In fact, I was thinking of the great * bread and 
 butter ' struggle in which ninety-nine out of every hundred 
 are for dear life engaged; and none more earnestly, and 
 few with less success, than men of your profession." 
 
 Mr. Elhott looked as though he did not yet quite 
 understand. Mr. Greenleaf hesitated, shghtly at a loss, but 
 soon went on. 
 
 "Constituted as we are, ' don't see how a man can 
 wholly devote himself to a work he thinks so great, and yet 
 have patience to struggle with the thousand petty cares of 
 life. The shifts and turnings to which insufficient means 
 must reduce one, cannot but vex and hurt such a nature, if 
 it does not change it at last. But I see I fail to make my- 
 self understood by you ; let me try again. I don't know how 
 it may be in your country, but here, at least as far as my 
 personal observation has extended, the remuneration received 
 by ministers is insufficient, not to say paltry. I don't mean 
 that in many cases they and their families actually suflfer, 
 but there are few of them so situated as regards income, that 
 economy need not be the very first consideration in all their 
 arrangements. Comparing them with other professional 
 men they may be called poor. Such a thing as the gratifica- 
 tion of taste is not to be thought of in their case. There is 
 nothing left after the bare necessaries are secured. It is a 
 struggle to bring up their children, a struggle to educate 
 
100 Janet's love and service. 
 
 them, a straggle to Kve. And what is worse than all, the 
 pittance, which is rightly their's, comes to them often in a 
 way which, to say the least, is suggestive of charity given 
 and received. No, really, I cannot look on the life of a 
 minister as a very attractive one." 
 
 " I should think not, certainly, if such are your views of 
 it," said Ml'. EUiott. 
 
 " I wish I could have the comfort of doubting their just- 
 ness, but I cannot, unless the majority of cases that have 
 fallen under my observation are extreme ones. "Why, there 
 are college fi-iends of mine who, in any other profession, 
 might have distinguished themselves — might have become 
 wealthy at least, who are now in some out of the way parish, 
 with wives and Uttle children, burdened with the cares of 
 life. How they are to struggle on in the future it is sad to 
 think of. They ^vill either give up the profession or die, or 
 degenerate into very commonplace men before many years." 
 
 "Unless they have some charm against it — ^which may 
 very well be," said Mr. Elliott, quietly. 
 
 " I see you do not agree with me. Take yourself for in- 
 stance, or rather, let us take your predecessor. He was a 
 good man, oil say who knew him well, and with time and 
 study he might have proved himself a great man. But if 
 ever a man's life was a struggle for the bare necessaries of 
 life, his was, and the culpable neglect of the people in the 
 regular payment of his very small salary was the cause of 
 his leaving them at last. He has since gone West, I hear, to 
 a happier lot let us hope. The circumstances of his prede- 
 cessor were no better. He died here, and his wife broko 
 down in a vain effort to maintain and educate his children. 
 She was brought back to Merleville and laid beside her hus- 
 band less than a year ago. There is something wrong in the 
 matter somewhere." 
 
 There was a pause, and then Mr. Greenleaf continued. 
 
 " It may seem an unkindly effort in me to try to change 
 your views of your future in Merleville. Still, it is better 
 that you should be in some measure prepared, for what I 
 
jaijet's love and servioe. 101 
 
 fear awaits you. Otherwise, you might be disgusted with 
 us aU.» 
 
 " I shall take refuge in the thought that you are showing 
 me the dark side of the picture,'' said Mr. EUiott. 
 
 " Pray do. And, indeed, I am. I may have said more 
 than enough in my earnestness. I am sure when you really 
 come to know our people, you will Uke them notwithstand* 
 ing things that we might wish otherwise." 
 
 "I hke you already," said Mr. Elliott, smihng. "I assm'e 
 you I had a great respect for you as the children of the 
 Puritans, before ever I saw you." 
 
 "Yes, but I am afraid you will like us less, before you 
 like us better. We are the children of the Puritans, but 
 very httle, I daresay, like the grave gentlemen up on your 
 shelves yonder. Your countrymen are, at first, generally 
 disappointed iu us as a people. Mind, I don't allow that we 
 are in reahty less worthy of respect than you kindly suppose 
 us to be for our fathers' sakes. But we are different. It is 
 not so much that we do not reach so high a standard, as 
 that we have a different standard of excellence— one that 
 your education, habits, and prepossessions as a people, do 
 not prepare you to appreciate us." 
 
 " Well," said Mr. EUiott, as his friend paused. 
 
 " Oh ! I have little more to say, except, that what is 
 generally the experience of your countrymen will probably 
 be your's in Merieville. You have some disappointing dis- 
 coveries to make among us, you who are an earnest man 
 and a thinker." 
 
 "I think a want of earnestness can hardly be called a 
 sin of your countrymen," said the minister. 
 
 " Earnestness ! " said Mr. Greenleaf . " No, we are earnest 
 enough here in Merieville. But the most of even the good men 
 among us seem earnest, only in the pursuit of that, in com- 
 parison to which my political aspirations seem lofty and 
 praiseworthy. It is wealth they seek. Not that wealth 
 which will result in magnificent expenditure, and which, in 
 a certain sense, may have a charm for even high-minded 
 
102 janet's love and servioe. 
 
 men, but morey-making in its meanest form — the scraping 
 together of copper coins I'or their own sakes. At least one 
 might think so, for any good they ever seem to get of it." 
 
 " You are severe," said the minister, quietly. 
 
 " Not too sevei'e. This seems to be the aim of all of us, 
 whether we are willing to acknowledge it or not. And such 
 a grovelling end wiU naturally make a man unscrupulous as 
 to the means to attain it. There are not many men among 
 us here — I don't know more than two or three — who would 
 not be surprised if you told them, being out of the pulpit, 
 that they had not a perfect right to make the very most out 
 of their friends — even by shaving closely in matters of busi- 
 ness." 
 
 "And yet you say their standard is a high one ? " 
 
 " High or not, the rehgious people among us don't seem 
 to doubt their ovra Christianity on account of these things. 
 And what is more, they don't seem to lose faith in each 
 other. But how it will all seem to you is another matter." 
 
 " How does it seem to you? " 
 
 " Oh, I am but a spectator. Being not one of the initiated, 
 I am not supposed to understand the change they profess to 
 have undergone ; and so, instead of being in doubt about 
 particular cases, I am disposed to tbinlr little of the whole 
 matter. With you it is different" 
 
 "Yes, witli me it is indeed different," said the minister, 
 gravely— so gravely, that Mr. Greenleaf almost regretted 
 having spoken so freely, and when he spoke again it was to 
 change the subject 
 
 "It must have required a great vnrench to break away from 
 your people and country and old associations," said he, in a 
 Uttla Mr. EUiott started- 
 
 "No, the wrench came before. It would have cost me 
 more to stay and grow old in my own land than it did to 
 leave it, than it ever can do to Hve and die among strangers." 
 
 Fearful that he had awakened painful thoughts, Mr. Green- 
 leaf said no more. In a little Mr. Elliott went on, 
 
 "It was an old thought, this wishing to find a home for 
 
jaistet's love and seevice. 103 
 
 onr children in this grand new world. We had always looked 
 forward to it sometime. And when I was left alone, the 
 thought of my children's future, and the longing to get away — 
 anywhere — brought me here." 
 
 He paused, and when he spoke again it was more calmly. 
 
 " Perhaps it was cowardly in me to flee. There was help 
 for me there, if my faith had not failed. I thought it would 
 be better for my children when I left them to leave them 
 here. But God knows it was no desire to enrich myself that 
 brought me to America. 
 
 " We can Uve on Httle. I trust you will be mistaken in 
 your fears. But if these troubles do come, we must try, with 
 God's grace, and Mrs. Nasmyth's help, to get through them 
 as best we can. We might not better ourselves by a change, 
 as you seem to think the evil a national one." 
 
 " The love and pursuit of the * almighty dollar,* is most 
 certainly a national characteristic As to the bearing it may 
 liave in church matters in other places, of course I have not 
 the means of judging. Here I know it has been bad enough 
 in the past" 
 
 "Well, I can only say I have found the people most kind 
 and Hberal hitherto," said Mr. Elliott. 
 
 " Have you had a settlement with them since you came ?" 
 asked the squire ; the remembrance of various remarks he 
 had heard of late coming unpleasantly to his mind. 
 
 " No, I have not yet. But as the half-year is nearly over, 
 I suppose it will come soon. Still I have no fears — I think 
 I need have none. It is not theirs but them I seek. 
 
 " Do you remember the Sabbath I first came among you ? 
 I saw you there among the rest. If my heart rose up in 
 thankfulness to God that day, it was with no thought of gold 
 or gear. God is my witness that I saw not these people as 
 possessors of houses and lands, but of precious souls — living 
 souls to be encouraged — slumbering souls to be aroused — 
 dead souls to be made alive in Christ, through His own Word, 
 spoken by me and blessed by Him. 
 
 " No, I do not think I can possibly be disappointed in this 
 
104 Janet's love and seevioe. 
 
 matter. I may have to bear trial, and it may come to me as 
 it oftenest comes to God's people, in the very way that seems 
 hardest to bear, but God will bless his Ward. And even if I 
 do not live to see it, I can rest in the assurance that after- 
 ward, * both be that soweth and he that reapeth shall rejoice 
 together.' " 
 
 He paused. A momentary gleam of triumph passed over 
 his face and left it peaceful. 
 
 "The peace that passeth understanding," thought the 
 young man, with a sigh. For he could not quite satisfy him- 
 self by saying, that Mr. ElHott was no man of business, an 
 unworldly man. It came into his mind that even if the min- 
 ister were chasing a shadow, it was a shadow more satisfying 
 than his possible reality of pohtical greatness. So he could 
 not but sigh as he sat watching that peaceful face. The min- 
 ister looked up and met his eye. 
 
 "And so, my friend, I think we must end where we begun. 
 You may be disappointed even in the fulfillment of your 
 hopes. But for me, all must end well, let the end be what it 
 may." 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE time of settlement came at last. The members of 
 the church and congregation were requested to bring 
 to Deacon Sterne and his coadjutors an accoimt of money 
 and produce already paid by each, and also a statement of 
 the sum they intended to subscribe for the minister's support 
 during the ensuing half year. After a delay which, consid- 
 ering all things, was not more than reasonable, this was done, 
 and the different accounts being put into regular form by the 
 proper persons, they were laid before the minister for his 
 inspection and approval. 
 
 This was done by Deacons Fish and Slowcome alone. 
 Deacon Sterne, as his brethren in office intimated to Mrs. 
 Nasmyth, when she received them, having just then his 
 hands full of his own aflfairs. Deacon Fish "expected" that 
 brother Sterne had got into trouble. It had been coming on 
 for some time. His son, the only boy he had left, had been 
 over to Eixford, and had done something dreadful, folks said, 
 he did not exactly know what, and the deacon had gone over 
 to see about it. Deacon Sterne was Janet's favorite among 
 the me^. in office, and apart from her regret that he should 
 not be present on an occasion so important, she was greatly 
 concerned for him on his own account. 
 
 " Dear me I" said she, " I saw him at the kirk on the Sab- 
 bath-day, looking just as usual" 
 
 " WeU, yes, I expect so," said Mr. Fish. " Brother Sterne 
 looks always pretty much so. He aint apt to show his feel- 
 in's, if he 's got any. He 'U have something to suffer with his 
 son William, I guess, whether he ahows it or not." 
 
 Janet liked both father and son, though it was well known 
 
 (105) 
 
106 Janet's love and service. 
 
 in the town that there was trouble between them ; so instead 
 of makmg any answer, she hastened to usher thorn into the 
 study. The minister awaited them, and business began. First 
 was displayed the list of subscriptions for the comiug half- 
 year. This was quite encouraging. Three hundred and fifty 
 and odd dollars. This looked well There had never been 
 so much subscribed in Merleville before. The deacons were 
 elated, and evidently expected that the minister should be so, 
 too. He would be well off now, said they. But the minister 
 was always a quiet man, and said httle, and the last half- 
 year's settlement was turned ta 
 
 There were several sheets of it. The minister in danger 
 of getting bewildered among the items, turned to the sum 
 total " Two hundred and aeventy-two dollars, sixty-two and 
 a-half cents." He was a httle mystified still, and looked so. 
 
 " K there is anything pirong, anything that you object to, 
 it must be put right," said Deacon Slowcome. 
 
 Deacon Fish presumed, " that when Mr. EUiott should have 
 compared it with the account which he had no doubt kept, it 
 would be found to be ali right." 
 
 Mr. Elliott had to confess that no such account had been 
 kept. He supposed it was all it should be. He reaUy could 
 say nothing with regard to it. He left the management of 
 household cvflfairs entirely to his daughter and Mrs. Nasmyth. 
 It was suggested that Mrs. Nasmyth should be called in, and 
 the deacon cleared his voice to read it to her. 
 
 " If there 's anything you don't seem to imderstand or re- 
 member," pre&iced the accommodating Deacon Slowcome, 
 "don't feel troubled about saying so. I expect we'll make 
 things pretty straight after a while." 
 
 Mrs. Nasmyth looked at the minister, but the minister 
 did not look at her, and the reading began. After the name 
 of each person, came the days* work, horse hire, loads of fire- 
 wood, bushels of com, pounds of butter and cheese, sugar 
 and dried apples, which he or she had contributed. Deacon 
 Fish's subscription was chiefly paid by his horse and his cow. 
 The former had carried the minister on two or three of hia 
 
Janet's love and beevice. 107 
 
 most distant visits, and the latter had supplied a quart or 
 two of milk daily during a great part of the winter. It was 
 overpaid indeed by just seventeen and a-half cents, which, 
 however, the deacon seemed inclined to make light of. 
 
 " There ain't no matter about it. It can go right on to 
 the next half year. It ain't no matter about it anyhow/* 
 said he, in liberal mood. 
 
 He had an attentive hstener. Mrs. Nasmyth listened with 
 vain efforts not to let her face betray her utter bewilderment 
 at the whole proceeding, only assenting briefly when Mr. 
 Slowcome interrupted the reading, now and then, to say 
 interrogatively, 
 
 " You remember ? ** 
 
 It dav^med upon her at last that these we o the items that 
 made up the subscription for the half year that was over ; 
 but except that her face changed a httle, she gave no sign. 
 It is possible the deacon had had some slight misfgiving as to 
 how Mrs. Nasmyth might receive the statement ; certainly his 
 voicG took a relieved tone as he drew near the end, and at 
 last read the sum total : *' Two hundred and seventy-two 
 dollars sixty-two and a-half cents." 
 
 Again Janet's eye sought the minister's, and this time he 
 did not avoid her look. The rather pained surprise had all 
 gone out of his face. Intense amusement at Janet's chang- 
 ing face, on which bewilderment, increduKty and indigna- 
 tion were successively written, banished, for a moment, 
 ever other feeling. But that passed, and by the look that 
 followed Janet knew that she must keep back the words that 
 were rising to her Hps. It required an effort, however, and a 
 rather awkward silence followed. Deacon Slowcome spoke 
 first: 
 
 "Well, I suppose, we may consider tiiat it stands all 
 right. And I, for one, feel encouraged to expect great things." 
 
 " I doubt, sirs," said Janet in a voice ominously mild and 
 civil, " there are some things that haena been put down on 
 yon paper. There was a cum apples, and a bit o' unco spare 
 rib, and " 
 
108 Janet's love and service. 
 
 ""Well, it's possible there are some folks ain't sent in 
 their accounts yet. That can be seen to another time." 
 
 Janet paid no attention to the interruption. 
 
 " There were some eggs from Mrs. Sterne — a dozen and 
 three, I think — and a goose at the New Year from somebody 
 else ; and your wife sent a pumpkin-pie ; and there was 
 the porridge and milk that Judge Merle brought over when 
 first we came here " 
 
 "Ah ! the pie was a present from my wife," said Deacon 
 Fish, on whom Mrs. Nasmyth's awful irony was quite lost. 
 
 "And I presume Judge Merle didn't mean to charge for 
 the porridge, or hominy, or whatever it was," said Deacon 
 Slowcome. 
 
 "And what for no'?" demanded Janet, turning on kirn 
 sharply. "I'm sure we got far more good and pleasure 
 from it than ever we got o' your bloody fore-quarter of beef, 
 that near scunnered the bairns ere we were done with it. 
 Things should stand on your papers at their true value." 
 
 Deacon Slowcome was not, in reahty, more surprised at 
 this outbreak than he had been when his " foreHjuarter of 
 bloody beef" had been accepted unchallenged, but he professed 
 to be so ; and in his elaborate astonishment allowed Janet's 
 remarks about a slight mistake she had made, and about the 
 impropriety of " looking a gift horse in the mouth " to pass 
 unanswered. 
 
 " You were at Hberty to return the beef if you did n't want 
 it," said he, with an injured air. 
 
 " Weel, I 'II mind that next time," said she, in a milder 
 tone, by no means sure how the minister might approve of 
 her plain speaking. Deacon Fish made a diversion in favor 
 of peace, by holding up the new subscription-hst, and asking 
 her triumphantly if that " didn't look welL " 
 
 "Ay, on paper," said Janet, dryly. " Figures are no' dol- 
 lars. And if your folk have been thinking that the minister 
 and his family hae been living only on the bits o' things writ- 
 ten down on your paper you are mistaken. The gude money 
 that has helped it has been worth far more than the like o' 
 
Janet's love and service. 109 
 
 that, as I ken weel, who hae had the spending o' it ; but I 
 daresay you 're no* needing me longer, sir," she added, ad- 
 dressing the minister, and she left the room. 
 
 This matter was not alluded to again for several days, but 
 it did Janet a deal of good to think about ii She had no 
 time to indulge in homesick musings, with so definite a sub- 
 ject of indignant speculation as the meanness of the deacons. 
 She " was nettled at herself beyond all patience " that she 
 should have allowed herself to fancy that so many of the 
 things on the paper had been tokens of the people's good- 
 will 
 
 "Two hundred and seventy dollars and more," she re- 
 peated- " Things mount up, I ken weel ; but I maun take 
 another look at ii And I '11 hae more sense anither time, 
 I'm thinking." 
 
 She did not speak to Graeme. There would be no use to 
 vex her ; but she would fain have had a few words witL the 
 minister, but his manner did not encourage her to introduce 
 the subject. A circumstance soon occurred which gave her 
 an opening, and the subject, from first to last, was thoroughly 
 discussed. 
 
 March was nearly over. The nights were cold still, but 
 the sun was powerful during the day, and there were many 
 tokens that the earth was about to wake from her long sleep 
 and prepare for the refreshment of her children. "And 
 time for her," sighed Janet, taking a retrospective view of all 
 that had happened since she saw her face. 
 
 The boys had been thrown into a state of great excite- 
 ment by a proposal made to them by their friend Mr. Snow. 
 He had offered to give them sixty of the best trees in his 
 sugar place, with all the articles necessary to the making of 
 sugar, on terms that, to them, seemed easy enough. They 
 were to make their own preparations, gather the sap, cut 
 their own wood, in short, carry on the business entirely 
 themselves ; and, nothing daunted, they went the very first 
 fine day to see the groimd and make a beginning. Graeme 
 and the other girls went with them as far as Mr. Snow's 
 
110 Janet's love and seevioe. 
 
 house, and Janet was left alone. The minister was in his 
 study as usual, and when they were aU gone, uncomfortable 
 with the unaccustomed quietness of the house, she arose and 
 wont to the door and looked rather sadly down the street. 
 She had not long to indulge her feelings of loneliness, how- 
 ever. A sleigh came slowly grating along the half-bare 
 street, and its occupant, Mr. Silas Spears, not one of her 
 favorites, stopped before the door, and lost no time in 
 "hitching" his horse to the post. Janet set him a chair, 
 and waited for the accustomed question whether the minister 
 was at home, and whether he could see him. 
 
 " The body has some sense and discretion," said Janet to 
 herself, as he annoxmced instead that he " wa'ant a going to 
 stay but a minute, and it would n't be worth while troubhng 
 the minister." He did stay, however, telling news and giving 
 his opinion on matters and things in general in a way which 
 was tolerable to Janet in her solitude. He rose to go at 
 last. 
 
 " I 've got a bucket of sugar out here," said he. " Our folks 
 did n't seem to want it, and I thought I 'd fetch it along down. 
 I took it to Cook's store, but they did n't want it, and they 
 did n't care enough about it at Sheldon's to want to pay for 
 it, so I thought I might as well turn it in to pay my minis- 
 ter's tax." 
 
 So in he came vdthin a minute. 
 
 " There 's just exactly twenty-nine pounds with the bucket 
 Sugar 's been sellin' for twelve and a-half this winter, and I 
 guess I ought to have that for it, then we '11 be about even, 
 according to my calculation." 
 
 "Sugar!" ejaculated Janet, touching the solid black mass 
 with her finger. " Call you that sugar ? " 
 
 " Why, yes, I call it sugar. Not the best, maybe, but it 'a 
 better than it looks. It 'U be considerable whiter by the time 
 you drain it off, I expect." 
 
 "And weigh considerable lighter, I expect," said Mrs. Nas- 
 myth, unconsciously imitating Mr. Spears' tone and manner 
 in her rising wrath. « I m very much obhged to you, but 
 
Janet's lovjs and seevice. ' ~** 111 
 
 we 're in no especial need o' sugar at this time, and we Tl do 
 without a while before we spend good siller on stuff like 
 that." 
 
 " Well, I '11 say eleven cents, or maybe ten, as sugarin* 
 time is most here. It ain't first rate," he added, candidly. 
 "It mightn't just do for tea, but it's as good as any to 
 sweeten pies and cakes." 
 
 " Many thanks to you. But we *re no' given to the makui' 
 o' pies and cakes in this house. Plain bread, or a sup por- 
 ri(^e and milk does for us, and it 's mair than we 're like to 
 get, if things dinna mend with us. So you '11 just take it 
 with you again." 
 
 "Well," said Mr. Spears, slightly at a loss, "I guess 111 
 leave it. I ain't particular about the price. Mr. Elliott can 
 aQow me what he thinks it worth, come to use it. Ill leave 
 it anyhow." 
 
 " But you '11 no' leave it, with my consent. Deacon Slow- 
 come said the minister wasna needing to take anything he 
 didna want, and the like o' that we could make no use of." 
 
 " The deacon might have said that in a general kind of 
 way, but I rather guess he did n't mean you to take him up 
 so. I 've been calculating to pay my minister's tax with that 
 sugar, and I don't know as I 've got anything else handy. 
 I'll leave it, and if you don't conclude to keep it, you better 
 speak to the deacon about it and maybe he 'U give you the 
 money for it. I '11 leave it anyhow." 
 
 " But you H no leave it here," exclaimed Mrs. Nasmyth, 
 whose patience was not proof against his persistence, and 
 seizing the bucket, she rushed out at the door, and deposit* 
 ing it in the sleigh, was in again before the astonished Mr. 
 Spears quite realized her intention. 
 
 " You 'U no' find me failing in my duty to the minister, as 
 I hae done before," exclaimed she, a Httle breathless with the 
 exertion. "If the minister canna hae his stipend paid in 
 good siller as he has been used wi', he shall at least hae nae 
 \xQsh. like yon. So dinna bring here again what ither folk 
 winna hae from you, for 1 11 hae none o' it." 
 
112 Janet's love aot> seevioe. 
 
 "I should like to seo the minister a minute," said Mr. 
 Spears, seating hunbclf vvith dignity. "I don't consider that 
 you are the one to settle this business." 
 
 "There's many a thing that you dinna consider that 
 there 's sense in, notwithstanding. It 's just me that is to 
 decide this business, and a' business where the minister's 
 welfare, as regards meat and drink, is concerned. So dinna 
 fash yourself and me mair about it." 
 
 " I 'd like to see him, anyhow," said he, taking a step to- 
 wards the study door. 
 
 "But you 11 no' see him about any such matter," and 
 Janet placed herself before him. " I 'm no' to hae the minis- 
 ter vexed with the like o' that nonsense to-night, or any 
 night I wonder you dinna think shame, to hold up your 
 face to me, forby the minister. What kens the minister 
 about the like o' that ? He has other things to think about. 
 It 's weel that there 's aye me to stand between him and the 
 
 like o* you *glegs and corbies' ." And Janet, as her 
 
 manner was, when excited, degenerated into Scotch to such 
 a degree, that her opponent forgot his indignation in astonish- 
 ment, and listened in silence. Janet was successful Mr. 
 Spears was utterly nonplussed, and took his way homeward, 
 by no means sure that he had n't been abused. " Consideiv 
 able beat, anyhow." 
 
 Scarcely had he taken his departure, when Mr. Elliott 
 made his appearance, having had some idea that something 
 imusual had been going on. Though loth to do so, Janet 
 thought best to give a faithful account of what had taken 
 place. He laughed heartily at her success and Mr. Spears* 
 discomfiture, but it was easy to see he was not quite at his 
 ease about the matter. 
 
 "I am at a loss to know how all this will end/* he said, 
 gravely, after a minute. 
 
 "Indeed, sir, you need be at no loss about that. It wiD 
 end m a ' toom pantry ' for us, and that before very long." 
 . This was the beginning of a conversation with regard to 
 their a£Gairs, that lasted till the childj-en came home. Much 
 
Janet's love and seevioe. 113 
 
 earnest thought did the minister bestow on the subject for 
 the next three days, and on the evening of the fourth, at the 
 dose of a full conference meeting, when most of the members 
 of the church were present, the result of his meditations was 
 given to the pubhc. He did not use many words, but they 
 were to the point. 
 
 He told them of the settlement for the past, and the pros- 
 pect for the future. He told them that the value to his 
 family of the articles brought in, was not equal to their value, 
 as named in the subscription Usts, their real value he sup- 
 posed. They could not Uve in comfort on these terms, and 
 they should never try it. He had a proposal to make to 
 them. The deacon had estimated that an annual amoimt 
 equal to seven hundred dollars could be raised. Let each 
 subscriber deduct a seventh part of what he had promised to 
 pay, and let the remainder be paid in money to the treasurer, 
 so that he might receive his salary in quarterly payments. 
 This would be the means of avoiding much that was annoy- 
 ing to all parties, and was the only terms on which he would 
 think it wise to remain in MerleviUe. 
 
 He alluded to a report that had lately reached him, as to 
 his having money invested in Scotland. In ihe hand of a 
 friend he had deposited sufficient to defray the expenses of 
 his eldest son, until his education should be completed. He 
 had no more. The comfort of his family must depend upon 
 his salary ; and what that was to be, and how it was to be 
 paid, must be decided without loss of time. 
 
 He said just two or three words about his wish to stay, 
 about the love he felt for many of them, and of his earnest 
 desire to benefit them alL He had no other desire than to 
 cast in his lot vdth theirs, and to live and die among them. 
 But no real union or confidence could be maintained between 
 them, while the matter of support was hable at any moment 
 to become a source of discomfort and misunderstanding to all 
 concerned. He added, that as so many were present, perhaps 
 no better time than to-night could be found for arranging the 
 matter, and so he left them. 
 7 
 
X14 ' jauet's love and service. 
 
 There was quite a gathering that night. Judf je Merle was 
 there, and the deacons, and tiie Pages, and Mr. Spears, and 
 a great many besides. Behind the door, in a comer seat, sat 
 Mr. Snow, and near him, Mr. Greenlea£ He evidently felt 
 he was not expected to remain, and made a movement to go, 
 but Sampson laid his hand on his arm. 
 
 " Hold on, Squire," he whispered ; " as hke as not they 'd 
 Bpare us, but I 'm bound to see this through." 
 
 There was a long pause. Then Deacon Fish got up and 
 cleared his throat, and " felt as though he felt," and went 
 over much ground, without accompUshing much. Deacon 
 Slowcome did pretty much the same. Judge Merle came a 
 little nearer the mark, and when he sat down, there was a 
 movement behind the door, and Sampson Snow rose and 
 stepped out. He laid his hand on the door latch, and then 
 turned round and opened his Hps. 
 
 " I expect you 11 all think it ain't my place to speak in 
 meetin*, and I ain't goin' to say a great deal. It 's no more 
 tlian two hours or so since I got home from Rixford, and 
 Squire Stone, he told me that their minister had given notice 
 that he was goin' to quit. Goin' to Boston, I guess. And 
 the Squire, says he to me, * We 've a notion of talking a httle 
 to your Mr. Elliott,' and says he, '"We wouldn't begrudge 
 him a thousand dollars cash down, and no mistake.' So now 
 don't worry any about the minister. 5e's all right, and 
 worth his pay any day. That 's all I 've got to say," and Mr. 
 Snow opened the door and walked out. 
 
 Sampson's speech was short, but it was the speech of the 
 evening, and told. That night, or within a few days, arrange- 
 ments were made for the carrying out of the plan suggested 
 by Mr. Elliott, with this difference, that the seventh part wat 
 not to be deducted because of money payment. And tht 
 good people of Merleville did not regret their promptitud*. 
 when the very next week there came a deputation from Rix 
 ford, to ascertain whether Mr. Elhott was to remain in Merle 
 ville, and if not, wheth^ he would accept an invitation to 
 settle in the larger town. 
 
Janet's love and seevioe. 115 
 
 Mr. Elliott's answer was brief and decided. He had no 
 wish to leave MerleTille while the people wished him to re- 
 main. He hoped never to leave them while he hved. And 
 he never did. 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 SFEING came and went The lads distiiiguished fhem 
 selves both for the quantity and quality of their sugar, 
 and highly enjoyed the work besides. The free outof-door 
 life, the camping in the woods beside a blazing fire, and the 
 company of the village lads who daily and nightly crowded 
 around them, charmed them from all other pursuits. Mr. ^6 
 Foster and his mathematics were sadly neglected in these 
 days. In future they wore to devote themselves to agricul- 
 ture. 
 
 In vain Janet hinted that "new things aye pleased light 
 heads," and warned them that they were deciding too soon. 
 In vain Mr. Snow said that it was not sugaring time all the 
 year; and that they should summer and winter among the 
 hills before they committed themselves to a farmer^s life. 
 Harry quoted Cincinnatus, and Norman proved to his own 
 satisfaction, if not to Mr. Snow's, that on scientific principles 
 every farm in Merleville could be cultivated with half the ex- 
 pense, and double the profits. Even their father was carried 
 away by their enthusiasm; and it is to be feared, that if he 
 had had a fortune to invest, it would have been buried for 
 ever among these beautiful lulls of Merleville. 
 
 An opportunity to test the strength of the lads' determiner 
 tion, came in a manner which involved less risk than a purdiase 
 would have done. Early in May a letter was received from 
 Mr. Eoss, in which he oflfered to take the charge of Arthur's 
 education on hiraself, and as he was well able to do so, Mr. 
 Elliott saw no reason for refusing the oflfer. The money, 
 therefore, that he had set apart for his son's use, returned to 
 (116) 
 
Janet's love and service. 117 
 
 his hands, and he did a wiser thing than to invest it either in 
 mountain or valley. 
 
 It came, about this time, to the worst, with Mrs. Jones Etud 
 her daughter Celestia. The mortgage on the farm could not 
 be paid, even the interest had fallen far behind, and Squire 
 Skinfliiit had foreclosed. Nothing remained for the widow, 
 but to save what she could from the wreck of a property that 
 had once been large, and go away to seek a new home for her- 
 self and her children. On the homestead she was about to 
 leave, the heart and eyes of Mr. Snow had long been fixed. 
 As a relation of the widow, he had done what could be done, 
 both by advice and assistance, to avert the evil day; but the 
 widow was no farmer, and her boys were children, and the 
 longer she kept the place, the more she must involve herself; 
 and now, that the land must pass from her hands, Sampson 
 would fain have it pass into his. But the only condition of 
 sale was for ready money, and this without great sacrifice he 
 could not obtain. Meanwhile, others were considering the 
 matter of the purchase, and the time was short; for there had 
 been some &ilure in Squire Skinfiint's Western land specula- 
 tion, and money must be had. If the vddow could have held 
 it still, Mr. Snow would never have desired to have the land; 
 but what with the many thoughts he had given to it, and 
 the fear of getting bad neighbors, he had about come to the 
 conclusion that it was not worth while to farm at all, unless 
 he could have the two farms put into one. 
 
 Just at this juncture, the minister surprised him greatly 
 by asking his advice about the investment of the money 
 which his brother-in-law's generosity had placed at his dis- 
 posal A very few words settled the matter. The minister 
 lent the money to Mr. Snow, and for the annual interest of 
 the same, he was to have the use of the farm-house and the 
 ten acres of meadow and pasture land, that lay between it and 
 the pond. The arrangement was in all respects advantageous 
 to both parties, and before May was out, the little brown 
 house behind the elms, was left in silence, to await the 
 coming of the next chance tenants; and the pleasurable ex- 
 
118 Janet's love and seevice. 
 
 dtement of settling down in their new home, filled the minds 
 of Janet and the bairns. 
 
 And a very pleasant home it promised to be. Even in that 
 beautiful land of mountain and valley they would have sought 
 in vain for a lovelier spoi Sheltered by high hills from the 
 bleak winds of the north and east, it was still sufficiently 
 elevated to permit a wide view of the farms and forests around 
 it. Close below, with only a short, steep bank, and a wide 
 strip of meadow land between, lay Merle pond, the very love- 
 liest of the many lovely lakelets, hidden away among these 
 mountains. Over on the rising ground beyond the pond stood 
 the meetinghouse, and scattered to the right and left of it were 
 the white houses of the village, half hidden by the taU elms 
 tmd maples that fringed the village street. Close by the 
 farmhouse, between it and the thick pine grove on the hill, ran 
 C!arson's brook, a stream which did not disappear in summer- 
 time, as a good many of these lull streams are apt to do, 
 and which, for several months in the year, was almost as 
 worthy of the name of river as the Merle itsel£ Before the 
 house was a large grassy yard, having many rose bushes and 
 lilac trees scattered along the fences and the path that led 
 to the door. There were shade trees, too. Once they had 
 stood in regular lines along the road, and round the large 
 garden. Some of these had been injured because of the in- 
 sufficient fences of late years; but those that remained were 
 trees worthy of the name of trees. There were elms whose 
 branches nearly touched each other, from opposite sides of 
 the wide yard; and great maples that grew as symmetrically 
 in the open space, as though each spring they had been cHp- 
 ped and cared for by experienced hands, ^ere had been 
 locusts, once; but the old trees had mostly died, and there 
 were only a few young ones springing up here and there, but 
 they were trees before the children went away from the place 
 which they were now beginning to look upon as home. 
 
 Formerly, there had been a large and handsome garden 
 laid out at the end of the house, but since trouble had come 
 on the family, its cultivation had been considered too much 
 
Janet's love and sekvice. 119 
 
 expense, and the grass was growing green on its squares and 
 borders now. There were a few perennials easy to cultivate; 
 and annuals such as sow themselves, marigolds and pansies. 
 There was balm in abundance, and two or three gigantic 
 peonies, in their season the admiration of all passers by; and 
 beds of useful herbs, wormwood and sage, and summer 
 savory. But, though it looked hke a wilderness of weeds the 
 the first day they came to see it, Janet's quick eye foresaw a 
 great deal of pleasure and prout which might be got for the 
 bairns out of the garden, and, as usual, Janet saw clearly. 
 
 There was a chance to find fault with the house, if anyone 
 had at this time been inclined to find fault with anything. 
 It was large and pleasant, but it was sadly out of repair. 
 Much of it had been Httle used of late, and looked dreary 
 enough in its dismantled state. But ah this was changed 
 after a while, and they settled down very happily in it, with- 
 out thinking about any defect it might have, and these dis* 
 appeared in time. 
 
 For, by and by, all necessary repairs were made by their 
 provident landlord's own hands. He had no mind to pay 
 out money for what he could do himself ; and many a wet 
 afternoon did he and his hired man devote to the replacing 
 of sliingles, the nailing on of clapboards, to puttying, paint- 
 ing, and other matters of the same kind. A good landlord 
 he was, and a kind neighbor, too ; and when the many ad- 
 vantages of their new home were being told over by the 
 children, the living so near to Mr. Snow and little Emily 
 was never left tiU the last. 
 
 A very pleasant summer thus began to them all. It 
 would be difficult to say which of them all enjoyed their new 
 hfe the most. But Janet's prophecy came true. The newness 
 of fflrmnig proved to be its chief charm to the lads ; and if 
 it had been left entirely to them to plant and sow, and care 
 for, and gather in the harvest, it is to be feared there would 
 not have been much to show for the summer's work. But their 
 father, who was by no means inexperienced in agricultural 
 matters, had the success of their fuming experunent much 
 
120 'JANET'S LOVE AKD SEEVIOE. 
 
 at heart, and with his advice and the frequent expostulationg 
 and assistance of Mr. Snow, affairs were conducted on their 
 Uttle farm on the whole prosperously. 
 
 Not that the lads grew tired of exerting themselves. 
 There was not a lazy bone in their bodies, Mr. Snow de- 
 clared, and no one had a better opportunity of knowing than 
 he. But their strength and energy were not exerted always 
 in a direction that would pay, according to Mr. Snow's idea 
 of remuneration. Much time and labor were expended on 
 the building of a bridge over Carson's brook, between the 
 house and Pine Grove Hill, and mudi more to the making 
 of a waterfall above ii Even Mr. Snow, who was a long 
 time in coming to comprehend why they should take so much 
 trouble with what was no good but to look at, was carried 
 away by the spirit of the a£&ir at last, and lent his oxen, 
 and used his crowbar in their cause, conveying great Istones 
 to the spot. When the bridge and the waterfall were com- 
 pleted, a path was to be made round the hill, to the pine 
 grove at the top. Then, among the pines, there was a 
 wonderful structure of rocks and stones, covered with mosses 
 and creeping plants. The Grotto, the children called it, Mr. 
 Snow called it the Cave. A wonderful place it was, and 
 much did they enjoy ii To be sure, it would not hold them 
 all at once, but the grove would, and the grotto looked best 
 on the outside, and much pleasure did they get out of their 
 labors. 
 
 The lads did not deserve all the credit of these great 
 works. The girls helped, not only with approving eyes and 
 hps, but with expert hands as well. Even Graeme grew 
 rosy and sunburnt by being out of doors so much on bright 
 mornings and evenings, and if it had been always summer 
 time, there might have been some danger that even Graeme 
 would not very soon have come back to the quiet indoor 
 enjoyment of work and study again. 
 
 As for Janet, her homesickness must have been left in the 
 Utde brown house behind the elms, for it never troubled her 
 after she came up the brae. With the undisputed possession 
 
Janet's love and service. 121 
 
 of poultry, pigs and cows, came back her energy and peace 
 of mind. The first basket of eggs collected by the children, 
 the first churning of golden butter which she was able to 
 display to their admiring gaze, were worth their weight in 
 gold as helps to her returning cheerfulness. Not that she 
 valued her dumb friends for their usefulness alone, or even 
 for the comforts they brought to the household. She had a 
 natural love for all dependent creatures, and petted and pro- 
 vided for her favorites, till they learned to know and love 
 her in return. All helpless creatures seemed to come to her 
 naturally. A dog, which had been cruelly beaten by his 
 master, took refage with her ; and being fed and caressed by 
 her hand, could never be induced to leave her guardianship 
 again. The very bees, at swarming time, did not sting 
 Janet, though they lighted in clouds on her snowy cap and 
 neckerchief ; and the Uttle brown sparrows came to share 
 with the chickens the crumbs she scattered at the door. 
 And so, hens and chickens, and little brown sparrows did 
 much to win her from a regretful remembrance of the past, 
 and to reconcile her to what was strange — "unco like "in 
 her new home. 
 
 Her cows were, perhaps, her prime favorites. Not that 
 she would acknowledge them at aU equal to " Fleckie " or 
 " Blackie," now, probaUy, the favorites of another mistress 
 on the other side of the sea. But ^'Brindle and Spottie were 
 wise-like beasts, with mair sense and discretion than some 
 folk that sh^ could name," and many a child iu MerleviUe 
 got less care, than she bestowed on them. Morning and 
 night, and, to the surprise of all the farmers' wives in Merle* 
 ville, at noon too, when the days were long she milked them 
 with her own hands, and made more find better butter froi^ 
 the two, than even old Mrs. Snow, who prided herself on 
 her abilities in these matters, made from any three on her 
 pasture. And when in the fall Mr. Snow went to Boston 
 with the produce of his mother's dairy, and his own farm, a 
 large tub of Janet's butter went too, for which was to be 
 brought back " tea worth the drinking, and at a reasonable 
 
122 JANEt^B LOVE AND SERVICE. 
 
 price," and other things besides, which at Merlevillo and at 
 Merleville prices, could not be easily obtained. 
 
 The Indian summer had come again. Its mysterious haze 
 and hush were on all things under the open sky, and within 
 the house all was quiet, too. The minister was in the study, 
 and the bairns were in the pine grove, or by the water side, 
 or even farther away; for no sound of song or laughter 
 came from these familiar places. Janet sat at the open door, 
 feeling a little dreary, as she was rather apt to do, when left 
 for hours together alone by the bairns. Besides, there was 
 something in the mild air and in the quiet of the afternoon, 
 that " 'minded " her of the time a year ago, when the bairns, 
 having all gone to the kirk on that first Sabbath-day, she had 
 "neargrat herself blin," from utter despairing homesickness. 
 She could now, in her restored pea^e and firmness, afford to 
 to feel a little contemptuous of her former sel^ yet a sense 
 of sadness crept over her, at the memory of the time, a slight 
 pang of the old malady stirred at her heart Even now, she 
 was not quite sure that it would be prudent to indulge herself 
 in thoughts of the old times, lest the wintry days, so fast 
 hastening, might bring back the old gloom. So she was not 
 sorry when the sound of footsteps broke the stillness, and 
 she was pleased, for quite other reasons, when Mr. Snow 
 appeared at the open door. He did not accept her invita- 
 tion to enter, but seated himself on the doorstep. 
 
 " Your folks are all gone, are they ? " asked he. 
 
 '' The minister is in nis study, and Miss Graeme and the 
 bairns are out by, some way or other. Your Emily's with 
 them." 
 
 " Yes, I reckoned so. I 've just got home from Bixford. 
 It would n't amount to much, all I could do to-night, so I 
 thought I'd come along up a spell." 
 
 Janet repeated her kindly welcome. 
 
 " The minister's busy I presume," said he. 
 
 "Yes, — as it's Saturday, — but he winna be busy very 
 long now. If you 11 bide a moment, he 'U be out I daresay." 
 
 " There 's no hurry. It 's nothing particular." 
 
Janet's love and servioe. 123 
 
 But Mr. Snow was not in his usual spirits evidently, and 
 watching him stealthily, Janet saw a careworn anxious expres- 
 sion fastening on his usually cheerful face. 
 
 " Are you no' weel the night ?" she asked. 
 
 " Sartain. I never was sick in my life." 
 
 "And how are they all down-by ?" meaning at Mr. Snow's 
 house, by " down-by." 
 
 "Well, pretty much so. Only just middling. Nothing 
 to brag of, in the way of smartness." 
 
 There was a long silence after that. Mr. Snow sat with 
 folded arms, looking out on the scene before them. 
 
 " It 's kind o' pleasant here, ain't it ?" said he, at last. 
 
 " Ay," said Janet, softly, not caring to disturb his mus- 
 ings. He sat still, looking over his own broad fields, not 
 thinking of them as his, however, not calculating the expense 
 of the new saw-miU, with which he had been threatening to 
 disfigure Carson's brook, just at the point where its waters 
 fell into the pond. He was looking far away to the distant 
 hills, where the dim haze was deepening into purple, hiding 
 the mountain tops beyond. But it could not be hills, nor 
 haze, nor hidden mountain tops, that had brought that wist- 
 ful longing look into his eyes, Janet thought, and between 
 doubt as to what she ought to say, and doubt as to whether 
 she should say anything at all, she was for a long time silent. 
 At last, a thought struck her. 
 
 " "What for wasna you at the Lord's table, on the Sabbath- 
 day?" asked she. 
 
 Sampson gave her a queer look, and a short, amused laugh. 
 
 " Well, I guess our folks would ha' opened their eyes, if I 
 had undertook to go there." . 
 
 Janet looked at him, in some surprise. 
 
 " And what for no ? I ken there are others o' the folk, that 
 let strifes and divisions hinder them from doing their duty, 
 and sitting down together. Though wherefore, the like of 
 these things should hinder them from remembering their 
 Lord, is more than I can understand. What hae you been 
 doing, or what has somebody been doing to you T* 
 
124 Janet's love and beeviob. 
 
 There was a pause, and then Sampson looked up and saio, 
 
 gravely. 
 
 " Mis' Nasmyth, I ain't a professor. I 'm one of the world's 
 people Deacon Fish tells about." 
 
 Janet looked grave. 
 
 " Come now, Mis' Nasmyth, you don't mean to say you 
 thought I was one of the good ones ?" 
 
 "You ought to be," said she, gravely. 
 
 "Well,— yes, I suppose I ought to. But after all, I guess 
 there ain't a great sight of difference between folks, — ^least- 
 ways, between MerleviUe folks. I know all about them. I 
 was the first white child bom in the town, I was raised here, 
 and in some way or other, I 'm related to most folks in town, 
 and I ought to know them all pretty well by this time. Ex- 
 cept on Sundays, I expect they 're all pretty much so. It 
 wouldn't do to tell round, but there are some of the world's 
 people, that I'd full as lief do business with, as with most of 
 the professors. Now that 's a fact." 
 
 *'You're no' far wrong there^ I daresay," said Janet, with 
 emphasis. " But that 's neither here nor there, as &ur as your 
 duty is concerned, as you weel ken." 
 
 " No, — ^I don't know as it is. But it kind o' makes me 
 feel, as though there wasn't much in rehgion, anyway." 
 
 Janet looked mystified. Mr. Snow continued. 
 
 " Well now, see here, I 'U tell you just how it is. There 
 ain't one of them that don't think I 'm a sinner of the worst 
 kind — gospel hardened. They've about given me up, I 
 know they have. Well now, let alone the talk, I don't be- 
 lieve there 's a mite of difference, between me, and the most 
 of them, and the Lord knows I'm bad enough. And so you 
 see, I 've about come to the conclusion, th?it if there is such a 
 thing as rehgion, I have n't never come across the real ar* 
 ticlft" 
 
 " That's like enough," said Janet, with a groan. " I can- 
 na say that I have seen muckle o' it myself in this town, 
 out of our own house. But I canna see that that need be 
 any excuse to you. You have aye the word." 
 
Janet's love and seevice. 125 
 
 ** Well, yes. I *ve always had the Bible, and I *ve read it 
 considerable, but I never seem to get the hang of it» some- 
 how. And it ain't because I ain't tried, either. There was 
 one spell that I was dreadful down, and says I to myself, if 
 there 's comfort to be got out of that olu book, I 'm bound to 
 have ii So I began at the beginning about the creation, and 
 Adam and Eve, but I didn't seem to get much comfort 
 there. There was some good reading, but along over a 
 piece, there was a deal that I could see nothing to. Some of 
 the Psalms seemed to kind o' touch the spot, and the 
 Proverbs are first-rate. I tell you he knew something of 
 human nature, that wrote them." 
 
 " There *s one thing you might have learned, before you 
 got far over in Genesis," said Mrs. Nasmyth, gravely, " that 
 you are a condemned sinner. You should have settled that 
 matter with yourself, before you began to look for com- 
 fort" 
 
 "Yes, I knew that before, but I could n't seem to make it 
 go. Then I thought, maybe I did n't understand it right, so 
 I talked with folks and went to meeting, and did the best I 
 could, thinking surely what other folks had got^ and I 
 had n't, would come sometime. But it didn't. The talking 
 and the going to meeting, didn't help me. 
 
 " Now there 's Deacon Sterne, he 'd put it right to me. 
 He 'd say, says he, * Sampson, you 're a sinner, you know 
 you be. You 've got to give up, and bow that stiflf neck o* 
 your *n to the yoke.* Well, I 'd say, * I 'd be glad to, if I 
 only knew how to.* Then he *d say, * But you can't do it 
 yourself, no how. You 're clay in the hands of the potter, 
 and you '11 have to perish, if the Lord don't take right hold , 
 to save you.' Then says I, 'I wish to mercy He would.* 
 Then he 'd talk and talk, but it all came to about that. 'I 
 must, and I could n't,' and it did n't help me a mite. 
 
 " That was a spell ago, after Captain Jennings, folks, went 
 West I wanted to go awfully, but father he was getting 
 old, and mother she wouldn't hear a word of ii I was 
 awful discontented, and then, after a spell, worse came, and 
 
126 Janet's love and service. 
 
 1 tell you, I 'd ha given most anything, to have got religion, 
 just to have had something to hold on to." 
 
 Mr. Snow paused. There was no doubting his earnest- 
 ness now. Janet did not speak, and in a. lii;tle wliile he went 
 on again. 
 
 "I 'd give considerable, just to be sure there *s anything in 
 getting religion. Sometimes I seem to see that there is, and 
 then again I think, why don't it help folks more. Kow, 
 there 's Deacon Sterne, he 's one of the best of them. He 
 would n't swerve a hair, from what he beheved to be right, 
 not to save a limb. He is one of the real old Puritan 
 sort, not a mite Uke Fish and Slowcome. But he ain't one 
 of the meek and lowly, I can tell you. And he 's made some 
 awfiil mistakes in his life-time. He 's been awful hard and 
 strict in his family. His first children got along pretty well. 
 Most of them were girls, dnd their mother was a smart 
 woman, and stood between them and their father's hardness. 
 And besides, in those days when the country was new, folks 
 had to work hard, old and young, and that did considerable 
 towards keeping things straight. But his boys never thought 
 of their father, but to fear him. They both went, as soon as 
 ever they were of age. Silas came home afterwards, and 
 died. Joshua went West, and I don't believe his father has 
 heard a word from him, these fifteen years. The girls scat- 
 tered after their mother died, and then the deacon married 
 again, Abby Sheldon, a pretty girl, and a good one ; but she 
 never ought to have married him. She was not made of 
 tough enough stuff, to wear along side of him. She has 
 changed into a grave and silent woman, in his house. Her 
 children aU died when they were babies, except Wilham, the 
 eldest,— willful Will., they call him, and I don't know but he 'd 
 have better died too, for as sure as the deacon don't change his 
 course with him, he 11 drive him right straight to ruin, and 
 break his mother's heart to boot. Now, what I want to 
 know is — ^if religion is the powerful thing it is called, why 
 don't it keep folks that have it, from making such mistakes 
 in life?" 
 
Janet's love and service. 127 
 
 Janet did not have her answer at her tongue's end, and 
 Sampson did not give her time to consider. 
 
 " Now there 's Becky Pettimore, she 's got religion, but it 
 don't keep her from being as sour as vinegar, and as bitter 
 as gall — " 
 
 "Whist, man!" interrupted Janei "It ill becomes the 
 like o' you to speak that way of a poor lone woman Hke yon — 
 one who never knew what it was to have a home, but who 
 has been kept down with hard work and little sympathy, and 
 many another trial. She 's a worthy woman, and her deeds 
 prove it, for all her sourness. There's few women in the 
 town that I respect as I do her." 
 
 " Well, that 's so. I know it. I know she gets a dollar a 
 week the year round at Captain Liscome's, and earns it, too ; 
 and I know she gives half of it to her ftunt, who never did 
 much for her but spoil her temper. But it 's an awful pity 
 her rehgion don't make her pleasant." 
 
 "One mustna judge another," said Mrs. Nasmyth, gently. 
 
 " No, and I don't want to. Only I wish — ^but there 's no 
 good talking. Still I must say it 's a pity that folks who have 
 got rehgion don't take more comfort out of it. Now there 's 
 mother ; she 's a pillar in the church, and a good woman, I 
 believe, but she*s dreadful craiik sometimes, and worries 
 about things as she had n't ought to. Now it seems to me, 
 if I had aU they say a Christian has, and expects to have, I 'd 
 let the rest go. They don't half of them hve as if they took 
 more comfort than I do, and there are spells when I don't 
 take much." 
 
 Janet's eyes glistened with sympathy. There was some 
 surprise in them, too. Mr. Snow continued — 
 
 " Yes, I do get pretty sick of it all by spells. After father 
 died — and other things — ^I got over caring about going out 
 West, and I thought it as good to settle down on the old 
 place as any where. So I fixed up, and built, and got the 
 land into prime order, and made an orchard, a first-rate one, 
 and made beheve happy. And I don't know but I should 
 have staid so, only I heard that Joe Arnold had died out 
 
128 Janet's love and service. 
 
 West — ^he had married Bachel Jennings, you know ; so I got 
 kind of unsettled again, and went off at last. Bachel had 
 changed considerable. She had seen trouble, and had poor 
 health, and was kind o' run down, but I brought her right 
 home — ^her and Uttle Emily. Well — it didn't suit mother. 
 I hadn't said anything to her when I went oK I hadn't i 
 anything to say, not knowing how things might be with Ba- 
 chel. Come to get home, things did n't go smooth. Mother 
 worried, and Bachel worried, and life was n't what I expected 
 it was going to be, and I worried for a spell. And Mis' Nas- 
 myth, if there had been any such thing as getting rehgion, I 
 should have got it then, for I tried hard, and I wanted some- 
 thing to help me bad enough. There did n't seem to bo any- 
 thing else worth caring about any way. 
 
 " Well, that was a spell ago. Emily was n't but three years 
 old when I brought them home. We 've lived along, taking 
 some comfort, as much as folks in general, I reckon. I had 
 got kind of used to it, and had given up expecting much, and 
 took right hold to make property, and have a good time, and 
 here is your minister has come and stirred me up and made 
 me as discontented with myself and everything else as well." 
 
 "You should thank the Lord for that," interrupted Janet, 
 devoutly. 
 
 " Well, I don't know about that Sometimes when he has 
 been speaking, I seem to see that there is something better 
 than just to hve along and make property. But then again, 
 I don't see but it 's just what folks do who have got religion. 
 Most of the professors that I know — " 
 
 "Man I" exclaimed Janet, hotly, "I hae no patience with 
 you and your professors. What need you aye to cast them 
 up ? Canna you read your Bible ? It 's that, and the bless- 
 ing that was never yet withheld from any one that asked it 
 with humihty, that will put you in the way to find abiding 
 peace, and an abiding portion at the last." 
 
 "Just so. Mis' Nasmyth," said Mr. Snow, deprecatingly, 
 and there was a little of the old twinkle in his eye. " But it 
 does seem as though one might naturally expect a little help 
 
janet'b love and service. 129 
 
 from them that are spoken of as the lights of the world ; now 
 don't it r 
 
 " There *s no denying that, but if you must look about you, 
 you needna surely fix your eyes on such crooked sticks as 
 your Fishes and your Slowcomes. It *s no breach o' charity 
 to say that they dinna adorn the doctrine. But there are 
 other folk that I could name, that are both light and salt on 
 the earth." 
 
 "Well, yes," admitted Sampson; "since I've seen your 
 folks, I 've about got cured of one thing. I see now there is 
 something in religion with some folks. Your minister be- 
 lieves as he says, and has a good time, too. He 's a good 
 man." 
 
 " You may say that, and you would say it with more em- 
 phasis if you had seen him as I have seen him for the last 
 two twelve-months wading through deep waters." 
 
 "Yes, I expect he's just about what he ought to be. But 
 then, if religion only changes folks in one case, and fails in 
 ten—" 
 
 " Man ! it never fails !" exclaimed Janot, with kindling eye. 
 "It never failed yet, and never will fai. lile the heavens en- 
 dure. And lad ! take heed to yoursell That 's Satan's net 
 spread out to catch your unwary soul. It may serve your 
 torn now to jeer at professors, as you call them, and at their 
 misdeeds that are imhappily no' few ; but there 's a time 
 coming when it will fail you. It will do to tell the like of 
 me, but it winna do to tell the Lord in ' that day.' You have 
 a stumbling block in your own proud heart that hinders you 
 more than all the Fishes and Slowcomes o' them, and you 
 may be angry or no' as you like at me for telling you." 
 
 Sampson opened his eyes. 
 
 "But you don't seem to see the thing just as it is exactly. 
 I ain't jeering at professors or their misdeeds, I 'm grieving 
 for mysell If religion ain't changed them, how can I expect 
 that it will 3hange me ; and I need changing bad enough, as 
 you say * 
 
 *' If -t nasna changed them, they have none of it," said Mrs. 
 
180 JANET 8 LOVE AND SEBVIOE. 
 
 Nasmyth, earnestly. " A Christian, and no* a changed man I 
 Is he no* a sleeping man awakened, a dead man made alive — 
 bom again to a new life? Has he not the Spirit of God 
 abiding in him ? And no' changed ! No' that I wish to 
 judge any man," added she, more gently. " We dinna ken 
 other folk's temptations, or how small a spark of grace in 
 the heart wiU save a man. We have all reason to be thank- 
 ful that it 's the Lord and no* man that is to be our judge. 
 Maybe I have been over hard on those men." 
 
 Here was a wonder I Mrs. Nasmyth confessing herself to 
 have been hard upon the deacons. Sampson did not speak 
 his thoughts, however. He was more moved by his friend's 
 earnestness than he cared to show. 
 
 " Well, I expect there *s something in it, whether I ever 
 see it with my own eyes or not,*' said he, as he rose to go. 
 
 "Ay, is there,*' said Mrs. Nasmyth, heartily ; " and there 's 
 no fear but you 'U see it, when you ask in a right spirit that 
 your eyes may be opened." 
 
 " M^* Nasmyth," said Sampson, quietly and solemnly, "I 
 may be deceiving myself in this matter. I seem to get kind 
 o' bewildered at times over these things. But I do think I 
 am in earnest. Surely I 'U get help some time ?" 
 
 "Ay— that you vrill, as God is true. But oh man I go 
 straight to ^im. It's between you and Him, this matter. 
 But winna you bide still? I daresay the minister will soon 
 be at leisure now." 
 
 " I guess not. I had n't much particular to say to him- I 
 can just as well come again." And vrithout turning his face 
 toward her, he went away. 
 
 Janet looked after him till the turn of the road hid him 
 saying to herself, 
 
 " If the Lord would but take him in hand, just to show 
 what He could make of him. Something to His praise, I 
 hae no doubt — ^Yankee though he be. God forgive me for 
 saying ii I daresay I hae nae all the charity I might hae 
 for them, the upsettin' bodies." 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 EVEN in quiet country places, there are changes many 
 and varied wrought by the coming and going of seven 
 years, and Merleville has had its share of these since the 
 time the minister's children looked upon the pleasant place 
 with the wondering eyes of strangers. Standing on the 
 church-steps, one looks down on the same still hamlet, and 
 over the same hills and vaUeys and nestling farm-houses. 
 But the woods have receded in some places, and up from the 
 right comes the sound of clashing machinery, telling that 
 the Merle river is performing its mission at last, setting in 
 motion saws and hammers and spindles, but in so impretend- 
 ing a manner that no miniatiu'e city has sprung up on its 
 banks as yet ; and long may that day be distant. 
 
 The trees in the grave-yard cast a deeper shadow, and the 
 white gravo-stones seem to stand a Uttle closer than of old. 
 The tall, rank grass has many times been trodden by the 
 lingering feet of the funeral-train, and fresh sods laid down 
 above many a heart at rest forever. Voices beloved, and 
 voices Uttle heeded, have grown silent during these seven 
 years. Some have died and have been forgotten ; some have 
 left a blank behind them which twice seven years shall have 
 no power to fiU. 
 
 The people have changed somewhat, some for the better, 
 some for the worse. Judge Merle has grown older. His 
 hair could not be whiter than it was seven years ago, but he 
 is bent now, and never forgets his staff as he takes his daily 
 walk down the village street ; but on his kindly face rests a 
 look of peace, deeper and more abiding than there used to 
 be. His kind and gentle wife is kind and gentle still. She^ 
 
 (X31) 
 
132 • j^inet's love and sebvice. 
 
 too, grows old, with a brightening face, as though each pass- 
 ing day were bringing her nearer to her hope's fulfillment. 
 
 If Deacon Sterne is growing older ; his outward man gives 
 no token thereof. His hair has been iron-grey, at least since 
 anybody in Merleville can remember, and it is iron-grey stilL 
 He looks as if seven times seven years could have no power 
 to make his tall form less erect, or to soften the lines on his 
 dark, grave face. And yet I am not sure. They say his face 
 is changing, and that sometimes in the old meeting-house on 
 Sabbath afternoons there has come a look over it as though 
 a bright light fell on it from above. It comes at other times, 
 too. His patient wife, pretending to look another way as he 
 bonds over the cradle of his willful WiUiam's httle son, yet 
 turns stealthily to watch for the coming of the tender smile 
 she has so seldom seen on her husband's face since the row 
 of little graves was made in the church-yard long ago. By 
 the deacon's fireside sits a pale, gentle woman. Will's bride 
 that was. Will's sorrowing widow now. But though the 
 grave has closed over him, whom his stem father loved better 
 than all the world beside, there was hope in his death, and 
 the mourner is not uncomforted ; and for the deacon there 
 are happier days in store than time has brought him yei 
 
 Deacon Slowcome has gone West, b"i , " yearning for the 
 privileges he left behind," or not bucce^sful in his gains- 
 getting, is about to return. Deacon Fish hc€ gone West and 
 has prospered. Content in his heart to put the wonderful 
 wheat crops in place of school and meeting, he yet deplores 
 aloud, and in doleful terms enough, the want of these, and 
 never ends a letter to a Merleville crony without an earnest 
 adjuration to " come over and help us." But, on the whole, 
 it is beUeved that, in his heart, Deacon Fish will not repine 
 while the grain grows and the markets proi^r. 
 
 Mr. Page is growing rich, they say, which is a change in- 
 deed. His nephew, Timothy, having invented a wonderful 
 mowing or reaping-machine, Mr. Page has taken out a patent 
 for the same, and is gro mng rich. Mrs. Page enjoys it well, 
 and goes often to Kixford, where she has her gowns and 
 
jaket's love and bebvioe. 133 
 
 bonnets made now ; and patronizes young Mrs. Merle and 
 young Mra Greenleaf, and does her duty generally very much 
 to her own satisfaction, never hearing the whispered doubts 
 of her old friends — ^which are audible enough, too — whether 
 she is as consistent as she ought to be, and whether, on the 
 whole, her new prosperity is promoting her growth in grace. 
 
 Becky Fettimore has got a home of her own, and feels as 
 if she knows how to enjoy ii And so she does, if to enjoy 
 it means to pick her own geese, and spin her own wool, and 
 set her face like a flint against the admission of a speck of 
 dirt within her own four walls. But it is whispered among 
 some people, wise in these matters, that there is something 
 going to happen in Becky's home, which may, sometime or 
 other, mar its perfect neatness, without, however, marring 
 Becky's enjoyment of ii It may be so, for hidden away in 
 the comer of one of her many presses, is a little pillow of 
 down, upon which no mortal head has ever rested, and which 
 no eyes but Becky's own have ever seen ; and they fill with 
 wonder and tenderness whenever they fall upon it ; and so 
 there is a chance that she may yet have more of home's 
 enjoyments than geese or wool or dustless rooms can give. 
 
 Behind the elms, where the old brown house stood, stands 
 now a snow-white cottage, with a vine-covered porch before 
 ii It is neat vdthout and neat within, though often there 
 are children's toys and Httle shoes upon the floor. At this 
 moment there is on the floor a row of chairs overturned, to 
 make, not horses and carriages as they used to do in my 
 young days, but a train of cars, and on one of them sits 
 Arthur ElHott Greenleaf representing at once engine, whistle, 
 conductor and freighi And no bad representative either, 
 as far as noise is concerned, and a wonderful baby that must 
 be who sleeps in the cradle through it alL Beside the win- 
 dow, unruffled amid the uproar, sits Celestia with her needle 
 in her hand — a little paler, a Uttle thinner than she used to 
 be, and a little care-worn withaL For Celestia is " ambitious," 
 in good housewife phrase, and there are many in Merlevillo 
 and beyond it who like to visit at her well-ordered home. 
 
134 JAIilET's LOVE AND SERVICE. 
 
 The squire's newspaper nestles as peacefully amid the din 
 as it used to do in the solitude of his httle office seven years 
 ago. He is thinner, too, and older, and more care-worn, and 
 there is a look in his face suggestive of " appeals " and knotty 
 points of law ; and by the wrinkles on his brow and at the 
 comers of his eyes, one might fancy he is looking out for the 
 Capitol and the White House in the distance still. " He is 
 growing old while he is young," as Mrs. Nasmyth says, 
 "Yankees have a nack of doing — standing still at middle 
 age and never changing more." But despite the wrinkles, 
 the squiro's face is a pleasant one to see, and he has a way 
 of turning back a paragraph or two to read the choice bits 
 to Celestia, which proves that he is not altogether absorbed 
 in law or poKtics, but that he enjoys all he has, and all he 
 hopes to be, the more that he has Celestia to enjoy it with 
 him. 
 
 As for her, seven years have failed to convince her that 
 Mr. Greenleaf is not the gentlest^ wisest, best in all the 
 world And as her opinion has survived an attack of dys- 
 pepsia, which for months held the squire in a giant's gripe, 
 and the horrors of a contested election, in which the squire 
 was beaten, it is to be supposed it will last through life. At 
 this very moment her heart fills to the brim with love and 
 wonder as he draws his chair a Httle nearer and says : 
 
 " See, here, Celestia. Listen to what Daniel Webster says," 
 and then goes on to read. 
 
 " Now, what do you think of that ?" he asks, with spark- 
 ling eyes. Her's are sparkling too, and she thinks just as he 
 does, you may be sure, whatever that may bo. Not that she 
 has a very clear idea of what has been read, as how could 
 she amid rushing engines and railroad whistles, and the 
 energetic announcement of the conductor that "the cars 
 have got to Boston." 
 
 " See here, EUiott, my son. Ain't you tired riding?" asks 
 papa, gently. ' 
 
 " Ain't you afraid you 11 wake sister ? " says mamma. " 1 
 would n't make quite so much noise, dear." 
 
jaiiet's love and service. 135 
 
 " Why, mother, I 'm the cars," says Elliott. 
 
 "But hadn't you better go out into the yai'd? Carlo! 
 Where's Carlo? I haven't seen Carlo for a long time. 
 Where's Carlo?" 
 
 It is evident Solomon is not in the confidence of these good 
 people. Moral suasion is the order of the day. They often 
 talk very wisely to each other, about the training of their chil- 
 dren, and gravely discuss the prescriptions given long ago, for 
 the curing of evils which come into the world with us alL They 
 would fain persuade themselves that there is not so much 
 need for them in the present enlightened age. They do not 
 quite succeed, however, and fully intend to commence the 
 training process soon. Celestia, especially, has some misgiv- 
 ings, as she looks into the face of her bold, beautiful boy, 
 but she shrinks from the thought of severe measures, and 
 hopes that it will all come out right with him, without the 
 wise king's medicine ; and if mother's love and unfailing 
 patience will bring things out right, there need be no fear for 
 little Elliott. 
 
 It is a happy h me, the Greenleaf's. There are ease and 
 comfort without luxury ; there is necessity for exertion, with- 
 out fear of want. There are many good and pretty things in 
 the house, for use and ornament. There are pictures, books 
 and magazines ru plenty, and everything within and without, 
 goes to prove the truth of Mr. Snow's declaration, that " the 
 Greenleafs lake their comfort as they go along.'* 
 
 But no change has come to anyone in Merleville, so great 
 as the change that has come to Mr. Snow himself. Death 
 has been in his dwelling once — ^twice. His wife and his 
 mother have both found rest, the one from her weary wait* 
 ing, the other from her cares. The house to which Sampson 
 returns with lagging footsteps, is more silent than ever now. 
 
 But a change greater than death can make, had come to 
 Sampson first, preparing him for all changes. It came to 
 him as the sight of rushing water comes to the traveller who 
 has been long mocked with the sound of it. It came, clean '«- 
 ing from his heart and from his life the dust and dimness 
 
136 Janet's love and seevioe. 
 
 of the world's petty cares, and vain pursuits. It found him 
 weary of gains-getting, weary of toiling and moiling amid the 
 dross of earth for that which could not satisfy, and it gave 
 him for his own, the pearl which is above all'price. Weary 
 of tossing to and fro, it gave him a sure resting-place, "a 
 refuge whereunto he may continually resort," a peace that is 
 abiding. With its coming the darkness passed away, and 
 light to cheer and guide was his for evermore. Behind the 
 closed blinds of his deserted house, he was not alone. The 
 promise, made good to so many in all ages, was made good 
 to him. 
 
 " He that loveth Me shall be loved of My Father, and We 
 will come and make our abode with him.** 
 
 That wonderful change has come to him, which the world 
 would fain deny — the change which so many profess to have 
 experienced, but which so few manifest in their Uves. He 
 has learned of the "meek and lowly.'' He is a Christian at 
 last He has "e^exienoed religion," the neighbors say, 
 looking on with varied feelings to see what the end may 
 be. 
 
 Sampson Snow never did anything like anybody else, it 
 was said. He "stood it" through "a season of interest," 
 when Deacons Fish and Slowcome had thought it best to call 
 in the aid of the neighboring ministers, to hold ** a series of 
 meetings." Good, prudent men these ministers were, and 
 not much harm was done, and some good. Some were 
 gathered into the Church from the world ; some falling back 
 were restored; some weak ones were strengthened; some 
 sorroveing ones comforted. And through all, the interested 
 attention of Mr. Snow never flawed. He attended all the 
 meetings, listened patientiy to the warnings of Deacon Fish, 
 and the entreaties of Deacon Slowcome. He heard him- 
 self told by Mr. Page that he was on dangerous ground, 
 "within a few rods of the line of demarcation." He was 
 formally given up as a hopeless case, and "left to himself" 
 by all the tender-hearted old ladies in MerleviUe, and never 
 left the stand of a spectator through it all. Then when 
 
Janet's love and bervioe. 137 
 
 Deacons Fish and Slowcome, and all Merleville with them, 
 settled down into the old gloom again, his visits to the minis- 
 ter became more frequent^ and more satisfactory, it seemed, 
 for in a Httle time, to the surprise of all, it was announced in 
 due form, that Sampson Snow desired to be admitted into 
 fellowship with the Church of Merleville. 
 
 After that time his foes watched for his halting in vain. 
 Different from other folks before, he was different from them 
 stilL He did not seem to think his duty for the week was 
 done, when be had gone twice to meeting on the day time, 
 and had spc^en at conference on the Sunday evening. In- 
 deed, it must be confessed, that he was rather remiss with re- 
 gard to the latter duty. He did not seem to have the gift of 
 speech on those occasions. He did not seem to have the 
 power of advising or warning, or even of comforting, his 
 neighbors. His gift lay in helping them. 
 
 " Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these, 
 My brethren, ye have done it unto Me," were words that 
 Sampson seemed to beUeve. 
 
 " He does folks a ^ood turn, as though he would a little 
 rather do it than not," said the widow Lovejoy, and no one 
 had a better r^t to know. 
 
 As for the poor, weak, nervous Kachel, who could only 
 show her love for her husband, by casting all the burden of 
 her troubles, real and imaginary, upon him, she could hardly 
 love and trust him more thaji she had always done, but he 
 had a greater power of comforting her now, and soon the 
 peace that reigned in his heart influenced her's a little, and 
 as the years went on, she grew content, at last, to bear the 
 burdens God had laid upon her, and being made content to 
 live and suffer on, God took her burden from her and laid 
 her to rest, where never burden presses more. 
 
 If his mother had ever really believed that no part of her 
 son's happiness was made by his peevish, sickly wife, she 
 must have acknowledged her mistake when poor Bachel was 
 borne away forever. She must have known it by the long 
 hours spent in her silent room, by the lingering step with 
 
138 JANET*S LOVE AND SERVICE. 
 
 which he left it, by tha tenderness lavished on every trifle she 
 had ever cared for. 
 
 " Sampson seemed kindo' lost," she said; and her motherly 
 heart, with all its worldliness, had a spot in it which ached 
 for her son in his desolation. She did not even begrudge his 
 tumino' to Emily with a tender love. She found it in her 
 heart to rejoice that the girl had power to comfort him as she 
 could noi And httle Emily, growing every day more hke the 
 pretiy Eachel who had taken captive poor Sampson's youthful 
 fancy, did what earnest love could do to comfort him. 
 
 But no selfishness mingled with her stepfather's love for 
 Emily. It cost In'm much to decide to send her from him for 
 a whOe, but he did decide to do so. For he could not but see 
 that Emily's happiness was little cared for by his mother, even 
 yei She could not now, as in the old time, take refuge in 
 her mother's room. She was helpful about the house too, 
 and could not often be spared to her friends up the hill, or in 
 the village; for old Mrs. Snow, much as she hated to own it, 
 could no longer do all things with her own hands, as she 
 used to do. To be sure, she could have had help any day, or 
 every day in the year; but it was one of the old lady's 
 " notions" not to be able " to endure folks around her." And, 
 besides, " what was the use of Emily Arnold ? " And so, 
 what with one thing and another, little Emily's cheek began 
 to grow pale; and the willful gaze with which she used to 
 watch her father's homeKK)ming, came back to her eyes 
 again. 
 
 " There is no kind o' use for Emily*s being kept at work," 
 said her father. " She ain't strong ; and there 's Hannah 
 Lovejoy would be glad to come and help, and I 'd be glad 
 to pay her for it Emily may have a good time as well as 
 not." 
 
 But his mother was not to be moved. 
 
 " Girls used to have a good time and work too, when I was 
 young. Emily Arnold is strong enough, if folks would let her 
 alone, and not put notions in her head. And as for Hannah, 
 in have none of her." 
 
Janet's love and servioe. 139 
 
 So Mr. Snow saw that if Emily was to have a good time it 
 must be elsewhere; and he made up his mind to the very 
 best thing he could have done for her. He fitted her out, and 
 sent her to Mt. Holyoke seminary; that school of schools for 
 earnest, ambitious New England girls. And a good time she 
 had there, enjoying all that was pleasant, and never heeding 
 the rest. There were the first inevitable pangs of homesick- 
 ness, making her father doubt whether he had done best for 
 his darhng after all But, in a little, her letters were merry 
 and healthful enough. One would never have found out 
 from them anything of the hardships of long stairs and the 
 fourth story, or of extra work on recreation day. Pleasantly 
 and profitably her days passed, and before she returned home 
 at the close of the year, Mrs. Snow had gone, where the 
 household work is done without weariness. Her father 
 would fain have kept her at home then, but he made no 
 objections to her return to school as she wished, and he was 
 left to the silent ministrations of Hannah Lovejoy in the 
 deserted home again. 
 
 By the unanimous voice of his brethren in the church, he 
 was, on the departure of Deacons Fish and Slowcome, elected 
 to fin the place of one of them, and in his own way he mag- 
 nified the office. He was " lonesome, awful lonesome," at 
 home; but cheerfulness eame back to him again, and there is 
 no one more gladly welcomed at the imnister's house, and at 
 many another house, than he. 
 
 There have been changes in the niinister's household, too. 
 When his course in college was over, Arthur came out to the 
 rest. He lingered one delightful summer in Merleville, and 
 then betook himself to Canada, to study his profession of the 
 law. For Arthur, wise as the Merleville people came to think 
 him, was guilty of one great folly in their eye. He could 
 never, he said, be content to lose his nationality and become 
 a Yankee; so, for the sake of Hving in the Queen's dominions 
 he went to Canada; a place, in their estimation, only one 
 degree more desirable as a place of residence than Greenland 
 or Eamtschatka. 
 
140 Janet's love and sebyioe. 
 
 That was five years ago. Arthur has had something of a 
 straggle since then. By sometimes teaching dull boys Laiinj 
 sometimes acting as sub-editor for a daily paper, and at all 
 times living -with great economy, he has got through his 
 studies without running much in debt; and has entered his 
 profession with a faai prospect of success. He has visited 
 MerleviUe once since he went away, and his weekly letter is 
 one of the greatest pleasures that his father and sisters have 
 to enjoy. 
 
 Norman and Harry have both left hom^ too. Mr. Snow did 
 his best to make a farmer first of the one and then of the other, 
 but he failed. To college they went in spite of poverty, and 
 having passed through honorably, they went out into the 
 world to shift for themselves. Norman writes hopefully from 
 the far West. He is an engineer, and will be a rich man one 
 day he confidently asserts, and his friends beUeve him with 
 a difference. 
 
 "He will make money enough,'' Janet says, "but as to his 
 keeping it, that 's another matter." 
 
 Harry went to Canada with the intention of following Ar^ 
 thur's example and devoting himself to the law, but changed 
 his mind, and is now in the merchant's counting-room; and 
 sends home presents of wonderful shawls and gowns to Janet 
 and his sisters, intending to impress them with the idea that 
 he is very rich indeed. 
 
 Those left at home, are content now to be without the 
 absent ones; knowing that they are doing well their shai'e in 
 the world's work, and certain that whatever comes to them in 
 their wanderings, whether prosperity to elate, or adversity to 
 depress them, their first and fondest thought is, and ever 
 will be, of the loving and beloved ones at home. 
 
^ 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE Indian summer time was come again. The gorgeons 
 glory of the autumn was gone, but so, for one day, at 
 least, was its dreariness. There was no " wailing wind " com- 
 plaining among the bare boughs of the elms. The very 
 pines were silent. The yellow leaves, still lingering on the 
 beech-trees in the hoUow, rustled, now and then, as the brown 
 nuts fell, one by one, on the brown leaves beneath. The 
 frosts, sharp and frequent, had changed the torrent of a 
 month ago into a gentle rivulet^ whose murmur could scarce 
 be heard as far as the gate over which Graeme Elliott leaned, 
 gazing dreamily upon the scene before her. 
 
 She was thinking how very lovely it was, and how very 
 dear it had become to her. Seen through " the smol^ light,'* 
 the purple hills beyond the water seemed not so far away 
 as usual The glistening spire of the church on the hill, and 
 tlie gleaming grave-stones, seemed strangely near. It looked 
 but a step over to the village, whose white houses were quite 
 visible among the leafless trees, and many farm-houses, which 
 one could never see in summer for the green leaves, were 
 peeping out everywhere from between the hills. 
 
 " There is no place like Merleville," Graeme thinks in her 
 heart It is home to them all now. There were few but 
 pleasant associations comiected with the hills, and groves, 
 and homesteads over which she was gazing. It came very 
 vividly to her mind, as she stood there looking down, how 
 she had stood with the bairiis that first Sabbath morning 
 on the steps of tluD old meeting-house ; and she strove to 
 recall her feeling of shyness and wonder at all that she saw, 
 and smiled to think how the faces turned to them so 
 
 (141 J 
 
142 Janet's love and sebyioe. 
 
 curioufily that day were become familiar now, and some of 
 them very dear. Yes ; Merleville was home to Graeme. Not 
 that she had forgotten the old home beyond the sea. But 
 the thought of it came with no painful longing. Even the 
 memory of her mother brought now regret, indeed, and sor- 
 row, but none of the loneliness and misery of the first days 
 of loss, for the last few years had been very happy years to 
 them alL 
 
 And yet, as Graeme stood gazing over to the hills and the 
 village, a troubled, vexed look came over her face, and, with 
 a gesture of impatience, she turned away from it all and 
 walked up and down among the withered leaves outside the 
 gate with an impatient tread. Something troubled her with 
 an angry trouble that she could not forget ; and though she 
 laughed a little, too, as she muttered to herself, it was not a 
 pleasant laugh, and the vexed look soon came back again, in- 
 deed, it never went away. 
 
 " It is quite absurd," she murmured, as she camo within 
 the gate, and then turned and leaned over it. " I won't be* 
 lieve it ; and yet — oh, dear 1 what shall we ever do if it 
 happens ? " 
 
 " It 's kind o' pleasant here, ain't it ? " said a voice behind 
 her. Graeme started more violently than there was any 
 occasion for. It was only Mr. Snow who had been in the 
 study with her father for the last hour, and who was now on 
 his way home. Graeme scarcely answered him, but stood 
 watching him, with the troubled look deepening on her face, 
 as he went slowly down the road. 
 
 Mr. Snow had changed a good deal within these few years. 
 He had grown a great deal greyer and graver, and Graeme 
 thought, with a Httle pang of remorse, as she saw l^im dis- 
 appear round the turn of the road, that she had, by her cold- 
 ness, made him all the graver. And yet she only half re* 
 gretted it ; and the vexed look came back to her face again, 
 as she gathered up her work that had faJlen to the ground 
 and turned toward the house. 
 
 There was no one in the usual sitting-room, no one in the 
 
Janet's love and bebyiob. 14:3 
 
 bright kitchen ,beyond, and, going to the foot of the stairs, 
 Graeme raises her voice, which has an echo of impatience in 
 it still, and calls 
 
 « Mrs. Nasmyth.'* 
 
 For Janet is oftener called Mrs. Nasmyth than the old 
 name, even by the bairns now, except at such times as some 
 wonderfal piece of coaxing is to be done, and then she is 
 Janet, the bairn's own Janet still. There was no coaxing 
 echo in Graeme's voice, however, but she tried to chase the 
 vexed shadow from her face as her friend came slowly down 
 the stairs. 
 
 "Are you not going to sit down ? " asked Graeme, as she 
 seated herself on a low stool by the window. "I wonder 
 where the bairns are ? " 
 
 " The bairns arc gone dovm the brae," said Mrs. Nasmyth ; 
 " and I 'm just going to sit down to my seam a wee while." 
 
 But she seemed in no hurry to sit down, and Graeme sat 
 silent for a httle, as she moved quietly about the room. 
 
 " Janet," said she, at last, " what brings Deacon Snow so 
 often up here of late ? " 
 
 Janet's back was toward Graeme, and, vrithout turning 
 round, she answered : 
 
 " I dinna ken that he 's oftener here than he used to be. 
 He never staid long away. He was ben the house vrith the 
 minister. I didna see him." There was another pause. 
 
 " Janet," said Graeme again, " what do you think Mrs. 
 Greenleaf told me aU Merleville is saying?" 
 
 Janet expressed no curiosity. 
 
 "TVey say Deacon Snow wants to take you dovm the 
 brae." 
 
 Still Mrs. Nasmyth made no answer. 
 
 "He hasna v.'^ntured to hint such a thing?" exdaimeil 
 Graeme interrogatively. 
 
 " No' to me," said Janet, quietly, " but the minister." 
 
 " The minister I He 's no' blate ! To think of him holding 
 up his face to my father and proposing the like of that I And 
 what did my father say ?" 
 
144 Janet's love and beevioe. 
 
 " I dinna ken what he said to him ; but to me he said he 
 was well pleased that it should be so, and " 
 
 " Janet !" Graeme's voice expressed consternation as well 
 as indignation. Mrs. Nasmyth took no notice, but seated 
 herself to her stocking-darning. 
 
 " Janet ! If you think of such a thing for a moment, I 
 declare 1 11 take second thoughts and go away myself." 
 
 " Weel, I aye thought you might have done as weel to con- 
 sider a wee 'afore you gave Mr. Foster his answer," said 
 Janet, not heeding Graeme's impatient answer. 
 
 " Janet ! A sticket minister !" 
 
 " My dear, he 's no' a sticket minister. He passed his ex- 
 aminations with great credit to himself. You hae your 
 father's word for that, who was there to hear him. And he *s 
 fg grand scholar — ^that 's weel kent ; and though he mayna 
 hae the gift o' tongues like some folk, he may do a great deal 
 of good in the world notwithstanding. And they say he has 
 gotten the charge of a fine school now, and is weel o£ I 
 aye thought you might do worse than go with him. He 's a 
 good lad, and you would have had a comfortable home with 
 him." 
 
 " Thank you. But when I marry it won't be to get a com- 
 fortable home. I 'm content with the home I have." 
 
 "Ay, if you could be siure of keeping it," said Janet, with 
 a sigh ; " but a good man and a good home does not come 
 as an offer ilka day." 
 
 " The deacon needna be feared to leave his case in your 
 hands, it seems," said Graeme, laughing, but not pleasantly. 
 
 "Miss Graeme, my dear," said Mrs. Nasmyth, gravely, 
 " there 's many a thing to be said of that matter ; but it 
 must be said in a different spirit from what you are manifest- 
 ing just now. If I 'm worth the keeping here, I 'm worth 
 the seeking elsewhere, and Deacon Snow has as good a right 
 as another." 
 
 "Bight, indeed I Nobody has any right to you but our- 
 selves. You are our's, and we 11 never, never let you go." 
 
 "It's no' far down the brae," said Janet, gently. 
 
Janet's love and service. 145 
 
 " Janet 1 TouTl never think of going I Surely, suiely, 
 you 11 never leave us now. And for a stranger, too ! When 
 you gave up your own mother and Sandy, and the land you 
 loved so well, to come here with us I — " Graeme could not 
 go on for the tears that would not be kept back. 
 
 " Miss Graeme, my dear bairn, you were needing me then. 
 Nae, hae patience, and let me speak. You are not needing 
 me now in the same way. I sometimes think it would be far 
 better for you if I wasna here." 
 
 Graeme dissented earnestly by look and gesture, but she 
 had no words. 
 
 "It's true though, my dear. You can hardly say that 
 you are at the head of your father's house, while I manage all 
 things, as I do." 
 
 But Graeme had no desire to have it otherwise. 
 
 " You can manage far best," said she. 
 
 " That 's no to be denied," said Mrs. Nasmyth, gravely ; 
 "but it ought not to be so. Miss Graeme, you are no' to 
 think that I am taking upon myself to reprove you. But 
 do you think that your present life is the best to fit you for 
 the duties and responsibilities that, sooner or later, come to 
 the most of folk in the world? It's a pleasant life, I ken, 
 with your books and your music, and your fine seam, and 
 the teaching o' the bairns ; but it canna la>st ; and, my dear, 
 is it making you ready for what may follow ? It wouldna be 
 so easy for you if I were away, but it might be far better for 
 you in the end." 
 
 There was nothing Graeme could answer to this, so she 
 leaned her head upon her hand, and looked out on the 
 brown leaves lying beneath the ehns. 
 
 " And if I should go," continued Janet, "and there 's many 
 an if between me and going — but if I should go, 111 be 
 near at hand in time of need " 
 
 "I know I am very useless," broke in Graeme. "I don't 
 
 care for these things as I ought — I have left you with too 
 
 many cares, and I don't wonder that you want to go away." 
 
 " Whist, lassie. I never yet had too much to do for your 
 y 
 
146 Janet's love and sebviob. 
 
 mother's bairns ; and if you have done little it's because 
 you havena needed. And if I could aye stand between you 
 and the burdens of life, you needna fear trouble. But I 
 canna. Miss Graeme, my dear, you were a living child in 
 your mother's arms before she was far past your age, and 
 your brother was before you. Think of the cares she had, 
 and how she met them." 
 
 Graeme's head fell lower, as she repeated her tearful cour 
 fession of uselessness, and for a time there was silence. 
 
 "And, dear," said Janet, in a little^ "your father tells 
 me that Mr. Snow has offered to send for my mother and 
 Sandy. And oh I my bairn, my heart leaps in my bosom 
 at the thought of seeing their faces again." She had no 
 power to add more. 
 
 "But, Janet, your mother thought herself too old to 
 cross the sea when we came, and that is seven years ago." 
 
 "My dear, she kenned she couldna come, and it was as 
 wen to put that &ce on it. But she would gladly come 
 now, if I had a home to give her." 
 
 There was silence for a while, and then Graeme said, 
 
 "It's selfish in me, I know, but, oh! Janet, we have been 
 so happy lately, and I canna bear to think of changes com- 
 mg. 
 
 Mrs. Nasmyth made no answer, for the sound of the bairns' 
 voices came in at the open door, and in a minute Marian 
 entered. 
 
 "Where have you been, dear? I fear you have wearied 
 yourself" said Janet, tenderly. 
 
 " We have only been down at Mr. Snow's bam watching 
 the threshing. But, indeed, I have wearied myself." And 
 sitting down on the floor at Janet's feet, she laid her head 
 upon her lap. A kind, hard hand was laid on the bright 
 hair of " the bonniest of a' the bairns." 
 
 " You mustna sit down here, my dear. Lie down on the 
 sofa and rest yourself till the tea be ready. Have you taken 
 your bottle to-day ? " 
 
 Marian made her face the very picture of disgust. 
 
 :-M 
 
JANET'S LOVE AND SERVIOB. 147 
 
 " Oh I Janet, I *m better now. I dinna need ii Give it 
 to Graeme. She looks as if she needed something to do her 
 good. What ails you, Graeme ? " 
 
 "My dear," remonstrated Janet, "rise up when I bid you, 
 and go to the sofa, and I '11 go up the stair for the bottle." 
 
 Marian laid herself wearily down. In a moment Mrs. 
 Nasmyth reappeared with a bottle and spoon in one hand, 
 and a pillow in the other, and when the bitter draught was 
 fairly swallowed, Marian was laid down and covered and 
 caressed with a tenderness that struck Graeme as strange ; 
 for though Janet loved them all well, she was not in the 
 habit of showing her tenderness by caresses. In a little, 
 Marian slept. Janet did not resume her work immediately, 
 but sat gazing at her with eyes as full of wistful tenderness 
 as ever a motiier's could have been. At length, with a sigh, 
 she turned to her basket again. 
 
 " Miss Graeme," said she, in a little, " I dinna like to hear 
 you speak that way about changes, as though they did not 
 come from God, and as though He hadna a right to send 
 them to His people when He pleases." 
 
 " I canna help it, Janet No change that can come to us 
 can be for the better." 
 
 " That 's true, but we must even expect changes that are 
 for the worse ; for just as sure as we settle down in this 
 world content, changes wiU come. You mind what the Word 
 says, * As an eagle stirreth up her nest.' And you may be 
 sure, if we are among the Lord's children. He 11 no leave us 
 to make a portion of the rest and peace that the world gives. 
 He is kinder to us than we would be to ourselves." 
 
 A restless movement of the sleeper by her side, arrested 
 Janet's words, and the old look of wistful tenderness 
 came back into her eyes as she turned toward her. Graeme 
 rose, and learning over the arm of the sofa, kissed her softly. 
 
 " How lovely she is 1 " whispered she. 
 
 A crimson flush wbS rising on Marian's cheeks as she slept. 
 
 " Ay, she was aye bonny," said Janet^ in the same low 
 voice " and she looks like an angel now." 
 
148 janet's love and sebvioe. 
 
 Graeme stood gazing at her sister, and in a little Janet 
 spoke again. 
 
 " Miss Graeme, you oanna mind your auni Marian ? " 
 
 No, Graeme could not 
 
 "Menie is growing very like her, I think. She was 
 bonnier than your mother even, and she kept her beauty to 
 the very last. You ken the family werena well pleased when 
 your mother married, and the sisters didna :3ieet often till 
 Miss Marian grew HI. They would fain have had her away 
 to Italy, or some far awa' place, but nothing would content 
 her but just her sister, her sister, and so she came home to 
 the manse. That was just after I came back again, after 
 Sandy was weaned; and kind she was to me, the bonny, 
 gentle creature that she was. 
 
 " For a time she seemed better, and looked so blooming — 
 except whiles, and aye so bonny, that not one of them all 
 could beheve that she was going to die. But one day she 
 came in from the garden, with a bonny moss-rose in her 
 hand — the first of the season — ^and she said to your mother 
 she was wearied, and lay down ; and in a wee while, when 
 your mother spoke to her again, she had just strength to 
 say that she was going, and that she wasna feared, and that 
 was alL She never spoke again." 
 
 Janet paused to wipe the tears from her face. 
 
 "She was good and bonny, and our Menie, the dear lam* 
 mie, has been growing very hke her this while. She 'minds 
 me on her now, with the long lashes lying over her cheeks. 
 Miss Marian's cheeks aye reddened that way when she slept 
 Her hair wasna so dark as our Menie's, but it curled of itself, 
 like hers." 
 
 Mrs. Nasmyth turned grave pitying eyes toward Graeme, 
 as she ceased speaking. Graeme's heart gave a sudden pain- 
 fill throb, and she went very pale. 
 
 "Janet," said she, with difficulty, " there is not much the 
 matter with my sister, is there ? It wasna that you meant 
 about changes I Menie 's not going to die like our bonny 
 
Janet's love and bebyice. 149 
 
 Aunt Mariati I" Her tones grew shrill and incredulous as 
 she went on. 
 
 "I cannot tell. I dinna ken — sometimes I'm feared to 
 think how it may end. But oh 1 Miss Graeme — ^my darling — ** 
 
 " But it is quite impossible — ^it can't be, Janet," broke in 
 
 Graeme. 
 
 "God knows, dear.'* Janet said no more. The look on 
 Graeme's face showed that words would not help her to com- 
 prehend the trouble that seemed to be drawing near. She 
 must be left to herself a while, and Janet watched her as she 
 went out over the fallen leaves, and over the bridge to the 
 pine grove beyond, with a longing pity that fain would have 
 borne her trouble for her. But she could not bear it for her 
 — she could not even help her to bear it. She could only 
 pray that whatever the end of their doubt for Marian might 
 be, the elder sister might be made the better and the wiser 
 for the fear that had come to her to-day. 
 
 There are some sorrows which the heart refuses to realize 
 or acknowledge, even in knowing them to be drawing near. 
 Possible danger or death to one beloved is one of these ; and 
 as Graeme sat in the shadow of the pines shuddering with 
 the pain and terror which Janet's words had stirred, she was 
 saying it was impossible — ^it could not be true — ^it could never, 
 never be true, that her sister was going to die. She tried to 
 realize the possibility, but she could not. When she tried 
 to pray that the terrible dread might be averted, and that 
 they might all be taught to be submissive in God's hands, 
 » whatever His will might be, the words would not come to 
 her. It was, " No, no 1 no, no I it cannot be," that went up 
 through the stillness of the pines ; the cry of a heart not so 
 much rebellious as iacredulous of the possibility of pain so 
 terrible. The darkness fell before she rose to go home again, 
 and when she came into the firelight to the sound of happy 
 voices, Menie's the most mirthful of them all, her terrors 
 seemed utterly unreasonable, iihe felt like one waking from a 
 painful dream. 
 
150 jaitbt's love and sebvioe. 
 
 "What could have made Janet frighten herself and me 
 so ?" she said, as she spread out her cold hands to the blaze, 
 all the time watching her sister's bright face. 
 
 " Graeme, tea *s over. Where have you been all this time 7' 
 asked Bose. 
 
 " My father was asking where you were. He wants to see 
 you," said WilL 
 
 " 1 11 go ben now," said Graeme, rising . 
 
 The study lamp was on the table unlighted. The minister 
 was sitting in the firelight alone. He did jiot move when the 
 door opened, until Graeme spoke. 
 
 " I *m here, papa. Did you want me ?" 
 
 " Graeme, come in and sit down. I have something to 
 say to you." 
 
 She sat down, but the minister did not seem in haste to 
 speak. He was looking troubled and anxious, Graeme 
 thought ; and it suddenly came into her mind as she sat 
 watching him, that her father was growing an old man. In- 
 deed, the last seven years hud not passed so lightly over him 
 as over the others. The hair which had been grey on his 
 temples before he reached his prime, was silvery white now, 
 and he looked bowed and weary as he sat there gazing into 
 the fire. It came into Graeme's mind as she sat there in the 
 quiet room, that there might be other and sadder changes 
 before them, than even the change that Janet's words had 
 impHed. 
 
 "My dear," said the minister, at last^ "has Mrs. Nasmyth 
 been speaking to you?" 
 
 " About — " Menie, she would have asked, but her tongue 
 refosed to utter the word. 
 
 " About Mr. Snow," said her father, with a smile, and some 
 hesitation. Graeme started. She had quite forgotten. 
 
 "WcB. Greenleal told me something — and — '* 
 
 "I believe it is a case of true love with him, if such a thing 
 can come to a man after he is fifty — as indeed why should it 
 not?" said the minister. " He seems bent on taking Janet 
 from us, Graeme." 
 
JANEI'S LOTS AND 8EBVI0B. 151 
 
 ** Papa I it is too absurd," said Graeme, all her old yezation 
 coming back. Mr. Elliott smiled. 
 
 ^'I must confess it was in that light I saw it first, andlhad 
 weh nigh been so unreasonable as to be yexed with our good 
 friend. But we must take car^ lest we allow our own wishes 
 to interfeio with what may be for IVJrs. Nasmjth's advan- 
 tage." 
 
 ''But, papa, she has been content with us all these years. 
 Why should there be a change now?*' 
 
 « If the change is to be for her good, we must try to per^ 
 snade her to it^ however. But, judging from what she said 
 to me this afternoon, I fear it will be a difficult matter.*' 
 
 *'But^ papa» why should we seek to persuade her against 
 her own judgment." 
 
 ''My dear, we don't need to persuade her against her judg* 
 ment^ but against her affection for us. She only fears that 
 we wHl miss her sadly, and she is not quite sure whether she 
 ought to go and leave us." 
 
 "But she has been quite happy with us." 
 
 **Tes, love — Chappy in doing what she . believed to be her 
 duty — as happy as she could be so feu: separated from those 
 \^om she must love better than she loves us even. I have 
 b^n thinldng of her to-nighi^ Graeme. What a self-denying 
 life Janet's has been I She must be considered first in this 
 matter." 
 
 ** Yes, if it would make her happier — ^but it seems strange — 
 that—" 
 
 ** Graeme, Mr. Snow is to send for her mother and her son. 
 I oould see how her heart leapt up at the thpught of seeing 
 them, and having them with her again. It will be a great 
 happiness for her to provide a home for her mother in ^er 
 old age. And she ought to have that happiness after such 
 a life as hers." 
 
 Graeme sighed, and was silent 
 
 " If we had golden guineas to bestow on her, where we 
 have copper coins only, we could never repay her love and 
 core for us all ; and it will be a matter of thankfulness to 
 
152 janbt's love and service. 
 
 me to know that she is secure in a home of her own for the 
 rest of her life." 
 
 " But, papa» while we have a home, she will never be with- 
 out one." 
 
 " I know, dear, while we have a home. You need not tell 
 me that ; but Graeme, there is only my frail life between you 
 and homelessness. Not that I fear for you. You are all 
 young and strong, and the God whom I have sought to serve, 
 win never leave my children. But Janet is growing old, 
 Graeme, and I do think this way has been providentially 
 opened to her." 
 
 "If it were quite right to marry for a home, papa — ." 
 Graeme hesitated and colored. Her father smiled. 
 
 " Mrs. Nasmyth is not so young as you, my dear. She will 
 see things differently. And besides, she always liked and 
 respected Mr. Snow. I have no doubt she will be very happy 
 with him." 
 
 " We all liked him," said Graeme, sighing. " But oh I I 
 dread changea I can't bear to break up our old ways." 
 
 "Graeme," said her father, gravely, "changes must come, 
 and few changes can be for the better, as far as we are con- 
 cemed. We have been very happy of late — so happy that 
 I fear we were in danger of sitting down contented with the 
 things of this life, and we need reminding. We may think 
 ourselves happy if no sadder change than this comes to us." 
 
 The thought of Menie came back to Graeme, with a pang, 
 but she did not speak. 
 
 "I know, dear," said her father, kindly, "this will come 
 hardest upon you. It will add greatly to your cares to have 
 Mrs. Kasmyth leave us, but you are not a child now, and — " 
 ** Oh, papa I it is not that— I mean it is not that altogether, 
 but — ." Graeme paused. She was not sure of her voice, 
 and she could not bear to grieve her father. In a little, she 
 asked. 
 
 "When is it to be?" 
 
 " I don't know, indeed, but soon, I suppose ; and my dear 
 child, I trust to you to make smooth much that might other- 
 
Janet's love and seeviob. 153 
 
 •mae be not agreeable in fhis matter to us all. The cnange 
 you dread so much, will not be very great. Our kind friend 
 is not going very far away, and there will be pleasant things 
 connected with the change. I have no doubt it will be for 
 the best" 
 
 " Shall I light your lamp, papa," said Oraeme, in a little 
 while. 
 
 " No, love, not yet. I have no mind for my book to-night." 
 
 Graeme stirred the fire, and moved about the room a httle. 
 When she opened the door, the sound of the children's voices 
 came in menily, and she shrunk from going out into the 
 light. So she sat down in her accustomed place by the win- 
 dow, and thought, and listened to the sighs, that told her that 
 her father was busy with anxious thoughts, too. 
 
 " Only my frail life between my duldren and homelessness," 
 he had said. It seemed to Graeme, as she sat there in the 
 darkness, that since the morning, everything in the world had 
 changed. They had been so at rest, and so happy, and now 
 it seemed to her, that they could never settle down to the 
 old quiet life again. 
 
 " As an eagle stiiTeth up her nest," she murmured to her- 
 self. " Well, I ought no* to fear the changes He brings 
 
 But, oh I I am afraid." 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE rest of fbe bairns receiyed the tidings of the change 
 that was going to take plaoe among them, in a very 
 different w&j from Graeme. Their astonishment at the idea 
 of Janet's maixiage was great, bnt it did not eqnal their de- 
 light. Graeme was in the minority decidedly, and had to 
 keep qniei But then Janet was in the minority, too, and 
 Mr. Snow's suit was anything but prosperous for some time. 
 Indeed, he scarcely ventured to show his face at the minis* 
 ter's house, Mrs. Nasmyth was so evidently out of sorts, anx- 
 ious and unhappy. Her unhappiness was manifested by 
 silenoe chiefly, but the silent way she had of ignoring Samp- 
 son and his claims, discouraging all approach to the subjecl^ 
 that lay so near the good deacon's heart, was worse to bear 
 than open rebuff would have been ; and while Mrs. Nasmyth's 
 silence grieved Mr. Snow, the elaborate patience of his man* 
 ner, his evident taking for granted that " she would get over 
 it," that " it would all come right in the end,*' were more thou 
 she could sometimes patiently endure. 
 
 " He 's like the lave o* them," said she to Graeme one day, 
 after having closed the door, on his departure, with more 
 haste than was at all necessary. ** Give a man an inch, and 
 he 11 take an elL Because I didna just set my fEtce against 
 the whole matter, when the minister first spoke about i^ he 's 
 neither to hold nor bind, but ' when will it be ? ' and * when 
 will it be?' till I have no peace of my life with him." 
 Graeme could not help laughing at her excitement 
 " But, when will it be ? " asked sh& 
 " My dear, I *m no sure that it will ever be." 
 «» Janet 1 " exclaimed Graeme. " "What has happeooied ? * 
 (154; #. 
 
JANET'S LOVE AND SERVICE. 165 
 
 ''Nothing has happened ; but I 'm no' sure but I ought to 
 have put a stop to the matter at the very first I dinna weel 
 ken what to do." 
 
 ''Janet," said Graeme, speaking with some embarrassment, 
 
 "my father thinks it right, and it does not seem so so 
 
 strange as it did at first— and you should speak to Mr. Snow 
 about ii^ at any rate." 
 
 "To put him out o' pain," said Janet, smiling grimly. 
 " There 's no fear o' him. But 1 11 speak to him this very night" 
 
 And so she did, and that so kindly, that the deacon, taking 
 heart, pleaded his own cause, with strong hopes of success. 
 But Janet would not suffer herself to be entreated. With 
 tearful eyes, she told him of her fears for Marian, and said, 
 "It would seem like forsaking the bairns in their < juble, to 
 leave them now." Mr. Snow's kind heart was much shocked 
 at the thought of Marian's danger. She had been his favor- 
 ite among the bairns^ and Emily's chief friend from the very 
 first, and he could not urge her going away, now that there 
 was so sorrowful a reason for her stay. 
 
 "So you'll just tell the minister tlaere is to be no more 
 said about it He winna ask any questions, I dare say." 
 
 But in this Janet was mistaken. He did ask a great many 
 questions, and Mling to obtain satisfactory answers, took the 
 matter into his own hands, and named an early day for the 
 marriage. In ^ain Janet protested and held back. He said 
 she had been thinking of others all her life, till she had for- 
 gotten how to think r,i herself, and needed some one to think 
 and decide for her. As to Marian's ilhiess being an excuse, 
 it was quite the reverse. H she was afraid Marian would not 
 be weU cared for at home, she might take her down the brae ; 
 indeed, he feared there was some danger that he would be 
 forsaken of all his children when she went away. And then 
 he tried to thank her for her care of his motherless bairns, 
 and broke down into a silence more eloquent than words. 
 
 **And, my dear friend," said he, after a little, "I shall 
 feel, when I am to be taken away, I shall not leave my chil* 
 dren desolate, while they have you to care for them." 
 
156 Janet's love and service. 
 
 So for Mrs. Nasmyth there was no help. But on one 
 thing she was determined. The day might be fixed, but it 
 must be sufficiently distant to permit the coming home of the 
 lads, if they could come. They might come or not, as it 
 pleased them, but invited they must be. She would fain see 
 them all at home again, and that for a better reason than she 
 gave the minister. To Mr. Snow, who doubted whether 
 "them boys " would care to come so far at such expense, she 
 gave it with a sadder face than he had ever seen her wear. 
 
 " If they are not all together soon, they may never be to- 
 gether on earth again ; and it is far better that they should 
 come home, and have a few bUthe days to mind on after- 
 ward, than that their first home<3oming should be to a home 
 with the shadow of death upon it. They must be asked, any 
 way." 
 
 And so they were written to, and in due time there came a 
 letter, saying that both Harry and Arthur would be home for 
 a week at the time appointed. From Norman there came no 
 letter, but one night, while they were wondering why, Nor- 
 man came himseE His first greeting to Janet was in words 
 of grave e^ostulation, that «he should think of forsaking her 
 ** bairns " after all these yeaa's ; but when he saw how grave 
 her iaxse became, he took it all bac^ and declared that he had 
 been expecting it all along, and only wondered that matters 
 had not been. brought to a crisis much sooner. He rejoiced 
 Mr. Snow's heart, first by his hearty congratulations, and 
 then by his awful threats of^ vengeance if Mrs. Snow was not 
 henceforth the happiest woman in Merleville. 
 
 Norman was greatly changed by his two years' absence, 
 more than either of his broth^s, the asters thought. Arthur 
 was just the same- as ever, though he was an advocate and 
 a man of business; and Harry was a boy with a smooth chin 
 and red cheeks, still. But, with Norman's brown, bearded 
 &tce the girls had to make new acquaintance. 
 
 But, though changed in appearance, it was in appearance 
 only. Norman was the same mirth-loving lad as ever. He 
 was frank and truthful, too, if he was still thoughtless ; and 
 
Janet's love and sebyice. 157 
 
 Graeme told herself many a time, with pride and thankful- 
 ness, that as yet, the world had not changed for the worse, 
 the brother for whom she had dreaded its temptations most 
 
 of all. 
 
 Norman's letters had always been longest and most fre- 
 quent; and yet, it was he who had the most to tell. If his 
 active and exposed life as an engineer at the West had any- 
 thing unpleasant in it, this was kept out of sight at home, and 
 his adventures never wearied the children. His " once upon 
 a time" was the signal for silence and attention among the 
 little ones; and even the older ones listened with interest to 
 Norman's rambling stories. Nor did their interest cease 
 when the sparkle in Norman's eye told that his part in the 
 tale was ended; and the adventures of an imaginary hero 
 begun. 
 
 There was one story which they were never tired of hearing. 
 It needed none of Norman's imaginary horrors to chase the 
 blood from the cheeks of his sisters, when it was told. It 
 was the story of the burning steamboat, and how little Hilda 
 Bremer had been saved from it; the only one out of a family 
 of eight. Father, mother, brothers, all perished together; and 
 she was left alone in a strange land, with nothing to keep 
 her from despair but the kind words of strangers, uttered in a 
 tongue that she could not understand. It would, perhaps, 
 have been wiser in Norman to have given her up to the kind 
 people who had known her parents in their own land; but he 
 had saved the child's life, and when she dung to him in her 
 sorrow, calling him dear names in her own tongue, he could 
 not bear to send her away. 
 
 " These people were poor, and had many children of their 
 own," said Norman. " I would have thought it a bard lot for 
 Menie or Bosie to go with them; and when she begged to 
 stay with me, I could not send her with them. If it had not 
 been so far, I would have sent her to you, Graeme. But as 
 I could n't do that, I kept her with me while I stayed in C. 
 and there I sent her to school They say she bids fair to be 
 a learned lady some day." 
 
168 janet'b love and sebviob. 
 
 This was an item of news that Norman's letters had not 
 conveyed. They only knew that he had saved Hilda from the 
 burning boat, and that he had been kind to her after- 
 wards. 
 
 "But Norman, man, the expense I " said the prudent Mrs. 
 Nasmyth, *' you havena surely run yourself in debt? " Nor- 
 man, laughed. 
 
 " No; but it has been dose shaving sometimes. However, 
 it would have been that anyway. I am afraid I have not the 
 £Eiculty for keeping money, and I might have spent it to worse 
 purpose." 
 
 < And is the little thing grateful?" asked Graeme. 
 
 ' Oh I yes; I suppose so. She is a good Uttle thing, and is 
 always glad to see me in her quiet way." 
 
 "It *s a pity she *s no* bonny," said Marian. 
 
 " Oh I she is bonny in German fashion; fair and fat." 
 
 " How old is she ? ** asked Mrs. Nasmyth. 
 
 Norman, considered. 
 
 " Well, I really can't say. Judging by her inches, I should 
 say about Bosie's age. But she is wise enough and old- 
 &shioned enough to be Bosie's grandmother. She 's a 
 queer Uttle thing." 
 
 '* Tell us more," said Bose; " do you go to see her often ? " 
 
 " As often as I can. She is very quiet; she was the only 
 girl among the eight, and a womanly little thing even then. 
 You should hear her talk about her little business matters. 
 My dear Mrs. Nasmyth, you need not be afraid of my being 
 CTtravagant, with such a careful little woman to call me to 
 account 
 
 " I have a great mind to send her home to you in the 
 spring, Graeme. It seems very sad for a child like her to be 
 growing up with no other home but a school. She seems 
 happy enough, however." " And would she like to come V* 
 
 "She says she would n't; but, of course, she would like it, 
 if she were once here. I must see about it in the spring." 
 
 The wedding-day came, and in spite of many efforts to pre* 
 vent it^ it was rather a sad day to them all. It found Janet 
 
 :i 
 
JANEX'a LOVE AlID SEBYIOE. ** 159 
 
 0ii]l " in a swither/' She conld not divest herself of the idea 
 that she was forsaking "the bairns/* 
 
 "And, Oh! Miss Graeme, my dear, if it werena for the 
 thought of seeing my mother and Sandy, my heart would 
 fail me quite. And are you quite sure that you are pleased 
 now, dear ? '* 
 
 *< Janet, it was because I was selfish that I wasna pleased 
 from the yeiy first; and you are not really going away from 
 us, only just down the brae." 
 
 Graeme did not look very glad, however. But if the wed- 
 ding-day was rather sad. Thanksgiving-day, that soon followed, 
 was for otherwise. It was spent at the Deacon'a Miss 
 Lovejoy distingidshed herself forever by her chicken-pies and 
 fixings. Mr. and Mrs. Snow surpassed themselves as host 
 and hostess; and even the minister was merry with the rest 
 Emily was at home for the occasion; and though at first she 
 had been at a loss how to take the change, Menie's delight 
 decided her, and she was delighted, too. 
 
 They grew quiet in the evening but not sad. Seated 
 around the fire in the parlor, the young people spoke much 
 of the time of their coming to Merleville. And then, they 
 went farther back, and spoke about their old home, and their 
 motiier, and their long voyage on the " Steadfast.'* 
 
 "I wonder what has become of Allan Ruthven,** said 
 Marian. " It 's strange that you have never seen ^imj 
 Arthur." 
 
 " I may have seen him twenty times without knowing him. 
 You mind, I was not on the * Steadfast' with you." 
 
 "But Harry saw him; and, surely, he could not have 
 changed so much but that he would know him now if he saw 
 him." 
 
 "And do you know no one of the name?" asked Graeme. 
 
 " I have heard of several Buthvens in Canada West And 
 the house of Elphistone and Gilchrist have a Western agent 
 of that name. Do you know anything about him Harry ? 
 Who knows but he may be Allan Butiiven of the 'Stead* 
 fost'" 
 
160 Janet's love aito beeyioe. 
 
 "No, I thought he might be, and made inquiries,*' said 
 Harry. "But that Ruthven seems quite an old fogie. He 
 has been in the employment of that firm ever since the flood, 
 — at least, a long time. Do you mind Allan Buthven, 
 Menie?" 
 
 " Mind him I" That she did. Menie was very quiet to-night, 
 — saying little, but listening happily as she lay on the sofa, 
 with her head on Graeme's knee. 
 
 "Allan was the first one I heard say our Menie was a 
 beauty," said Norman. " Menie, do you mind ?" 
 
 Menie laughed. "Yes, I mind." 
 
 "But I think Bosie was his pet. Graeme, don't you mind 
 how he used to walk up and down the deck, with Bosie in 
 his arms ?" 
 
 " But that was to rest Graeme," said Harry. " Miss Bosie 
 was a small tyrant in those days." 
 
 Bosie shook her head at him. 
 
 "Eh ! wasna she a cankered fairy?" said Norman, taking 
 Bosie's fair faxse between his hands. " Graeme had enough 
 ado with you, I can tell you." 
 
 " And with you, too. Never heed him, Bosie," said Graeme, 
 smiling at her darUng. 
 
 "I used to admire Graeme's patience on the * Steadfast,' " 
 said Harry. 
 
 *' I did that before the days of the * Steadfast,' " said Arthur. 
 
 Bosie pouted her pretty lips. 
 
 " I must have been an awful creature." 
 
 " Oh 1 awftd," said Norman. 
 
 " A spoilt bairn, if ever there was one," said Harry. " I 
 think I see you hiding your face, and refusing to look at 
 any of us." 
 
 " I never thought Graeme could make anything of you," 
 said Norman. 
 
 . " Graeme has though," said the elder sister, laughing. " I 
 wouldna give my bonny Scottish Rose, for all your western 
 lilies, Norman." 
 
 And so they went on, jestingly. 
 
jaket's love and service. 161 
 
 «*ireme," said Arthur, suddenly, "what do you see in 
 
 the fire?" 
 
 Menie was gazing with darkening eyes, in among the red 
 embers. She started when her brother spoke. 
 
 (( J gee — Oh ! many things. I see our old garden at 
 home,— in Clayton, I mean— and " 
 
 *^ It must be an imaginary garden, then. I am sure you 
 canna mind that." 
 
 "Mind it I indeed I do. I see it as plainly as possible, 
 just as it used to be. Only somehow, the spring and sum- 
 mer flowers all seem to be in bloom together. I see the lilies 
 and the daisies, and the tall \^hite rosebushes blossoming to 
 the very top." 
 
 " And the broad green walk," said Harry. 
 
 " And the summer house." 
 
 "And the hawthorn hedge." 
 
 " And the fir trees, dark and high." 
 
 " And the two apple treea" , 
 
 *' Tes, — ^the tree of life, and the tree of the knowledge of 
 good and evil, I used to think them," said NormaiL 
 
 " And I, too," said Menie. ** "Whenever I think of the ga^ 
 den of Eden, I fancy it like our garden at home." 
 
 " Your imagination is not very brilliant, if you can't get 
 beyond that for Paradise," said Arthur, laughing. 
 
 " Well, maybe not, but I always do think of it so. Oh I 
 it was a bonny place. I wish I could see it again." 
 
 " Well, you must be ready to go home with me, in a year 
 or two," said Norman. " You needna laugh, Graeme, I am 
 going home as soon as I get rich/' 
 
 " In a year or two I you 're nae blate I" 
 
 " Oh 1 we winna need a great fortune, to go home for a 
 visit. We '11 come back again. It will be time enough to 
 make our fortune then. So be ready Menie, when I come for 
 
 " Many a thing may happen, before a year or two/' said 
 
 Marian, gravely. -^ ^, -. >, 
 
 ''Many a thing, indeed," said Graeme and Norman, in a 
 10 
 
162 Janet's love and beryioe. 
 
 breath. But while Gra^dme gazed with sadden gravity into 
 her sister's flushed face, Norman added, laughingly, 
 
 " I ^ould n't wonder but you would prefer another es- 
 cort before that tune comes. I say, Menie, did anybody ever 
 tell you how bonny you are growing ?" 
 
 Menie laughed, softly. 
 
 **OhI yes. Emily tiold me when she came home; and so 
 did Harry. And you have told me so yourself to-day, al- 
 ready." 
 
 ** You vain fairy I and do you really ihii^ you *re bonny ?" 
 
 ''Janet says, I'm like Aunt Marian, and she was bonnier 
 even than mamma." 
 
 " Like Aunt Marian !" Graeme remembered Janet's words 
 with a pang. But she strove to put the thought from her ; 
 and with so many bright faces round her,. it was not difficult 
 to do to-night. Surely if Marian were ill, and in danger, the 
 rest would see it too. And even Janet's anxiety, had been at 
 rest for a while. Menie was better now. How merry she 
 had been with her brothers for the last few days. And 
 though die seemed very weary to*night, na wonder. So were 
 they all. Even Eosie, the tireless, was half asleep on Ar- 
 thur's knee, and when fdl the pleasant bustle was over, and 
 they were settled down in their old quiet way, her sister 
 would be herself again. Nothing so terrible could be draw- 
 ing near, as the dread which Janet had startled her with 
 that day. 
 
 " Emily," said Harry, " why do you persist in going back 
 to that horrid school ? Why don't you stay at home, and 
 enjoy, yourself?" 
 
 " I 'm not going to any horrid school," said Emily. 
 
 "You can't make me believe that you would rather be at 
 school than at home, doing as you please, and having a good 
 time with Rose and Menie here." 
 
 Emily laughed. " I would like that ; but I like going back 
 to school too." 
 
 ** But you'll be getting so awfally wise that there will bf 
 no talking to you, if you stay much longer." 
 
Janet's love akd bbrviob. 163 
 
 <'Ia that case, it might do you good to listen," said Emily, 
 
 laughing. 
 
 " But you are altogether too wise already," Hany persis*. 
 ed. "I really am quite afraid to open my lips in your pre* 
 
 ence." 
 
 « We have all been wondering at your strange silence, am 
 lamenting^" said Arthur. 
 
 " But, indeed, I must have a word with the deacon abou 
 it," said Harry. "I can't understand how he has aUowe • 
 it so long already. I must bring my influence to bear or 
 him." 
 
 "Tou needn't," said Emily. "I have almost prevailed 
 upon Graeme,, to let Menie go back with me. There will be 
 two learned ladies then." 
 
 Graeme smiled, and shook her head. 
 
 *' Not tiU summer. We 11 see what summer brings. Many 
 things may happen before summer," she added, gravely. 
 
 They all assented gravely too, but not one of them with 
 any anxious thought of trouble drawing near. They grew 
 quiet after that, and each sat thinkings but it was of pleasant 
 things mostly ; and if on anyone there fell a shadow for a 
 moment, it was but with the thought of the morrow's partp 
 ing, and never with the dread that they might not all meet 
 on earth agaixL 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THEY all went away — ^the lads and Emily, and quietness 
 fell on those that remained. The reaction from the 
 excitement in which they had been living for the last few 
 weeks was very evident in all. Even WilL and Rosie needed 
 coaxing to go back to the learning of lessons, and the enjoy- 
 ment of their old pleasures ; and so Graeme did not wonder 
 that Marian was dull, and did not care to exert herself. The 
 weather had changed, too, and they quite agreed in thinkiTig 
 it was much nicer to stay within doors than to take their 
 usual walks and drives. So Marian occupied the arm-chair 
 or the sofa, with work in her hand, or without it, as the case 
 might be, and her sister's fears vdth. regard to her were, for 
 a time, at rest For she did not look ill ; she was as cheerfal 
 as ever, entering into all the new arrangements whidi Janet's 
 departure rendered necessary vdth interest, and sharing with 
 Graeme the light household tasks that fell to her lot whea 
 the " help " was busy vnth heavier matters. 
 
 There was not much that was unpleasant, for the kind and 
 watchful eyes of Mrs. Snow were quite capable of keeping 
 in view the interests of two households, and though no 
 longer one of the family, she was still the ruling spirit in 
 their domestic affairs. With her usual care for the welfare 
 of the bairns, she had sent the experienced Hannah Lovejoy 
 up the brae, while she contented herself vdth "breaking in" 
 Sephronia, Hannah's less helpful younger sister. There was 
 a great difference between the service of love that had all 
 their life long shielded them from trouble and annoyance, 
 and Miss Lovejoy's abrupt and rather familiar ministrations. 
 But Hannah was faithful and capable, indeed, ** a treasure," 
 (164) 
 
Janet's love and sebyioe. 165 
 
 in these days of destitution in the way of help ; and if her 
 service was such as money could well pay, she did not grudge 
 it, while her wages were secure ; and housekeeping and its re- 
 sponsibilities were not so disagreeable to Graeme as she had 
 feared. Indeed, by the time the first letter from Norman 
 came, full of mock sympathy for her under her new trials, 
 she was quite as ready to laugh at herself as any of the rest 
 Her faith in Hannah was becoming fixed, and it needed some 
 expostulations from Mrs. Snow to prevent her from letting 
 the supreme power, as to household matters, pass into the 
 hands of her energetic auxiliary. 
 
 " My dear," said she, " there *s many a thing that Hannah 
 could do well enough, maybe better than you could, for that 
 matter ; but you should do them yourself, notwithstanding. 
 It's better for her, and it's better for you, too. Every 
 woman should take pleasure in these household cares. If 
 they are irksome at first they winna be when you are used 
 to them ; and, my dear, it may help you through many an 
 hour of trouble and weariness to be able to turn your hand 
 to these things. There is great comfort in it sometimes" 
 
 Graeme laughed, and suggested other resources that might 
 do as well to fall back upon in a time of trouble, but Mrs. 
 Snow was not to be moved. 
 
 " My dear, that may be all true. I ken books are fine 
 things to keep folk from thinking for a time ; but the trouble 
 that is put away that way comes back on one again ; and 
 it 's only when folk are doing their duty that the Lord { 'ves 
 them abiding comfort. I ken by myself. There have been 
 days in my life when my heart must have been broken, or 
 my brain grown crazed, if I hadna needed to do this and 
 to do that, to go here and to go there. My dear, woman's 
 work; that 's never done, is a great help to many a one, as 
 weU as me. And trouble or no trouble, it is what you ought 
 to know and do in your father's house." 
 
 So Graeme submitted to her friend's judgment, and con- 
 scientiously tried to become wise in all household matters, 
 keeping track of pieces of beef and bags of flour, of break- 
 
166 Janet's love and sebvioe. 
 
 fasts, dinners and suppers, :*n a way that excited admiration, 
 and sometimes other feelings, in the mind of the capable 
 Hannah. 
 
 So a very pleasant winter wore on, and the days were be- 
 ginning to grow long again, before the old dread was 
 awakened in Graeme. For only in one way was Marian 
 diflferent from her old self. She did not come to exert her- 
 sel£ She was, perhaps, a little quieter, too, but she was 
 quite cheerful, taking as much interest as ever in home 
 affairs and in the affairs of the village. Almost every day, 
 after the sleighing becam6 good, she enjoyed a drive witii 
 Graeme or her father, or with Mr. Snow in his big sleigh 
 after the " bonny greys." They paid visits, too, stopping a 
 few minutes at Judge Merle's or Mr. Greenleaf 's, or at some 
 other friendly home in the village ; and if their friends' eyes 
 grew grave and very tender at the sight of them, it did not 
 for a long time come into Graeme's mind that it was because 
 they saw something that was invisible as yet to her's. So 
 the time wore on, and not one in the minister's happy house- 
 hold knew that each day that passed so peacefully ovw 
 them was leaving one less between them and a great sorrow. 
 
 The first fear was awakened in Graeme by a very little 
 thing. After several stonny Sabbaths had kept her sister at 
 home from church, a l ild, bright day came, but it did not 
 tempt her out 
 
 "I am very sorry not to go, Graeme," said she; "but I 
 was 60 weary last time. Let me stay at home to-day." 
 
 So she stayed : and till the way down the hill and over 
 the valley the thought of her darkened the sunlight to her 
 sister's eyes. Nor was the shadow chased away by the manj 
 kindly greetings that awaited her at the church door ; for no 
 one asked why her sister was not with her, but only how she 
 iieemed to-day. It was well that the sunshine, coming in on 
 the comer where she sat, gave her an excuse for letting teJl 
 her veil over her face, for many a bitter tear fell behind ii 
 "When the services were over, and it was time to go home, 
 she shrunk from answering more inquiries about Mq^nft", 
 
Janet's love asd sebtige. 167 
 
 and hastened a'way, though she knew that Mrs. Merle was 
 waiting for her at the other end of the broad aisle, and that 
 Mrs. Greenleaf had much ado to keep fast hold of her im- 
 patient boy till ahe should speak a word with her. But she 
 could not trust herself to meet them ajid to answer them 
 quietly, and hurried away. So she went home again, over 
 the valley and up the hill with the darkness still round her, 
 tUl Menie's bright smile and cheerful welcome chased both 
 pain and darkness away. 
 
 But when the rest were gone, and the sisters were left to 
 the Sal)bath quiet of the deserted home, the fear came back 
 again, hr in a httie Marian laid herself down with a sigh of 
 weariness, and slept with her cheek laid on the BiMe that 
 she held in Ler hand. Ab Graeme listened to her quick 
 breathing, and watched the hectic rising on her cheek, she felt, 
 for the moment, as though all hope were vain. But she put 
 the thought from her. It was too dreadful to be true; and 
 she chid herself .for always seeing the possible dark side of 
 fixture events, and told herself that she must change in this 
 respect. With all her might she strove to reason away the 
 sickening fear at her heart, saying how utterly beyond belief 
 it was that Menie could be going to die — ^Menie, who had 
 always been so well and so merry. She was growing too 
 fast, that was all ; and when the spring came again, they 
 would all go to some quiet place by the sea-shore, and run 
 about among the rocks, and over the sands, till she should 
 'be well and strong as ever again. 
 
 ^*If spring were only come l" she sighed to hersell But 
 first there were weeks of frost and snow, and then weeks of 
 bleak weather, before the mild sea-breezes could blow on her 
 drooping flower, and Graeme could n6t reason her fears 
 away ; nor when the painful hour of thought was over, and 
 Menie opened her eyes with a smile, did h^ cheerful sweet- 
 ness chase it away. 
 
 After this, for a few days, Graeme grew impatient of her 
 sister's quietness, and strove to win her to her old employ- 
 ments again. She would have her struggle against her vnah. 
 
168 JANET 8 LOVE AlfD BEBTIOE. 
 
 to be sidll, and took her to ride and to visit, and even to 
 ivalk, when the day was fine. But this was not for long. 
 Menie yielded always, and tried with aU her might to seem 
 well and not weary ; but it was not always with success ; 
 and Graeme saw that it was in vain to urge her beyond her 
 strength ; so, in a little, she was allowed to fall back into 
 her old ways again. 
 
 "I will speak to Dr. Chittenden, and know the worst," 
 said Graeme, to herself but her heart grew sick at the 
 thought of what the worst might be. 
 
 By and by there came a mild bright day, more like April 
 than January. Mr. Elliott had gone to a distant part of the 
 parish for the day, and had taken WilL and Bosie with him, 
 and the sisters were left alone. Graeme would have gladly 
 availed herself of Deacon Snow's offer to lend them grey 
 Major, or to drive them himself for a few miles. The day 
 was so fine, she said to Menie ; but she was loth to go. It 
 would be so pleasant to be a whole day quite alone together. 
 Or, if Graeme liked, they might send down for Janet in the 
 afternoon. Graeme sighed, and urged no more. 
 
 "We can finish our book, you know,*' Went on Menie. 
 "And there are the last letters to read to Mrs. Snow. I 
 hope nobody will come in. We shall have such a quiet day." 
 
 But this was not to be. There was the sound of sleigh- 
 bells beneath the window, and Graeme looked out 
 
 "It is Dr. Chittenden," said tJie. 
 
 Marian rose from the sofa, trying, as she always did, when 
 the Dr. came, to look strong and well She did not take his 
 visits to herself. Dr. Chittenden had always come now and 
 then to see her father, and if his visits had been more fre- 
 quent of late they had not been more formal or professional 
 than before. Graeme watched him as he fastened his 
 horse, and then went to the door to meet him. 
 
 "My child," said he, as he took her hand, and turned her 
 face to the light, " are you quite well to^ay ? " 
 
 " Quite well," said Graeme ; but she was very pale, and 
 her cold hand trembled in his. 
 
Janet's love and sesvioe. 1C9 
 
 "You are quite wcU, I see/' said he, as Marian came foi> 
 ward to greet him. 
 
 "I ought to be/' said Marian, laughing and pointing to an 
 empty bottle on the mantelpiece. 
 
 "I see. We must have it replenished." 
 
 "Don't you think something less bitter would do as 
 well? " said Msiirian, making a pitifal face. " Graeme don't 
 fhink it does me much good." 
 
 "Miss Gfaeme had best take care how she speaks disre- 
 spectfully of my precious bitters. But, 111 see. I have 
 some doubts about them myself. You ought to be getting 
 rosy and strong upon them, and I 'm afrttid you are not," 
 said he, looking gravely into the &iir pale face that he took 
 between his hands. He looked up, and met Graeme's look 
 fixed anxiously upon him. He did not avert his quickly as 
 he had sometimes done on such occasions. . The gravity of 
 his look deepened as he met her'a 
 
 "Where has your father gone? " asked he. 
 
 "To the Befl neighborhood, for the day. The children 
 have gone with him, and Graeme and I are going to have a 
 nice quiet day," said Marian. 
 
 " You are going with me," eaid the doctor. * 
 
 "With you!" 
 
 " Yes. Have you any objiections ? " 
 
 "No. Only I don't care to ride just for the sake of 
 riding, without having anywhere to go." 
 
 " But, I tun going to take you somewhere. I came for 
 hat purpose. Mrs. Greenleaf sent me. She wants you to- 
 lay." 
 
 " But, I can go there any time. I was there not long ago. 
 I would rather stay at home to-day with Graeme, thank 
 you." 
 
 ''And what am I to say to Mrs. Greenleaf? 'No, I 'm not 
 going without you. So, get ready and come with me." 
 
 Menie pouted. " And Graeme had just consented to my 
 staying at home quietly for the day.'^ 
 
 "Which does not prove Miss Graeme's wisdom," said the 
 
170 Janet's love and service. 
 
 doctor. "Why, child, how many April days do you think 
 me are going to have in January? Be thankful for the 
 chance to go out ; for, if I am not much mistaken, we are to 
 have a storm that will keep us all at home. Miss Graeme, 
 get your sister's things. It is health for her to be out in 
 such a day." 
 
 Graeme went without a word, and when she came back 
 the doctor said, 
 
 " There is no haste. I am going fjrther, and will call as 
 I come back. Lie down, dear child, and rest just now." 
 
 Graeme left the room, and as the doctor turned to go out, 
 she beckoned him into the study. 
 
 "You don't mean to tell me that Menie is in danger?^' 
 said she, with a gasp. 
 
 *'I am by no means sure what I shall say to you. It wiU 
 depend on how you are likely to hsien," said the doctor, 
 gravely. 
 
 Graeme strove to command herself and speak calmly. 
 
 "Anything is better than suspense." Then, laying her 
 hand on his arm, she added, "She is not worse] Surely 
 you would have told us ! " 
 
 "My dear young lady, calm yoorsell She is not worse 
 than she has been. The chances of recoveiy are altogether 
 in her favor. The indications of disease are comparatively 
 slight— that is, she has youth on her side, and a good constir 
 tution. If the month of March were over, we would have 
 litfie to fear with another summer before us. Your 'no&er 
 did mt die of consumption ? " 
 
 "^No, but " The remembrance of what Janet had 
 
 told her about their "bonny Aunt Marian" took away 
 Graeme's power to speak. 
 
 "Well, we have everything to hope if we can see her 
 safely through the spring without taking cold^ and you must 
 keep her cheerful" 
 
 " She is always cheerfuL" 
 
 " Well— that 's well You must not let her do anything to 
 weary hersell I don't like the stove heat for her. You 
 
 :• : 'T 
 
jaubt's love and sebvige. lYl 
 
 ihoiild let her sleep in the other room where the fireplace is. 
 When the days are fine, she must be well wrapped up and 
 *q out, and I well send her something. My dear, you haw 
 10 occasion for despondency. The chances are all in her 
 
 avor." 
 
 He went toward the door, but came back again, and alter 
 >ralking up and down the room for & Uttle, he came dose to 
 'iraeme. 
 
 " And if it were not so, my child, you are a Christian. If 
 he possibility you have been contemplating should become a 
 •eality, ought it to be deplored?" 
 
 A strong shudder passed over Graeme. The doctor 
 paosed, not able to withstand the pain in her face. 
 
 **Nay, my child — ^if you could keep her here and assure to 
 ler all that the world can give, what would that be in com- 
 ; )arison with the * rest that remarDeth ? ' For her it would be 
 ' ar better to go, and for you — ^when your time comes to lie 
 lown and die — ^would it sooth you then to know that she 
 aust be left behind, to travel, perhaps, with garments not 
 mspotted, all the toilsome way alone ? " 
 
 Graeme's face drooped tiU it was quite hidden, and her 
 :ears fell fast. Her friend did not seek to check them. 
 
 "I know the first thought is terrible. But, child! the 
 prave is a safe place in wlueh to keep our treasures. Mine 
 are nearly all there. I would not have it otherwise — and 
 they are safe from the chances of a changeful world. You 
 will be glad for yourself by and by. You should be ^lad for 
 your sister now.** 
 
 "If I were sure — ^if I were quite sure,'* murmured Graeme 
 through her weeping, 
 
 "Sure that she is going home? " said the doctor, -stooping 
 low to whisper the words. " I think you may be sure — as 
 sure as one can be in such a case. It is a great mystery. 
 Your father will know best God is good, Pray for her.** 
 
 "My father! He does not even think of danger.** 
 Graeme clasped her hands vdth a quick despairing motion. 
 
 "Miss Graeme,'* said the doctor, hastily, "you must not 
 
172 Janet's love and bebyioe. 
 
 speak to your father yet. Marian's case is by no means 
 hopeless, and your father must be spared all anxiety at pre- 
 sent. A sudden shock might — " he paused. 
 
 "Is not my father well? Has he not quite recovered?" 
 asked Graeme." 
 
 " Quite well, my dear, don't be fanciful. But it will do 
 no good to disturb him now. I will speak to him, or give 
 you leave to speak to him, if it should become necessary. In 
 the meantime you must be cheer^ You have no cause to 
 be otherwise." 
 
 It was easy to say "be cheerful." But Graeme hardly 
 hoped for her sister, after- that day. Often and often she 
 repdated to herself the doctor's words, that there was no im- 
 mediate danger, but she could take no comfort from them. 
 The great dread was always upon her. She never spoke of 
 her fears a^ain, and shrank from any allusion to her sister's 
 state, till her friends — and even the faithful Janet, who knew 
 her so well— doubted whether she realized the danger, which 
 was becoming every day more apparent to them alL But 
 she knew it well, and strove with all her power to look 
 calmly forward to the time when the worst must come ; and 
 almost always, in her sister's presence, she -strove success- 
 fully. But these quiet, cheerful hours in Marian's room, 
 were purchased by hours of prayerful agony, known only to 
 Him who is full of compassion, even when His chastisements 
 are most severe. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 NO. None knew bo well as Graeme that her sister was 
 passing away from among them ; but even she did not 
 dream how near the time was come. Even when the nightl^^ 
 journey up stairs was more than Marian could accomplish, 
 and the pretty parlor, despoiled of its ornaments, became her 
 sick-room, Graeme prayed daily for strength to carry her 
 through the long months of watching, that she believed were 
 before her. As far as possible, everything went on as usual 
 in the house. The children's lessons were learned, and re- 
 cited as usual, generally by Marian's side for a time, but 
 afterwards they went elsewhere, for a very Httle thing tired 
 her now. Still, she hardly called herself ill. She suffered no 
 pain, and it was only after some unusual exertion that she, or 
 others, realized how very weak she was becoming day by day. 
 Her workbasket stood by her side still, for though she seldom 
 touched it now, Graeme could not bear to put it away. Their 
 daily readings were becoming brief and infrequent One by 
 one their favorite books found their accustomed places on the 
 shelves, and remained imdisturbed. Within reach of her 
 hand lay always Menie's httle Bible, and now and then she 
 read a verse or two, but more frequently it was Graeme's 
 trembling lips, that murmured the sweet famiHar words. 
 Almost to the very last she came out to family worship with 
 the rest, and when she could not, they went in to her. And 
 the voice, that had been the sweetest of them all, joined softly 
 and sweetly still in their song of praise. 
 
 Very quietly passed these last days and nights. Many 
 kind inquiries wore made, and many kind offices performed 
 for them, but for the most part the sisters were left to each 
 
 (173. . , 
 
174 Janet's love and beeviob. 
 
 other. Even the children were beguiled into frequent yisits 
 to Mrs. Snow and others, and many a tranquil hour did the 
 sisters pass together. Tranquil only in outward seeming 
 many of these hours were to Graeme, for never a moment 
 was the thought of the parting, that every day brought nearer, 
 absent from her, and often when there were smiles and cheer* 
 ful words upon her lips, her heart was like to break for the 
 desolation that was before them. 
 
 *' Graeme," said Marian, one night, as the elder sister 
 moved restlessly about the room, "you are tired to-nighi 
 Oome and lie down beside me and rest, before WilL and Bosie 
 oome home." 
 
 Weary Graeme was, and utterly despondent, with now and 
 then such bitter throbs of pain at her heart, that she felt she 
 must get away to weep out her tears alone. But she must 
 have patience a httie longer, and so, lying down on the bed, 
 ■he suffered the wasted arms to dasp themselves about her 
 neck, and for a time the sisters lay cheek to cheek in silenca 
 
 "Graeme," said Maiian, at last, ^ doyou think papa kens ? " 
 
 "What, love?" 
 
 " That I am going soon. You know it, Graeme ? " 
 
 Graeme's heart stirred with a sudden throb of pain. There 
 was a rushing in her ears, and a dimness before her eyes, as 
 though the dreaded enemy had already come, but she found 
 voice to say, softly, 
 
 "You *re no' feared, Menie?" 
 
 " No," said she, quickly, then raising herself up, and lean- 
 ing dose over, so as to see her sister's face, she added, " Do 
 you think I need to fear, Graeme ? " 
 
 If she had had a thousand worlds to give, she would have 
 given all to know that her little sister, standing on the brink 
 of the river of death, need not fear to enter ii 
 
 " None need fear who trust in Jesus," said she, softly. 
 
 *' No. And I do trust Him. Who else could I trusty now 
 that I am going to die ? I know He is able to sava" 
 
 " All who come to him," whispered Graemeu " My darlings 
 have you come?" 
 
JANEt'^ DOVE AlTD SERVICE. 175 
 
 «I think he has drawn me Ut Himsell I think I am His 
 very own. Graeme, I know I am not wise like you — and I 
 have not all my life been good, but thoughtless and willful 
 often — ^but I know that I love Jesus, and I think He loves me, 
 
 too." 
 
 She lay quietly down again. 
 
 •* Graeme, are you afraid for me ? " 
 
 ** I oanna be a&aid for one who trusts in Jesus." 
 
 It was all she could do to say it, for the cry that was rismg 
 to her lips from her heart, in which sorrow was struggling 
 with joy. 
 
 ** There is only (me thing that sometimes makes me doubty** 
 said Marian, again. *^ My life has been such a happy life. 
 I have had no tribulation that the Bible speaks of — ^no buffet* 
 ting — ^no tossing to and fro. I have been happy all my Hfe, 
 and happy to the end. It seems hardly fair, Graeme,, when 
 there are so many that have so much suffering." 
 
 ** God has been very good to you, dear." 
 
 ** And you'll let me go willingly, Graeme?" 
 
 " Oh I Menie, must you go. Could you no* bide with us a 
 little while?" said Gra.eme, her tears coming fast A look 
 of pain came to her sister's face. 
 
 " Graeme," said she, softly ; " at first I thought I couldna 
 bear to go and leave you all But it seems easy now. And 
 you wouldna bring back the pain, dear? " 
 
 " No, no 1 my darling." 
 
 "At first you 11 all be sorry, but God will comfort you. 
 And my father winna have long to wait, and you 11 have 
 Bosie and Will. and, Graeme, you will tell papa ? " 
 
 "Yes, I will teU him." 
 
 "He 11 grieve at first — and I could not bear to see him 
 grieve. After he has time to think about it, he will be glad." 
 
 " And Arthur, and all the rest " murmured Graeme. 
 
 A momentary shadow passed over Marian's face. 
 
 " Oh I Graeme, at first I thought it would break my heart 
 to leave you aU — ^but I am wiling now. God, I trusty 
 has made me willing. And after a little they will be 
 
176 JAHBT^B LOVE AND 8EBVI0E. 
 
 happy again. But they "will never forget me, will they, 
 Graeme?" 
 
 "My darling I never 1" 
 
 ** Sometimes I msh I had known — ^I wish I had been quite 
 sure, when they were all at home. I would like to have said 
 something. But it doesna really matter. They will never 
 forget me." 
 
 " We will send for them," said Graeme, through her tears. 
 
 " I don*t know. I think not. It would grieve them, and 
 I can bear so little now. And we were so happy the last 
 time. I think they had best not come, Graeme." 
 
 But the words were slow to come, and her eyes turned, oh ! 
 so wistfully, to her sister's face, who had no words with which 
 to answer. 
 
 " Sometimes I dream of them, and when I waken, I do so 
 long to see them," and the tears gathered slowly in her eyes. 
 " But it is as well as it is, perhaps. I would rather they would 
 think of me as I used to be, than to see me now. No, 
 Graeme, I think I will wait" 
 
 In the pause that followed, she kissed her sister softly 
 many times. 
 
 "It won't be long. And, Graeme — ^I shall see our mother 
 first — and you must have patience, and wait. We shall all 
 get safe home at last — ^I am quite, quite sure of that." 
 
 A step was heard at the door, and Mrs. Snow entered. 
 
 " Weel, bairns ! " was all she said, as she sat down beside 
 them. She saw that they were both much moved, and phe 
 laid her kind hand caressingly on the hair of the eldest sister, 
 as though she knew she was the 0T»e "^ho needed comforting. 
 
 ** Have the bairns come ? " asked Menie. 
 
 " No, dear, I bade them bide till I went down the brae 
 again. Do yoi^ want them home ? " 
 
 " Oh no 1 I only wondered why I didna hear them." 
 
 The wind howled drearily about the house, and they 
 listened to it for a time in silence. 
 
 "It 's no' Hke spring to-uight, Janet," said Menie. 
 
 *^ No, dear, it 's as wintry a night as we have had this whil& 
 
Janet's love and service. 1T7 
 
 But the wind is changing to the south now, and we 11 soon 
 see the bare hills again." 
 
 "Yes ; I hope so," said Menie, softly. 
 
 *' Are you wearying for the spring, dear ? " 
 
 ""Whiles I weary." But the longing in those "bonny 
 e'en " was for no earthly spring, Janet weU knew. 
 
 " I aye mind the time when I gathered the snowdrops and 
 daisies, and the one rose, on my mother's birthday. It was 
 long before this time of the year — and it seems long to wait 
 for spring." 
 
 " Ay, I mind ; but that was in the sheltered garden at the 
 Ebba. There were no flowers blooming on the bare hills in 
 Scotland then more than here. You mustna begin to weary 
 for the spring yet. You '11 get down the brae soon, maybe, 
 and then you winna weary." 
 
 Menie made no answer, but a spasm passed over the face 
 of Graeme. The same thought was on the mind of all the 
 three. When Menie went down the brae again, it must be 
 with eyelids closed, and with hands folded on a heart at rest 
 forever. 
 
 " Jpnet, when will Sandy come ? Have you got a letter 
 yet?" 
 
 " Yes ; I got a letter to-day. It winna be long now." 
 
 '* Oh ! I hope >t. I want to see him and your mother. 
 I want them to see me, too. Sandy would hardly mind me, 
 if he didna come till afterwards." 
 
 "Miss Graeme, my dear," said Mrs. Snow, hoarsely, "go 
 ben and sit with your father a while. It will rest you, and 
 1 11 bide with Menie here." 
 
 Graeme rose, and kissing her sister, softly went away. 
 Not into the study, however, but out into the darkness, where 
 the March wind moaned so drearily among the leafless elms, 
 that she might weep out the tears which she had been strug- 
 gling with so long. Up and down the snow-encumbered path 
 she walked, scarce knowing that she shivered in the blast. 
 Gonsdous only of one thought, that Menie must die, and 
 that the time was hastening. 
 11 
 
1Y8 janet's love and sebyioe. 
 
 Yes. It was coming very near now. God help them aU. 
 Weary with the unavaiHng struggle, weary to faintness with 
 the burden of care and sorrow, she had borne through aU 
 these months of watching, to-night she let it fall. She 
 bowed herself utterly down. 
 
 " So let it be 1 God's will be done !'* 
 
 And leaning with bowed head and clasped hands over the 
 Uttle gate, where she had stood in many a changing mood, 
 she prayed as twice or thrice in a life time. God gives power 
 to his children to pray — face to face — in His very presence. 
 Giving her will and wish up quite, she lay at his feet like a 
 Uttle child, chastened, yet consoled, saying not with her hps, 
 but with the soul's deepest breathing, " I am Thine. Save 
 me." Between her and all earthly things, except the knowl> 
 edge that her sister was dying, a kindly veil was interposed. 
 No foreshadowing of a future more utterly bereaved than 
 Menie's death would bring, darkened the light which this 
 momentary glimpse of her Lord revealed. In that hoiu: she 
 ate angel's food, and from it received strength to walk through 
 desert ple-^es. 
 
 She started as a hand was laid upon her shoulder, but her 
 head drooped again as she met Mr. Snow's look, so grave in 
 its kindliness. 
 
 "Miss Graeme, is it best you should be out here in the 
 cold?" 
 
 "No," said Graeme, humbly. "I am going in." But she 
 did not move even to withdraw herself from the gentle pres- 
 sure of his hand. 
 
 "Miss Graeme," said he, as they stood thus with the gate 
 between them, "hadn't you better give up now, and let the 
 Lord do as He 's a mind to about it ?" 
 
 "Yes," said Graeme, "I give up. His will be done.'* 
 
 " Amen !" said her friend, and the hand that rested on her 
 shoulder was placed upon her head, and Graeme knew that 
 in "the golden vials full of odors" before the throne. Deacon 
 Snow's prayer for her found a place. 
 
 She opened the gate and held it till he passed through, 
 
Janet's love and service. 179 
 
 and then followed him up the path into Hannah's bright 
 kitchen. 
 
 " Will you go in and see papa, or in there ?" asked she, 
 glancing towards the parlor door, and shading her eyes as 
 she spoke. 
 
 " Well, I guess I '11 sit down here. It won't be long before 
 Mis' Snow '11 be going along down. But don't you wait Go 
 right in to your father." 
 
 Graeme opened the study door and went in. 
 
 "I will tell him to-night," said she. " God help us.'* 
 
 Her father was sitting in the firelight, holding an open let- 
 ter in his hand. 
 
 "Grieme," said he, as she sat down, "have you seen 
 Janet V" 
 
 "Yes, papa. I left her with Marian, a httle ago." 
 
 " Poor Janet !" said her father, sighing heavily. No one 
 was so particular as the minister in giving Janet her new 
 title. It was always " Mistress Snow" or " the deacon's wife" 
 with him, and Graeme wondered to-night 
 
 " Has anything happened ?" asked she. 
 
 "Have you not heard? She has had a letter from home. 
 Here it is. Her mother is dead." 
 
 The letter dropped from Graeme's outstretched hand. 
 
 "Yes," continued her father. "It was rather sudden, it 
 stsems — socn after she had decided to come out here. It will 
 be doubly hard for her daughter to bear on that account. I 
 must speak to her, poor Janet I" 
 
 Graeme was left alone to muse on the uncertainty of all 
 things, and to tell herself over and over again, how vain it 
 was to set the heart on any earthly good. " Poor Janet I" 
 well might her father say ; and amid her own sorrow Graeme 
 grieved sincerely for the sorrow of her jriend. It was very 
 l^ard to bear, now that she had been looking forward to a 
 happy meeting, and a few quiet years together after their 
 long separation. It did seem very hard, and it was with a 
 full heart that in an hour afterward, when her father returned, 
 she sought her friend. 
 
180 Janet's love and seevioe. 
 
 Mr. Snow had gone home and his wife was to stay all night, 
 Graeme found when she entered her sister's room. Ma-r iftn 
 was asleep, and coming close to Mrs. Snow, who sat gazing 
 into the fire, Graeme knelt down beside her and put her arms 
 about her neck without a word. At first Graeme thought 
 she was weeping. She was not ; but in a Uttle she said, in 
 a voice that showed how much her apparent calmness cost 
 her, " You see, my dear, the upshot of all our fine plans." 
 
 " Oh, Janet ! There 's nothing in all the world that we can 
 trust in." 
 
 ''Ay, you may weel say that But it is a lesson ihat we 
 are slow to learn ; and the Lord winna let us forget." 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 "When was it?" asked Graeme, softly. 
 
 " Six weeks ago this very night, I have been thinking, since 
 I sat here. Her trouble was short and sharp, and die was 
 glad to go." 
 
 "And would she have come?" 
 
 "Ay, lass, but it wasna to be, as I might have kenned from 
 tlie beginning. I thought I asked God's guiding, and I was 
 persuaded into thinking I had gotten ii But you see my 
 heart was set on it from the very first — guiding or no guid- 
 ing — and now the Lord has seen fit to punish me for my 
 self-seeking." 
 
 " Oh, Janet I" said Graeme, remonstratingly. 
 
 "My dear, it's true, though it sets me ill to vex you with 
 saying it now. I have more need to take the lesson to heart 
 May the Lord give me grace to do it" 
 
 Graeme could say nothing, and Janet continued — 
 
 "It's ill done in me to grieve for her. She is &r better 
 off than ever I could have made her with the best of wills, 
 and as for me — ^I must submit" 
 
 "You lave Sandy still." 
 
 " Aye, thank God. May He have him in His keeping." 
 
 " And he will come yet." 
 
 "Yes, I have Uttle doubt But I'U no' set myself to the 
 
Janet's love and sebyioe. 181 
 
 hewing ont of broken dstems this while again. The Lord 
 kens best" 
 
 After that night Mrs. Snow never left the house for many 
 hours at a time till Menie went away. Graeme never told 
 her father of the sorrow that was drawing near. As the days 
 went on, she saw by many a token, that he knew of the com- 
 ing parting, but it did not seem to look sorrowful to him. 
 He was much with her now, but all could see that the hours 
 by hOT bed-side were not sorrowful ones to him or to her. 
 But to Graeme he did not speak of her sister's state till near 
 the very lasi 
 
 They were sitting together in the firehght of the study, as 
 they seldom sat now. They had been sitting thus a long 
 time — so long that Graeme, forgetting to wear a cheerful 
 look in her fathier's presence, had let her weary eyes close, 
 and her hands drop listlessly on her lap. She looked ut* 
 terly weary and despondent, as she sat there, quite uncon- 
 scious that her father's eyes were upon her. 
 
 " You are tired to-night, Graeme," said he, at last. Graeme 
 started, but it was not easy to bring her usual look back, so 
 she busied herself with something at the table and did not 
 gpeak. Her father sighed. 
 
 "It will not be long now." 
 
 Graeme sat motionless, but she had no voice with which to 
 
 " We littie thought it was our bonny Menie who was to 
 see her mother first. Think of the joy of that meeting, 
 Graeme I" 
 
 Graeme's head drooped down on the table. If she had 
 spoken a word, it must have been with a great burst of weep- 
 ing. She trembled from head to foot in her effort to keep 
 herself quiet. Her father watched her for a moment 
 
 " Graeme, you are not grudging your sister to such blesEH 
 edness ?" 
 
 " Not now, papa," wliispered she, heavily. " I am almost 
 willing now." 
 
182 janet's love akd serviob. 
 
 "What is the happiest life here — and Menie's has been 
 happy — to the blessedness of the rest which I confidently be* 
 lieve awaits her, dear child ?" 
 
 " It is not that I grudge to let her go, but that I fear to be 
 left behind." 
 
 "Ay, love I But we must bide God's time. And you 
 will have your brothens and Bose, and you are young, and 
 time heals sore wounds in young hearts." 
 
 Graeme's head drooped lower. She was weeping unre- 
 strainedly but quietly now. Her father went on — 
 
 "And afterwards you will have many things to comfort 
 you. I used to think in the time of my sorrow, that its sud- 
 denness added to its bitterness. If it had ever come into 
 my mind that your mother might leave me, I might have 
 borne it better, I thought. But God knows. There are 
 some things for which we cannot prepare." 
 
 There was a long silence. 
 
 " Graeme, I have something which I must say to you," said 
 her father, and his voice showed that he was speaking with 
 an effort " If the time comes — when the time comes — my 
 child, I grieve to give you pain, but what I have to say had 
 best be said now ; it will bring the time no nearer. My 
 child, I have something to say to you of the time when we 
 shall no longer be together — ." Graeme did not move. 
 
 "My child, the backward look over one's life, is so diflfer- 
 ent from the doubtful glances one sends into the future. I 
 stand now, and see all the way by which God has led me, 
 with a grieved wonder, that I should ever have doubted his 
 love and care, and how it was all to end. The dark places, 
 and the rough places that once made my heart faint with 
 fear, are, to look back upon, radiant with light and beauiy — 
 Mounts of God, with the bright cloud overshadowing them. 
 And yet, I mind groping about before them, like a blind 
 man, with a fear and dread unspeakable. 
 
 "My child, are you healing me? Oh! if my experience 
 could teach you ! I know it cannot be. The blessed lesson 
 that suffering teaches, each must bear for himself; and I 
 
Janet's love and bervioe. 183 
 
 need not tell you that there never yet was sorrow sent to a 
 child of God, for which there is no balm. You are young ; 
 and weary and spent as you are to-night, no wonder that you 
 fTiinlr at the sight, of the deep wastes you may have to pass, 
 and the dreary waters you may have to cross. But there is 
 no fear that you will be alone, dear, or that He will give you 
 anything to do, or bear, and yet withhold the needed strength. 
 Are you hearing me, my child?" 
 
 Graeme gave a mute sign of assent. 
 
 " Menie, dear child, has had a life bright and briet Yours 
 may be long and toilsome, but if the end be the same, what 
 matter 1 you may desire to change with her to-night, but we 
 cannot change our lot. God make us patient in it, — patient 
 and helpful. Short as your sister's life has been, it has not 
 been in vain. She has been like light among us, and her 
 memory will always be a blessedness — and to you Graeme, 
 most of aU. " 
 
 Graeme's lips opened with a cry. Turning, she laid her 
 face down on her father's knee, and her tears fell fast. Her 
 &ther raised her, and clasping her closely, let her weep for 
 a little. 
 
 "Hush love, calm yourself" said he, at last. " Nay/' he 
 added, as she would have risen, " rest here, my poor tired 
 Graeme, my child, my best comforter always." 
 
 Graeme's frame shook with sobs. 
 
 " Don't papa — ^I cannot bear it " 
 
 She struggled with herself, and gi*ew calm again. 
 
 "Forgive me, papa. I know I ought not. And indeed, 
 it is not because I am altogether unhappy, or because I am 
 not willing to let her go " 
 
 " Hush, love, I know. You are your mother's own patient 
 child. I trust you quite, Graeme, and that is why I have 
 courage to give you pain. For I must say more to-night 
 It anything should happen to me — ^hush, love. My saying 
 it does not hasten it But when I am gone, you wiU care foi 
 the others. I do not fear for you. You will always have 
 kind friends in Janet and her husband, and will never want 
 
184 Janet's love jlnd sebyioe. 
 
 a home while they can give you one, I am sore. But Graeme, 
 I would like you all to keep together. Be one family, as 
 long as possible. So if Arthur wishes you to go to him, go 
 all together. He may have to work hard for a time, but you 
 will take a blessing with you. And it will be best for all, 
 that you should keep together." 
 
 The shock which her father's words gave, calmed Graeme 
 in a moment. 
 
 *'But, papa, you are not ill, not more than you have 
 been?" 
 
 " No, loye, I am better, much better. Still, I wished to 
 say this to you, because, it is always weU to be prepared. 
 That is all I had to say, love." 
 
 But he clasped her to him for a moment still, and before 
 he let her go, he whispered, softly, 
 
 " I trust you quite, love, and you 11 bring them all home 
 safe to your mother and me." 
 
 It was not very long after this, a few tranquil days and 
 nights only, and the end came. They were altogether in 
 Marian's room, sitting quietly after worship was over. It 
 was the usual time for separating for the night, but they still 
 lingered. Not that any of them thought it would be to-nighi 
 Mrs. Snow might have thought so, for never during the long 
 evening, had she stirred from the side of the bed, but watch> 
 ed with earnest eyes, the ever changing face of the dying 
 girl. She had been slumbering quietly for a Uttle while, but 
 suddenly, as Mrs. Snow bent over her more closely, she 
 opened her eyes, and seeing something in her face, she said, 
 with an echo of surprise in her voice, 
 
 " Janet, is it to be to-night ? Are they all here. Papa, 
 Graeme. "Where is Graeme ?" 
 
 They were with her in a moment, and Graeme's cheek was 
 laid on her sister's wasted hand. 
 
 " Well, my lammie I" said her father, softly. 
 
 *' Papa I it is not too good to be true, is it ?*' 
 
 Her father bent down till his hps touched her cheek. 
 
 ** You are not afraid, my child ?" 
 
Janet's love and bebvioe. 185 
 
 Afraid 1 no, it was not fear he saw in those sweet trium- 
 phant eyes. Her look never wandered from his face, but it 
 changed soon, and he knew that the King's messenger was 
 come. Murmuring an inarticulate prayer, he bowed his head 
 in the awful presence, and when he looked again, he saw 
 no more those bonny eyes, but Janet's toilwom hand laid 
 
 oyer them. 
 
 Graeme's cheek still lay on her sister's stiffening hand, 
 and when they ail rose up, and her father, passmg round the 
 couch put his arm about her, she did not move. 
 
 " There is no need. Let her rest I it is all over now, the 
 long watching and waiting ! let the tired eyelids close, and 
 thank God for the momentary forgetfulness which He has 
 given her." , 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THAT nighty Graeme slept the dreamless sleep of utter 
 exhaustion, and the next day, whenever her father or 
 Mrs. Snow stole in to look at her, she slept or seemed to 
 sleep stilL 
 
 " She is weary," they said, in whispers. " Let her rest** 
 Kind neighbors came and went, with offers of help and sym- 
 pathy, but nothing was suffered to disturb the silence of the 
 now darkened chamber. " Let her rest," said all 
 
 But when the next night passed, and the second day was 
 drawing to a dose, Mrs. Snow became anxious, and her -visits 
 were more frequent. Graeme roused herself to drink the 
 tea that she brought her, and to Mrs. Snow's question whe- 
 ther she felt rested, she said, *' Oh ! yes," but she closed her 
 eyes, and turned her face away again. Janet went out and 
 seated herself in the kitchen, with a picture of utter despond- 
 ency. Just then, her husband came in. 
 
 " la anything the matter V asked he, anxiously. 
 
 •* No," said his wife, rousing herseli ** Only, I dinna ken 
 weel what to do." 
 
 "Is Miss Graeme sick? or is she asleep?** 
 
 " I hope she 's no' sick. I ken she *s no* sleeping. But 
 she ought to be roused, and when I think what she *s to be 
 
 roused to . But, if she wants to see her sister, it must 
 
 be before before she 's laid in '* 
 
 A strong shudder passed over her. 
 
 " Oh ! man ! it 's awful, the first sight of a dear face in 
 the cofSn " 
 
 "Need she see her again?" asked Mr. Snow. 
 (186) 
 
Janet's love and service. 187 
 
 ** Ob 1 yes, I doubt she must. And the bairns too, and it 
 will soon be here, now." 
 
 " Her father," suggested Mr. Snow. 
 
 " He has seen her. He was there for hours, both jester* 
 day and to-day. But he is asleep now, and he has need of 
 rest I canna disturb him." 
 
 "Couldn't you kind of make her think she was needed — 
 tc her father or the little ones ? she would rouse herself if 
 they needed her." 
 
 " That 's weel said," said Mrs. Snow, gratefully. ** Go you 
 down the brae for the bairns, and 1 11 go and speak to her 
 again." 
 
 " Miss Graeme, my dear," said she, softly, *• could you 
 speak to me a minute ?" 
 
 Her manner was quite calm. It was so like the manner 
 in which Graeme had been hundreds of times summoned 
 to discuss domestic matters, that without seeming to re- 
 alize that there was anything peculiar in the time or circum* 
 stances, she opened her eyes and said, quietly. 
 
 « Well, what is it, Janet ? " 
 
 " My dear, it is the bairns. There is nothing the matter 
 with tiiem," added she hastily, as Graeme started. " They 
 have been down the brae with Emily all the day, but they 
 are coming home now; and, my dear, they havena been ben 
 yonder, and I think they should see her before — ^before she *s 
 moved, and I dinna like to disturb your father. My bairn, 
 are you able to rise and take WilL and wee Bosie ben 
 yonder." 
 
 Graeire raised herself slowly up. 
 
 " Janet, I i^ave been forgetting the bairns.' 
 
 Mrs. Snow Ls/' much ado to keep back her tears; but she 
 only said cheerfully: 
 
 "My dear, you were weary, and they have had Emily." 
 
 She would not be tender with her, or even help her much 
 in her preparations ; though her hands trembled, and she 
 touched things in a vague, uncertain way, as though she did 
 not know what she was doing. Janet could not trust herself 
 
188 Janet's love and seevice. 
 
 to do what she would hke to have done; she could only watch 
 her without appearing to do so, by no means sure that she 
 had done right in rousing her. She was ready at last. 
 
 " Are they come ? " asked Graeme, faintly. 
 
 "No ; dear. There 's no haste. Rest yourself a wee while. 
 My dear, are you sure you are quite able for it?" added she, 
 as Graeme rosa 
 
 " Yes ; I think so. But I would like to go alone, first." 
 
 " My poor lamb ! If I were but sui'e that I have been 
 right," thought Janet, as she sat down to wait. 
 
 An hour passed, and when the door o[ oned, end Graeme 
 came out again, the fears of her faithful friend were set at 
 rest. 
 
 "She hasna' been alone all this time, as I might have 
 known," said Janet to herself, with a great rush of hidden 
 tears. " I 'm faithless, and sore beset myself whiles, but I 
 needna fear for them. The worst is over now." 
 
 And was the worst over ? Alter that was the covering of 
 the beloved forever from their sight, and the return to the 
 silent and empty home. There was the gathering up of the 
 broken threads of their changed life ; the falling back on 
 their old cares and pleasures, all so much the same, and yet 
 so diflferent. There was the vague unbeHef in the reality of 
 their sorrow, the momentary forgetfulness, and then the pang 
 of sudden remembrance, — the nightly dreams of her, the 
 daily waking to find her gone. 
 
 By and by, came letters from the lads ; those of Norman 
 and Harry full of bitter regrets, which to Graeme seemed 
 almost like reproaches, that they had not been sent for before 
 the end; and the grief of those at home came back strong 
 and fresh again. 
 
 The coming of the " bonny spring days" for which Norman 
 had so wished, wakened " vain longings for the dead," The 
 brooks rose high, and the young leaves rustled on the elms ; 
 and all pleasant soimds r^oke to them with Menie's voice. 
 The flowers which she had planted, — ^the May-flower and the 
 violets by the garden path, looked at them with Menie's 
 
Janet's love and sebvice. 189 
 
 eyes. The odor of the lilacs by the gate, and of the pine 
 trees on the hill came with that mysterious power to awaken 
 old associations, bringing back to Graeme the memory of the 
 time when they first came to the house on the hill, when they 
 were all at home together, and Menie was a happy child. All 
 these things renewed their sorrow, but not sharply or bitterly. 
 It was the sorrow of chastened and resigned hearts, coming 
 back with hopeful patience to tread the old paths of their 
 daily life, missing the lost one, and always with a sense of 
 waiting for the time when they shall meet again, but quite 
 content. 
 
 And Mrs. Snow, watching both the minister and Graeme, 
 " couldna be thankful enough" for what she saw. But as the 
 weeks passed on there mingled with her thankfulness an 
 anxiety which she herself was inclined to resent. ^*As though 
 the Lord wasna bringing them through their troubles in a 
 way that was just wonderful," she said to herself, many a 
 time. At last, when the days passed into weeks, bringing no 
 color to the cheeks, and no elasticity to the step of Graeme, 
 she could not help letting her uneasiness be seen. 
 
 " It 's her black dress that makes her look so pale, ain't 
 it? " said Mr. Snow, but his face was grave, too. 
 
 "I dare say that makes a difference, and she is tired to-day, 
 too. She wearied herself taking the flowers and things over 
 yonder," said Mrs. Snow, glancing towards the spot where 
 the white gravestones gleamed out from the pale, green foliage 
 of springtime. " And no wonder. Even Emily was over 
 tired, and hasna looked like herself since. I dare say I 'm 
 troubling myself when there is no need." 
 
 " The children, "Will, and Kosie, don't worry her veith their 
 lessons, do they? " 
 
 " I dinna ken. Sometimes I think they do. But she would 
 weary far more without them. We must have patience. It 
 would never do to vex the minister with fears for her." 
 
 " No, it won't do to alarm him," said Mr. Snow, with em- 
 phasis ; and he looked very grave. In a Uttle he opened his 
 lips as if to say more, but seemed to change his mind. 
 
190 JANET 8 LOVE AND SERVICE. 
 
 " It ain't worth while to worry her with it. I don't more 
 than half beheve it myseK. Doctors don't know everything. 
 It seems as though it couldn't be so — and if it is so, it 's best 
 to keep stiU about it — ^for a spell, anyhow." 
 
 And Mr. Snow vaguely wished that Dr. Chittendon had not 
 overtaken him that afternoon, or that they had not talked so 
 long and so gravely beneath the great elms. 
 
 "And the doctor ain't given to talking when he had ought 
 to keep still. Can't nothing be done for him ? I '11 have a 
 talk with the squire, anyhow." 
 
 That night Mr. and Mrs. Snow were startled by a message 
 from Graeme. Her father had been once or twice before 
 sharply and suddenly seized with illness. The doctor looked 
 very grave this time, but seeing Graeme's pale, anxious face, 
 he could not find it in his heart to tell her that this was 
 something more than the indigestion which it had been called 
 — severe but not dangerous. The worst was over for this 
 time, and Graeme would be better able to bear a shock by 
 and by. 
 
 The minister was better, but his recovery was very slow — 
 so slow, that for the first time during a ministry of thirty 
 years, he was two Sabbaths in succession unable to appear in 
 his accustomed place in the pulpit. It was this which de- 
 pressed him and made him grow so grave and silent, Graeme 
 thought, as they sat together in the study as it began to grow 
 dark. She roused herself to speak cheerfully, so as to win 
 him from the indulgence of his sad thoughts. 
 
 " Shall I read to you, papa ? You have hardly looked at 
 the book that Mr. Snow brought. I am sure you will like it 
 Shall I read awhile." 
 
 " Yes, if you like ; by and by, when the lamp is lighted. 
 There is no haste. I have been thinking as I sat here, 
 Graeme — and I shaU find no better time than this to speak 
 of it to you — ^that — " 
 
 But what he had been thinking Graeme was not to hear 
 that night, for a hand was laid on the study door, and in an- 
 swer to Graeme's invitation, Mr. and Mrs. Snow came in, 
 
Janet's love and service. 191 
 
 "just to see how the folks were getting along," said Mr. Snow, 
 as Graeme stirred the fire into a blaze. But there was an- 
 other and a better reason for the visit, as he announced rather 
 abruptly after a Uttle. 
 
 " They 've been talking things over, down there to the vil- 
 lage, and they 've come to the conclusion that they 'd better 
 send you off — for a speU — ^most anywhere — so that you come 
 back rugged again. Some say to the seaside, and some say 
 to the mountains, but / say to Canada. It 's all fixed. 
 There 's no trouble about ways and means. It 's in gold, to 
 save the discount," added he, rising, and laying on the table 
 something that jingled. " For they do say they are pretty 
 considerable careful in looking at our bills, up there in Cana- 
 da, and it is all the same to our folks, gold or paper," and he 
 sat down again, as though there was enough said, and tiben 
 rose as if to go. Graeme was startled, and so was her father. 
 
 "Sit down, deacon, and tell me more. No, I 'm not going 
 to thank you — ^you need not rwa. away. Tell me how it hap- 
 pened." 
 
 " They don't think papa so very ill ? " said Graeme, alarmed. 
 
 " Well — ^he ain't so rugged as he might be — ^now is he ? " 
 said Mr. Snow, seating himself. " But he ain't so sick but 
 that he can go away a spell, with you to take care of him — ^I 
 don't suppose he 'd care about going by himself. And Mis' 
 Snow, and me — we 11 take care of the children " 
 
 "And what about this, deacon ? " asked Mr. Elliott, laying 
 his hand on the purse that Sampson had placed on the 
 table. 
 
 But Mr. Snow had little to say about it. If he knew where 
 the idea of the minist>er's holidays originated, he certainly did 
 not succeed in making it dear to the minister and Graeme. 
 
 "But that matters httle, as long as it is to be," said Mrs. 
 Snow, coming to the deacon's reUef. " And it has all been 
 done in a good spirit, and in a proper and kindly manner, 
 and from the best of motives," added she, looking anxiously 
 from Graeme to her father. 
 
 " You need not be afraid, my kind friends," said Mr. Elliott, 
 
192 Janet's love and service. 
 
 answering hor look, while his voice trembled. "The gift 
 shall be accepted in the spirit in which it is offered. It gives 
 me great pleasure.'* 
 
 "And, Miss Graeme, my dear," continued Mrs. Snow, 
 earnestly, "you needna look so grave about it. It is only 
 what is right and just to your father — and no favor — ^though ' 
 it has been a great pleasure to all concerned. And surely, if 
 I'm satisfied, you may be." 
 
 Sampson gave a short laugh. 
 
 " She 's changed her mind about us Merleville folks 
 lately " 
 
 " Whist, man ! I did that long ago. And, Miss Graeme, 
 my dear, think of seeing your brothers, and their friends, and 
 yon f ne country, and the grand river that Harry tells us of I 
 It will be almost Hke seeing Scotland again, to be in the 
 Queen's dominions. My dear, you '11 be quite glad when you 
 get time to think about it," 
 
 " Yes — but do they really think papa is so ill ? " 
 
 She had risen to get a Hght, and Mrs. Snow had followed 
 her from the room. 
 
 " 111 ! my dear, if the doctor thought him iU, would he send 
 him from home ? But he needs a rest, and a change — and, 
 my dear, you do that yourself, and I think it 's just providen- 
 tial Not but that you could have gone without their help, 
 but this was done in love, and I would fain have you take 
 pleasure in it, as I do." 
 
 And Graeme did take pleasure in it, and said so, heartily, 
 and " though it wasna just the thing for the Sabbath night," 
 as Janet said, they lingered a little, speaking of the things 
 that were to be done, or to be left undone, in view of the 
 preparations for the journey. They returned to the study 
 with the light just as Mr. EUiott was saying, 
 
 " And so, I thought, having the prospect of but few Sab- 
 baths, I would hke to spend them all at home." 
 
 Janet's first impulse was to turn and see whether Graeme 
 bad heard her father's words. She evidently had not, for she 
 came in smiling, and set the lamp on the table. There was 
 
janet'b love and sebyioe. 193 
 
 nothing reassuring in the gravity of her husband's face, IMrs. 
 Snow tiiought, but his words were cheerful. 
 
 "Well, yes, I vote for Canada. We ain't going to believe 
 all the boys say about it, but it will be a cool kind of place to 
 go to in summer, and it will be a change, to say nothing of 
 the boys." 
 
 Graeme laughed softly. *' The boys " would not have been 
 the last on her list of good reasons, for preferring Canada as 
 the scene of their summer wanderings. She did not join in 
 the cheerful conversation that followed, however, but sat 
 thinldng a httle sadly, that the meeting with the boys, in 
 their distant home, would be sorrowful as well as joyfuL 
 
 If Mrs. Snow had heard anything from her husband, with 
 regard to the true state of the minister's health, she said no* 
 thhig of it to Graeme, and she went about the preparations 
 for their journey cheerfully though very quietly. Indeed, if 
 her preparations had been on a scale of much greater magni- 
 ficence, she needed not have troubled herself about them. 
 Ten pairs of hands were immediately placv « at her disposal, 
 where half the number would have served. Her aflfairs were 
 made a personal matter by all her friends. Each vied with 
 the others in efforts to help her and save her trouble ; and 
 if the reputation of Merleville, for all future time, had de- 
 pended on the perfect fit of Graeme's one black silk, or oij 
 the fashion of her grey travelling-dress, there could not, as 
 Mrs. Snow rather sharply remarked, " have been more fuss 
 made about it." And she had r. chance to know, for the 
 I deacon's house was the scene of their labors of love. For 
 Mrs. Snow declared "she wouldna have the minister and 
 Miss Graeme fashed with nonsense, more than all their pro- 
 posed jaunt would do them good, and so what couldna be 
 done there needna be done at all." 
 
 But Mrs. Snow's interest and delight in all the preparer 
 tions were too real and manifest, to permit any of the willing 
 helpers to be offended at her sharpness. In her heart Mrs. 
 Snow was greatly pleased, and owned as much in private, 
 
 but in public, " saw no good in making a work about it," 
 12 
 
104 Janet's love and service. 
 
 and, on behalf of the minister and his daughter, accepted the 
 kindness of the people as their proper right and due. When 
 Mrs. Page identified herself with their affairs, and made a 
 journey to Rixford for the purpose of procuring the latest 
 Boston fashion for sleeves, before Graeme's dress should be 
 made, she preserved the distant civility of manner, with which 
 that lady's advances were always met ; and hstened rather 
 coldly to Graeme's embarrassed thanks, when the same lady 
 presented her with some pretty lawn handkerchiefs ; but she 
 was warm enough in her thanks to Becky Pettimore — I beg 
 her pardon, Mrs. EU Stone — for the soft lamb's wool socks, 
 spun and knitted for the minister by her own hands, and her 
 regrets that her baby's teeth would not permit her to join 
 the sewing parties, were far more graciously received than 
 were Mrs. Page's profuse offers of assistance. 
 
 On the whole, it was manifest that Mrs. Snow appreciated 
 the kindness of the people, though she was not quite impar- 
 tial in her bestowment of thanks ; and, on the whole, the peo- 
 ple were satisfied with the " deacon's wife," and her apprecia- 
 tion of them and their favors. Nothing could be more easily 
 seen, than that the deacon's wife had greatly changed her 
 mind about many things, since the minister's Janet used "to 
 speak her mind to the Merleville folk," before they were so 
 well known to her. 
 
 As for Graeme, her share in the business of preparation 
 was by no means arduous. She was mostly at home with 
 the bairns, or sharing the visits of her father to the people 
 whom he wished to see before he went away. It was some 
 time before Will, and Rosie could be persuaded that it was 
 ri^t for Graeme to leave them, and that it would be alto 
 gether delightful to Uve all the time at Mr. Snow's, and go to 
 school in the village — to the fine new high-schr -1, which was 
 one of the evidences of the increasing prosperity of Merleville. 
 But they were entirely persuaded of it at last, and promised 
 to become so learned, that Graeme should afterward have 
 nothing to teach them. About the little ones, tho elder sis- 
 ter's heart was quite at rest. It was not the leaving them 
 
Janet's love and service. 195 
 
 alone, for they were to be in the keeping of the kind friend, 
 who had cared for them all their lives. 
 
 Graeme never ceased to remember those happy drives 
 with her father, on his gentle ministrations to the sick an(J 
 sorrowful of his flock, in those days. She never thought of 
 the cottage at the foot of the hill, but she seemed to see the 
 suffering face of the widow Lovejoy, and her father's voice 
 repeating, 
 
 " God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in 
 trouble." Long afterwards, when the laughter of Uttle 
 children rose where the widow's groans had risen, Graeme 
 could shut her eyes and see again the suffering face — the 
 dooryard flowers, the gleaming of the sunlight on the pond 
 — ^the very shadows of the maples on the grass. Then it was 
 her sorrov^ul delight to recall those happy hours of quiet 
 converse, the half sad, half joyful memories which her father 
 loved to dwell upon — the firm and entire trust for the future, 
 of which his words assured her. 
 
 Afterwards it came to her, that through all this pleasant 
 time, her father was looking at a possibility to which her eyes 
 were shut. He had spoke of her mother as he had seldom 
 spoken even to Graeme, of the early days of their married 
 life— of all she had been to him, of all she had helped hiin 
 to be and to do. And more thaii once he said, 
 
 " You are like your mother, Graeme, in some things, but 
 you have not her hopeful nature. You must be more hope- 
 ful and courageous, my child." 
 
 He spoke of Marian, Graeme remembered afterward. 
 Not as one speaks of the dead — of those who are hidden 
 from the sight, but as of one near at hand, whom he was 
 sure to meet again. Of the lads far away, he always spoke 
 as "your brothers, Graeme." He spoke hopefully, but a 
 little anxiously, too. 
 
 " For many a gallant bark goes dovm when its voyage is 
 well nigh over ; and there is but one safe place of anchorage, 
 and I know not whether they have all found it yet. Not 
 that I am afraid of them. I believe it will be well with them 
 
196 " jaitet's love and service. 
 
 at lasi But in aU the changes that may be before you, you 
 will have need of patience. You must be patient with your 
 brothers, Graeme ; and be faithful to them, love, and never 
 let them wander unchecked from what is right, for your 
 mother's sake and mine." 
 
 He spoke of their leaving home, and very thankfully of 
 tbe blessings that had followed them since then ; of the kind- 
 ness of the people, and his love to them ; and of the health 
 and happiness of all the bairns, "of whom one has got home 
 before me, safely and soon." 
 
 " We might have come here, love, had your mother lived. 
 And yet, I do not know. The ties of home and country are 
 strong, and there was much to keep us thera Her departure 
 made all the rest ea^ for me, and I am quite convinced our 
 coming was for the best. There is only one thing that I 
 have wished, and I know it is a vain thing." He paused a 
 moment. 
 
 " Of late I have sometimes thought — I mean the thought 
 has sometimes come to me unbidden — ^that I would like to 
 rest beside her at lasi But it is only a fancy. I know it 
 will make no difference in the end." 
 
 If Graeme grew pale and trembled as she listened, it was 
 with no dread that she could name. If it was forced upon 
 her that the time must come when her father must leave 
 them, it lay in her thoughts, far away. She saw his grave 
 dimly as a place of rest, when the labors of a long life should 
 be ended ; she had no thought of change, or separation, or 
 of the blank that such a blessed departure must leave. The 
 peace which had taken possession of his mind had its influ- 
 ence on hers, and she " feared no evil" 
 
 Afterwards, when the thought of this time and of these 
 words came back she chid herself with impatience, and a 
 strange wonder, that she should not have seen and under- 
 stood all that was in his thought — forgetting in her first 
 agony how much better was the blessed repose of these 
 moments, than the knowledge of her coming sorrow could 
 have made them. 
 
Janet's love aot) bebviob. 197 
 
 They all passed the rides and vi' Its and the happy talks 
 together. The preparations for the journey were all made. 
 The good-byes were said to all except to Mrs. Snow and 
 Emily. The last night was come, and Graeme went round 
 just as she always did, to close the doors and windows before 
 she went to bed. She was tired, but not too tired to linger 
 a little while at the window, looking out upon the scene, now 
 so familiar and so dear. The shadows of the elms lay dark 
 on the lawn, but the moonlight gleamed bright on the pond, 
 and on the white houses of the village, and on the white 
 stones in the graveyard, grown precious to them aU as 
 Menie's resting-place. How peaceful it looked! Graeme 
 thought of her sister's last days, and joyful hope, and 
 wondered which of them all should first be called to lie down 
 by Menie*s side. She thought of the grave far away on the 
 other side of the sea, where they had laid her mother with 
 her baby on her breast ; but her thoughts were not all 
 sorrowful She thought of the many happy days that had 
 come to them since the time that earth had been left dark and 
 desolate by their mother's death, and realized for the moment 
 how true it was, as her father had said to her, that God 
 suffers no sorrow to fall on those who wait on Him, for 
 which He does not also provide a balm. 
 
 " I will trust and not be afraid," she murmured. 
 
 She thought of her brothers, and of the happy meeting 
 that lay before them, but beyond their pleasant holiday she 
 did not try to look ; but mused on till her musings lost them- 
 selves in slumber, and changed to dreams. 
 
 At least, she always thought she must have fallen asleep, 
 and that it was the sudden calling of her name, that awak- 
 ened her with a start She did not hear it when she listened 
 for it again. She did not think of Rosie or Will, but went 
 straight lo her father's room. Through the half open door, 
 she saw that the bed was undisturbed, and that her father 
 sat in the arm-chair by the window. The lamp burned 
 dimly on the table beside him, and on the floor lay an open 
 book, as it had fallen from his hand. The moonlight shone 
 
198 Janet's love and servioe. 
 
 on his silver hair, and on his tranquil face. Thero was a 
 smile on his lips, and his eyes were closed, as if in sleep ; but 
 even before she touched his cold hand, Graeme knew that 
 from that sleep her father would never waken mora 
 
 ■I 
 
 :| 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 IT was a very changed life that opened before the bairns 
 when Arthur took them home with him to Montreal. A 
 very dismal change it seemed to them all, on the first morn- 
 ing when their brothers left them alone. Home I Could it 
 ever seem like home to them ? Think of the dwellers among 
 the breezy hills of Merleville shut up in a narrow brick 
 house in a dose city street. Graeme had said that if they 
 could all keep together, it did not so much matter how or 
 where ; but her courage almost failed as she turned to look 
 out of the window that first morning. 
 
 Before her lay a confined, untidy yard, which they were to 
 share with these neighbors ; and beyond that, as far as could 
 be seen, lay only roofs and chimneys. From the room above 
 the view was the same, only the roofs and chimneys stretched 
 farther away, and here and there between them showed the 
 dusty bough of a maple or elm, or the ragged top of a Lom- 
 bardy poplar, and, in the distance, when the sun shone, lay 
 a bright streak, which they came at last to know as Harry's 
 grand river. On the other side, toward the street, the window 
 looked out on a brick wall, over which hung great willow-boughs 
 shading half the streei The brick wall and the willows were 
 better than the roofs and chimney-tops, Bosie thought ; but 
 it was a dreary sort of bettemesa From Graeme's room 
 above were seen still the wall and the willows, but over the 
 wall and between the willows was got a glimpse of a garden — 
 a very pretty garden. It was only a glimpse — a small part 
 of a circular bit of green grass before the door of a hand- 
 some house, and around this, and under the windows, flowers 
 and shrubs of various kinds. There was a conservatory at 
 
 (199) 
 
200 Janet's love and seeviob. 
 
 one end, but of that they saw nothing but a blinding glare 
 when the sun shone on it — many panes of glass when the 
 sun was gone. The garden seemed to extend behind the 
 house ; but they could only see a smooth gravel walk with 
 an edge of green. Clumps of evergreens and horse-chestnuts 
 hid all the rest. But even these were very beautiful ; and 
 this glimpse of a rich man*s garden, from an upper window, 
 was the redeeming feature in their new home. 
 
 For it was summer — ^the very prime of summer-time — ^and 
 except for that Uttle glimpse of garden, ai^d the dusty maple 
 boughs, and the ragged tops of the poplars, it might just as 
 well have been winter. There was nothing to remind them 
 of summer, but the air hanging over them hot and close, or 
 sweeping in sudden dust-laden gusts down the narrow street 
 Yes ; there was the long streak of blue, which Harry called 
 the river, seen from the upper window ; but it was only 
 visible in sunny days, at least it only gleamed and sparkled 
 then ; it was but a dim, grey line at other times. 
 
 How changed their life was ; how they drooped and pined 
 for the sights and sounds and friends of Merleville. 
 
 " If there were but a green field in sight, or a single hill," 
 said Bosie ; but she always added, " how nice it is to have 
 the willow trees and the sight of the garden." 
 
 For Bose was by no means sure that their longing for 
 green fields and hills and woods was not wrong. It seemed 
 like ingratitude to Arthur, this pining for the country and 
 their old home, and these young girls from the very first 
 made a firm stand against the homesickness that came upon 
 them. Not that homesickness is a sickness that can be cured 
 by struggling against it ; but they tried hard to keep the 
 knowledge of it from their brothers. 's-Hiatever happened 
 during the long days, they had a pleasant breakfast-hour and 
 a pleasant evening together. They seldom saw their brothers 
 at other times during the first few months. Harry's hours 
 were long, and Arthur's business was increasing so as to 
 requirij dose attention. This was a matter of much rejoicing 
 to Graeme, who did not know that all Arthur's business w&d 
 
Janet's love and service. 201 
 
 not strictiy professional — that it was business wearisome 
 enough, and sometimes bringing in but little, but absolutely 
 necessary for that Httle's sake. 
 
 Graeme and Rosie were at home alone, and they foimd the 
 days long and tedious often, though they conscientiously 
 strove to look at all things from their best and brightest side. 
 For a while they were too busy — too anxious for the success 
 of their domestic plans, to have time for homesickness. But 
 when the fii"st arrangements were made — when the taste and 
 skill of Graeme, and the inexhaustible strength of their new 
 maid, Nelly Anderson, had changed the dingy house ii *o as 
 bright and pleasant a place as might weU be in a city 
 street, thentjame the long days and ttie weariness. Then 
 came upon Graeme that which Janet had predicted, when 
 she so earnestly set her face against their going away from 
 Merleville till the summer was over. Her fictitious strength 
 &iled her. The reaction from all the exertion and excite- 
 ment of the winter and spring came upon her now, and she 
 was utterly prostrate. She did not give up willingly. In- 
 deed, she had no patience with herself in the miserable 
 state into which she had fallen. She was ashamed and 
 alarmed at her disinclination to exert herself-^at her indif- 
 ference to everything;. but the exertion she made to over- 
 come the evil only aggravated it, and soon was quite boyond 
 her power. Her days were passed in utter helplessness on 
 the sofo. She either denied herself to their few visitors, or 
 left them to be entertained by Eose. All her strength and 
 spirits were needed for the evening when her brothers were 
 at home. 
 
 Some attention to Jhousehold affairs was absolutely nece» 
 saiy, even when the time came, that for want of something 
 else to do Nelly nodded for hours in the long afternoons 
 over the knitting of a stocking. J^or though Nelly could do 
 whatever could be accomplished by main strength, the skiU 
 necessary for the arrangement of the nicer matters of their 
 little household was not in her, and Graeme was never left 
 quite at rest as to the progress of events in her dominions. 
 
202 janet's love and service. 
 
 It was a very fprtunate chance that had cast her lot Tviih 
 theirs soon after their arrival, Graeme knew and acknowl- 
 edged ; but after the handiness and immaculate neatness of 
 Hannah Lovejoy, it was tiresome to have nothing to fall 
 back upon but the help of the untaught Nelly. Her willing- 
 ness and kind-heartedness made her, in many respects, in- 
 valuable to them ; but her field of action had hitherto been 
 a turnip-field, or a field in which cows were kept ; and though 
 she was, by her own account, " just wonderfu' at the making 
 of butter," she had not much skill at anything else. If it 
 would have brought color to the cheek, or elasticity to the 
 step of her young mistress, Nelly would gladly have carried 
 her every morning in her arms to the top of the mountain ; 
 but nothing would have induced her, during these first days, to 
 undertake the responsibihty of breakfast or dinner without 
 Graeme's special overlooking. She would walk miles to do 
 her a kindness ; but she could not step lightly or speak 
 softly, or shut the door without a bang, and often caused her 
 torture when doing her very best to help or cheer her. 
 
 But whatever happened through the day, for the evening 
 Graeme exerted herself to seem well and cheerful. It waa 
 easy enough to do when Harry was at home, or when Arthur 
 was not too busy to read to them. Then she could still 
 have the arm-chair or the sofa, and hear, or not hear, as the 
 case mifi;ht ba But when any effort was necessary — when 
 slie muFt interest herself, or seem to interest herself in her 
 work, or when Arthur brought any one home with him, 
 making it necessary for Graeme to be hospitable and con- 
 versational, then it was very bad indeed. She might get 
 through very well at the time with it all, but a miserable 
 night was sure to follow, and she could only toss about 
 through the slow hours exhausted yet sleepless. 
 
 Oh, how miserable some of these sultry August nights 
 were, when she lay helpless, her sick fancy changing into 
 dear familiar sounds the hum that rose from the city be- 
 neath. Now it was the swift spring-time rush of Carson's 
 brook, now the gentle ripple of the waters of the pond 
 
Janet's love aito service. 203 
 
 breaking on the white pebbles of the beach. The Tdnd 
 among the willow-boughs whispered to her of the pine grove 
 and the garden at home, till her heart grew sick with long- 
 ing to see them again. It was always the same. 1i the bit- 
 ter sorrow that bereavement had brought made any part of 
 what she suffered now ; if the void which death had made 
 deepened the loneliness of this dreaiy time, she did not know 
 ii All this weariness of body and sinking of heart might 
 have come though she had never left Merleville, but it did 
 not seem so to her. It was always of home she thought. 
 She rose up and lay down with longing for it fresh and sore. 
 She started from troubled slumber* to break into passionate 
 weeping when there was no one to see her. She struggled 
 against the misery that lay so heavily upon her, but not suo- 
 cessfully. Health and courage failed. 
 
 Of course, this state of things could not continue long. 
 They must get either better or worse, Graeme thought, and 
 worse it was. Arthur and Harry coming home earher than 
 usual found her as she had never allowed them to find her 
 before, lying Ustlessly, almost helplessly on the sofa. Her 
 utmost effort to appear well and cheerful at the sight of them 
 failed this once. She rose slowly and leaned back again 
 almost immediately, closing her eyes with a sigh. 
 
 " Graeme I " exclaimed Harry, " what ails you I Such a 
 face I Look here, I have something for you. Guess what." 
 
 « A letter," said Eose. " Oh 1 Graeme look I " 
 
 But Graeme was past looking by this time. Her brothers 
 were startled and tried to raise her. 
 
 ; " Don't Arthur," said Rose ; " let her he down. She will 
 be better in a Uttle. Harry get some water." 
 
 Poor, wee Rosie I Her hands trembled among the fasten- 
 ings of Graeme's dress, but she knew well what to do. 
 
 " You don't mean that she has been like this before ? " said 
 Arthur, in alarm. 
 
 " Yes ; once or twice. She is tired, she says. She will 
 soon be better, now." 
 
 In a minute Graeme opened her eyes, and sat up. It was 
 
204 Janet's love and seevicb. 
 
 nothing, she said, and Arthur was not to be frightened ; but 
 thoroughly frightened Arthur was, and in a little while 
 Graeme found herself placed in the doctor's hands. It was 
 a very kind, pleasant face that bent over her, but it was a 
 grave face too, at the moment. When Graeme repeated hot 
 assurance that she was not ill, but only overcome with the 
 heat and weariness ; he said these had something to do wiifi 
 it, doubtless, and spoke cheerfully about her soon being well 
 again ; and Arthur's face quite brightened, as he left the room 
 with him. Bose followed them, and when her brother's hand 
 was on the door, whispered. 
 
 "Please, Arthur, may I say something to the doctor? I 
 think it is partly because Graeme is homesick." 
 
 " Homesick ! " repeated the doctor and Arthur in a breath. 
 
 "Perhaps not homesick exactly," said Hose ; eagerly ad- 
 dressing her brother, " She would not go back again you 
 know ; but every thing is so different — ^no garden, no hills, 
 no pond. And oh I Arthur, don't be vexed, but we have no 
 Janet nor anything here." 
 
 Bosie made a brave stand againt the tears and sobs that 
 were rising in spite of her, but she was fain to hide her face 
 on her brother's arm as he drew her toward him, and sat 
 down on the sofa. Tha doctor sat down, too. i 
 
 " "Why, Bosie 1 My poor, wee Bosie I what . has happened to 
 my merry httle sister ? " - 
 
 " I thought the doctor ought to know, and you must not 
 tell Graeme. She does not think tiiat I know." 
 
 " Know what ? " asked Arthur. 
 
 *' That she is so sad, and that the time seems long. But I 
 have watched her, and I know." 
 
 " Well, I fear it is not a case for you, doctor,'* said Arthur, 
 anxiously. 
 
 But the doctor thought differently. There wa« more the 
 matter with Graeme than her sister knew, though the home* 
 sickness may have something to do with it ; and then he 
 added. 
 
janbt's love and bebvioe. 205 
 
 "Her strength must have been severely tried to bring her 
 to this state of weakness." 
 
 Arthur hesitated a moment 
 
 "There was long illness in the family — and then death — 
 my sister's first, and then my father's. And then I brought 
 the rest here." f. 
 
 It was not easy for Arthur to say all this. In a little he 
 added with an effort, 
 
 " I fear I have not done well in bringing them- But they" 
 wished to come, and I could not leave them." 
 
 "You did right, I have no doubt," said the doctor. "Your 
 sister might have been ill anywhere. She might have been 
 worse without a change. The thing is to make her well again 
 — ^which, I trust, we can soon do — with the help of Miss 
 Bosie, who will make a patient and cheerful nurse, I am 
 sure." 
 
 " Yes," said Bose, gravely. "I will try." 
 
 Arthur said something about taking them to the country, 
 out of the dust and heat of the town. 
 
 "Yes ;" said the doctor. " The heat is bad. But it will 
 not last long now, and on the whole, I think she is better 
 where she is, at present. There is no danger. She will soon 
 be as well as usual, I think." 
 
 But it was not very soon. Indeed, it was a long time before 
 Graeme was as weU as usual ; not until the leaves on the 
 willows had grown withered and grey, and the smnmer had 
 quite gone. Not until kind Doctor McCulloch had come 
 almost daily for many weeks — ^long enough for him to become 
 much interested in both patient and nurse. 
 
 A wonderful nurse Bose proved herself to. At first some- 
 thing was said about introducing a more e35)erienced person 
 into Graeme's chamber, but both Bose and Nelly Anderson 
 objected so decidedly to this, and aided and abetted one anr 
 other so successfully in their opposition to it, that the design 
 was given up on condition that Bosie kept well and cheerful 
 to prove her claim to the title of nurse. She kept cheerful, 
 
206 Janet's love and service. 
 
 but she grew tall and thin, and a great deal too quiet to be 
 like herself, her brothers thought ; so whatever was forgotten 
 or neglected during the day, Rosie must go out with one of 
 them for a long walk while the other staid with Graeme, and 
 by this means the health and spirits of the anxious httle lady 
 were kept from failing altogether. For indeed the long days 
 and nights might well be trying to the child, who had never 
 needed to think twice about her own comfort all her life, and 
 who was now quite too acutely sensible, how much the com- 
 fort of all the rest depended upon her. But she bore the 
 trial weU, and indeed came to the conclusion, that it was 
 quite as pleasant to be made useful, to be trusted and con- 
 sulted, and depended upon, as to be petted and played with 
 by her brothers. She qiute hked the sense of responsibility, 
 especially when Graeme began to get well again, and though 
 she got tired very often, and grew pale now and then, they all 
 agreed afterward that this time did Eose no harm, but a great 
 deal of good. 
 
 As for Nelly Anderson, circumstances certainly developed 
 her powers in a most extraordinary manner — ^not as a nurse, ' 
 however. Her efforts in that line were confined to rambling 
 excursions about the sick-room in her stocking-feet, and to ' 
 earnest entreaties to Graeme not to lose heart But in the 
 way of dinners and breakfasts, she excited the astonishment 
 of the household, and her own most of all. When Arthur 
 had peremptorily forbidden that any reference should be - 
 made to Graeme in household matters, Nelly had helplessly 
 betaken herself to Rose, and Rose had as helplessly betaken . 
 herself to "Catherine Beecher." Nothing short of the state | 
 of absolute despair in which she found herself, would have i 
 induced Nelly to put faith in a " printed book," in any mat- ' 
 ter where the labor of her hands was concerned. But her 
 accompHshments as a cook did not extend the making of 
 " porridge" or the " choppin' of potatoes," and more was re- 
 quired. So with fear and trembling. Rose and she "laid 
 their heads together," over that invaluable guide to inexpe- 
 rienced housekeepers, and the resxilt was success — indeed a 
 
Janet's love and sekvige. 207 
 
 aeries of successes. For emboldened by the favorable recep- 
 tion of their efforts, Nelly went on and prospered ; and Rose, 
 content that she should have all the honor of success, per- 
 mitted her to have all the responsibihty also. 
 
 Almost every morning Rose had a vyralk, either with Harry 
 to his office or with Will, to the school, while Arthur staid 
 with Graeme. The walk was generally quick enough to bring 
 a bright color to her cheeks, and it was always a merry time 
 if Harry was vnih her, and then she was ready for her long 
 day at home. She sometimes lingered on the way back. On 
 the broad shady pavements of the streets she used to choose, 
 when she was alone, she made many a pause to watch the 
 little children at their play. She used to linger, too, wher- 
 ever the ugly brick walls had been replaced by the pretty 
 iron railings, with which every good rich man will surround 
 his gardens, in order that they who have no gardens of their 
 own may have a chance to see something beautiful too. And 
 whenever she came to an open gate, the pause was long. 
 She was in danger then of forgetting her womanliness and 
 her gravity, and of exclaiming like a httle girl, and sometimes 
 she forgot herself so far as to let her feet advance farther up 
 the gravel walk than in her sober moments she would have 
 considered advisable. 
 
 One bright morning, as she returned home, she found her- 
 self standing before the large house on the other side of the 
 street. For the first time she found the large gate wide 
 open. There was no one in sight, and taking two steps for- 
 ward, Rose saw more of the pretty garden within than she 
 had ever seen before. She had often been tempted to walk 
 round the smooth broad walks of other gardens, but second 
 thoughts had always prevented her. This time she did not 
 wait for second thoughts, but dehberately determined to walk 
 round the carriage way without leave asked or given. 
 
 The garden belonged to Mr. Elphinstone, a great man — at 
 least a great merchant in the eyes of the world. One of 
 Rose's amusements during the time she was confined in her 
 sister's sick room was to watch the comings and goings of 
 
208 JAmSl S LOYE J^OT) BEBYIOE. 
 
 his only child, a girl only a little older than Eose herself. 
 Sometimes she was in a little pony carriage, which she drove 
 herself ; sometimes she was in a large carriage driven by a 
 grave-looking coachman with a very glossy hat and very white 
 gloves. Bosie used to envy her a little when she saw her 
 walking about in the garden gathering the flowers at her o\m' 
 
 wm 
 
 " How happy she must be 1" she thought now, as she stood 
 gazing about her. " If she is a nice young lady, as I am 
 almost sure she is, she would rather that I enjoyed her flow* 
 ers than not At any rate I am going to walk round just 
 once — and then go." 
 
 But it was not an easy matter to get round the circle. It 
 was not a very large one, but there were flowers aU round it^ 
 and Bosie passed slowly on lost in wonder and delight, as 
 some strange blossom presented itself. It took a long time 
 to pass quite round, and before this was accomplished, her 
 footsteps were arrested by a splendid cardinal flower, that 
 grew within the shadow of the wall It was not quite a 
 stranger. She had gathered a species of it often in the low 
 banks of the pond ; and as she bent over it with delight, a 
 voice startled her — 
 
 " You should have seen it a while ago. It is past its best 
 now." 
 
 Bose turning saw the gardener, and hastily stammering an 
 excuse, prepared to go. But he did not seem to understand 
 that she was an intruder. 
 
 " If you '11 come round this way 1 11 show you flowers that 
 are worth looking at/' said he. 
 
 "He thinks I am a visitor," said Bose to hersell "I'm 
 sure I admire his flowers as much as any of them can do. 
 It won't trouble him much to show them to me, and 1 11 just 
 go with him." 
 
 So picking up her bonnet that had fallen on the walk, she 
 followed him, a little frightened at her own boldness, but 
 very much elate. She did not think the garden grew pret- 
 tier as they went on, and her conductor hurried her past a 
 
Janet's love and sbbyiob. 209 
 
 great maay pretty squares and circles without giving her time 
 to admire them. He stopped at last before a long, narrow 
 bed, where the flowers were growing without regard to regu- 
 larity as to arrangement ; but oh ! such coloring I such depth 
 and richness 1 What verbenas and heliotropes I — ^what pur^ 
 pies — crimsons — scarlets 1 Bose could only gaze and won- 
 der aad exclaim, while her friend listened, and was evidently 
 well ple.ised with her delight 
 
 At last it was lime to go, and Bose sighed as she said it. 
 But she thanked him vrith sparkling eyes for his kindness, 
 and added deprecatingly — 
 
 "I am not a visitor here. I saw the gate open and came 
 in. I couldn't help it" 
 
 B vms a small matter to her new friend whether she were 
 a visitor at the great house or not. 
 
 ^You ken a flower when you see it," said he, " and that's 
 more than can be said of some of the visitors here." 
 
 He led the way round the garden till they came to a sum* 
 merhouse covered with a flowering vine, which was like noth- 
 ing ever Bose had seen before. 
 
 ''B was just like what a bower ought to be," she told 
 Graeme, afterwards. '* B was just like a lady's bower in a 
 book." 
 
 There was a little mound before it, upon which and in the 
 borders dose by grew a great many flowers, ^ot rare flow- 
 ers, such as she had just been admiring, but flowers sweet 
 and common, pansies and thyme, sweet peas and mignonette. 
 B was Miss Elphinstone's ovm bower, the gardener said, and 
 these were her favorite flowers. Bose bent over a pale litQe 
 blossom near the path — 
 
 "What is this?" asked she ; and then she was sorry, leap- 
 ing to have it spoiled by some long unpronounceable name. 
 
 "Surely you have seen that — and you from Scotland? 
 That 's a gowan." 
 
 "A gowan I" She was on her knees beside it in a moment, 
 " Is it the real gowan, * that gUnts on bank and brae ' ? No ; 
 I never saw one ; at least I don't remember. I was only a 
 13 
 
210 JANET*B LOVE AND SEBYIOE. 
 
 child when I came away. Oh ! how Qxaeme would like to 
 see them. And I must tell Janei A real gowan I * Wee, 
 modest, crimson-tipped flower* — ^you mind? And here is a 
 white one, 'With silver crest and golden eye.' Oh I if 
 Graeme could only see them I Give me just one for my 
 sister who is ill. She has gathered them on the braes at 
 home." 
 
 " Ahem I I don't know/' said her friend, in a changed voice. 
 "These are Miss Elphinstone's own flowers. I wouldna 
 just like to meddle with them. But you can ask her yoiu> 
 sett" 
 
 Bose turned. The pretty young lady of the pony-carri- 
 age, was standing beside her. Bose's confusion was too 
 deep for words. She felt for a minute as though she miist 
 run away, but thought better of it, and murmured something 
 about the flowers being so beautiful, and about not wishing 
 to intrude. The young lady's answer was to stoop do^m 
 and gather a handful of flowers, gowans, sweet peas, violets 
 and mignonette. When she gave them into Bose's hand she 
 asked, 
 
 "Is your sister very ill? I have seen the doctor going 
 often to your house." 
 
 " She is getting better now. She has been very ilL The 
 doctor says she will soon be well" 
 
 " And ha^e you taken care of her all the time ? Is there no 
 one else T 
 
 "I have taken care of her, Nelly Anderson and I, all the 
 day, and our brothers are home at nighi" 
 
 "I am glad she is getting better. Is she fond of flowers. 
 Mr. Stirling is thinking I haven't arranged mine nicely, but 
 you can do that when you put them in water, you know." 
 
 "Oh! thank you. They are beautiful Yes, Graeme is 
 very fond of flowers. This will be like a bit of smmner to 
 her, real summer in the country, I mean. And besides, she 
 has gathered gowans on the braes at homa" vx ' 
 
 " I am a Canadian," said the young lady. "I never saw 
 the * gowany braes,' but I shall see them soon." : w < 
 
janet'b love and sebvioe. 211 
 
 They had reached the gate by this time. 
 
 " Oome again, soon. Gome into the garden, whenever you 
 like. I am sure Mr. Stirling will like to show you his 
 flowers, you are so fond of them. I think a few of his 
 would improve your bouquei" 
 
 Mr. Stirling touched his hat to his young lady. 
 
 "I shall be proud to show the flowers to Miss Rose, and I 
 shall have the honor of making her a bouquet soon." The 
 young lady laughed. 
 
 "Tou are to be a favorite. Is your name Bose," added 
 she, lingering by the gate. 
 
 " Yes, Bose EUiott. I am the youngest. We all Hve over 
 there, my brothers, and Graeme and L It would be a 
 dreary place, if it were not for the glimpse we get of your gar^ 
 den. Looli^ there is NeUy looking for me. I am afraid I have 
 hindered Arthur. Thank you very much, and good-bye." 
 
 Bose shyly put forth her hand. The young lady took it in 
 both hers, and drawing her within the gate again, kissed her 
 softly, and let her go. 
 
 "Stirling," said she, as she turned toward the house, 
 " how did you know the young lady's name is Bose ? is she 
 a friend of yours ? Do you know her ?'* 
 
 " I know her face, that is all. I have seen her for hours 
 together, looking in on the garden from that upper window. 
 And whiles she looks through the gate. I heard her broth- 
 ers calling her .^ae. She 's a bonny lassie, and kens a flow- 
 er when she sees it." 
 
 That night, Nelly was startled into a momentary foi^tful- 
 ness of her thick shoes, and her good manners, and came 
 rofihing into Graeme's room, where they were all sitting after 
 tea, bearing a bouquet, which a man, " maybe a gentleman," 
 NeUy seemed in doubt, had sent i^ with lojia compliments to 
 Miss Bose Elliott. A bouquet I it would have won the prize 
 at any floral exhibition in the land, and never after that, 
 while the autumn frosts spared them, were they without flow- 
 ers. Even when the autunm beauties hung shrivelled and 
 l^lack on their stems, and afterwards, when the snows of 
 
212 Janet's love and beevioe. 
 
 winter lay many feet above the pretty garden beds, many a 
 rare hot-house blossom brightened the little parlor, where 
 by that time Graeme was able to appear. 
 
 "For," said Mr. Stirling, to the admiring Nelly, "such 
 were Miss Elphinstone's directions before she went away, 
 and besides, directions or no directions, the flowers are well 
 bestowed on folk that take real pleasure in their beauty." 
 
 The autumn and winter passed pleasantly away. As 
 Graeme grew strong, she grew content. The children 
 were well and happy, and Arthur's business was pros- 
 pering in a wonderful way, and all anxiety about ways and 
 means, might be put aside for the present They often 
 heard from Norman, and from their friends in Merleville, 
 and Graeme felt that with so much to make her thankful and 
 happy, it would be ungrateful indeed to be otherwise. 
 
 In the spring, they removed to another house. It was in 
 town, but compared with the only one they had left, it seemed to 
 be quite in the country. For the street was not closely built xtp, 
 and it stood in the middle of a Uttle garden, which soon be* 
 came beautiful under the transforming hands of Eose and 
 her brothers. There was a green field behind the house too, 
 and the beautiful mountain was plainly visible from it; and 
 half an hour's walk could take them to more than one place, 
 vrhere there was not a house to be seen. The house itself 
 seemed like a palace, after the narrow brick one they had 
 just left It was larger than they needed, Graeme thought, 
 and the rent was higher than they could well afford, but the 
 garden was enough to content them with everything else. 
 It was a source of health, if not of wealth, to them all, and 
 a never failing source of delight besides. Their new home 
 was quite away from Mr. Stirling's end of town, but he found 
 time to come and look at their garden every week or two, and 
 his gifts of roots, and seeds, and good advice were invalua- 
 ble. 
 
 This w&ii a short and pleasant summer to them alL It 
 is wonderful how much pleasure can be made out of the 
 quiet every-day duties of hfe, by young and happy people on 
 
JAI^Et's love and 8EBVICE. 213 
 
 the watch for pleasant things. To Will and Boeie eveiything 
 was delightful. The early marketing with Nelly, to which 
 Graeme and Arthur, and sometimes even Harry was be- 
 guiled, never lost its charm for them. Harry had lived in town, 
 long enough, to permit himself to be a little scornful of the 
 pleasure which the rest took, in wandering up and down 
 among the vi^etables and fruits, and other wares in the 
 great market, and made himself merry over ^vosie's penchant 
 for making acquaintance with the old French woman and lit- 
 tle children whom they mei He mystified Rose and her 
 j&iends by his free interpretation of both French and English, 
 and made the rest merry too ; so it was generally considered 
 a great thing when he could be induced to rise early enough 
 to go with them. 
 
 Sometimes they went in the early boats to the other side 
 of the river, a pleasure to be scorned by none on lovely sum- 
 mer mornings ; and they would return home with appetites 
 ready to do honor to the efforts of Nelly and Miss Beecher. 
 Sometimes when a holiday came, it was spent by the whole 
 family, Nelly and all, at Lachine or the Back Biver, or on 
 the top of the mountain. All this may seem stupid enough 
 to them who are in the habit of searching long, and going 
 far for pleasure, but with the help of books and pencils, and 
 lively conversation, the Elliotts were able to find a great deal 
 of enjoyment at such holiday times. 
 
 They had pleasures of another kind, too. Arthur's tempo- 
 rary connection with one of the city newspapers, placed at 
 ^their disposal magazines, and a new book now and then, as 
 well as tickets for lectures and concerts, and there was 
 seldom a treat of the kind but was highly enjoyed by one or 
 other of themu 
 
 They had not many acquaintances at this time. In Janet's 
 estimation, the averseness of Graeme to bring herself in con- 
 tact with strangers, had been a serious defect in her charac- 
 ter. It was easier to avoid this in the town than it used to 
 bo in the country, Graeme found. Besides, she had no 
 bnger the sense of pariah responsibilities as a minister's 
 
214 Janet's love ajud sebvioe. 
 
 daugbter, and was mdined for quietness. Once or twice she 
 made a great effort, and went with an acquaintance to the 
 " sewing meetings " of the ladies of the church which they 
 attended ; but it cost her a great deal of self-denial to very 
 little purpose it seemed to her, and so she compromised the 
 matter with her conscience, by working for, and being very 
 kind indeed, to a family of little motherless girls, who lived 
 in a lane near their house, and staid at home. She was b) 
 no means sm'e that she did right. For everybody knows, or 
 ought to know, how praiseworthy is the self-denial which is 
 willing to give up an afternoon every week, or every second 
 week, to the making of pincushions, and the netting of 
 tidies, which are afterwards to appear in the form of curtains 
 or pulpit covers, or organs, or perhaps in the form of ga^ 
 ments for those who have none. But then, though the 
 "sewing-circle" is the generally approved and orthodox 
 outlet for the benevolent feelings and efforts of those dear 
 ladies who love to do goody but who are apt to be bored by 
 moth^less Httle girls, and other poor people, who Kve in 
 garrets, and out of the way places, difficult of access, it is 
 just possible that direct efforts in their behalf may be accepted 
 too. One thing is certain, though Graeme did not find it 
 easy for awhile to satisfy herself as to the '^ moral quality" of 
 the motive which kept her at home, the Httle Finlays were all 
 the happier and better for the time she conscientiously 
 bestowed on them and their affairs. 
 
 They made some acquaintances that summer, and very 
 pleasant ones, too. Arthur used sometimes to bring home 
 to their six o'clock dinner, a friend or two of his-— clients 
 from the country, or a young lavyyer, or lavvyer*s clerk, to 
 whom the remembrance of his own first lonely days in the 
 city made him wish to show kindness. There were two or 
 three gay French lads of the latter class who, strange to say, 
 had taken a great liking to the grave and steady Arthtir, 
 and who often came to pass an evening at his pleasant fire> 
 side. Qraeme was shy of them for awhile, not being clear 
 as to Ihe principles and practice of the French as a people, 
 
JANITT'b LOYE A2n> BEBYIOE. 215 
 
 and as for Bose, the yeiy sight of these polite monstached 
 gentlemen suggested historical names and events, which it 
 was not at all comfortable to think aboui But these light* 
 hearted Canadian lads soon proved themselves to be as 
 worthy of esteem as though English had been their mother 
 tongua Very agreeable visitors they were, with their nice 
 gentlemanly manners, their good humor, and their music ; 
 and far better subjects for the exercise of Bosie's French than 
 the old market women were, and in a little while they never 
 came but they were kindly welcomed. 
 
 This was a busy time, too. Graeme taught Bosie English, 
 and they studied together French and German, and music ; 
 and were in a fair way, Harry dedared, of becoming a pair 
 of very learned ladies indeed. Very busy and happy ladies 
 they were, which was a matter of greater importance. And 
 if sometimes it came into Graeme's mind, that the life they 
 were living was too pleasant to last, the thought did not 
 make her unhappy, but humble and watchful, lest that 
 which was pleasant in their lot should make them forgetful 
 of life's true end. 
 
 >v'; id^ ., , 
 

 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 ^ ^ nrT is just three yeaxs to-night since we came to !S1 
 i Did you remember it, Arthur ? " said Graeme, looking 
 up from her work. 
 
 "Is it possible that it can be three years?" said Arthur, 
 in surprise. 
 
 " It has been a very happy time/' said Graeme. 
 
 Bose left her book and came and seated herself on the 
 arm of her brother's chair. Arthur took the cigar from his 
 lips, and gently puffed the smoke into his sister's face. Bose 
 did not heed it 
 
 "Three years!" repeated she. ^I was quite a child 
 then." 
 
 The others laughed, but Bose went on without heeding. 
 
 " It rained that night, and then we had a great many hot, 
 dusty days. How well I remember the time I Graeme was 
 ill and homesick^ and we wished so much for Janet." 
 
 " That was only at first, till yon proved yourself such a 
 wonderful nurse and housekeeper/' said Graeme ; "and you 
 were not at all h(nnesick yourself I suppose ? " 
 
 "Perhaps just a Uttle at first, in those hot» dreary tiays," 
 said Bose, gravely ; "but I was not homesick very long. ' 
 
 "I am afraid there were a good many dreary days about 
 that time — ^more than you let me know about," said Arthur. 
 I Graeme smiled and shook her head. 
 
 "I am afraid you had a good many anxious days about 
 that time. If I had known how hard you would have to 
 work, I think I would have staid in Merieville after alL" 
 
 "Poohl Nonsense I Hard work is wholesome. And at 
 (216) 
 
Janet's love aot) sebvice. Jil7 
 
 tihe veiy worst time, what with one thing and another, wo 
 had a larger income than my father had in Merleville." 
 
 " But that was quite different — " 
 
 " Did I tell you that I have got a new client? I have done 
 business for Mr. Stone before, but to-day it was intimated to 
 me, that henceforth I am to be the legal adviser of the pros- 
 perous firm of * Grove & Stona* It wiU add something to 
 our income, Httle woman." 
 
 Rose clapped her hands, and stooping down, whispered 
 something in her brother's ear. 
 
 ** Don't be planning any extravagance, you two, on the 
 strength of * Grove & Stone.' You know any superfluous 
 wealth we may have, is already appropriated," said Gi'aeme. 
 
 ''To the MerleviUe visit. But this is not at all an extrava- 
 gance, is it, Arthur ? " said Bose. 
 
 "That depends . I am afraid Graeme is the best 
 
 judge. But we won't tell her to-night. We must break the 
 matter to her gently," said Arthur. 
 
 " Graeme is so dreadfully prudent," sighed Bose^ 
 
 Graeme laughed. 
 
 "It is wdl there is one prudent one among us." 
 
 " I don't believe she would at all approve -oi your smoking 
 another cigar, for instance. They are nicer than usual, are 
 they not?" said Bose, inhaling the fragrance from her bro- 
 ther's case. 
 
 "Yes. I treated myself to a few of the very best, on the 
 strength of Grove & Stone. They are very nice. Have one ? " 
 
 Bose took it with great gravity. 
 
 "Suppose we take a httle walk first, and smoke after- 
 wards," said she, ooaxingly. 
 
 Arthur made a grimace. 
 
 " And where will you beguile me to, when you get me fair- 
 ly out?" 
 
 '* There is no telling, indeed," said Bose. '* Graeme, I am 
 going to put on my new hai When Mr. Elliott honors us 
 with his company, we must look our very best, you know." 
 
218 Janet's love aitd sebyioe. 
 
 "But, Arthur, yon have an engagement to-night. Don't 
 you remember ? " asked Graeme. 
 
 "To Mrs. Barnes',** said Rose. "Miss Cressly brought 
 home my dress to-day, and she told me all about ii Her 
 sister is nurse there. The party is to be quite a splendid 
 afijEiir. It is given in honor of Miss Grove, who has just come 
 home. I "wish I were going with you.*' ,g 
 
 **You may go without me. I will give you my invitation. > 
 It is a great bore, and I don't beheve I shall go. I don't see 
 the good of it." ^ 
 
 "But you promised," said Graeme. 
 
 **Well, I suppose I must go for a while. But it is very 
 stupid." 
 
 "Just as if you could make us believe that. It must he 
 delightful I think it 's veiy stupid of you and Graeme, not 
 to lOce parties." 
 
 "You forget. I was not asked," said Graeme. 
 
 " But you might have been, if you had returned Mrs. Barnes* 
 call soon enough. How nice it would have been! I wish I 
 were Miss Grove, to have a party given for me. She is a 
 beauty, they say. You must notice her dress, Arthur, and 
 tell me all about it" 
 
 ** Oh 1 certainly," said Arthur, gravely. " 111 take particu- 
 lar notice. But come, get your hats. There is time enough 
 for a walk before I go. Haste, Eosie, before the finest of the 
 evening is past. Are you coming, Will. ? Man I you shouldna 
 read by that light. You will blind yoursell Put away your 
 book, you 11 be all the better for a walk" 
 
 They lingered a moment at the gate. 
 
 " Here is Harr^ ! " exclaimed Rose. *' And aoaa one with 
 him. Charlie Millar, I think." ^ : 
 
 " "We will wait for them," said Arthur. 
 
 The look that came to Graeme's face, as she stood watching 
 her brother's coming, told that the shadow of a new care was 
 brooding over her, and the light talk of her brother and sis* 
 ter told that it was one they did not see. She stood back a 
 
Janet's love and bervioe. 219 
 
 Ktile, while they exchanged greetings, and looked at Harry 
 with anxious eyes. 
 
 "Are you going out, Graeme?" asked he, coming within 
 the gate. 
 
 " Only to walk. Will you go with us ? Or shall I stay ? '* 
 
 "Miss Elliott," interposed Charlie MilJtar, "I beg you will 
 not. He does n't deserve it at your hands. He is as cross 
 as possible. Besides, we are going to D. street, by invitation, 
 to meet the new partner. He came yesterday. Did Harry 
 tell you?" 
 
 " Harry did not come home last night. "What kept you, 
 Harry?" asked Eose. 
 
 "We were kept till a most unreasonable hour, and Harry 
 staid with me last night," said Charlia 
 
 *' And of course Gra-eme staid up till all hours of the night, 
 waiting for me," said Harry, with an echo of impatience in 
 his voice. 
 
 " Of course she did no such foolish thing. I saw to that," 
 said Arthur. *' But which is it to be ? A walk, or a quiet 
 visit at homye ? " 
 
 "Oh! a walk, by all means," said Charlie Millar. 
 
 " I have a great mind not to go," said Harry. 
 
 " Nonsense, man I One would think you were about to re- 
 ceive the reward of your evil deeds. I refer to you. Miss 
 Elliott. Would it be respectful to the new firm, if he were to 
 refuse to go?" 
 
 " Bother the new firm," said Harry, impatiently. 
 
 " The new partner, you mean. He has taken a most un- 
 reasonable dislike to my brother at first sight— calls him 
 proud, and a snob, because he happens to be shy and awk- 
 ward vnth strangers." 
 
 ** Shy ! A six-footer, mth. a beard enough for three. After 
 that 1 11 vanish," said Harry. 
 
 " I don't think Harry is very polite," said Rose. 
 
 *"* Never mind. There are better things in the world than 
 politeness. He will be more reasonable by and by," said 
 Harry's friend. 
 
220 janet's love and sesvicb. 
 
 *' So your brother has come," said Graeme. " How lojig jg 
 it since you have seen him ? " 
 
 " Oh I not for ten years. He was home once after he came 
 out here, but I was away at school, and did not see him. I . 
 remembered ^n'm quite well, however. He is not spoiled by 
 his wanderings, as my mother used to fear he might be ; " then 
 he added, as Harry reappeared, '' the fact is. Miss i'Elliott, 
 he expected to be asked to dinner. We must overlook his 
 ill-temper." 
 
 " By aU means," said Graeme, laughing. 
 
 " Thank you," said Harry. " And I 'U try to be patient." 
 
 " Well, diall we go now ? " said Arthur, who had been . 
 waiting patiently through it alL The others followed him 
 andWilL 
 
 " Is your brother going to remain here ? " asked Graeme. 
 " That will be nice for you." 
 
 " Yes, on some accounts it would be nice. But if they send 
 Harry off to fill his place at the West, I shall not like that, 
 unless, indeed, they send us botL And I am not sure I 
 should Uke that long." 
 
 " Send Harry ! " exclaimed Graeme. 
 
 "Nonsense, Graeme 1" said Harry. "That is some of 
 CharUe's stuff." 
 
 " I hope so ; but we 11 see," said Charlie. " Miss Elliott, 
 I had a letter from my mother to-day." The lad's eyes soflr 
 ened, as he turned them on Graeme. 
 
 " Have you ? " said Graeme, turning away from her own 
 thoughtstointerest herself in his pleasure. "Is she quite well?" 
 
 '^ Yes, ^e is much better than she was, and. Miss Elliott^ 
 she sends her love to you, and her best thanks." 
 
 " For what ? " said Graeme, smiling. 
 
 " Oh 1 you know quite well for what. What should I have 
 done, if it had not been for you and Harry ? I mean if you 
 had not let me come to your house sometimes." 
 
 "Stuff I" said Harry. 
 
 " Truth I" said Charlie. " I never shall forget the misery 
 of my first months, till Harry came into our office. It has 
 
Janet's love and seevioe. 221 
 
 been quite different since the nigbt he brought me to your 
 house, and you were so kind as to ask me to come again." 
 
 "Tliat was no great self-denial on our part," said Graeme, 
 smiling. 
 
 "You minded Graeme on some one she used to know long 
 ago," said Eose. "And, besides, you are from Scotland-** i 
 
 Both lads laughed. 
 
 "And Graeme feels a motherly interest in all Scottish lad- 
 dies, however unworthy they may be,'* said Harry. 
 
 And so they rambled on about many things, till they came 
 to the gate of Mr. Elphinstone's garden, beyond which Arthur 
 and Will, were loitering. 
 
 " How pretty the garden is ! " said Rose. " Look, Graeme, 
 at that little girl in the window. I wonder whether the 
 flowers give her as much pleasure, as they used to give me.'* 
 
 " I am afraid she does not get so many of them as you used 
 to get," said Graeme. 
 
 "Come in and let me gather you some," said Charlie. 
 
 " No, indeed. I should not venture. Though I went in 
 the first time without an invitation. And you dare not pick 
 Mr. Stirling's flowers." 
 
 " Dare I not ? ** said Charlie, reaching up to gather a large 
 spray from a climbing rose, that reached high above the wall 
 
 " Oh ! don't. Oh I thank you,'' said Rose. 
 
 As far down as they could see for the evergreens and horse- 
 chestnuts a white dress gleamed, and dose beside the little 
 feet that peeped out beneath it, a pair of shining boots crushed 
 the gravel. 
 
 "Look," said Rose, drawing back. 
 
 " The new partner," said Harry, with a whistle. "A double 
 partnership — eh, Charlie?" ^ 
 
 " I shouldn't wonder," said Charhe, looking wise. 
 
 " He knows what he's about, that brother of yours. He's 
 cute. He knows a thing or two, I guess." 
 
 " Harry," said Rose, gravely, " don't talk slang. And I 
 don't think it very polite to speak that way to Mr. Millar 
 about his brother." 
 
222 Janet's loye and bebyicb. 
 
 "My dear Bosie, I am not talking slang, but the pme 
 American language ; and I think you are more considerate 
 about other people's brothers than you are of your own. 
 Twice this night I have heard your brother called cross and 
 disagreeable, without rebuke." 
 
 " You deserved it," said Bose, laughing. 
 
 " Miss Bose," said Charlie, " let your smile beam on him 
 for one moment, and he can't look cross for the rest of the 
 evening." 
 
 Bose turned her laughing face to her brother. 
 
 "Be a good boy, Harry. Good bye." 
 
 As they returned. Will, and Bose went on before, while 
 Graeme lingered with Arthur. 
 
 " Did you hear what Mr. Millar said about the possibility 
 of Harry's being sent West ? It must be to take the new 
 partner's place, I suppose," said Graeme, after a Httle. 
 
 " No ; did he say so ? It would be a capital good thing 
 for Harry." 
 
 "Do you think so ? He would have to leave home." 
 
 "Yes ; that would be a pity, of course ; but the opening 
 for him would be a very good one. I doubt whether there 
 is much in it, however. Harry has been for so short a 
 time in the employment of the firm, and he is very young 
 for a place so rei^onsible. Still, it may be. I know they 
 have great confidence in him." 
 
 There was a pause, and they walked slowly on. 
 
 " Arthur," said Graeme, in a low voice. " Do you think 
 Harry is — quite steady ? " 
 
 " Steady," repeated Arthur, in a surprised and shocked tone. 
 " Why should you doubt it ? " 
 
 Graeme strove to speak quietly, but her hand trembled on 
 her brother's arm, and he knew it cost her an effort, i '' 
 I "I dare say there is no cause for doubt Still, I thought I 
 ought to speak to you. You wiU know better than I ; and, 
 you must not think that I am unkind in speaking thus about 
 Harry." 
 
 "You unkind 1 No ; I should think two or three things 
 
' jAxrar's LOVE and sebyiob. 223 
 
 ) before I thought that Bat tell me why you have any 
 
 "You know, Arthur, Harry has been very late in coming 
 home, a good many times lately; and sometimes he has 
 not come at alL And once or twice — more indeed — ^he has 
 been excited, more than excited — and — " 
 
 Graeme could not go on. 
 
 " Still, Graeme, I do not think there ib any real cause for 
 apprehension. He is young and full of spirit, and his society 
 is sought after — ^too much for his good, I dare say. But he 
 has too much sense to give us any real cause for uneasiness 
 on that ground. Why, Graeme, in F. street Hany is thought 
 much of for his sense and talent." 
 
 Graeme sighed. There came into her mind something 
 that her father had once said, about gallant ships being 
 wrecked at last But she did not speaL 
 , " Shall I speak to him, Graeme ? What would you like me 
 to do? I don't think there is much to fear for him." 
 
 " Well, I will think so, too. No ; don't speak to ^ a yet. 
 It was hearing that he might be sent away, that made me 
 speak to-nighi I dare say I am foolish." 
 
 They walked on in silence for a Httle, and then Graeme 
 
 ** I hope it is only that I am foolish. But we have been so 
 happy lately ; and I mind, papa and Janet both said to me — 
 it was just when we were beginning to fear for Menie — ^that 
 just as soon as people were beginning to settle down content, 
 some change would come. It proved so then." 
 
 *'Yes ; I imppose so," said Arthur, with a sigh. "We mvMi 
 expect chang-ep. ; and scarcely any change would be for the 
 better as £Eur as we are concerned. But, Graeme, we must 
 not allow ourselves to become fanciful And I am quite sure 
 that after all your care for Harry, and for us all, you will not 
 have to suffer on his account. That would be too sad." 
 
 They said no more till they overtook the children, — as Bose 
 and WilL were still called in this happy household. 
 
 "I have a good mind not to go, after alL I would much 
 
it 
 if 
 
 224 Janet's love ajsd sebtiob. 
 
 rather stay qnietly at home/' said Arthur, sitting down on the 
 steps. 
 
 "But you promised," said Graeme. "Ton must go. I 
 will get a light, and you need not stay long." 
 
 " You must go, of course," said Bose. " And Graeme and 
 I will have a nice quiet evening. I am going to practise tiie 
 new music you brought home." >f1 
 
 A quiet evening," said Will. 
 
 ' Yes ; I have rather neglected my music of late, and 
 other things, too. I 'm sure, I don't know where the time goee 
 to. I wish I were going with you, Arthur." 
 
 " You are for better at home." 4 
 
 "Yes, indeed," said Graeme ; and Will, added, i 
 
 "A child like Rosie!" 
 
 "Well, be sure and look well at all the dresses, especially 
 Miss Grove's, and tell me all about them." 
 
 " Y68 ; especially Miss Grove, if I get a glimpse of her in 
 the crowd, which is doubtful" 
 
 ** Well, good night," said Bose. " I don't believe there 
 will be a gentleman there to compare to you." 
 
 Arthur bowed low. 
 
 " I suppose I ought to say there wiU be no one there to 
 compare with you. And I would, if I could conscientiouElly. 
 But ' fine feathers make fine birds,' and Miss Grove aspires 
 to be a belle it seems, — and many who don't aspire to such 
 distinction, will, with the help of the dressmaker, eclipse the 
 little Scottish Bose of our garden. Good night to you all— 
 and Graeme, mind you are not to sit up for me past your 
 usual time." - o^^f 
 
 i He went away, leaving Bose to her practising, WilL to his 
 books, and Graeme to pace up and down the gallery in the 
 moonlight, and think her own thoughts. They were not very 
 sad thoughts, though Arthur feared they might be. Her 
 brother's astonishment at her fears for Harry, had done much 
 to reassure her with regard to him ; for surely, if there were 
 daii^ci' for Harry, Arthur would see it ; and she began to be 
 indignant with herself for having spoken at alL , . ,. 
 
Janet's love aitd sebvice. 225 
 
 "Arthur will think I am foolish. He will think that I have 
 lost confidence in Harry, which is not true. I wish I were 
 more hopefoL I wish I did not take fright at the very first 
 shadow. Janet aye said that the first gloom of the cloud 
 troubled me more than the falling of the shower should do. 
 Such folly to suppose that anything could happen to our 
 Harry 1 I won't think about it. And even if Harry has to go 
 away, I will believe with Arthm*, that will be for the best He 
 will be near Norman, at any rate, and that will be a great 
 deal Norman will be glad. And I will not fear changes. 
 Why should I ? They cannot come to us unsent. I will 
 trust in God." 
 
 But quite apart from the thought of Harr/s temptation or 
 prospects, there was in Graeme's heart a sense of j)ain. She 
 was not quite satisfied in looking back over these pleasant 
 years. She feared she had been beginning to settle down 
 content with their pleasant life, forgetting higher things. 
 Except the thought about Harry, which had come and gone, 
 and come again a good many times within the last few 
 months, there had scarcely been a trouble in their life during 
 these two years and more. She had almost forgotten how it 
 would seem, to waken each morning to the knowledge that 
 painful, self-denying duties lay before her. Even household 
 care, Nelly*s skill and will, had put far from her. 
 
 And now as she thought about all of this, it came into her 
 mind how her father and Janet had always spoken of Hfe as 
 a warfare — a struggle, and the Bible so spoke of it, too. She 
 thought of Janet's long years of self-denial, her toils, her dis- 
 appointments ; and how she had always accepted her lot as no 
 uncommon one, but as appointed to her by God. She thought 
 of her father — ^how, even in the most tranquil times of his 
 life— the time she could remember best, the peaceful years in 
 MerleviUe, he had given himself no rest, but watched for 
 souls as one who must give account. Yes, life was a warfare. 
 Not always VTith outward foes. The struggle need not be one 
 that a lookeron could measure or see, but the warfare must 
 be maintained — ^the struggle must only cease with hfe. It 
 14 
 
226 Janet's love and bebyioe. 
 
 had been so with her father, she knew ; and through his ex- 
 perience, Graeme caught a gUmpseof that wonderful paradox 
 of the hfe that is hid with Christ in God, — constant warfare 
 — and peace that is abiding ; and could the true peace be with* 
 out the warfare? she asked herself And what was awaiting 
 them after all these tranquil days ? 
 
 It was not the fear that this might be the lull before the stonn 
 that pained her, so much as the doubt whether this quiet 
 time had been turned to the best account Had she been to 
 her brothers all that father had beUered she would be ? Had 
 her influence always been decidedly on the side where her 
 father's and her mother's would have been ? They had been 
 very happy together, but were her brothers really better and 
 stronger Christian men, because of her ? And if, as she had 
 sometimes feared, Hany were to go astray, could she be alto- 
 gether free from blame ? 
 
 The friends that had gathered around them during these 
 years, were not just the kind of friends they would have 
 made, had her father instead of her brother been at the head 
 of the household ; and the remembrance of the pleasure they 
 had taken in the society of some who did not think as their 
 father had done on the most important of all matters, came 
 back to her now like a sin. And yet if this hari worked for 
 evil among them, it was indirectly ; for it was the influence 
 of no one whom they called their friend that she fet^red for 
 Harry. She always came back to Harry in her thoughts. 
 
 *' But I win not fear for him," she repeated often. " I will 
 trust God's care for Harry and us aU. Surely I need not fear. 
 I think I have been beginning at the wrong end of my tangled 
 thoughts to-night. Outward circumstances cannot make 
 much difference, surely. H we are humble and trustful God 
 will guide us.'* ; m 
 
 And busy still with thoughts from which renewed trust 
 had taken the sting, Graeme sat still in the moonlight, till 
 the sound of approaching footsteps recalled her to the pres- 
 ent. - ' - 1 -• V ■ ■**< i.-.i-''*^'^ ■ 
 
nX 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE shining boots crushed ihe gravel, and the white 
 dress gleamed through the darkness, some time after 
 the young men were seated in Mr. Elphinstone's handsome 
 drawing-room. The master of the mansion sat alone when 
 they entered, gazing into a small, bright coal fire, which, 
 though it was not much past midsummer, burned in the 
 grate. For Mr. Elphinstone was an invaUd, with little hope 
 of being other than an invaUd all his life, though he was by 
 no means an old man yei 
 
 If he had been expecting visitors, he had forgotten it, for 
 ihey had come quite close to him before he looked up, and 
 he quite started at the sound of Mr. Millar's voice. He rose 
 and received them courteously and kindly, however. Mr. 
 Elphinstona in his own drawing-room was a different person, 
 or rather, he showed a different manner from Mr. Elphinstone 
 in his counting-room in intercourse with his derks, and Harry, 
 who had had none but business intercourse with him, was 
 struck with the difference. It required an effort for him to 
 realize that the bland, gentle voice was the same that he had 
 80 often heard in brief and prompt command. 
 
 Business was to be ignored to-night, however. Their talk 
 was of quite other matters. There was an allusion to the 
 new partnership, and to Mr. Millar's half-brother, the new 
 partner, who at the moment, as they all knew, was passmg 
 along the garden walk with a little white hand on his coat- 
 sleeve. This was not alluded to, however, though each 
 thought his own thoughts about it^ in the midst of their talk. 
 That those of Mr. Elphinstone were rather agreeable to him- 
 
 (227) 
 
vV -Cv- T'^ „f"i*: 
 
 228 * JANET*8 LOVE AND SEEVIOE. 
 
 self, the lads could plainly see. He had no son, and that his 
 partner and nephew should fall into a son's place was an 
 idea that pleased him weU. Indeed, it had cost him some 
 self-denial to-night not to intimate as much to him after the 
 pretty LUias had withdrawn, and the smile that Harry was 
 stealthily watching on his face, was called up by the remem- 
 brance of the admiration which his daughter had evidently 
 called forth. Harry watched the smile, and in his heart 
 called the new partner "luolrjr," and "cute," and looked at 
 Charlie's discontented face with a comic astonishment that 
 would ha\ e excited some grave astonishment to their host^ 
 if by any chance he had looked up to see. Though why 
 Charlie should look discontented about it, Harry could not 
 well see. 
 
 They talked about indiflferent matters with a little effort 
 till the white dress gleamed in the firelight, and a soft voice 
 said — 
 
 "What, still in the dark, papa!" 
 
 The Hghts came in, and Harry was introduced to Miss El- 
 phinstone. He had shared Bosie's interest ui the lady of the 
 pony carriage, long ago, and had sometimes seen and spoken 
 with her in the garden in those days, but he had not seen 
 her since her return from Scotland, where her last three years 
 had been spent. A very sweet-looking and graceftd little 
 lady she was, though a little silent and shy at first, perhaps 
 in sympathy, Harry thought, with the tall, bearded gentleman 
 who had come in with her. 
 
 It was evidently Harry's interest to be on good terms with 
 the new partner, and common politeness might have sug- 
 gested the propriety of some appearance of interest in him 
 and his conversation. But he turned his back upon the 
 group by the fire, and devoted himself to the entertainment ' 
 of their young hostess who was by this time busy with her 
 tesrcups in another part of the room. There was some talk 
 about the weather and the voyage and sea-sickness, and in 
 the first little pause that came, the young lady looked up and 
 said, - ,^ J f. 
 
janet's love and sebyioe. 229 
 
 "You don't live in the house opposite now, I think." 
 
 It was the first voluntary remark she had made, and thank< 
 fill for a new opening, Harry said, 
 
 « No ; my sisters were never quite contented there. We 
 left it as soon as possible ; and we are quite at the other end 
 of the town now." 
 
 " And is your little sister as fond of flowers as ever T 
 
 "Rose? Oh, yes! She has a garden of her own now, 
 and aspires to rival the pansies and verbenas of Mr. Stirling, 
 even." » 
 
 Miss Elphinstone smiled brightly. 
 
 "I remember the first time she came into the garden." 
 
 "Yes, that Tra,s a bright day in Rosie's life. She has the 
 gowans you gave her still. The garden was a great resource 
 to her in those days." 
 
 " Yes ; so die said. I was very glad. I never gathered 
 gowans among the hills at h me, but I seemed to see that 
 pretty shy face looking up at me." 
 
 "Yes," said Harry, meditatively," Rose was a very pretty 
 duld." 
 
 Mr. Millar had drawn near by this time. Indeed, the other 
 gentlemen were listening too, and when Miss Elphinstone 
 looked up it was to meet a very wondering look from the new 
 partner. 
 
 **By the by, Mr. Elliott," said her father, breaking rather 
 suddenly into the conversation, " whom did your elder brother 
 many Y* 
 
 ^ *' Marry 1" repeated Charles. 
 « "He is not married," said Harry. 
 
 ' "No ? Well he is to be, I suppose. I saw him walking 
 the other day with a young lady. Indeed, I have often seen 
 them together, and I thought — " ,, 
 
 j"It was my sister, I presume," said Harry. V 
 
 "Perhaps so. She was rather tall, with a pale, grave face 
 -but pretty — quite beautiful indeed." 
 
 I "It was Graeme, I daresty. I don't know whether other 
 p^ple think her beautiful or not." 
 
■f ■ :'^:-"™>J. .'^- K':v<v 
 
 2J0 JANETS LOVE AND BEBVIOE. 
 
 Harry did not say it, but ho was thinking that his sister 
 seemed beautiful to them all at home, and his dark eyes took 
 the tender look of Graeme's own as he thought. It vanished 
 quickly as a heavy hand was laid on his shoulder, and he 
 turned to meet the look of the new partner. 
 
 " You don't mean that you are the Harry Elliott that sailed 
 with me in the * Steadfast,* ten years ago." 
 
 "Yes, I am Harry EUiott, and I crossed the sea in the 
 * Steadfast ' ten years ago. I knew you at the first glance, Mr. 
 Ruthven." 
 
 "I never should have known you in the least,*' said Mr. 
 Buthven. " Why, you were quite a Httle fellow, and now you 
 can nearly look down on me." 
 
 "I never thought of that^" said Harry, looking foolish. 
 
 ''And you thought the new partner fancied himself too 
 big a man to know you,'* said Charlie. " And that 's the rea* 
 son you took umbrage at him, and told your sister he was— 
 ahem, Harry?" "\t 
 
 Miss Elphinstone's laugh recalled Charlie to a sense of 
 propriety, and Harry looked more foolish than ever. Bnt 
 Mr. Buthven did not seem to notice what they were 
 saying. 
 
 " I never should have known you. I see your father*s look 
 in you now — and you have your elder sister's eyes. Why did 
 you not write to me as you promised ?" 
 
 "We did write — Norman and I both, and afterwards 
 Graeme. We never heard a word from you." 
 
 "You forget, it was not decided where you were to settle 
 when I left you. You promised to write and tell me. I 
 wrote several times to your father's friend in C — , but I never 
 heard from him." ^ '^ 
 
 " He died soon after we arrived," said Haray. * 
 
 "And afterward I heard of a Bev. Mr. Elliott in the west- 
 ern part of New York, and went a day's journey thinking I 
 had found you all at last But I found tiiis Mr. Elliott ^as 
 a very young man, an EngUshman — a fine fellow, too. ^M 
 I was greatly disappointed.'^ 
 
 j{i*JW fW3>5 
 
Janet's love Ain> sebyice. 231 
 
 V Harry's eyes grew to look more like Graeme's than ever, 
 as they met Allan's downward gaze. 
 
 r "I can't tell you how many Mr. Elliotts I have written to, 
 and then I heard of your father's death, Harry, and that your 
 sisters had gone home again to Scotland. I gave up all hope 
 then, tiU last winter, when I heard of a young Elliott, an en- 
 gineer — Norman, too — and when I went in search of him, ho 
 was away from home ; then I went another fifty miles to be 
 disappointed again. They told me he had a sister in a school 
 at — ^ but Bose never could have grown into the fair, blue- 
 eyed little lady I found there, and I knew it could not be 
 either of the others, so I only said I was sorry not to see her 
 brotiier, and went away." 
 Harry listened eagerly. 
 
 ^'I daresay it was our Norman, and the little girl you saw 
 was his adopted sister, Hilda. If Norman had only known" — 
 said Harry. And then he went on to tell of how Norman 
 had saved the little girl from the burning boat, and how he 
 had eared for her since. By and by they spoke of other 
 things and had some music, but the new partner said Uttle, 
 and when it was time for the young men to go, he said he 
 would walk down the street with theuL 
 
 jt. "So, Oharlie, you have found the friends who were so 
 kind to me long ago," said his brother, as they shut the 
 gate. 
 
 >5 > "Yes," said Charlie, eagerly, "I. don't know how I should 
 have Uved in this strange land without them. It has been a 
 dififc rent {dace to me since Harry came to our office, and took 
 me home with him." 
 
 I-/V "And I suppose I am quite forgotten." 
 
 Oh, no, indeed 1" said Harry, and Charlie added — 
 Don't you mind, Harry, your sister Bose said to-night 
 that I reminded Miss Elliott of some one she knew long ago. 
 It was Allan, I daresay, she meant My mother used to say 
 I looked as Allan did when he went away." 
 
 They did not speak again till they came near the house. 
 Then Charlie said : 
 
 tf 
 
232 'jauiet's love and sebvioe. 
 
 " It is not very late, Harry. I wonder whether they are 
 up yet. There is a light." 
 
 " Allan," said Harry, lingering behind, " Marian died be- 
 fore my father. Don*t speak of her to Graeme." 
 
 Graeme was still sitting on the steps. 
 
 " Miss EUiott," whispered Charhe, eagerly, " who is the new 
 partner, do you think ? Did I ever tell you my half-brother's 
 name ? It is Allan Buthven." 
 
 Graeme gave neither start nor cry, but she came forward 
 holding out her hands to the tall figure who came forward 
 with an arm thrown over Harry's shoulder. They were 
 dasped in his. 
 
 " I knew you would come. I was quite sure that some 
 time we should see you again," said Graeme, after a little. 
 
 "And I — I had quite lost hope of ever finding you," said 
 Allan. " I wonder if you have missed me as I have missed A 
 you?" 
 
 " We have been very happy together since we parted fixan 
 you," said Graeme, " and very sorrowful, too. But we never , 
 forgot you, either in joy or sorrow ; and I was always sore 
 that we should see you again." 
 
 They went into the house together. Bose, roused from 
 the sleep into which she had fallen, stood very much 
 amazed beneath the chandelier. 
 
 " You 'U never tell me that my wee white Bose has grown 
 into a flower like this ?" said Allan. 
 
 It was a bold thing for him to do, seeing that Bose was 
 nearly as tall as her sister ; but he clasped her in his arms 
 and kissed her " cheek and chin " as he had done that misty 
 morning on the deck of the *' Stead&st " so many years ago. 
 
 " Bose," said Graeme, "it is Allan — ^AUan Buthven. Don't 
 you remember. I was always sure we should see him 
 
 again." .■■. >^:f,; .; -/...i.^ ;. ..^ . l:i.Z:r' :. - ^: 
 
 I They were very, very glad, but they did not say so to one 
 another in many words. The names of the dead were on 
 their Hps, making their voices trembling and uncertain. 
 
 " Arthur," said Bose, as they were all sitting together a 
 
Janet's love and seevioe. 233 
 
 day or two after, " you have forgotten to tell us about the 
 
 party." 
 
 "You have forgotten to ask me, you mean. You have 
 been so taken up with your new hero that I have had few 
 of your thoughts." 
 Mr. Buthven smiled at Rose from the other side of the table. 
 "Well, teU uf} about it now," said she. "You must have 
 enjoyed it better than you expected, for more than one of 
 the * small hom-s ' had struck before you came home." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I enjoyed it very welL I met young Storey, who 
 has just returned from Europe. I enjoyed his talk very 
 much. And then Mrs. Gridley took me under her protec- 
 tion. She is a clever woman, and handsome, tod." 
 
 " Handsome 1" echoed Rose. " Why she is an old woman, 
 with grown-up daughters. And if you were to see her by 
 daylight !" 
 They aU laughed. 
 
 "Well, that might make a difference. But she says very 
 dever, or maybe very sharp things about her neighbors, and 
 the time passed quickly tiU supper. It was rather late but I 
 oould not leave before supper^-^the event of the evening." 
 " I shoTild think not," said Harry. 
 
 "Well, we won't ask about the supper, lest it might 
 make Harry discontented with his own. And what happened 
 after supper f* ■ 
 
 " Oh ! after supper Mr. Grove and his friend Barnes began 
 to discuss the harbor question, and I very foolishly allowed 
 myself to be drawn into the discussion. Mr. Green was 
 there, the great western merchant. He is a long-headed fel- 
 low that. You must know him, Mr. Ruthven." 
 
 " I know him welL He is a remarkably clever business- 
 man, and a good fellow ; though, I suppose, few know it so 
 well as I do. I had a long illness in C. once, and be nursed 
 me as if I had been a brother. I might have known him for 
 years in the way of business, without discovering his many 
 excellent qualitiea He has the name of being rather hard 
 in the way of business, I believe f 
 
234 Janet's love and seevice. 
 
 "He has a dear head of his ovm," said Arthur, "I en. 
 joyed a talk with him vexy much. He intends visiting 
 Europe, he tells me." 
 
 " Well, what next ?'* said Bose, to whom Mr. Green and 
 his good quaHties were matters of indifference. 
 
 " Then I came home. Mr. Green walked down the street 
 with me." 
 
 " And did n't you see Miss Grore, the belle of the evenf 
 Ing !" exclaimed Bose. 
 
 " Oh, yes ! I had the honor of an introduction to her. She 
 is a pretty little thing." 
 
 " Pretty I Is that all you can say for the belle ? How 
 does she look ? Is she fair or dark ? What color are her 
 eyes?" 
 
 " I can hardly say. She wotdd be called fair, I think I 
 can't say about her eyes. She has a very pretty hand and 
 arm, and — is aware of it." 
 
 "Don't be censorious, Arthur? Does she wear curls? 
 And what did she say to you ?" 
 
 " Curls ! I cannot say. I have the impression of a quan* 
 tiiy of hair, not in the best order, toward the end of the even* 
 ing. She seemed to be dancing most of the time, and she 
 dances beautifully." 
 
 " But she surely said something to you. What did yon 
 talk about ?" demanded Bose, impatiently. 
 
 " She told that if she were to dance all the dances for 
 which she was engaged, she wouldn't 'get home till moin- 
 ing.'" 
 
 " You don't mean to say you asked her to dance ?** " ' 
 
 " Oh, no I She volunteered the information. I could have 
 waited so long as to have the honor." 
 
 "And, of course, you can't tell a word about her dress ?" 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said Arthur, searching his pocket 
 " It must be in my other vest I asked Mrs. Gridley what 
 the young lady's dress was made of, and put it down for 
 your satisfEiction. Bosie, I hope, I have n't lost it." 
 
 "Arthur I what nonsense!" said Graeme, laughing. "I 
 
janbt's love Ain) service. 236 
 
 am snre Mrs. Gridley was laughing in her sleeve at yon all 
 
 the time." 
 
 " She had n't any sleeve to laugh in. But when I told 
 her that I was doing it for the benefit of my UtUe sister 
 Bosie, she smiled in her superior way.** 
 
 "I think I see her," said Bosie, indignantly. "But what 
 was her dress, after all ? Was it silk or satin ?" 
 
 "No, nothing so commonplace as that. I could have re- 
 membered silk or satin. It was " 
 
 "Was it lace, or gauze, or crape ?" suggested Eose." 
 
 " Or tarltan or muslin ?" said Graeme, much amused. 
 
 " Or damask, or velvet, or doth of gold, or linsey-woolsey ?" 
 said Harry. 
 
 Arthur assumed an air of bewilderment. 
 
 "It was gauze or crape, I think. No ; it had a name of 
 three syllables at least It was white or blue, or both. But 
 I Tl write a note to Mrs. Gridley, shall I Bosie ?" 
 
 " It would be a good plan. I wonder what is the uso of 
 . your going to parties ?" 
 
 " So do I, indeed," said her brother. " I am quite in the 
 dork on the subject But I was told in confidence that thero 
 are cards to be issued for a great entertainment in Grove 
 House, and I should not wonder if my 'accomplished 
 sisters* — as Mrs. Gridley in her friendly way calls them — 
 were to be visited in due form by the lady of the Grove pre- 
 paratory to an invitation to the same. So be in readiness. 
 I think I should write the note to Mrs. Gridley, Bosie ; you 11 
 need a hint.** 
 
 i Graeme laughed, while Bose clapped her hands. 
 - "I am not afraid of the call or the invitation," said 
 Graeme. 
 
 But they came — first the call, which was duly returned, 
 and then the invitation. That was quite informal. Mra. 
 Grove would be happy if Miss Elliott and her sister would 
 spend the evening at her house to meet a few friends. To 
 their surprise, Harry, as well as Arthur, came home v^ith a 
 little pink note to the same efifect 
 
236 Janet's love and servioe. 
 
 " I did n't know that you knew the Groves, "Barry" said 
 Arthur. 
 
 ** Oh, yes, I know Mr. Grove in a general way ; but I am 
 invited through a mistake. However, I shall go all the same. 
 I am not responsible for other people's mistakea Nothing 
 can be plainer than that," 
 
 '< A mistake I" repeated several voices. 
 
 *<Yes; Mrs. Grove thinks I am a rising man, like the 
 squire here ; and why undeceive her ? I shall add to the 
 brilliancy of her party, and enjoy it mightily mysell "Why 
 undeceive bar, I ask?" 
 
 ** Don't be nonsensical, Harry," said Bose. *' 
 
 ** How came Mrs. Grove to make such an absurd mistake?" 
 said Arthur, laughing. > 
 
 " She's cute, I know ; still it was not surprising in the 
 circumstances. I met her on the street yesterday, and I saw 
 the invitation in her eyes as plainly as I see this little pink 
 concern now ;" and he tossed the note to Bose. " I think I 
 should send the acceptance to Miss Elphinstone. It was she 
 who obtained the invitation for me." 
 
 " Miss Elphinstone r 
 
 "Yes, or Jack, or both, I should perhaps say. For if 
 Jack had been at his post, I should not have been politely 
 requested to call a carriage for Miss Elphinstone, and Mrs. 
 Grove would not have seen me escorting her down the street 
 as she sat in her carriage at Alexander's door. I know she 
 was thinking I was very bold to be waUdng on N. Street with 
 my master's daughter. Of course she didn't know that I 
 was doing the work of that rascal Jack. And so I am going 
 to the Grove party, unless, indeed, there is any objection to 
 our going en nuasse. Eh, Graeme ?* , . -n 
 
 "It is not a party, only a few friends," said Bose, eagerly. 
 
 " Certainly, we 11 all go," said Arthur. " If they had not 
 
 wanted us all, they would not have asked u& Of course^ 
 
 well all go for once." ' -^ r ;* 
 
 ^ "But, Graeme," said Harry, coming back after be had 1^ 
 
 to go away, "don't let the idea of 'a few friends' delude 
 
Janet's lote and aRBTiOEi 237 
 
 •00. Make yonrselyes as fine as possible. There will be a 
 gieat crowd you may be sure. Miss Elphinsione and Mr. 
 Buthven are inyited, and they are not among the intimate 
 friends of such people as the Groves. Shall I send you 
 home a fashion book, Rosie ?** 
 
 "Or write a note to Mrs. Gridley," said Arthur. 
 
 Bose laughed. She was pleasantly excited at the prospect 
 of her first lai^e party, there was no denying it Indeed, 
 ^e did not seek to deny it, but talked merrily on, not seeing, 
 or not seeming to see, the doubtfcd look on Graeme's face. 
 She alone, had not spoken durii]^ the discussion. She had 
 not quite decided whether this invitation was so delightful 
 as Rosie thought, and in a Uttle when her sister had left the 
 room, she said— 
 
 " Shall I accept the invitation then for Rose and me ?" 
 
 " Have you not accepted yet ? you need not of course, un- 
 less you wish. But I think you wS[ enjoy it, and Rosie, too." 
 
 "Yes, but I am by no means sure, that I hke Mrs. Grove," 
 said she, hesitating. 
 
 "Are you not?" said her brother, laughing. "Well, I 
 have got much farther than you. I am sure that I don't like 
 her at alL But, what of that ?" 
 
 "Only that I don't tsLncy accepting kindness, from a per- 
 son I don't like, and to whom I don't think it would be 
 pleasant to repay in kind." 
 
 "Oh I nonsense. The obligation is mutual. Her kind- 
 ness will be quite repaid, by having a new face in her splendid 
 rooms. And as for repaying her in kind, as you call it, that 
 is quite out of the question. There are not a dozen people 
 in town who do the thing on the scale the Groves at* 
 tempt. And besides, Rosie would be disappointed." 
 
 Graeme did not believe tha)^< it was the best thing thai 
 could happen to Rosie, to be gratified in this matter, but 
 she did not say so. ' 
 
 " After all," thought she, " I daresay there is no harm in 
 it. I shall not spoil the pleasure of the rest, by not seeming 
 to enjoy it. But I don't like Mrs. Grove." ? u>ip^ 
 
238 Janet's love and sebyioe. 
 
 The last words were emphatically repeated. She did not 
 like her. She did not wish to see her frequently, or to know 
 her intimately. She wished she had neither called, nor iih 
 vited them. She wished she had followed her first impulse^ 
 which had been to refuse at once without referring to her 
 brothers. Now, however, she must go with a good grace. 
 
 So they all wont, and enjoyed it very much, one and all, as 
 fhey found on comparing notes around the bright Httle fire 
 which Nelly had kept burning, against their return. 
 
 " Only," said Bosie, with a httle shamefacedness, "I am 
 not sure that Graeme liked me to dance quite so much." 
 
 Graeme was not sure either, but she did not think this the 
 best time to speak about it So she did not. 
 
 " But how you ever learned to dance is a mystery to me," 
 said Arthur, " and Harry too, I saw him carrying off Miss 
 Elphinstone, with all the coolness imaginable. Beally, the 
 young people of the present day amaze me." 
 
 " Oh ! one can dance without learning," said Bose, laugh- 
 ing. " The music inspires it." M 
 
 " And I have danced many a time before," said Harry. 
 " You are not sorry you went, are you Graeme ?" i 
 
 " Sorry 1 no indeed I I have had a very pleasant evening." 
 
 And so had they aU. Mrs. Grove had made a great effort 
 to get a great many nice and clever people together, and she 
 had succeeded. It had required an effort, for it was only 
 lately, since his second marriage, that Mr. Grove had affect- 
 ed the society of clever people, or indeed, any society at alL 
 There were people who fancied that he did not affect it yet, 
 and who pitied him, as he wandered about, or lingered in cor- 
 ners among the guests, that his more aspiring wife managed to 
 bring together. He did not enjoy society much, but that was 
 a smaU matter in the opinion of his wife. He was as little 
 of a drawback to the general enjoyment, as could be expect- 
 ed in the circumstances. If he was not quite at his ease, at 
 least, he was seldom in anybody's way, and Mrs. Grove was 
 quite able to do the honors for both. Mr. Grove was a man 
 whom it was not dif&cult to ignore, even in his own dining- 
 
Janet's love and sebyioe. 239 
 
 room. Indeed, the greatest kindness that could be shown 
 to the poor little man in the drcmnstances, was to ignore 
 him, and a great deal of this sort of kind feeling was mani- 
 fested towards him by his guests. 
 
 On the first entrance of Arthur and Graeme, their host 
 listened on the former, renewing with great earnestness a 
 conversation conmienced in the morning in the young man's 
 office. This did not last long, however. The hostess had 
 too high an opinion of Mr. EUiott's powers of pleasing, to 
 permit them to be wasted on her husband, so she smilingly 
 carried ^itti oflF, leaving Mr. Grove for the present, to the 
 tender mercies of Graeme. He might have had a worse 
 &te ; for Graeme listened and responded with a poUteness 
 and interest to which he was httle accustomed from his wife's 
 gaests. Before he became unbearably tedious, she was res* 
 cued by Mr. Ruthven, and Mr. Grove went to receive Mr. 
 Elias Green, the great western merchant, a guest far more 
 worthy of his attention than any of the fine ladies and gen- 
 tlemen, who only knew him in ihe character of feast-maker, 
 or as the stupid husband of his aspiring wife. 
 
 Graeme had seen Allan Buthven often since that first 
 night They had spoken of the pleasant and painful things 
 that had befallen them, since they parted so long ago, or 
 they might not have been able to walk so quietly up and 
 down the crowded rooms, as they did for a while. Then they 
 found a quiet, or rather a noisy comer in the music room, 
 where they pursued their conversation unmolested, till Harry 
 brought Miss Elphinstone to be introduced to Graeme. 
 
 This was a mutual pleasure, for Graeme wished to know 
 the young lady who had long been Bosie's ideal of all that 
 was sweet and beautiful, and Miss Elphinstone was as 
 pleased to become the friend of one whom her cousins Allan 
 and Charlie admired so much. And when she begged 
 permission to call upon her and Bose, what could Graeme 
 do, but be charmed more and more. Then Miss Elphin- 
 stone was claimed for another dance, and who should pre- 
 sent himself again but their host, and with him the guest of 
 
240 Janet's love and service. 
 
 the evening, the great western merchant Then there were a 
 few minutes not so pleasant, and then Mr. Green proposed 
 that they '* should make the tour of the rooms." But 
 Graeme had not the courage for such an ordeal, and smiling. 
 ly begged to be excused; and so he sat down beside her, and 
 by and by, Graeme was surprised to find herself interested I 
 in his conversation* Before he had been a great merchant, 
 Mr. Green had been a farmer's boy among the hills of Ve^ 
 mont. and when he knew that Miss Elliott had passed seven 
 happy years in a New England village, he found enough to 
 s&.y to her; and Graeme listened and responded, well pleased. 
 
 She had one uncomfortable moment. It was when the 
 supper movement began to be made, and the thought flashed 
 upon her, that she must be led to the supper room, by this 
 western giani Mr. .Ruthven saved her from this, however, 
 to the discontent of the giant, who had been so engaged in 
 talking and Ustening, as not to have perceived, that some* 
 thing interesting was about to take place. The sight of the 
 freely flovmig champagne gave Graeme a shock, but a glance 
 at Harry reassured her. There was no danger for him to* 
 night. Yes, they had all enjoyed it, they acknowledged, as 
 they lingered over the fire after their return. 
 
 " But, Arthur," said Graeme, " I was disappointef^ in Miss 
 Grove. She is pretty, certainly, but there is something 
 wanting — ^in expression I mean. She looks good temper-^d, 
 but not intellectual" 
 
 " Intellectual I " repeated Arthur. "No. One would 
 hardly make use of that word in describing her. But she i? 
 almost the prettiest little thing I ever saw, I think." 
 
 " And she certainly is the siUiest Httle thing I ever saw," 
 said Harry. "Eosie, if I thought you capable of talking 
 such stufl^ as I heard from her pretty Ups to-night, /would 
 
 Arthur laughed ; less, it seemed, at what Harry had said, 
 than at what it recalled. 
 
 " She is not likely to astonish the world by her vnsdom, I 
 should think," said he, as he rose to go up stairs. " Nor 
 
JANET 8 LOVE AND SERVICE. 
 
 241 
 
 Bosie either, for that matter/' he added, laughihg, and loot 
 ing back. 
 
 "None of us are giving great proof of wisdom just now, I 
 think," said Graeme. " Come, Rosie, Nelly will lose patience 
 if breakfast is kept waiting. Good night, Harry. Don't sit 
 long." 
 
 i' 
 
 15 
 
CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 WHETHER Nelly lost her patience next morning or 
 not, history does not record ; but it is a fact tibat 
 break&st was late, and late as it was, Bosie did not make 
 her appearance at it. Graeme had still a very pleasant re* 
 membrance of the evening, but it was not altogether un- 
 mixed. Tiie late breakfast, the disarrangement of household 
 matters, Bosie's lassitude, and her own disinclination to 
 engage in any serious occupation, was some drawback to the 
 remembrance of her enjoyment. All were more or less out 
 of sorts, some from one cause, some from another. 
 • This did not last long, however. The drawback was for- 
 gotten, the pleasure was remembered, so that when a day or 
 two afterward, a note came from Mrs. Gridley, begging 
 the presence of the brothers and sisters at a small party 
 at her house, nothing was said about refusing. Mr& 
 Gridley had promised some friends from Toronto, a treat of 
 Scottish music, and she would be inconsolable should they 
 disappoint her. But the consolation of Mrs. Gridley was 
 not the chief reason of the acceptance. Arthur was to be 
 out of town, but Will was to go in his place. They went^ 
 and enjoyed it well ; indeed, it was very enjoyable. 
 
 Mrs. Gridley was a serious person, said her friends, and 
 some, who had no claim to the title said the same 
 — the tone and manner making all the difference in the 
 sense of the declaration. She would not for much, have 
 been guilty of giving dancing or card parties in her own 
 house, though by some mysterious process of reasoning 
 she had convinced herself that she could quite innocently 
 make one of such parties in the houises of other people. So 
 (242) «^i 
 
Janet's love aot) service. 243 
 
 Uiere was only mnsic and conversation, and a simple game 
 or two for the very young people. Graeme and Rosie, and 
 Will., too, enjoyed it well. Harry professed to have been 
 bored. 
 
 Out of these parties sprang others. Graeme hardly knew 
 how it happened, but the number of their acquaintances 
 greatly increased about this time. Perhaps it was partly 
 oviing to the new partnership entered into by Arthur, with 
 the long estabUshed firm of Black & Co. They certainly 
 owed to this, the sight of several fine carriages at their door, 
 and of several pretty cards in their receiver. Invitations 
 came thick and fast, until an entire change came over their 
 maimer of life. Begular reading was interfered with or 
 neglected. Household matters must have fallen into con- 
 fusion, if Nelly had not proved herself equal to all emergen- 
 des. The long quiet evening at home became the exception. 
 They went out, or some one camo in, or there was a lecture 
 or concert, or when the sleighing became good a drive by 
 moonlight. There were skating parties, and snowshoeing 
 parties, enough to tire the strongest; and there was no 
 leasnre, no quiet time. 
 
 Graeme was not long in becoming dissatisfied with this 
 changed, unsettled life. The novelty soon wore off for her, 
 and she became painfully conscious of the attendant evils. 
 Sadly disinclined herself to engage in any serious occupation, 
 she could not but see that with her sister it was even worse. 
 Rose enjoyed all these gay doings much more, and in a way 
 quite different from her ; and the succeeding lassitude and 
 depression were proportionably greater. Indeed, lassitude 
 and depression were quite too gentle terms to apply to the 
 child's sensations, and her disinclination to occupation some- 
 times manifested itself in an unmistakable upproach to 
 peevishness, unless, indeed, the party of the eTening was to 
 be followed by the excursion of the day. Then the evil 
 efibcts were delayed, not averted. For a time, Graeme made 
 6X00868 for her to herself and to her brothers ; then she did 
 what was much wiser. She determined to put a stop to the 
 
24:4 * jaitet's love and sekvioe. 
 
 cause of so much discomfort. Several circumstances helped 
 her to this decision, or rather to see the necessity for it 
 She only hesitated as to the manner in which she was to 
 make her determination known ; and while she hesitated, aa 
 opportunity to discuss their changed Ufe occurred, and she 
 did not permit it to pass unimproved. 
 
 Christmas and New Yeai^'s had been past icr some weeks, 
 and there was a pause in the festivities of thei: circle, when 
 a billet of the usual form and purport was left at the door 
 by a servant in livery. Bose, who had seen him pass the 
 window, had much to do to keep herself quiet, till Nelly had 
 taken it from his hand. She just noticed that it was ad* 
 dressed to Graeme, in time to prevent her from opening 
 it. 
 
 " "What is it, Graeme ? " asked she, eagerly, as she entered 
 the room where her sister was writing " I am almost sore 
 it was left by Mrs. Boxbury's servant. See, there is their 
 crest. "What is it? An invitation?" 
 
 " Yes," said Graeme, quietly, laying down the note. "For 
 the twenty-seventh." 
 
 " Such a long time I It will be a grand afiEiEiir. We must 
 have new dresses, Graeme." m^- 
 
 She took np the note and read : 
 
 " Mrs. Eoxbury*s compliments to Miss Elliott" 
 
 " Miss EUiott 1 " she repeated. "Why, Graeme 1 I am not 
 invited." 
 
 " So it seems ; but never mind, Bosie. I am not going to 
 accept ii" 
 
 Boi'.e was indeed crestfallen. 
 
 " Oh, you must go, of course. You must not stay at home 
 on my account." 
 
 " No ; certainly. That is not the reason. Your being 
 invited would have made no difference." 
 
 "I could hardly have gone without you," said Bose, doubt- 
 fully. 
 
 "Certainly not Neither of us would have gone. If I 
 don't accept this invitation our acquaintaiiGe with the Box* 
 
Janet's love aitd seevioe. 246 
 
 buiys will perhaps go no further. That would be a sufficient 
 reason for my refusal, if there were no others.'* 
 
 «A sufficient reason for not refusing, I should rather say,'* 
 saidBose. 
 
 "No. There is no good reason for keeping up an ac- 
 quaintance with so many people. There is no pleasure in it; 
 and it is a great waste of time and strength, and money too, 
 for that matter." 
 
 "But Arthur wishes it. He thinks it right.** 
 
 " Yes, to a certain extent, perhaps, but not at too great a 
 cosi I don't mean of money, though in our circumstances 
 that is something, too. But so much going out has been at 
 a great sacrifice of time and comfort to us alL I am tired 
 of it We won't speak of it now, however ; I must finish my 
 letter." For to tell the tinth, Bosie'sfaoe did not look promis- 
 ing. 
 
 "Don't send a refusal till you have spoken to Arthur, 
 Graeme. If he wishes you to go, you ought, you know." 
 
 "I am by no means sure of that. Arthur does not very 
 often go to these large parties himself. He does not enjoy 
 them. And I see no reason why I should deny myself, in so 
 bad a cause." 
 
 " But Graeme, you have enjoyed some of them, at least. I 
 am sure I have always enjoyed them." 
 
 " Yes, I have enjoyed some of them, but I am not siu-e that 
 it is a right kind of enjoyment. I mean, it may be too dearly 
 bought. And besides, it is not the party, as a party, that I 
 ever enjoy. I have had more real pleasure in some of our 
 quiet evenings at home, with only — only one or two friends, 
 
 than I ever had at a party, and , but we won't talk about 
 
 it now,** and she bent over her letter again. She raised her 
 head almost immediately, however. 
 
 "And yet, Kosie, I don't know why this is not the t^est 
 time to say what, for a long time, I have meant to say. We 
 have not been hving a good or wise life of late. Do you mind, 
 love, what Janet said to us, the night before we came away ? 
 Do you mind the charge she gave us, to keep our garments 
 
246 Janet's love akd seevioe. 
 
 unspotted till we meet our father and mother again ? Do yoxi 
 think, dear^ the life of pleasure we have been living, will make 
 ns more like what our mother was, more like what our father 
 wished us to be — more fit to meet them where they are ? " 
 
 Graeme spoke very earnestly. There were tears in her 
 eyes. , i; 
 
 " Graeme," said Bose, " do you think it wrong to go to 
 parties — to dance? Many good people do not." 
 
 "I don't know, love. I cannot telL It might be right for 
 some people, and yet quite wrong for ua Certainly, if it 
 withdraws our minds from things of importance, or is the 
 cause of our neglecting duty, it cannot be right for u& I am 
 afraid it has been doing this for us all lately." 
 
 Bosie looked grave, but did not reply. In a little, Graeme 
 added, 
 
 " I am afraid our last letters have not given much satigfao* 
 tion to Mrs. Snow, Bosie. She seems afraid for us ; afraid, 
 lest we may Income too much engrossed with the pleasant 
 things about us, and reminds us of the care and watchfulness 
 needed * to keep ourselves unspotted from the world.' " 
 
 "Bat, Graeme, everything is so different in MerleviBe, 
 Janet cannot know. And, besides, " 
 
 "I know, dear ; and I would not hke to say that we have 
 been doing anything very wrong aU this time, or that those 
 who do the same are doing wrong. If we were wiser and 
 stronger, and not so easily influenced for evil, I daresay it 
 would do us no hann. But, Bosie, I am afraid for myself 
 that I may come to like this idle gay life too much, or, at least, 
 that it may unfit me for a quiet useful life, as our father 
 would have choEen for us, and I am afraid for you, too, dear 
 Bose." i- 
 
 " I enjoy parties very much, and I can't see that there is 
 any harm in it," said Bosie, a little crossly. ^-.ir, . 
 
 "No, not in enjoying them in a certain way, and to a cer* 
 tain extent. But, Bose, think how dreadful, to become 'a 
 lover of pleasure.' Is there no danger do you think, love ? " 
 
 Bose hung her head, and was silcni Graeme vrent on, 
 
Janet's love and sekviob. 247 
 
 «* My darling, there is danger for you — for me — for us alL 
 How can we ever hope to win Harry from the society of those 
 vho do hiTn harm, when we are living only to please our- 
 selves?" 
 
 "But, Graeme, it is better that we should all go together 
 —I mean Harry is more with us than he used to be. It 
 most be better." 
 
 "I don't know, dear. I fear it is only a change of evil& 
 BsirfB temptation meets him even with us. And, oh I Bosie, 
 if our example should make it easier for Harry to go astray I 
 But we won't speak about Hany. I trust God will keep him 
 safe. I believe He will." 
 
 Though Graeme tried to speak cahnly. Hose saw that she 
 trembled and grew very white. 
 
 " At any rate, Bose, we could not hope that God would 
 hear our prayers for Harry, or for each other, if we were 
 living in a way displeasing to Him. For it is not well with 
 UB, dear. We need not try to hide it from ourselves. We 
 must forget the last few troubled months, and begin again. 
 Tes, we must go farther back than that, Bosie," said Graeme, 
 suddenly rising, and putting her arms about her sister. " Do 
 you mind that last night, beside the two graves ? How Uttle 
 worth all seemed to us then, except to get safe home together. 
 Bosie 1 I could not answer for it to our father and mother if 
 we were to live this troubled life long. My darling 1 we must 
 begin again." 
 
 There were tears on Bosie's cheeks, as well as Graeme's, 
 by this time. But in a Httle Graeme sat down again. 
 
 "It is I who have been most to blam& These gay doings 
 never should have commenced. I don't think Arthur will ob- 
 ject to our Hving much more quie% than we have done 
 of late. And if he does, we must try and reconcile him 
 to the change." 
 
 It was not difficult to reconcile Arthur to the change. 
 "Graeme must do as she thought right," he said. "It must 
 be rather a troublesome thing to keep up such a general ao- 
 quaiatanoe — a loss of time to Httle purpose," and so it would 
 
248 Janet's love and bervioe. 
 
 have ended, as far as he was concerned, if Harry had notdi» 
 covered Mrs. Roxbury*s note. 
 
 "I declare Mrs. Gridley is right/* said he. "We area 
 rising &imly. I hope you gave that lady a chance to peep 
 into this note, when she was here to-day. But how is this? 
 Miss Elliott. Have you one, Bosie ? " 
 
 Eose shook her head. 
 
 " No. Have you, Harry ? " 
 
 "Havel? What are you thinking o^ Rose? Do you suppose 
 those lofty portals would give admission to one who is only a 
 humble cl^k ? It is only for such commercial successes as 
 Mr. Green, or Allan Buthven, that that honor is reserved. 
 But never mind, Bosie. We shall find something to amuse 
 us that night, I have no doubt.*' 
 
 " Graeme is not going,*' said Bose. 
 
 « Not going 1 Oh 1 she 11 think better of ii'* .i^ 
 
 "No, she has sent her refusal.*' ■^^■ 
 
 "And why, pray?" 
 
 " Oh I one can't go everywhere, as lifrs. Gridley says,** re- 
 plied Graeme, thus appealed to. 
 
 " Yes ; but Mrs. Gridley said that with regard to a gathe^ 
 ing of our good friend, Willie Bimie, the tailor. I can unde^ 
 stand how she should not find time to go there. But how 
 you should find time to shine on that occasion, and have none 
 to spare for Mrs. Boxbury's select afiGur, is more than I can 
 comprehend." 
 
 ** Don't be snobbish, Harry," said Will 
 
 " I think the reasons are obvious," said Arthur. 
 
 •'Yes,** said Graeme, "we knewWiUie Bimie when we 
 were children. He was at the school with you all. And I 
 like his new wife very much, and our going gave them plea- 
 sure, and, besides, I enjoyed it well." ' > 
 > "Oh I if you are going to take a sentimental view of the 
 matter, I have nothing to say. And Willie is a fine fellow ; 
 I don't object to Willie, or the new wife either — quite the con- 
 trary. But of the two, people generally would prefer to cul- 
 tivate the acquaintance of Mrs. Boxbury and her set" 
 
Janet's love and bebyioe. 249 
 
 *< Graeme is not like people generally/' said Kose. 
 
 "I hope not," said WilL "And, Harry, what do you sup- 
 pose Mra Eoxbury cares about any of us, after all? *' 
 
 " She cares about Graeme going to her party, or she would 
 not have asked her." 
 
 "I am not sure of that," said Graeme, smiling at the eager- 
 ness of the brothers. " I suppose she asked me for the same 
 reason that she called here, because of the partnership. They 
 are connected with the Blacks, in some way. Now, that it 
 is off her conscience, having invited me, I daresay she will 
 be just as well pleased that I should stay at home." 
 
 "That is not the least bit uncharitable, is it Graeme? " 
 
 "No. I don't think so. It certainly cannot make much 
 difference to her, to have one more or less at her house on 
 the occasion. I really think she asks me from a sense of 
 duty — or rather, I ought to say, from a wish to be polite to 
 her friends the Blacks. It is very well that she should do so, 
 add if I cared to go, it would, of course, be agreeable to her, 
 but it will not trouble her in the least though I stay away." 
 
 "Well, I can't but say you have chosen an unfortunate oc- 
 casion to begin to be fastidious. I should think the Box- 
 bury's would be the very house you would like to go to." 
 
 " Oh ! one has to make a beginning. And I am tired of 
 so much gayety. It makes no difference about its being Mrs. 
 Eoxbury." 
 
 " Very welL Please yourself and you *11 please me," said 
 Harry, rising. 
 
 "Are you going out to-night, Harry?" said Graeme, try- 
 ing not to look anxious. 
 
 "Yes ; but pray don't wait for me if I should not be in 
 early," said Harry, rather hastily. 
 
 There was nothing said for some time after Harry went 
 out. WilL went to his books, and Bose went to the piano. 
 Graeme sewed busily, but she looked grave and anxious. 
 
 " What can make Harry so desirous that you should go to 
 Mrs. Boxbury's ?" said Arthur, at last " Have you any pai*- 
 ticnlar reason for not wishing to go ? " 
 
250 Janet's love aio) service. 
 
 " Do you think Harry really cared ? No ; I have no reason 
 for not wishing to go there. But, Arthur, we have been going 
 out too much lately. It is not good for Kosie, nor for me, 
 either ; and I refused this invitation chiefly because she was 
 not invited. I might not have had the courage to refose to 
 go with her — ^as she would have been eager to go. But it is 
 not good for her, all this party-going." ^ ^^ 
 
 "I dare say you are right She is too young, and not by 
 any means beyond being spoiled. She is a very pretty girL" 
 
 "Pretty I "Who can compare with her?" said Graeme. 
 " But she must not be spoiled. She is best at home." 
 
 *^ Proudfute tells me this is to be a reception in honor of 
 your friend Ruthven, and Miss Elphinstone," said Arthur. 
 "It seems the wedding is to come off soon. Proudfute is a 
 relation of their's, you know." 
 
 " No ^ I did not know it," said Graeme ; and in a little she 
 added, "ought that to make any difiQsrence about my going? 
 My note is written but not sent." 
 
 " I should think not. Tou are not supposed to know any- 
 thing about it. It is vexy likely not true. And it is nothing 
 tons." 
 
 " No ; that is true," said Graeme. *' Bosie, my dear, you 
 are playing too quickly. That should be quite otherwise at the 
 close^" and rising, she went to the piano and sat dovm beside 
 her sister. They played a long time together, a^id it was 
 Bose who was tired first 'for a wonder.' 
 
 " Graeme, why did you not tell Harry the true reason that 
 you did not v^ish to go to Mrs. Boxbury's ? " said Bose, when 
 they went up stairs together. 
 
 " The true reason ? " repeated Graeme. 
 
 " I mean, why did you not speak to him as you spoke to 
 me?" 
 
 *' I don't know^ dear. Perhaps I ought to have done so. 
 But it is not so easy to speak to others as it is to you. I am 
 afraid Harry would have cared as Uttle for the true reason as 
 for the one I gave." 
 
 " I don't know, Graeme. He was not satisfied ; and don't 
 
Janet's love and service. 251 
 
 you think it would have been better just to say you didn't 
 think it right to go out so much — ^to large parties, I mean." 
 
 " Perhaps it would have been better," said Graeme, but 
 she said no more; and sat down in the shadow with her Bible 
 in her hand for the nightly reading. Rose had finished her 
 preparations for bed before she stirred, and coming up behind 
 her she whispered softly, 
 
 " Graeme, you are not afraid for Harry now ? I mean 
 not more afraid 1 " 
 
 Graeme started. Her thoughts were painful, as her face 
 showed ; but they were not of Harry. 
 
 " I don't know love. I hope not. I pray God, no harm 
 may come to Harry. Oh I Rosie, Rosie, we have been all wrong 
 this long, long time. We have been dreaming, I think. We 
 must waken up, and begin again.'* 
 
 V 
 
 •t- 
 
 ■ } 
 
 ■s 
 
 y;t'.;.i-.' 
 
 ■»-?•« I _ 
 
 .urn 
 
 ^ -*:-V.v..i 
 

 1 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 r» 
 
 /^ RAEME'S first judgment of Allan Ruthven, had been, 
 \J[' "how these ten years have changed him ; " but she 
 quite forgot the first judgment when she came to see him 
 more, and meeting his kind eyes and listening to his kind 
 voice, in the days that followed she said to herself "he is 
 the same, the very same." 
 
 But her first judgment "was the true one. He was changed. 
 It would have been strange if the wear and tear of comme^ 
 cial life for ten years had not changed him, and that not for 
 the better. 
 
 In the renewal of intercourse with his old friends, and in 
 the new acquaintance he made with his brother Charlie, he 
 came to know himself that he had changed greatly. He re- 
 membered sadly enough, the aspirations that had died out of 
 his heart since his youth, the temptations that he had strug* 
 gled against always, but which, alasl he had not always 
 withstood. He knew now that his faith had grown weak, 
 that thoughts of the unseen and heavenly had been put &r 
 away from him. 
 
 Yes ; he was greatly changed since the night he had stood 
 with the rest on the deck of the "Stead&4it," watching the 
 gleaming lights of a strange city. Standing now &.ce to face 
 with the awakened remembrance of his own ideal, he knew 
 that he had Mien for short of its attainment ; and reading 
 in Graeme's truthful eye "the same, the very same," his own 
 often fell with a sense of shame as though he were deceiving 
 her. 
 
 He was changed, and yet the wonder was, that the icflu- 
 ences of these ten years had not changed him more. The 
 (252) 
 
Janet's love and beevice. 253 
 
 lonely life he had pictured to his friendfl, that last night on 
 the " Steadfast," fell far short of the reahty that awaited him. 
 Removed from the kindly associations of home, and the tran- 
 quil pursuits and pleasures of a country Tillage, to the tur- 
 moil of a Western city, and the annoyance of a subordinate 
 in a merchant's office, he shrunk, at first, in disgust from the 
 life that seemed opening before him. His native place, 
 humble as it was, had lived in song and story for many cen- 
 turies; and in this ciiy which had sprung up in a day, 
 nothing seemed stable or secure. A few months ago the turf 
 of the prairie had been undisturbed, where to-day its broad 
 streets are trodden by the feet of thousands. Between gi- 
 gantic blocks of buildings rising everywhere, strips of the 
 prairie turf lay undisturbed still. The air of newness, of in- 
 completeness, of insecurity that seemed to surround all things 
 impressed him painfully ; the sudden prosperity seemed un- 
 real and unnatural, as well it might, to one brought up in a 
 country where the first thought awakened by change or in- 
 novation is one of mistrust and doubt 
 
 AH his preconceived ideas of business and a business life, 
 availed him nothing in the new circumstances in which he 
 found himself. If business men were guided in their mutual 
 relations by any principle of faith or honor, he failed in the 
 first bitterness of his disgust to see it. Business life seemed 
 but a scramble, in which the most alert seized the greatest 
 portion. The feverish activity and energy which were task 
 changing the prairie into a populace place seemed directed to 
 one end, the getting of wealth. Wealth must be gotten by 
 £eur means or foul, and it must be gotten suddenly. There 
 was no respite, no repose. One mmii onward or be pushed 
 aside, or be trodden under foot. Fortune was daily tempted, 
 and the daily result was success, or utter &ulure, till a new 
 chance could be grasped at. 
 
 '* Honest labor ! Patient toil I " Allan wondered within 
 himself if the words had ever reached the inward sense d 
 these eager, anxious men, jostiing each other in their never* 
 ceasmg straggle. 
 
25 i Janet's love and service. 
 
 Allan watched, and wondered, and mused, trying to unde^ 
 stand, and to make himself charitable over the evil, by calling 
 it a national one, and teUing himself that these men of the 
 new world were not to be judged by old laws, or measured by 
 old standards. But there were among the swiftest runners 
 of the race for gold men from all lands, men whose boyish 
 feet had wandered over English meadows, or trod the hea- 
 ther on Scottish hills. Men whose fathers had spent their 
 lives content in mountain shealings, with no wish beyond 
 their flocks and their native glens ; humble artisans, smiths, 
 and masons, who had passed in their own country for honest, 
 patient. Godfearing men, grew as eager, as unscrupulous, as 
 swift as the fleetest in the race. The very diggers of ditches, 
 and breakers of stone on the highway, the hewers of wood 
 and drawers of water, took with discontent that it was no 
 more their daily wages, doubled or tripled to them, since they 
 set foot on the soil of the new world. 
 
 That there might be another sort of life in the midst of 
 this turmoil, he did not consider. He never could associate 
 the idea of home or comfort with those dingy brick struct- 
 ures, springing up in a day at every comer. He could not 
 fancy those hard voices growing soft in the utterance of 
 loving words, or those thin, compressed lips gladly meeting 
 the smiling mouth of a little child. Home ! Why, all the 
 world seemed at home in those vast hotels ; the men and 
 women greeting each other coldly, in these great parlors, 
 seemed to have no wants that a black man, coming at the 
 sound of a beU, might not easily supply. Even the children 
 seemed at ease and self-possessed in the midst of the crowd. 
 They troubled no one with noisy play or merry prattle, but 
 sat on chairs with their elders, listening to, or joining in 
 the conversation, with a coolness and appropriateness pain* 
 ^y suggestive of what their future might be. Looking 
 at these embryo merchants and fine ladies, from whose pale, 
 little lips " dollar " and " change " fail more naturally than 
 sweeter words, Buthven ceased to wonder at the stm^le 
 around Imn. He fancied he could understand how these 
 
Janet's lovjs and service. "' 255 
 
 little people, strangers, as it seemed to him, to a home or even 
 to a childhood, should become in time the eager, absorbed, 
 ansGrapulous nmners and wrestlers, jostling each other in 
 the daily strife. 
 
 > Buthven was very bitter and unjust in many of his judg- 
 ments during the first part of his residence in C. He changed 
 his opinions of many things afterwards, partly because he 
 became wiser, partly because he became a little blind, and, 
 especially, because he himself became changed at last. By 
 and by his life was too busy to permit him to watch thoso 
 about him, or to pronounce judgment on their aims or 
 character. Uncongenial as he had at first foond the employ- 
 ment which his uncle had provided for him, he pursued it 
 with a patient steadiness, which made it first endurable, then 
 pleasant to him. At first his duties were merely mechanical ; 
 so much writing, so much computing each day, and then his 
 time was his own. But this did not continue long. Trusted 
 always by the firm, he was soon placed in a position where 
 he was able to do good service to his employers. His skill 
 and will guided their affairs through more than one painful 
 crisis. His integrity kept their good name unsullied at a 
 time when too many yielding to what seemed necessity, were 
 betaking themselves to doubtful means to preserve their 
 crjBdii He thoroughly identified himself with the interests 
 of .the firm, even when his uncle was a comparative stranger 
 to ^him. He did his duty in his service as he would have 
 donie it in the service of another, constantly and consden- 
 tioui^ly, because it was right to do so. So passed the first 
 years of his commercial life. 
 
 In default of other interests, he gave himself wholly up to 
 business pursuits, till no onlooker on the busy scene in which 
 he was taking part would have thought of singling him out 
 as in any respect different from those who were about him. 
 Those who came into close contact with him called him 
 honorable and upright, indeed, over scrupulous in many 
 points ; and he, standing apart from them, and in a oertain 
 sense above them, was willing so to be called. But as one 
 
256 Janet's love and seevioe. 
 
 cann.ot touch pitch without being defiled, so a man most 
 yield in time to the influences in the midst of which he has 
 voluntarily placed himself. So it came to pass that, as the 
 years went on, Allan Buthven was greatly changed. 
 
 It need not have been so. It doubtless was far otherwise 
 with some who, in his pride and ignorance, he had calledl 
 earth-worms and worshippers of gold ; for though, in the 
 first bitterness of his isolation, he was slow to discover ii, 
 there were in the midst of the turmoil and strife of that new 
 dty warm heaits and happy homes, and the blessed infinenoe 
 of the Christian faith and the Christian hfe. There were 
 those over whom the gainsgetting demon of the place had no 
 power, because of a talisman they held, the " constraining 
 love of Christ," in them. Those walked through the fire 
 unscathed, and, in the midst of much that was defiUng, kept 
 their garments clean. But Buthven was not one of them. 
 He had the name of the taUsman on his hps, but he had not 
 its Uving power in his heart. He was a Christian only in 
 name ; and so, when the influence of early associations 
 began to grow weak, and he began to forget, as men will for 
 a time, his mother's teaichings " in the house, and by the way," 
 at the " lying down and the rising up," no wonder that the 
 questionable maxims heard daily from the hps of the 
 worldly-wise should come to have weight with him at last. 
 
 Not that in those days he was, in any sense, a lover of 
 gold for its own sake. He never sank so low as that. Bat 
 in the eagerness with which he devoted himself to business, 
 he left himself no time for the performance of other , and 
 higher duties, or for the cultivation of those principles'' and 
 affections which can alone prevent the earnest business-man 
 from degenerating into a character so despicable. If he was 
 not swept away by the strong current of temptation, it was 
 because of no wisdom or strength or foresight of his. An* 
 other ten years of such a life would have made him, as it 
 has made many another — ^a man outwardly worthy of esteenii 
 but inwardly selfish, sordid, worldly — all that in his youth 
 he had most despised. 
 
Janet's lote Aim bebyioe. 257 
 
 This may seem a hard judgment, but it is the jndgmoit lie 
 passed on himself, when there came a pause in his busy life, 
 and he looked back oyw those years and felt that he did not 
 hold the world loosely — that he could not open his hand and 
 let it go. He had been pleasing himself all along with the 
 thonght that he was not like the men about him — content 
 ^th the winning of wealth and position in the world ; but 
 there came a time when it was brought sharply home to him 
 that without these he could not be content. It was a great 
 ghock and surprise to him to be forced to reaUze how far he 
 had drifted on with the current, and how impossible it had 
 become to get back to the old starting-place again, and in the 
 knowledge he did not spare himself, but used harder and 
 sterner words of self-contempt than any that are written 
 here. - . 
 
 Buthven's intercourse with his uncle's family, though oo* 
 earring at long intervals, had been of a very pleasant kind, 
 IjT he was a great favorite with his aunt and his cousin 
 lilias, who was then a child. Indeed, she was only a child 
 when her mother died ; and when there fell into his hands 
 a letter written by his aunt to his mother, during one of his 
 first visits to M., in which half seriously, half playfully, was 
 expressed a wish that the cousins might one day stand in a 
 nearer and dearer relation to one another, he was greatly 
 surprised and amused. I am afraid it was only the thought 
 that the hand that had penned the wish was cold in death 
 that kept him from shocking his mother by laughing out- 
 right at the idea. For what a child LiHas must have been 
 when that was written, thought he I what a child she was 
 BtiUl 
 
 But the years went on, and the child grew into a beautiful 
 woman, and the remembrance of his aunt's wish was pleasant 
 to Allan Buthven, because of his love and admiiation for his 
 cousin, and because of other things. He could not be blind 
 to the advantages that such a connection would ensure to 
 him. The new partnership was anticipated and entered 
 upon, on very different terms from those which might have 
 16 
 
 \ 
 
258 Janet's loyb Ain> sbbtioe. 
 
 been, bnt for the silent understanding with regard to TiHi^ 
 that existed between the imde and nephew. It was no small 
 matter that the yonng merchant should find himself in a 
 position to which the greater number attain only afl;er half 
 a lifetime of labor. He was at the head of a lucrative biui. 
 ness, conscious of possessing skill and energy to conduct it 
 well— conscious of youth and health and strength to enjoy 
 the fature opening before him. Nor was there anything 
 wrong in this appreciation of the advantages of his position. 
 He blew that this wealth had not bought him. He loved 
 his cousin Lilias, or he thought he loved her ; and though 
 up to this time, and after this time their intercourse was odj 
 after a cousinly sort, he believed she loved him. The thought 
 did come into his mind sometimes whether his cousin was all 
 to him that a woman might be, but never painfully. He did 
 not doubt that, as years went on, they would be very happy 
 together after a quiet, rational fashion, and he smiled, now 
 and then, at the fading remembrance of many p, boyish dream 
 as to how his vnfe VTas to be wooed and won. 
 
 He was happy — ^they were all happy ; and the tide of 
 events flowed quietiy on till the night when Allan clasped the 
 Irombling hand of Graeme Elliott Indeed, it flowed quietly 
 on long after that, for in the charm that, night after nigh^ 
 drew him into the happy drcle of the Llliottfi^ he recognized 
 only the pleasure that the renewal of old friendships and the 
 aw^ening of old associations gave him. The pleasure which 
 his cousin took in the society of these young people was 
 scarcely less than his own. Around the heiress and only 
 child of Mr. Elphinstone there soon gathered a brilliant circle 
 of admirers, the greater part of whom would hardly have 
 recognized the Elliotts as worthy of sharing the honor with 
 them. But there vras to the young girl, who had neither 
 brother nor sister, something better than brilliancy or fashion 
 in Graeme's quiet parlor. The mutual love and confidence 
 that made their home so happy, filled her with wonder and 
 delight^ and there were few days, for several pleasant monthly 
 in which they did not meet. 
 
janet'b love and sekvice. 259 
 
 ^e pleasant intercourse was good for Lilias. She bright- 
 ened under it wonderfully, and grew into a very different 
 creature from the pale, quiet, Uttle girl, who used to sit eo 
 gravely at her father's side. Her father saw the change and 
 rejoiced over it, and though at first he was not inclined to be 
 pleased with the intimacy that had sprung up so suddenly, 
 he could not but confess that the companionship of one like 
 Bose Elliott must be good for her. Graeme he seldom saw. 
 The long morning calls, and spending of days with her friend, 
 which were Bosie's deUght, Graeme seldom shared. But she 
 was quite as much the friend of Lilias as was her livelier sis- 
 ter, and never did his cousin seem so beautiful to Allan, 
 never was she so dear, as when, with pretty willfulness, she 
 himg about Graeme, claiming a right to share with Bose the 
 caresses or gentle reproofs of the elder sister. He did not 
 Ihink of danger to himself in the intercourse which Lilias 
 ahftred so happily. He was content with the present, and did 
 not seek to look into the future. 
 
 But he was not quite free from troubled thoughts at this 
 time. In the atmosphere in which he Hved things wore a 
 new aspect to him. Almost unconsciously to himself at firsts 
 he began to judge of men, and motives, and actions, by a new 
 role— or rather, he came back to the old rule, by which he had 
 measured all things in his youthful days. These days did not 
 seem so far removed from him now as they used to do, and 
 sometimes he found himself looking back over the last ten 
 years, with the dear truthful eyes of eighteen. It was not 
 ahrays a pleasant retrospect There were some things covered 
 up by that time, of which the review could not give unmingled 
 pleasure. These were moments when he could not meet 
 Graeme's truthful eyes, as with "Don't you remember? " she 
 recalled his own words, spoken long ago. He knew, though 
 she did not, how his thoughts of all things had changed since 
 then ; and though the intervening years had made him a man 
 of wealth and note, there came to him at such moments, a 
 sense of failure and regret, as though his manhood had belied 
 the promise of his youth— a strong desire to b^in anew 
 
260 jaiiet's love and service. 
 
 — a longing after a better life than these ten years hadTnt- 
 nessed. 
 
 But these pleasant days came to an end. Business called 
 Allan, for a time, to his old home in C, and to his imoon* 
 genial life there. It was not pleasant business. There was 
 a cry, louder than usual, of " hard times " through the conn* 
 try, and the failure of several houses, in which he had placed 
 implicit confidence threatened, not, indeed, to endanger the 
 safety, but greatly to embarrass the operations of the new 
 firm. Great losses were sustained, and complicated as their 
 afiairs at the West had become, Allan began to fear that his 
 own presence there would for some time be necessary. He 
 was surprised and startled at the pain which the prospect 
 gave him, and before he had time to question himself as to 
 why it should be so, the reason was made plain to him. 
 
 A letter written by his uncle immediately after a partial 
 recovery from an illness, a return of which, his physicians as* 
 sured him must prove fatal, set the matter before him in its 
 true light. The letter was briel Knowing Httle of the dis- 
 order into which recent events had thrown their afiiEurs, be 
 entreated Allan's immediate return, for his sake, and for the 
 sake of lilias, whom it distress i him to think of leaving till 
 he should see her safe with one who should have a husband's 
 right to protect and console her. It was simply and frankly 
 said, as one might speak of a matter fully understood end ap- 
 proved of by all concerned. But the words smote on Allan's 
 heart with sharp and sudden pain, and he knew that some- 
 thing had come into his hfe, since the time when he had 
 listened in complacent silence to Mr. Elphinstone's half ex* 
 pressed ideas, concerning Lilias and her future. There was 
 pleasure in the pain, sharp and sweet while it lasted, for with 
 the knowledge that came to him, that he loved Graeme EUiott, 
 there came also the hope, that there was something more 
 than gentle friendliness in the feelings with which she re- 
 gained him. But the pleasure passed, and the pain remained, 
 growing sharper and deeper as he looked the future in the face. 
 
 It was not a hopeful future. As for his cousin, there had 
 
Janet's love and seevice. 261 
 
 passed between them no words or tokens of affection, that 
 cousins might not very well exchange, at least, he was willing 
 to believe so now ; and judging her feelings, partly by his 
 own, and partly by the remembrance of many a chance word 
 and action of the last few months, he said to himself the 
 happiness of her life would not be marred though they might 
 never be more than cousins to each other. But this did not 
 end his doubts as to the course that lay before him, and every 
 day that he lingered in miserable indecision, made more evi- 
 dent to ^^Tn the difficulties of oIb position. He knew it was 
 a son's place that he had got in the firm. He could only claim 
 it as a son. If his relations to Lilias and her father were 
 changed, it seemed to him that he could not honorably claim 
 a position which had been urged upon him, and which he had 
 gladly accepted with a view to these relations. The past ten 
 years must be as nothing to him, except for the experience 
 they had given him, tho good name they had won for him. 
 He must begin life again a poor man. 
 
 Bat let me not be imjust to him. It was not this that 
 made all the misery of his indecision. Had all this come in a 
 time of prosperity, or when Mr. Elphinstone had strength and 
 courage to meet disaster unmoved, it would have been differ* 
 cni Bat now, when all things looked threatening, when cer> 
 tain loss — possible ruin — lay before them, when the misfor- 
 tunes of some, and the treachery of others were making the 
 very ground beneath their feet insecure, could he leave the 
 feeble old man to struggle through these difficult and danger- 
 ous times alone? He knew his uncle too well to believe tiiat 
 he would vdllingly accept help from him, their relations be- 
 ing changed, and he knew that no skill and knowledge but 
 his own could conduct to a successful issue, enterprises under- 
 taken under more favorable circuicstances. • 
 
 He was very wretched. He could not put away the dis- 
 comfort of his indecision by permitting time and circumstan- 
 ces to decide in the course which ho must take. Whatever 
 was done must be done by him, and at once. There was no 
 respite of time or chance to isJl back upon, in the strait in 
 
262 Janet's love and sebyioe. 
 
 which he found himsel£ He did not hasten home. He had 
 cause enough to excuse the delay to himself, and he threw 
 himself into the increasingly painful details of business, with 
 an energy that, for the time, left no room for painful thonghia 
 But it was only for the time. He knew that his lingering 
 was useless, in view of what the end must be, and he despised 
 himself for his indecision. 
 
 If his choice had been altogether between poverty and 
 wealth, it would have been easy to him, he thought, though 
 it forced itself upon him with intense bitterness during those 
 days, how the last ten years had changed the meaning of the 
 word to him. But his honor was involved — his honor as a 
 man, and as a merchant. He could not leave his unde to 
 struggle with misfortune in his old age. He could not let 
 the name, so long honored and trusted in the commercial 
 world, be joined with the many which during the last few 
 months had been coupled with ruin, and even with shame. 
 He was responsible for the stability or the failure of the 
 house, which for thirty years had never given cause for doubt 
 or fear. More than this. His own reputation as a wise and 
 successful man of business, if not even his personal honor 
 was at stake, to make it impossible for him to separate him- 
 self from the afiOurs of the firm at a juncture so perilous. 
 
 And then, Lihas. Nothing but her own spoken word could 
 free him from the tacit engagement that existed between 
 themu ~ In honor he could never ask her to speak that word. 
 
 Through his long journey of days and nijhts he pondered 
 it all, making no decision as to what was to be done or said, 
 but growing gradually conscious as he drew near home, that 
 the life of the last few months, was coming to seem more and 
 more like a pleasant dream that must be forgotten in the 
 future. He met his uncle's eager greeting with no word of 
 change. His face was pale and very grave when he met his 
 cousin, but not more so than her's. But that might very 
 well be said each of the other. LiUas knew more of the 
 losses which the firm had sustained than her father knew ; 
 and Allan might well look grave, she thought, and the watch* 
 
JANET'S LOYB AND BEBVIOB. 
 
 268 
 
 jog aad anxiety for her father's sake might well aoconnt to 
 him for her sad looks. After the first clasp of their hands 
 he knew that the vows hitherto unspoken must now be fcd- 
 fifled. 
 
 
 ttr ,'•,•:? 
 
 Vri 
 
 if. .1 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 v^j 
 
 m\- 
 
 
 
Ih'^r^^h'.'.rr *>;.^;''i" ■■' y^th 
 
 :^m 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 >^ RAEME did go to Mrs. Boxbury^s party, and it hi^ 
 \J|" pened in this way. The in^itatioiis had been sent oot 
 before Mr. Elphinstone's short, sharp iUness, and Lilias had 
 been made very useful by her aunt on the occasion. She 
 had not been consulted about the sending of Graeme's invi* 
 tation, or probably Bose would have had one too, but by 
 good fortune, as she declared, Graeme's refusal came first to 
 her hand, and the little lady did a most unprecedented thing, 
 She put it quietly into her pocket, and going home that ni^^ 
 by the EUiott'8> ventared to expostulate. 
 
 *' First, you must promise not to be yexed," and then she 
 showed the note. Graeme looked grave. 
 
 "Now you must not be angry with me. Bosie, tell her 
 not to be vexed, because, you know you can write anotiier 
 refusal, if you are determined. But I am sure you will not 
 be so crueL I can't tell you any reason, except that I haTS 
 set my heart on your bdng there, and you 11 come— to please 
 me, will you not ?* 
 
 *'To please you, ought to be sufficient reasons, I know," 
 said Graeme, smiling. And Lilias knew she had prevailed 
 with her friend. She saw the acceptance written, and carried 
 it off to place it with dozens of others, in the hands of Mn. 
 Boxbuiy. She did not say much to Graeme about it^ bat 
 to Bosie, she triumphed. - - 
 
 ''I want Aunt Boxbury to see Graeme looking her very 
 best Graeme will look like a queen among us. Aunt wBl 
 see that Allan and I have good reasons for our admiration. 
 Fancy any of these trumpery people patronizing Graeme 1 
 But you are not to teU her what I say. You don't think she 
 (264) 
 
JANXr's LOYB JLSD SEBTIGBi 265 
 
 really yexed with me, do you ? And she must wear her 
 ]iew peach-blossom silk. I am so glad." 
 
 Bat poor little Lilias went through deep waters, before the 
 peach-blossom silk was worn by Graeme. Mr. Elphinstone 
 was brought very near the gates of death, and anxious days 
 and nights were passed by his daughter at lua bedside. Mrs. 
 Bozbuiy would have recaUed her invitations, and Lilias' 
 goal sickened at the thought, of the entertainment ; but 
 when the immediate danger was over, events fell into their 
 ggiial channel, and though she gave no more assistance, either 
 l^ word or deed, her aunt counted on her presence on the 
 occasion, and even her father insisted that it was right for 
 her to go. 
 
 "And so, mydov%" said Mr&.Boxbury, "as your father 
 and I see no impropriety in your coming, there can be none, 
 and you will enjoy it, indeed you will. You are tued now." 
 "improprieiy! itisoiot that. I don't wish to. go. . lean- 
 not bear the thought of going." 
 
 "Nonsense I you are overtired, that is all. And Mr. Buth- 
 ten will be here by that time, and I depend on you to bring 
 him. 
 
 Bat if Allan's presence had depended on Lilias, Mrs. Box- 
 bary would not have seen him., in her E^lendid rocnns that 
 night It was Mr. Elphinstone that reminded .her of the 
 note that awaited the return of her cousin, and it was he 
 who insisted that they should appear, for. at least an hour 
 or two, at the party. And they went together, a little con- 
 Btrained and uncomfortable, while they were alone, but to all 
 appearance at their ease, and^ content with one another 
 when they entered the voom. Graeme S9.w them the moment 
 they came in, and she saw, too, many a significant glance 
 exchanged, as they made their way together to Mrs. Box- 
 buiy. 
 
 Lilias saw Gradme almost as* soon^ She was standing 
 near the folding doors, seemingly much interested in what 
 Mt. Proudfute, her brother's Iriend, was saying to her. 
 "There, aunt," said Lilias, eagerly, when the greetings 
 
260 Janet's love aud bebtiob. 
 
 were over, '* did I not tell yon that my friend Mias Elliot^ 
 would eclipse all here to-night? Look at her now." 
 
 ** My dear," said her aunt, '* she does better than that 
 She is very lovely and lady-like, and tries to eclipse no one^ 
 and so wins all hearts." 
 
 Lilias' eyes sparkled as she kwkedather cousin, bathe 
 did not catch her look. 
 
 ' " My dear," continued Mrs. Boxbuiy, " I have news for 
 you, but perhaps, it ia no news to you. Ahl he has foond 
 her." 
 
 Mr. Elias Green was at the moment^ making his bow to 
 Graeme. 
 
 " Thera was no truth in the rumor, about him and litQe 
 Miss Grove. Mr. Green has more sense. Your friend is fo^ 
 tnnate Lilia&" 
 
 Lilias looked at her aunt in astonishment, but nothing 
 more could be said, for there were more arrivals, and her a^ 
 tention was claimed. 
 
 " Aunt Boxbuiy does not know what she is talking abont," 
 said die, to her cousin, as he led her away. " The idea of 
 Mr. Green's daring to lift his eyes to Graeme Elliott She 
 would not look at him." 
 
 " Mr. Green is a great man in his own circle, I can assure 
 you," said Mr. Buthven. " Miss Elliott will be thought iat- 
 tonate by people generally." 
 
 " Do you think so ? You know very little about her, if yoa 
 think that," said Lilias, impatiently. 
 
 "I know Mr. Green better than most people do, and I le* 
 spect ^'im — and he is very rich " 
 
 "Ohl don't talk folly," cried Lilias. " I have no patience 
 
 mih people who think, because a man is rich . But jpa 
 
 don't know Graeme, cousin Allan — ^I thought " ^ r - 
 
 They were very near Graeme by this time. She turned at 
 the moment, and greeted them frankly enough, as far as any 
 one could see. She noticed the doud on LQias' fcMie, and 
 asked her if she was quite well; she expressed pleasure at 
 
jaket's love and service. 267 
 
 fihA x«(xini of Mr. Buthven too, but she did not meet Ids eye, 
 thongh he told her he had seen her brother Norman at a 
 station by the way, and detained her to give her a message 
 that he had sent. He had schooled himself well, if he was 
 really as unmoved by the words of Mrs. Boxbury and Lilias, 
 as to his cousm he appeared to be. But he was not a man 
 who let his thoughts write themselves on his face, and she 
 might easily be deceived. It was not a pleasant moment, it 
 was a very bitter moment indeed, to him, when with a smile 
 to them, Graeme placed her hand on the willing arm of 
 Mr. Gieen, and walked away "like a queen" he said to him- 
 self but to his cousin he said-~ 
 
 "My friend will be a very happy man, and your friend 
 may be happy too, let us hope." 
 
 Bat LiHas never answered a word. She followed them 
 with her eyes, till they disappeared through the door that 
 led to the room beyond, and then she said only, 
 
 ''I have made a great mistake." 
 
 Had she made a mistake or had he ? A mistake never to 
 be undone, never outlived — a mistake for Graeme, for him- 
 seli^ perhaps for liHas too. It was not a thought to be 
 borne, and he put it from him sternly, saying it could not 
 have been otherwise — ^nothing^ could be changed now ; and 
 he was very gentle and tender with his Httle cousin that 
 night and afterwards, saying to himseK that she, at leasts 
 should have no cause to grieve in the fature, if his loving 
 care for her could avaiL 
 
 About this time WilL was threatened with a serious i]]neB& 
 It did not prove so serious as they at first feared, but it was 
 long and tedious, and gave his eldest sister an excuse for 
 denying herself to many who called, and accounted for her 
 pale looks to those whom she was obliged to see. In the 
 silence of her brother's sick-room, Graeme looked a great 
 sorrow in the fEKse. In other circumstances, with the neces* 
 siiy laid upon her to deceive others, she might for a time 
 have deceived herself ; for the knowledge that one's love has 
 
26S Janet's love Aim seevioe, 
 
 been given nnsongnt, is too bitter to be accepted wiJlinglv 
 Bat the misery of those long silent nights made plain to her 
 what the first sharp pang had failed to teach her. 
 
 In the first agony of her self-scorn, she saw herself without 
 excuse. She was hard and bitter to herself. She might 
 have known, she thought, how it was with AUan uid 
 his cousin. During all those years in which she had been 
 a stranger to them both, they had loved each other ; and 
 now, with no thought of her, they loved each other still. It 
 was natural that it should be so, and right What was she, 
 to think to come between them with her love ? 
 
 She was very bitter to herself and unjust in her first 
 misery, but her feeling changed. Her heart rebelled against 
 her own verdict. She had not acted an uiLmaidenly part in 
 the matter. She had never thought of haim coming to her, 
 or to anyone, out of the pleasant intercourse of these months 
 — ^the renewal of their old friendship. If she had sinned 
 against Lilias, it had been unconsciously. She had ne^er 
 thought of these things in those day& 
 
 n she had only known him sooner, she thought, or not 
 BO soon, or not at all I How should she ever be able to see 
 them again in the old unrestrained way ? How should she 
 be able to live a life changed and empty of all pleasure ? 
 
 Then she grew bitier again, and called herself hard 
 names for her folly, in thinking that a change in one thing 
 must change all her life. Would not the passing away of 
 this vain dream leave her as rich in the love of brothers and 
 sister as ever? Hitherto their love had sufficed for her 
 happiness, and it should still suffice. The world need not 
 be changed to her, because she had wished for one thing that 
 she could not have. She could be freed from no duty, ab- 
 solved from no obligation because of this pain ; it was a part 
 of hw life, which she must accept and make the best o^ as 
 she did of all other things that came upon her. 
 
 As she sat one night thinking over the past and the future, 
 wearily enough, but without the power to withdraw her mind 
 from what was sad in them, there suddenly came back to 
 
JANErr's LOYE AllD SERVICE. 2C9 
 
 ]ier one of Janet's short, sharp speeches, spoken in answer to 
 a declaration half vexed, half mirthful, made by her in the 
 days when the mild Mr. Foster had aspired to be more to 
 her than a friend. 
 
 " My dear," she had said, " bido till your time comes. You 
 are bat a woman like the lave, and you maun thole the brunt 
 of what life may bring. Love ! Ay will you, and that with- 
 out leave asked or given. And if you get love for love, 
 you 11 thank God humbly for one of his best gifts ; and if 
 you do not — well. He can bring you through without it, as 
 He has done many a one before. But never think you can 
 escape your fate, and make the best of it when it comes." 
 
 "And so my fate has found me," murmured Graeme to 
 herself. " This is part of my life, and I must make the best 
 of ii Well, he can bring me through, as Janet said." 
 
 " Graeme," said Will., suddenly, " what are you thinking 
 about?" 
 
 Graeme started painfully. She had quite forgotten WilL 
 Those bright, wakeful eyes of his had been on her many a 
 time when she thought he was asleep. 
 
 "What were you thinking about? You smiled first, then 
 you sighed." 
 
 "Did I? Well, I was not aware that I was either smiling 
 or sighing. I was thinking about Janet, and about some- 
 thing that she said to me once." 
 
 She rose and arranged the pillows, stooping down to kiss 
 her brother as she did so, and then she said sadly, 
 
 "I am afraid you are not much better to-night, Will." 
 
 " Yes ; I think I am better. My head is clearer. I have 
 been watching your face, Graeme, and thinking how weary 
 and ill you look." 
 
 "lam tired WilL, but not ilL" Graeme did not like 
 the idea of her face having been watched, but she spoke 
 chearfully. 
 
 "I have been a great trouble to you," said Will. 
 
 *'Yes, indeed! a dreadful trouble. I hope you are not 
 going to try my patience much longer." 
 
270 Janet's love and sebyioe. 
 
 " I don't know. I hope not, for your sake." And then in 
 & little Will added, "Do you know, Graeme, I am beginning 
 to be glad of this illness after alL" 
 
 Graeme laughed. 
 
 " Well, if you are glad of it, I will try and bear it patiently 
 a little longer. I daresay we are taking the very best means 
 to prolong it, chattering at this unreasonable hour." 
 
 "I am not sleepy," said WHl., "and I am not restless 
 either. I think I am really better, and it will do me good to 
 have a little talk ; but you are tired. ' 
 
 " I am tired, but I am not sleepy. Besides, if you ten 
 really better, I can sleep for a week, if I like. So, if it be a 
 pleasure to you speak on." 
 
 "What was it ihat Janet said that made you sigh so 
 drearily just now? " asked Will 
 
 Graeme would have liked the conversation to take any 
 other turn rather than that, but she said, gently, 
 
 " I think my smile must have been for what Janet said. 
 I am sure I laughed heartily enough when she said it to 
 mo so long ago. I suppose I sighed to think that what she 
 said has come true." 
 
 " What was it, Graeme ? " 
 
 " Oh I I can hardly tell you — something about the changes 
 that come to us as we grow older, and how vain it is to Haink 
 we can avoid our fate." 
 
 " Our fate ? " repeated Will. 
 
 " Oh, yes ! I mean there are troubles — and pleasures, too, 
 that we can't foresee — ^that take us at unawares, and we have 
 just to make the best of them when they come." 
 
 "I don't think I quH« understand you, Graeme." 
 
 "No, I daresay not -, and it is not absolutely necessary that 
 you should, — iJi the connection. But I am sure a great many 
 pleasant thing's that we did not expect, have happened to us 
 since we came here." 
 
 " And was it thinking of these pleasant things that made 
 you sigh ? " asked Will 
 
 " No. I am afraid I was thinking of the other land of 
 
jAimrr's LOVE Ain> sbbyiob. 271 
 
 gQjpriges ; and I daresay I had quite as much reason to smile 
 as to sigh. We can't tell our trials at first sight, Will, nor 
 oar blessings either. Time changes their faces wonderfully 
 to us as ti^e years go on. At any rate, Janet's advice is 
 always appropriate ; we must make the best of them when 
 
 they come.'* 
 "Yes/' said WilL, doubtfully ; he did not quite understand 
 
 yet iM 
 
 "For instance, Will, you were disconsolate enough when 
 the doctor told you must give up your books for an indefinite 
 time, and now you are professing yourself quite content with 
 headache and water-gruel — glad even at the illness that at 
 first was so hard to bear." 
 
 Will, made a face at the gruel she presented. 
 
 "I dare say it is good for me, though I can't say I like it, 
 or the headache. But, Graeme, I did not get this check be* 
 lore I needed ii It is pleasant to be first, and I was begin- 
 ning to like it. Now this precious month taken from me, at 
 the time I needed it most, will put me back. To be sure," 
 added he, with a deprecating glance, "it is not much to be 
 first among so few. But as Janet used to say. Pride is an 
 in weed and grows easily — & rishes even on a barren soil ; 
 and in the pleasure and exciiament of itudy, it is not difii- 
 cult to forget that it is only a means to an end." 
 
 " Tes," said Graeme, " it is eai^ to forget what we ought 
 to remember." 
 
 But it came into Will.'s mind that her sympathy did not 
 oome so readily as usual, that her thoughts were elsewhere, 
 and he had a feeling that they were such as he was not to be 
 permitted to share. In a Uttle he said, 
 
 " Graeme, I should like very much to go home to Scotland." 
 
 Graeme roused herself and answered cheerfully, 
 
 "Yea, I have never quite given up the hope of going home 
 again ; but we should find sad changes^ I doubt*' 
 
 "But I mean I should like to go home soon. Not for the 
 Bake of Clayton and our friends there. I would lika to go to 
 fit myself berier for the work I have to do in the world." 
 
272 Janet's love and SEBVioBr 
 
 " You mean, you would like to go home to study." 
 
 " Yes. One must have a far better opportunity there, and 
 it is a grand thing to be * thoroughly famished.' " There 
 was a pause, and then he added, " If I go, I ought to go sooa 
 —within a year or two, I mean.'* 
 
 " Oh, WiU., how could I ever let you go away ? '* > i 
 
 " "Why, Graeme 1 that is not at all like you ; you could let 
 me go if it were right But I have not quite decided that it 
 is not selfish in me to wish to go." 
 
 " But why V asked Graeme. 
 
 "Partly because it would be so pleasant. Don't you re- 
 member how Janet used to say, we are not so likely to see aQ 
 sides of what we desire very much. Perhaps I desire it more 
 for the pleasure it would give me, than for the benefit it 
 mi^t be to me. And then the expense. It would be too 
 much to expect from Arthur." 
 
 " But there is the Merleville money It was meant for 
 Arthur's educat'on, and as he did not reed it, it isyoura" 
 
 " No, that belongs to you and Bose. It would not be right 
 to take that." 
 
 "Nonsense, Will. "What is ours is yours ; if the expense 
 were all I But I cannot bear to think of you going away, and 
 Harry, too, perhaps." 
 
 " Bose tells me that Harry is moi« oent on going West than 
 ever." 
 
 " Yes, within a few days he has become quite eager about 
 it I cannot understand why he should be so. Oh, I cannot 
 feel hopeful about it." 
 
 " Arthur thinks it may be a good thing for Harry," said 
 Will. 
 
 " Yes, for some things I suppose so. But, oh ! Will., I could 
 not let Harry go as I could let you, sure that he would be kept 
 safe till—" 
 
 Graeme laid her ^ead down on her brother's pillow, and the 
 tear.: 3he had been struggling with for so long a time burst 
 fortL She had ne^'^r spoken to Will, of her fears for Haxiyi 
 but he knew that they all had had cause for anxiety on bis 
 
jaitet's love and sbbvioe. 273 
 
 aooonnt, so instead of speakiiig he laid his arm over his sisters 
 geok. She struggled with herself a moment, unable to speak. 
 
 " Graeme," said WilL, softly, " we cannot keep Harry safe 
 from evil, and He who can is able to keep him safe there aa 
 well as here." 
 
 " I know it ; I say it to myself twenty times a day. That 
 is, I say it in words ; but I do not seem to get the comfort I 
 might from them." 
 
 "But, Graeme, Harry has been very Uttle away this winter, 
 and I had thought—-" 
 
 " I know, dear, and I have been quite hopeful about him 
 till lately. But, oh, WilL I it won't bear talldng about We 
 can only wait patiently." 
 
 "Yes, Graeme, we can pray and trust, and you are ex- 
 aggerating to yourself Harry's danger, I think. What has 
 happened to make you so faint-hearted, dear V 
 
 " What should have happened, Will. ? I am tired — ^for one 
 thing — and something is wrong I know." 
 
 She paused to struggle with her tears. 
 
 " Somehow, I don't feel so anxious about Hany as you do, 
 Graeme. He will come back again. I am sure this great soi^ 
 row is not waiting you." 
 
 He paused a momeiit^ and then added, hesitatingly, 
 
 " I have had many thoughts since I sat down hero, Graeme. 
 I think one needs — ^it does one good, to make a pause to have 
 time to look back and to look forward. Things change to us ; 
 we get clearer and truer views of life, alone in the dar^ with 
 nothing to withdraw our thoughts from the right and the 
 wrong of things, and we seem to see more clearly how true it 
 is, that though we change God never changes. We get oour* 
 age to look our troubles fairly in the fac^ when we are alone 
 with God and them." . .' 
 
 Still Graeme said nothing, and Will, added, 
 
 " Graeme, you must take hope for Harry. And there is 
 nothing else, is there ? — ^nothing that you are afraid to look at 
 —nothing that; you cannot bring to the one place for light and 
 help?" 
 
 17 
 
274 Janet's loye and sebyioe. 
 
 She did not answer for a minute. 
 
 " No, Will, I hope not. I think not I daresay — I am qoiie 
 sure that all will be for the best, and I shall see at some time." 
 
 Not another word was said till Graeme rose and drawing 
 aside the curtains, let in on them the dim dawn of a bleak 
 March morning. 
 
 Li a few more days Will, was down stairs again. Not in his 
 accustomed comer among his books, but in the armchair in 
 the warmest place by the fire, made much of by Bose and 
 them alL It seemed a long time since he had been among 
 them. A good many things had happened during the monii 
 that Graeme and he had passed together up stairs. March, 
 that had come in " like a lion " was hastening out " like a 
 lamb ; " the ^ was dear and the air was mild ; spring was 
 not far away. The snow lay still in sullied ridges in the naziow 
 streets where the sun had Httle power, and the mud lay deep 
 in the streets where the snow had nearly disappeared. Bnt 
 the pavements were dry and clean, and in spite of dirty cro8B> 
 ings and mud bespattering carriages, they were thronged 
 with gay promenaders, eager to welcome the spring. Those 
 who were weatherwise shook their heads, declaring that hav- 
 ing April m March would ensure March weather when April 
 came, or it might be even in May. So it might prove, bat 
 there was aU the more need, because of this, that the most 
 should be made of the sunshine and the mild air, and even 
 their quiet street was quite gay mth the merry goers to and 
 fro, and it seemed to WDl and Graeme that mo: e than a 
 month had passed since his Hhiess began. 
 
 Harry had quite decided to go West now, and was as eager 
 and impatient to be gone as if he had all his life been dream- 
 ing of no other future than that which awaited him there. 
 That he should be e j glad to go, pained his sister as much as 
 the thought of his going. That was at first, for it did not 
 take Graeme long to discover that Harry was not so gay as 
 he strove to appear. But her misgivings as to his departure 
 were none the less sad on that account^ aad it was with a 
 heavy heart that she listened to his plans. v 
 
Janet's love and service. 275 
 
 Perhaps it was in contrast to Harry's rather ostentatious 
 nirih that his friend Charlie Millar seemed so very grave on 
 the first night that Will ventured to prolong his stay among 
 them after the gas had been lighted. Hose was grave, too, 
 and not at ease, though she strove to hide it by joining in 
 Harry's mirth. Charlie did not strive to hide his gravity, but 
 sat silent and thoughtful after his fii*st greetings were over. 
 Even Harry's mirth failed at last, and he leaned back on th( 
 sofa, shading his face with his hands. 
 
 "I am afraid your brother would think us very ungrateful 
 if he could see how badly we are thanking him for his great 
 kindness to Harry." 
 
 Graeme forced herself to say ii Allan's name had not 
 been mentioned among them for days, and the silence, at first 
 grateful, had come to seem strange and unnatural, and it 
 made Graeme's cheeks tfngle to think what might be the 
 cause. So, looking into Charlie's face with a smile, she spoke 
 to him about his brother. But Charlie did not answer, or 
 Graeme did not hear, and in a little while she said again, 
 
 " Is Mr. Ruthven still in town ? " 
 
 " Oh ! yes. It is not likely he will leave again soon." 
 
 "And your uncle is really recovering from his last attack ? 
 What an anxious time Miss Elphinstone must have had ! " 
 
 " Yes, he seems better, und, contrary to all expectation, 
 seems likely to live for some time yet. But his mind is much 
 affected. At least it seems so to me." 
 
 " Poor Lilias I " said Graeme, " Is she still alone ? " 
 
 " Oh, no. There is a houseful of them. Her aunt Mrs. 
 Boxbury is there, and I don't know how many besides. I 
 dedare, I think these women enjoy it" 
 
 Graeme looked shocked. 
 
 " Charlie means the preparations for the wedding," said 
 Rose. " It is to take place soon, is it not ? " 
 
 " Within the month I believe," said Charlie, gravely. ' '"' * 
 
 " So soon I" said Graeme ; and in a little she added, " Is it 
 Dot sudden?" ^^' '''''■'-'- 
 
 "No — yes, I suppose so. They have been engaged, or 
 
276 jaski'b love and sebvice. 
 
 something like it for some time ; but the haste is because of 
 Mr. Elphinstoue. He thinks he cannot die happy till he 
 sees his daughter safe imder the care of her husband. Just 
 as if Allan would not be her friend all the same. It seems 
 to me Uke madness." 
 
 *' And Lilias," said Bose, almost in a wliisper, "is she con* 
 tent?" 
 
 " On the whole, I suppose so. But this haste and her 
 father being so ill, and all these horrid preparations are too 
 much for her. She looks ill, and anything but cheerful." 
 
 " We have not seen your brother for a long time," said 
 Will 
 
 " I have scarcely seen him, either. He did not find matters 
 much to his mind in C. I fear. Harry will have to keep his 
 eyes open among those people." 
 
 " How soon wiU Harry have to go ? " asked Eosa 
 
 " The sooner the better, I suppose," said Charlie, rising and 
 walking about. " Oh ! dear me. This is a miserable overturn- 
 ing that has come upon us — and everything seemed to be 
 going on so smoothly." 
 
 " Harry will not have to go before Arthur comes back, I 
 hope," said Bose. 
 
 " I don't know, indeed. When does he come ? " 
 
 " Charhe, man," said Harry, rising suddenly, " did I not 
 hear you promising Crofts to meet him to night ? It is 
 eight o'clock." 
 
 "No. I don't care if I never see Crofts or any of his set 
 . again. You had much better stay where you are Harry." 
 
 " Charlie, don't be misanthropical. I promised if you did'nt 
 Come along. No ? WeU, good night to you all. Will., it is 
 time you were in bed, your eyes are like saucers. Don't sit 
 up for me, Graeme." 
 
 Graeme had no heart to remonstrate. She felt it would 
 do no good, and he went away leaving a very silent party 
 behind him. Charhe lingered. When Graeme came doym 
 stairs after seeing WilL in his room she found him still 
 sitting opposite Bose, silent and grave. He roused himself 
 
Janet's love and seevice. • 277 
 
 as she entered. Graeme would gladly have excused him, but 
 she took a seat and her work, and prepared to be entertain- 
 ed. It was not an easy matter, though Charlie had the best 
 will in the world to be entertaining, and Qraeme tried to re- 
 spond. She did not think of it at the time, but afterwards, 
 when Charlie was gone, she remembered the sad wistful 
 look with which the lad had regarded her. Hose too, hung 
 about her, saying nothing, but with eyes full of something to 
 which Graeme would not respond. One angry throb stirred 
 her heart, but her next thoughts were not in anger. 
 
 "These foolish young people have been dreaming dreams 
 about Allan and me, — and I must undeceive them — or de- 
 ceive them — " 
 
 "Graeme," said Rose, softly, "if either of us wait for Har- 
 ry it must be me, for you are very tired." 
 
 ♦* Yes, I am very tired." 
 
 " CharUe said, perhaps he would take Harry home with 
 him. Should we wait ? " said Rose. 
 
 "No. He may not come. We will not waii I shall 
 sleep near Will. He cannot spare me yet. Now go love." 
 
 She kissed the troubled face upturned to her, but would 
 suffer no hngering over the good-night. She was in no haste 
 to go herself however. She did not mean to wait for Hai> 
 ry, but when two hours had passed, she was still sitting where 
 Rose had left her, and then Harry came. 
 
 But oh I the misery of that home coming. Graeme must 
 have fallen asleep, she thought, for she heard nothing till the 
 door opened, and then she heard Harry's voice, thick and 
 interrupted, thanking some-one, and then stupidly insisting 
 on refusing all further help. 
 
 "Never mind, gentlemen — ^I can manage — thank you." 
 
 There were two persons with him, Charlie MiUar was one 
 of them. 
 
 "Hush, Harry. Be quiet, man. Are you mad? You 
 will waken your sister." = ^^ ' '^^^■ 
 
 The light which some-one held behind tiiem, flushed for a 
 moment on Graeme's pale &.Ge. 
 
278 Janet's love and bekvioe. 
 
 "Ohl Miss Elliott," said Charles, "I tried to keep him 
 'with m& He is mad, I think Be quiet, Hany." 
 
 Harry quite incapable of walking straight, struggled to 
 free himself and staggered toward his sister. 
 
 " I knew you would sit up, Graeme — though I told you 
 not — and so I came home." 
 
 "Of course, you did right to come home. Bat hush, Har- 
 ry I you will waken Will." 
 
 "Oh! yes! Poor Willi" he mumbled. "But Graeme 
 what ails you, that you look at me with a face like thatr 
 
 " Miss Elliott," entreated Oharhe, " leave him to us, yon 
 can do nothing with him to-night." 
 
 She went up stairs before them carrying the light, and 
 held firmly the handle of Will.'s door tUl they passed. She 
 stood there in the darkness till they came out again and went 
 down stairs. Poor Harry lay muttering and mumbling, en- 
 treating Graeme to come and see him before she went to 
 bed. When she heard the door dose she went down again, 
 not into the parlor where a light still burned, but into the 
 darkness of the room beyond. 
 
 " Oh Harry 1 Harry I Harry 1 " she cried, as she sank on 
 her knees and covered her faca 
 
 It was a dark hour. Her hope, her faith, her trust in God 
 — ^all that had been her strength and song, fi'om day to day, 
 was forgotten. The bitter waters of fear and grief passed 
 over her, and she was well nigh overwhelmed. 
 
 " Oh papa ! mamma I Oh Harry ! Oil I my little brothers." 
 
 *' Miss Elliott," said a voice that made her heart stand stiQ, 
 " Graeme, you must let me help you now." 
 
 She rose and turned toward him. 
 
 " Mr. Buthven 1 1 was not aware — " said she, moving to 
 ward the door through which light came from the parlor. 
 
 " Miss Elliott, forgive me. I did not mean to intrude I 
 met your brother and mine by chance, and I came with them. 
 You must not think that I — " p 
 
 " Thank you, you are very kind," .. 
 
JANET'b love iLND SEBVIOE. 279 
 
 Graeme was trembling greatly and sat down, bat rose 
 again immediately. 
 ** You are very kind," repeated she^ scarcely knowing what 
 
 she said. 
 
 " Graeme," said Mr. Buthven, " you must let me help you 
 in this matter. Tell me what you wish. Must Harry stay 
 
 or go?" 
 
 Graeme sank down with a cry, wringing her hands. 
 
 <«Ohl Harry 1 Harry!" ^ 
 
 Mr. Buthven made one step toward her. 
 
 "Miss Elliott, I dare not say to you that you think too 
 severely of Harry's fault But he is young, and I do not 
 really fear for him. And you have more cause to be hopeful 
 than L Think of your father, and — ^your father's God. 
 Graeme, be sure Harry will come back to you again." 
 
 Graeme sat still with her head bowed down. 
 
 " Graeme — ^Miss Elliott Tell me what you would have 
 me da" 
 
 Graeme rose. 
 
 "Tou are very kind," she repeated. '' I cannot think to- 
 night We must wait — ^till Arthur comes home." 
 
 He went up and down the room several times, and then 
 came .' nd stood by her side again. 
 
 " Graeme," said he, in a low voice, "let me hear you once 
 say, that you beUeve me to be your true and faithful friend." 
 
 " Why should I not say it, Allan. You are my true and 
 faithful friend, as I am yours." 
 
 Her voice did not tremble, and for a moment she calmly 
 met his eye. He turned and walked away, and when he 
 came back again he held out his hand and sai^ 
 
 "Good-night." . a-j 
 
 *' Good-night," said Graeme. : > »i km 
 
 *' And yon will see about Harry — ^what you wish for him." 
 
 ** Yes. Good-bye." w iKj^i; 
 
 He raised the hand he held to his lips, and then said, 
 "Good-bye." 
 
CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 THE next few days were weary ones to all. WiE, had 
 reached that stage of convalescence in which it was not 
 easy to resign himself to utter idleness, and yet he had not 
 strength to be able to occupy himself long without fatigoe ; 
 and in the effort to amuse and interest him, Graeme's spirits 
 flagged sadly. She looked so exhausted and ill one day when 
 the doctor came in, that he declared that Will, must be left 
 to the tender mercies of Bose, while her sister went first for 
 a walk in the keen morning air, and then to her room for the 
 rest of the day. It is possible that solitude and her own 
 thoughts did Graeme less good than attendance on WilL 
 would have done, but doctors cannot be supposed to know 
 everything ; and even had he known all there was to account 
 for her hot hands and pale cheeks, it is doubtful whether his 
 gkiU could have suggested anything more to the purpose than 
 his random prescription was. At any rate, Graeme was thank- 
 ful for a few days' quiet, whether it was good for her or not ; 
 and in the mean time Bose and WilL got on very well without 
 her. 
 
 And Harry — ^poor, unhappy, repentant Harry, trying under 
 A mask of Bullen indifference to hide the shame and miseiy he 
 felt at the remembrance of that night — these were dreary days 
 to him. Graeme never spoke to him about that night She had 
 not the courage, even if she had felt not that it would be better 
 not to do so. The preparations for his departure went on slowly, 
 though it was becoming doubtful whether he should go West 
 after alL He said little about it himself, bu6 that little it was 
 not pleasant for Graeme to hear. 
 
 Much to the surprise of everyone, and to the extreme in- 
 (280) 
 
janet'b love and sebtioe. 281 
 
 clignation of Harry, Mr. Bnihven had again left town, saying 
 nothing of his destination or the length of his stay, only in 
 yeiy brief fashion, telling him to make no farther arrange- 
 ments for his departure until his return. 
 
 ** He does not trust me. He does not think me fit to take 
 chaige of his afifairs," said Harry to himself, with his vague 
 remembrance oi Allan's share in the events of that miserable 
 night, he could hardly wonder that it should be so, and in 
 his shame and impatience he was twenty times on the point 
 of breaking his connection with his employers, and going his 
 osm way. However, he forced himself to wait a little. 
 
 « If I am sent West after all, well and good. If not I shall 
 remain no longer. The change of arrangements will be 
 sufficient excuse, at least I will make it so. I can't stay, 
 and I won't. If he would but como back and put an end to 
 it all" 
 
 And Harry was not the only one who was impatient under 
 the unreasonable absence of Mr. Buthven. Poor Mr. El- 
 phinstone, ill and irritable, suffered not an hour to pass 
 without vexing himself and others, wondering at, and 
 lamenting his delay. LiUas had much ado to keep him 
 from saying angry and bitter things about his nephew, and 
 exaggerated the few details she had gathered mth regard to 
 their recent losses, in order to account to him for Allan's un- 
 timely devotion to business. Poor girl, she looked sad and 
 ill in these days, and grew irritable and unreasonable amid the 
 preparations of Mrs. Boxbury, in a way that shocked and 
 alarmed that excellent and energetic lady. She considered 
 it a very equivocal proof of Lilias' love to her father, that she 
 should be so averse to the carrying out of his express 
 wishes. There had been nothing that is proper on such an 
 occasion," and Mrs. Boxbury seemed bent on fulfilling his 
 wishes to the very letter. So, at last, Lilias was fain for the 
 sake of peace to grow patient and grateful, and staid more 
 and more closely in her other's room, and her aunt had her 
 will in all things that concerned the wedding, that under sudi 
 melancholy circumstanoes was drawing near. 
 
282 Janet's love and service. 
 
 *• Graeme," said Harry, one night, wlien they were sitting 
 together after the rest had all gone up stairs, "don't you 
 think we have been uncomfortable long enough ? Don't you 
 think you have given us enough of that miserable, hopeless 
 face for one occasion ? I think a change would be agreeable 
 to all concerned. It would to me, at any rate." 
 
 Graeme was so startled at this speech, that for a little she 
 could not say a word. Then she said something about being 
 tired and not very well — and about its being impossiUe 
 always to help one's looks. 
 
 " Why don't you say at once that it is I who have made 
 you so miserable — that you have lost all faith in me — ^that I 
 am going straight to ruin. That is what you mean to say— 
 you know very weU." ,,^ 
 
 " Harry," said she, gently, " I did not mean to say any- 
 thing unkind." 
 
 Harry left his seat, and threw himself on the sofa with a 
 groan. 
 
 " K you would only rate a fellow soundly, Graeme ! If you 
 would only tell me at once, what a weak;, pitiful wretch you 
 think me I I could bear that ; but your silence and that 
 miserable face, I cannot bear." 
 
 " I cannot say I think you weak or pitiful, Harry. It 
 would not be true. And I am afraid you would not like 
 my rating better than my silence. I can only say, I have had 
 less courage in thinking of your going away to fill an impor- 
 tant and responsible situation, since that night." 
 
 Harry groaned. 
 
 " Oh I well ; don't bother yourself about my going away, 
 and my responsibilities. The chances are some one else will 
 have to fill the important situation." , s;t 
 
 " HavQ you seen — ^has Mr. Ruthven returned ? " 
 
 " Mr. Ruthven has returned, and I have seen him, but I 
 have no^ spoken with him. It was not his will and pleasure 
 to say anything to-night about that which has been keeping 
 me in such miserable suspense. He was engaged, forsooth, 
 
\T.iiW<y ■"-! 
 
 ' Janet's love and service. 283 
 
 when a moment would have settled it. Well, it does not 
 matter. I shaU take the decision into my own hands." 
 . "What do you mean, Harry ? " 
 
 «I mean I shall give up my situation if he does not send 
 me West— if he hesitates a moment about sending me, I shall 
 leave his employment" 
 
 «Bu*. why, Harry?" 
 
 « Because — ^because I am determined. Euthven does not 
 think me fit to be entrusted with the management of his 
 affairs, I suppose." 
 
 « Harry," said his sister, gravely, "is it surprising if he 
 
 does not?" 
 
 « Well, if I am not to be trusted there, neither am I to be 
 trusted here, and I leave. (Graeme, you don't know what you 
 are talking about It is quite absurd to suppose that what 
 happened that night would make any difference to Allan 
 Ruthven. You think him a saint, but trust me, he knows by 
 experience how to make allowance for that sort of thing. If 
 he has nothing worse than that against any one in his em- 
 ployment, he may think himself fortunate." 
 
 " Then, why do you say he does not trust you ? " 
 
 " I shall call it sufficient evidence that he does not, if he 
 draws back in this. Not that I care much. I y ould rather 
 be in the employment of some one else. I shall not stay here." 
 
 " Harry," said Graeme , coming quite close to the sofa on 
 which he had thrown himseli^ " what has happened between 
 you and Allan Kuthven." 
 
 " Happened 1 What should have happened? What an 
 absurd question to ask, Graeme." 
 
 j " Harry, why are you so determined to leave him ? It was 
 not so a Httle while ago." 
 
 "Was it not? Oh, well I I daresay not But one wants 
 a change. One gets tired of the same dull routine always. 
 Now, Graeme," added he, as she made an incredulous gesture, 
 "don't begin to fancy any mystery. That would be too ab- 
 burd, you know." 
 
28-i: Janet's love and service. 
 
 Graeme came and knelt close beside liim. His face was 
 turned away so that she could not see it. Her own was very 
 pale. 
 
 " Harry, speak to me. Do you believe that Allan Kuthven 
 is otherwise than an honorable and upright gentleman ia 
 business and — in other matters ? Tell me, Harry." 
 
 "Oh, yes! as gentlemen go. No, Graeme, that is not 
 right. I beUeve him in all things to be upright and honorable. 
 I think more highly of him than I did at first. It is not that." 
 
 The color came slowly back to Graeme's face. It was evi- 
 dent that Harry had no foohsh thoughts of her and Allan. 
 In a Uttle she said, 
 
 * And you, Harry — ^you have not — you are — " 
 
 " I hope I am an honorable man, Graeme," said Harry, 
 gravely. " There is nothing between Mr. Ruthven and me. I 
 mean, he does not wish me to leave him. But I must go, 
 Graeme. I cannot stay here." 
 
 " Harry, why ? TeU me." Graeme laid her hand cares* 
 ingly on his hair. 
 
 "It is nothing that I can teU," said Harry, huskily. 
 
 " Harry — even if I cannot help it, or remove it — it is bet- 
 ter that I should know what is making you so imhappy. 
 Harry, is it — it is not LiUas ?" 
 
 He did not answer her. 
 
 " Harry, Harry I Do not say that this great sorrow has 
 fallen upon us, upon you, too." 
 
 She drew back that he might not feel how she was trem- 
 bling. In a httle she said, 
 
 " Brother, speak to me. "What shall I say to^ou, my poor 
 Harry?" 
 
 But Harry was not in a mood to be comforted. He rose 
 and confronted her. 
 
 "I think the most appropriate remark for the occasion 
 would be that I am a fool, and deserve to suffer for my foUy. 
 You had better say that to me, Graeme." 
 
 But something in. his sister's face stopped him. His lips 
 trembled, and he said, ^ 
 
Janet's love and bervice. 285 
 
 "At any rate, it isn't worth your looking so miserable 
 
 aboui" 
 
 "Hush, Harry," whispered she, and he felt her tears drop- 
 ping on his hands. " And Lilias ?" 
 
 "Graeme, I do not know. I never spoke to her, but I 
 hoped— I believed till lately — ." 
 
 He laid his head down on his sister's shoulder. In a little 
 he roused himself and said, 
 
 "But it is all past now — all past ; and it won't bear talking 
 about, even with you, Graeme, who are the dearest and best 
 sister that ever unworthy brother had. It was only a dream, 
 and it is past But I cannot stay here — at least it would be 
 very much better — " 
 
 Graeme sighed. 
 
 " Yes, I can tmderstand how it should seem impossible to 
 you, and yet — but you are right. It won't bear talking 
 about. I have nothing to say to comfort you, dear, except 
 to wait, and the pain may grow less." 
 
 No, there was nothing that Graeme could say, even if 
 Harry would have Ustened to her. Her own heart was too 
 heavy to allow her to think of comfort for him ; and so they 
 sat in silence. It seemed to Graeme that she had never bee i 
 quite miserable until now. Yesterday she had thought her- ' 
 self wretched, and now her burden of care for Harry was 
 pressing with tenfold weight. Why had this new misery 
 come upon her ? She had been unhappy about him before, 
 and now it was worse with him than aU her fears. 
 
 In her misery she forgot many things that might have 
 comforted her vvnith regard to her brother. She judged him 
 by herself, forgetting the difference between the woman and 
 the man — ^between the mature woman, who having loved 
 vainly, could never hope to dream the sweet dream again, 
 and the youth, hardly yet a man, sitting in the gloom of 
 a first sorrow, with, it might well be, a long bright f>:iture 
 Btretching before him. 
 
 Sharp as the pain at her own heart was, she knew she should 
 not die of it. She took no such consolation to herself as thai 
 
280 Janet's love and service. 
 
 She knew she must hve the old common life, hiding first tlie 
 fresh wound and then the scar, only hoping that as the years 
 went on the pain might grow less. She accepted the lot. 
 She thought if the darkness of her life never cast a shadow 
 on the lives of those she loved, she would strive, with God's 
 help, to be contented. 
 
 But Harry — poor Harry! hitherto so careless and light- 
 hearted, how was he to bear the sorrow that had fallen upon 
 him ? Perhaps it was as well that in her love and pity for 
 her brother, Graeme failed to see how different it might be 
 with him. Harry would hardly have borne to be told even 
 by her that his sorrow would pass away. The commonplaces 
 supposed to be appropriate about time and change and pa- 
 tience, would have been unwelcome and irritating, even from 
 his sister's lips, and it was all the better that Graeme should 
 sit there, thinking her own dreary thoughts in silence. After 
 the momentary pain and shame which the betrayal of his 
 secret had caused him, there was a certain consolation in the 
 knowledge that he had his sister's sympathy, and I am afraid, 
 if the truth must be told, that Graeme that night suffered 
 more for Harry than Harry suffered for himsel£ If she 
 looked back with bitter regret on the vanished dream of the 
 last six months, it was that night at least less for her ovm 
 sake than for his. If from the future that lay before them 
 she shrank appalled, it was not because the dreanness that 
 must henceforth be on her life, but because of something 
 worse than dreariness that might be on the life of her brother, 
 unsettled, almost reckless, as he seemed to be to-night She 
 could not but see the danger that awaited him, should he 
 persist in leaving home, to ctist himself among strangers. 
 How gladly would she have borne his trouble for him. She 
 felt that going away now, he would have no shield against the 
 temptation that had of late proved too strong for him ; and 
 yet would it be really better for him, could she prevail upon 
 him to stay at home? Bemembering her own impulse to be 
 away — anywhere — to escape from the past and its assoda- 
 tions, she could not wonder at his wish to go. That the bit- 
 
Janet's love and sehvioe. 287 
 
 ternesa of the pain would pass away, she hoped and believed, 
 but would he wait with patience the coming of content. Alas I 
 her fears were stronger than her hopes. Best give him into 
 God's keeping and let him go, she thought. 
 
 " But he must not leave Mr. Ruthven. That will make him 
 no better, but worse. He must not go from us, not knowing 
 whither. Oh, I wish I knew what to ao !" 
 
 The next day the decision was made. It would not be 
 true to say that Harry was quite calm and at his ease that 
 morning, when he obeyed a summons into Mr. Ruthven's 
 private room. There was more need for Charlie's *' keep cool, 
 old fellow," than Charhe knew, for Harry had that morning 
 told Graeme that before he saw her face again he would know 
 whether he was to go or ctay. In spite of himself he felt a 
 little soft-hearted, as he thought of what might be the result 
 of his interview, and he was glad that it wr,s not his friend 
 Allan, but Mr. Ruthven the merchant, brief and business-like 
 in all he said, whom he found awaiting him. He was busy 
 mth some one else when Harry entered, talking coolly and 
 rapidly on business matters, and neither voice nor manner 
 changed as he turned to him. 
 
 There was a good deal said about matters that Harry 
 thought might very well have been kept till another time ; 
 there were notes compared and letters read and books exam- 
 ined. There were some allusions to past transactions, in- 
 quiries and directions, all in the fewest possible words, and in 
 the quietest manner. Harry repHed, assented and suggested, 
 making all the time the strongest effort to appear as there 
 was nothing, and could be nothing, beyond these duU details 
 to interest him. 
 
 There came a pause at last. Mr. Ruthven did not say in 
 words that he need not wait any longer, but his manner, as he 
 looked up, and turned over a number of letters that had just 
 been brought in, said it plainly. Indeed, he turned quite 
 away from him, and seemed absorbed in his occupation. 
 Harry waited tiU the lad that brought in the letters had 
 mended the fire, and fidgeted about the room, and gone out 
 
288 Janet's love and seevice. 
 
 again ; then he said, in a voice that ought to have been quiet 
 and firm, for he took a great deal of pains to make it so, 
 
 " Mr. Ruthven, may I trespass a moment on your valuable 
 time now?" 
 
 Mr. Ruthven immediately laid his letters on the table, and 
 turned round, Harry thought, like a man who found it neces- 
 sary to address himself, once for all, to the performancje of 
 an unpleasant duty. Certainly, he had time to attend to 
 anything of importance that Mr. ElUott might have to 
 say. 
 
 " It is a matter of great importance to me, and I have been 
 led to suppose that it is of some consequence to you. The 
 Western Bgency " 
 
 "You are right. It is of great consequence to the firm. 
 There is, perhaps, no immediate necessity for deciding " 
 
 "I beg your pardon, sir, there is absolute necessity for my 
 knowing at once, whether it is your pleasure that I should 
 be employed in it." 
 
 " Will a single day make much difference to you ? " said 
 Mr. Ruthven, looking gravely at the young man, who was 
 certainly not so calm as he meant to be. 
 
 " Excuse me, sir, many days have passed since. — ^But, Mr. 
 Ruthven, it is better I should spare you the pain of saying 
 that you no longer consider me fit for the situation. Allow 
 me, then, to inform you that I wish — that I no longer wish 
 to remain in your employment" 
 
 " Harry," said Mr. Ruthven, gravely, " does your brother- 
 does your sister know of your desire to leave me ? Would 
 they approve, if you were sent West ? ** 
 
 " Pardon me, Mr. Ruthven, that question need not be dis- 
 cussed. I must be the best judge of the matter. As for 
 them, they were at least reconciled to my going when you— i 
 drew back." 
 
 Mr. Ruthven was evidently uncomfortable. He took up 
 his bundle of letters again, murmuring something about their 
 not vdshing it now. 
 
 " I understand you, sir," said Harry, vdth a very pale face. 
 
Janet's loys aud bebyiob. 289 
 
 "Allow me to say that as soon as you can supply my place — 
 or at once, if you like— I must go." 
 
 But Mr. Buthven was not listening to him. He had turned 
 over his letters till a Httle note among them attracted his at- 
 tention. He broke the seal, and read it while Harry was 
 speaking. It was very brief, only three words and one initial 
 
 letter. 
 
 " Let Harry go. 
 
 G." 
 He read it, and folded it, and laid it down with a sigh. 
 Then he turned to Harry, just as he was laying his hand on 
 the door. 
 " What is it, Harry ? I did not hear what you were saying." 
 "I merely said, sir," said Harry, turning round and facing 
 him, " that as soon as you can supply my place in the office, 
 I shall consider myself at hberty to go." 
 " But why should you wish to go ? " 
 " There are several reasons. One is, I shall never stay any- 
 where on sufiferanca If I am not to be trusted at a distance^ 
 I shall certainly not stay to give my employers the trouble 
 of keeping an eye upon ma" 
 His own eye flashed as he spoke. ' 
 
 "But, Harry, man, that is nonsense, you know." 
 It was not his master, but his friend, that spoke, and Hany 
 was a little thrown off his guard by the change in his tone. 
 "I do not think it is nonsensp," said he. 
 " Harry, I have not been thinking of myself in all this, nor 
 ;0f the interests of the firm. Let me say, once for all, that I 
 should consider them perfectly safe in your hands, in all re* 
 spects. Harry, the world would look darker to me the day 
 I could not trust your father's soil" 
 Harry made no answer. 
 
 "It is of you I have been thinking, in the hesitation that 
 has seemed so unreasonable to you. Harry, when I think 
 of the home you have here, and of the wretched changed 
 life that awaits you there, it seems selfish — ^wrong to wish to 
 send you away." 
 
290 Janet's lote Jlnd bebviob. 
 
 Harry made a gesture of dissent, and muttered somethinff 
 about the impossibility of staying always at home. 
 
 " I know it, my lad, but the longer you can stay at home 
 — such a home as yours — the better. "When I think of my 
 own life there, the first miserable years, and all the eyil I 
 
 have seen since . Well, there is no use in going overall 
 
 that. But, Harry, it would break your sister's heart, were 
 you to change into a hard, selfish, WQrldly man, hke the rest 
 ofua*' 
 
 There was nothing Harry could say ta this. 
 
 ** So many fail in the struggle — so many are changed or 
 mined. And, dear lad, you have one temptation that never 
 was a temptation to me. Don't be angry, Harry," for Harry 
 started and grew red. " Even if that is not to be feared for 
 yon, there is enough besides to- make you hesitate. I have 
 knovni and proved the world. What we call success in life, 
 is not worth one approving smile from your sister's lips. 
 And if you should fall, and be trodden dovm, how should I 
 ever answer to her ? " 
 
 He walked up and down the rocmi two or three times. 
 
 "Don't go, Harry." For Harry had risen as though he 
 thought the interview was at an end '* You said, just 
 now, that you must decide for yourself, and you shall do so. 
 Bat, consider well, and consult your brother and sister. As 
 £or the interests of the firm, I have no fear.** 
 
 "I may consider it settled then," said Harry, huskily. 
 *< Arthur was always of opinion that I should go, and Graeme 
 IB willing now. And the sooner the better, I suppose ? " 
 
 " The sooner the better for us. But there is time enougL 
 Do not be hasty in deciding." 
 
 " I have decided already. I thank you, sir, " He 
 
 hesitated, hardly knowing what to say more. ^r, 
 
 "I hope it vnll prove that you will have good reason to 
 thank me. Bemember, Harry, whatever comes out of this, 
 you left us with my full and entire confidence. I do not be* 
 lieve I shall have cause to regret it^ or that you will fail me 
 or disappoint me." 
 
Janet's love and service. . 291 
 
 Harry grasped the hand held out to him without a word, 
 but inwardly he vowed, that come what might, the confidence 
 BO generously expressed should never, for good cause, bo with- 
 drawn. 
 
 And so the decision was made. After this the preparations 
 did not occupy a long time. The second day found Harry 
 ready for departure. 
 
 " Graeme," said Harry, " I cannot be content to take away 
 with me such a melancholy remembrance of your face. I 
 shall begin to think you are not willing that I should go after 
 aU." 
 
 " You need not think so, Harry. I am sure it is best since 
 yon are determined. But I cannot but look melancholy at 
 the necessity. You would not have me look joyful, when I 
 am gomg to lose my brother? '* 
 
 " No— if that were all. But you have often said how im- 
 possible it was that we should always keep together. It is 
 only what we have been expecting, and we might have parted 
 in much more trying circumstances. I shall be home often 
 —once a year at the least ; perhaps oftener.'* 
 
 •'Yes, dear, I know." 
 
 "Well, then, I think there is no cause for grief in my 
 going, even if I were worthy of it, which I very much doubt** 
 
 Graeme's face did not brighten. In a little while her tears 
 were falliQg fast. 
 
 "Graeme, what is it? There is some other reason for your 
 tears, besides my going away. You do not trust me Graeme, 
 you are afraid.** 
 
 Graeme made an effort to quiet herself. 
 
 " Yes, Harry, I am a little afraid, since you give me the 
 opportunity to say so. You have hardly been our own 
 Harry for awhile, as you know, dear. And what will yoa 
 be when you are far from us all ? I am afraid to let you go 
 from me^ Harry, fax more afraid than I should be for 
 WiU.** 
 
 Harry rose and walked about a while, with an air that 
 seemed to be indignant; but if he was angry, he thought 
 
292 ' Janet's love and beevice, 
 
 better of it, and in a little he came and sat down beside his 
 sister^ again. 
 
 "I wish I could make you quite flati8.^ed about me, 
 Graeme." 
 
 " I wish you could, dear. I will try to be so. I daresay 
 you think me unreasonable, Harry. I know I am tired, and 
 foolish, and all wrong," said she, trying in vain to keep back 
 her tears. 
 
 "You look at this moment as though you had very little 
 hope in anything," said Harry, with a touch of bittemesa 
 
 " Do I ? Well, I am ell wrong, I know. There ought to be 
 hope and comfort too, if I sought them right. I will try to 
 leave you in God's keeping, Harry, the keeping of our father's 
 and our mother's God." 
 
 Harry threw himself on his knees beside her. 
 
 " Graeme, you are making yourself unhappy without cause. 
 If you only knew 1 Such things are thought nothing of. If I 
 disgraced myself the other night, there are few young men 
 of our acquaintance who are not disgraced." 
 
 Graeme put her hand upon his Hpa 
 
 " But, Graeme, it is true. I must speak, I can't bear to 
 have you fretting, when there is no cause. Even Allan Butb- 
 ven thought nothing of it, at least, he " 
 
 " Hush, Harry, you do not need Mr. Buthven to be a con- 
 science to you. And it is not of the past I am thinking, but 
 the future. How can I bear to think of you going the way 
 so many have gone, knowing the danger all the greater be* 
 cause you feel yourself so safe. I am afraid for you, Harry." 
 
 It was useless to speal^ she knew that quite well. The 
 words of another can never make danger real, to those who 
 are assailed with poor Hany's temptation. So she shut her 
 Ups dose, as he rose from her side, and sat in silence ; while 
 he walked up and down the room. By and by he came back 
 to her side, again. 
 
 " Graeme," said he, gravely. *' Indeed, you may trust me. 
 The shame of that night shall never be renewed. You shall 
 
Janet's love and sebvioe. 293 
 
 gerer have the same cauise to be sorry for me, or ashamed 
 of me again." 
 
 She put her arms round his neck, and laid her head down 
 on his shoulder but she did not speak. It was not that 
 ghe wafl altogether hopeless about her brother, but Han^ 
 understood it so. 
 
 " Graeme, what shall I say to you ? How shall I give you 
 courage — faith to trust me ? Graeme, I promise, that till I 
 see you again I shall not taste nor touch that which so de- 
 graded me in your eyea I solemnly promise before God, 
 Graeme." 
 
 " Harry," said his sister, " it is a vow — an oath, that you 
 have taken." 
 
 "Yes, and it shall be kept as such. Do yon trust me, 
 Graeme ? Give me that comfort before I go away." 
 
 " I trust you, Harry," was all she had voice to say. She 
 clasped him and kissed him, and by and by she prayed God 
 to bless him, in words such as his motl\er might have used. 
 And Harry vowed, with God's help, to be true to himself 
 and her. He did not speak the words again, but none the 
 less was the vow registered in Heaven. 
 
 That was the real farewell between the brother and sister. 
 Next morning there was little said by any one, and not a 
 word by Graeme, but the last glimpse Harry had of home, 
 showed his eldest sister's face smiling and hopeful, saying ad 
 plainly as her words had said before, 
 
 " Eaxrj, I trust you quite." 
 
 >fi:.-r 
 

 \ 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 
 st8i 
 
 f"P^HE brilHant sunliglit of a September mormng was 
 
 i shining; full into the little breakfast room, where 
 Graeme sat at the head of tbe table, awaiting the coming of 
 the rest. The morning paper was near her, but she was not 
 reading; her hands were clasped and rested on the table, 
 and she was looking straight before her, seeing, probably, 
 further than the pale green wall, on which the sunshine feQ so 
 pleasantly. She was grave and quiei;, but not in the least 
 sad. Indeed, more than once, as the voices of Bose and 
 Arthur came sounding down stairs, a smile of unmistakable 
 cheerfulness overspread her face. Presently, Arthur entered, 
 and Graeme made a movement among her cups and sancei& 
 
 "Your trip has done you good, Graeme^" said Arthur, as 
 he sat down opposite to her. 
 
 " Yes, indeed. There is nothing like the sea breezes, to 
 fv'eshen one. I hardly know myself for the tired, exhausted 
 creature you sent away in June." ; ^ , 
 
 Graeme, Eose, and Will., had passed the summer at Cacotb 
 na. Nellio had gone with them as housekeeper, and Arthur 
 had shut the house, and taken lodgings a httle out of town 
 for the summer. 
 
 "I am only afraid," added Graeme, ^that all our pleasnre 
 has been at the expense of some discomfort to you." 
 
 "By no means, a change is agreeable. I have enjoyed 
 the summer very much. I am glad to get home again, how- 
 
 ever." 
 
 "Yes, a change does one good. If I was only quite at 
 case about one thing, we might have gone to Merleville, io- 
 (294) 
 
Janet's love ahh) sebyioe. 205 
 
 ^jgfiA. of Oacotma, and that would have given Janet and a 
 0ood many others pleasare." 
 
 "Ohl I don't know/* said Arthur. "The good people 
 there must have forgotten us by this time, I fancy. There 
 are nc sea breezes there^ and they were what you needed." 
 
 " Arthur 1 Janet forgotten us I Never, I am quite sure of 
 
 thai But at the time it seemed impossible to go, to make 
 
 the effort, I mean. I quite shruak from the thought of Merle- 
 
 ' ville. Indeed, if you had not been jQrm, I fear I should not 
 
 ^ have had the sea breezes." 
 
 "Tes. You owe me thanks. You needed the change. 
 , What with Will's illness, an"* Harry's going away, and one 
 thing and another, you were quite in need of a change." 
 
 "I was net well, certainly," said Oraema "WilL has 
 gone to the post, I suppose ?" 
 
 " Tes," said Rose, who entered at the moment " I see him 
 coming up the street." 
 
 " As for Eosie," said Arthur, looking at her gravely, as she 
 «atdown. " She has utterly ruined her complexion. Such 
 Ireekles I such sunbumingl and how stout she has grown 1" 
 Rose laughed. 
 
 "Yes, I know I'm a frighi You must bring me some- 
 thing, Arthur. Toilette vinegar, or somesthii^." 
 " Oh I it would not signify. You are quite beyond all tliiii.'* 
 '^ Here comes WilL, with a letter for each of us, I dedara" 
 ixthur's letter was soon despatched, a mere business mis- 
 sive. Graeme's was laid down beside her, while she poured 
 Will's coffee. Bose read her's at once, and before she was 
 well down the first page, she uttered a cry of delight 
 
 "Listen all. No, I won't read it just yet. Arthur, don't 
 you remember a conversation that you and I had together, 
 soon after Sandy was here?*' ^7 '^ 
 
 "Conversation," repeated Arthur. " We have talked, that 
 is, you have talked, and I have listened, but as to conversa 
 
 tion *' . . , . J iuv " 
 
 " But Arthur, don't you remember saying flomething about 
 Emily, and I did not agree with you?" : 
 
 I -y'i v.:'a-01 
 
296 Janet's love and service. 
 
 " I have said a great many times, that I thought EmUy a 
 very pretty little creature. If you don*t agree, it shows bad 
 taste." 
 
 " I quite agree. I think her beautiful She is not yen 
 little, however. She is nearly as tall as I am." 
 
 " What is it, Bose ?* asked Graeme, stretching out hss 
 hand for the letter. 
 
 " You Tl spoil your news, with your long preface," said "Will 
 
 "No, but I want Arthur to confess that I am wisest." 
 
 "Oh! I can do that, of course, as regards matters in gen- 
 eral; but I should like to hear of this particular case." 
 
 " "Well, don*t you remember saying, that you did not think 
 Sandy and Emily would ever fall in love ?" 
 
 "I remember no such assertion, on my part. On the con* 
 traiy, I remember feeling pretty certain, that the mischief 
 was done already, as far as Sandy was concerned, poor fellow; 
 and I remember saying much to your indignation, 'more'g 
 the pity.'" 
 
 " Yes ; and I remember you said it would be just like a 
 sentunental little blue, like Enuly, to slight the handsome, 
 hearty young farmer, and marry some pale-faced Yankee 
 professor." 
 
 " You put the case a HtUe strongly, perhaps, said Arthor, 
 laughing. " But, on the whole, that is the way the matter 
 stood. That was my opinion, I confess." 
 
 "And they are going to be married 1" exclaimed Graeme 
 and WiU. in a breath. " How glad Janet will be I" 
 
 " Emily does not say so, in so many words. It won't be 
 for a long time yet, they are so young. But I am to be 
 brides-maid when the time comes." '^ ^ 
 
 "Well, if that is not saying itl" said WilL laughing. 
 
 " What would you have, Bosie ?" - - 
 
 I Graeme opened and read her letter, and laid it down be 
 
 side her, looking a Httle pale and anxious. y' 
 
 j " What is it, Graeme ? Nothing wrong, I hope." 
 
 **xIo ; I hope not I don't know, I am sure. Norman 
 says he is going to be married." 
 
Janet's love and seevkie. 297 
 
 "Married l" cried Eose and Will 
 
 « To Hilda ?" said Arthur. 
 
 "Tes; but how could you have guessed?** said Graeme 
 bewildered. 
 
 « I did not guess. I saw ii "Why it was quite easy to be 
 seen that events have been tending toward it all these years. 
 It is aU very fine, this brother and sister intercourse ; but I 
 have been quite sure about them since Harry wrote about 
 
 them.*' 
 
 "Well, Norman seems surprised, if you are not. He 
 says, ' You will be very much astonished at all this ; but you 
 cannot be more astonished than I was mysell I did not 
 think of such a thing ; at least, I did not know that I was 
 t^inlriTig of such a thing till young CJonway, my friend, 
 aeked permission to address my sister. I was very indignant^ 
 thougb, at first, I did not, in the least, know why. How- 
 ever, Hilda helped me to find out all about it. At first I 
 meant she should spend the winter with you alL I want 
 very much that you should know each other. But, on the 
 whole, I think I can't spare her quite so long. Expect to 
 see us therefore in November — one flesh I*'* There was 
 much more. 
 
 " Well done, Norman I" cried Arthur. " But, Graeme, I 
 don't see what there is to look grave about. She seems to 
 be A nice little thing, and Norman ought to know his own 
 jnind by this time." 
 
 " She's a great deal more than a nice little thing,*' said 
 Graeme earnestly. "If one can judge by her letters and 
 by Hany*s description of her — ^to say nothing of Norman's 
 opinion — she must be a very superior person, and good and 
 amiable besidea But it seems so strange, so sudden. Why, 
 it seems only the other day since Norman was such a m^re 
 boy. I wish she could have passed the winter with us. I 
 think, perhaps, I should write and say so.*' 
 
 " Yes, if you lika But Norman must judge. I think it 
 is the wisest thing for him. He will have a settled home." 
 
 I do believe it is," said Graeme, esamestly. " I am very 
 
298 jai7et'8 love and bbbyiob. 
 
 glad— or I shall be in a littla Bui^ just at first, it seems a 
 little as though Norman would not be quite so much one of 
 as — you know — and besides there really is something odd 
 in the idea of Norman's being married ; now, is there not?" 
 
 "I confess I fail to see it," said Arthur, a Httle shaiply. 
 Graeme had hardly time to notice his tone. Anexdamar 
 tion from Will startled her. 
 
 " What is it. Will ?" said Eose. " Another wedding?" 
 
 " You Tl never guess, Rosie. Never. You need not try," 
 
 " Is it Harry this time?" said Arthur, boking in from the 
 hall with his hat on. 
 
 " No. Listen, Arthur ! Harry says, * "What is this that 
 Mr. Green has been telling me about Arthur and little Miss 
 Grove ? I was greatly amused at the idea of their mutual 
 admiration. Mr. Green assures me that he has the beet 
 authority for saying that Arthur is to carry off the heiress. 
 Charlie, too, has hinted something of the same kind. Tell 
 Graeme, when that happens, I shall expect her to come sod 
 keep my house. "* 
 
 ** They said Mr. Green was going to carry off the heiress 
 himself!" exclaimed Eose. ^ t* 
 
 *' Listen !" continued Will. " * Unless, indeed, Graeme 
 should make up her mind to smile on Mr. Green and tate 
 possession of the " palatial residence," of which he has jasi 
 laid the foundation near C .' " ,;,.$S. 
 
 " Here is a bit for you, Graeme. Nobody is to be left mi, 
 it se^Ds. It win be your turn next, Bosie," said Arthur, as 
 he went away laughing. 
 
 "But that is all nonsense about Arthur and little Miss 
 Grove T* said Bosei, half questioningly. • .^.m 
 
 " I should think so, indeed 1 Fancy Arthur coming to tyk 
 fate," said Graema " That would be too absurd." ^ 
 
 And yet the thought came uncalled several times that day^ 
 and her repetitions of " too absurd,*' became Yery energetic 
 in her attempts to drive it quite away. The thought was 
 unpleasantly recalled to her when, a day or two after, she 
 saw her brother standing beside the Grove carriage, appar 
 
Janet's love asd seevioe. 299 
 
 xentl? so intezsested in his conTersation vdth. the pretty Fanny 
 that she and Bose passed quite close to them unobserved. It 
 vnB recalled more unpleasantly still, by the obhging care of 
 Mrs. Gridley, who was one of their first visitors after their 
 retom. The Gbrove carriage passed as she sat with them, 
 and, nodding significantly toward it, she said : 
 
 "I don't know whether I ought to congratulate you or 
 gympathize with you." 
 
 Graeme laughed, but she was very much afraid she changed 
 color, too, as she answered : 
 
 " There is no haste. When you make np your mind «s 
 to which will be most appropriate, you will be in time." 
 r "Ah! jou are not to commit yourself, I se-a. "Well, you 
 are quite right She is a harmless Httle person, I beheve, 
 and may turn out very well if withdrawn from the influence 
 of her stepmother." 
 
 . Something in Graeme's manner stopped the voluble lady 
 more efiEectuMy than words could have done, and a rather 
 abrapt turn was given to the conversation. But Graeme 
 could not forget it Not that she believed in the truth of 
 what Mrs. Gridley had hinted at, yet she could not help 
 being annoyed at it It was rather f oohsh, she thought, for 
 Arthur to give occasion for such gossip It was so unlike 
 him, too. And yet so httle was enough to raise a rumor hke 
 that, especially vdih. so kind a friend as Mrs. Gridley to keep 
 the ball rolling. Very likely Arthur knew nothing at all 
 about this rumor, and, as the thought passed through her 
 mind, Graeme determined to tell him about it 
 >< But she did not ; she could not do so — ^though why she 
 could not was a mystery to herseli Sometimes she fancied 
 there was that in Arthur's manner which prevented her from 
 pursuing the subject, when an opportunity seemed to offer, 
 l^hen he was not there, she was quite sure it was only her 
 own fancy, but no sooner was the name of Grove menh'-^ied, 
 than the fajucy returned, till the very sight of the Grove 
 carriage made her uncomfortable at last, especially if the 
 lady of the mansion was in it She never failed to lean for* 
 
300 Janet's love and service. 
 
 ward and bow to them with t^ greatest interest and poB^ 
 ness ; and more than once Graeme was left standing IooUqo 
 in at a shop-window, while Arthur obeyed the beckoning 
 hand of the lady, and went to speak to her. Sometimes the 
 pretty Fanny was there ; sometimes she was not. Bat ber 
 absence did not set Graeme's uncomfortable feelings at rest 
 with regard to her brother. 
 
 And yet, why should she be uncomfortable? she asked 
 herself a thousand times. What right had she to interfere, 
 even in thought, with her brother's friendship ? If he ad- 
 mired Miss Grove, if even he were attached to her, or en- 
 gaged to her, it was nothing with which she could interfere- 
 nothing to which she could even allude — until he should 
 speak first. But then, of course, that was quite absurd! 
 Miss Grove, though very pretty, and the daughter of a man 
 who was reported to be rich, was no more worthy to be 
 Arthur's wife than 
 
 Oh! of course it was all nonsense. No one had ever 
 heard three words of common sense from those pretty lipi 
 She had heard Arthur say as much as that himseli Miss 
 Grove could dance and flirt and sing a little ; that was all tbat 
 could be said for her, and to suppose that Arthur would eyer— 
 
 And yet Graeme grew a little indignant standing there 
 looking at, but scarcely seeing the beautiful things in Savage'k 
 window, and she inwardly resolved that never again should 
 she wait for the convenience of the free-and-easy occupant of 
 the carriage standing a few doors down the street. She bad 
 time to go over the same thoughts a good many times^ and 
 the conclusion always was that it was exceedingly imperti* 
 nent of Mrs. Grove, and exceedingly foolish of Arthur, and 
 exceedingly disagreeable to herself, before she was recalled by 
 her brother's voice from her enforced contemplation of the 
 beautiful things before her. 
 
 ** Mrs. Grove wanted to speak to you, Graeme," said be, 
 with a little embarrassment. 
 
 " I could hardly be expected to know that l^ intuition,'' 
 said Graeme, coldly. 
 
janet'b love and service. 801 
 
 w She beckoned. Did you not see ? " 
 «She beckoned to you ; she would hardly venture on such 
 8 liberty with me. There is not the slightest approach to in- 
 timacy between us, and never will be, unless I have greatly 
 migtaken her character." 
 
 "Oh, well, you may very easily have done that, you know 
 yery little about her. She thinks Tezy highly of you, I can 
 assure you." 
 
 "Stuff!" pronounced Graeme, with such emphasis that 
 she startled herself and provoked a hearty laugh fromlier 
 brother. 
 
 "I declare, Graeme, I thought for the moment it was Harry 
 that spoke, or Mrs. Gridley in one of hor least tolerant moods. 
 It did not sound the least hke you." 
 Graeme laughed, too. 
 
 " 'V^ell, I was thinking of Harry at the minute, and as for 
 Mrs. Gridley — ^I didn't mean to be cross, Arthur, but some- 
 jhing disagreeable that she once said to me did come into my 
 mind at the moment., I must confesa" 
 
 "Well, I wish you a more pleasant subject for ^leditation 
 
 on your way home," said Arthur. " Wait till I see if there 
 
 are any letters. None, I believe. Good-bye." 
 
 i Mrs. Gridley did not occupy Graeme's thoughts on her way 
 
 homo, yet they were not very pleasant. All the way along 
 
 the sunny streets she was repeating to herself, " so absurd," 
 
 "so foolish," "so impertinent of Mrs. Grove," <* so disagreeable 
 
 to be made the subject of gossip," and so on, over and over 
 
 again, till the sight of the obnoxious carriage gave her a fresh 
 
 start again. The lady did not beckon this time, she only bowed 
 
 and smiled most sweetly. But her smiles did not soothe 
 
 Graeme's ruffled temper^ and she reached home at last quite 
 
 ashamed of her foUy. For, after aU, it was far less disagree* 
 
 able to call herself silly than to call Arthur foohsh, and Mrs. 
 
 Grove impertinent, and she would not think about it any 
 
 more. So she said, and so she repeated, still thinking about 
 
 it more than was either pleasant or needful 
 
 One night, Charlie Millar paid them a visit He made no seh 
 
802 JANET'S LOVE AND 8ERVI0B. 
 
 cret of his delight at their return home, dedaring that lia 
 had not kno\9n what to do with himself in their absence, utj 
 that he had not been quite content or at his ease since he sat 
 in Graeme's arm-chair three months ago. 
 
 " One would not think so from the visits you have made us 
 since we came home," said Graeme, smiling. " You have only 
 looked m upon us. We were thinking you had forsaken as, 
 or that you had found a more comfortable arm-chair, at a 
 pleasanter fireside.** 
 
 ** Business, business," repeated Charlie, gravely. " I at 
 sure you that Harry out there, and I here, have had all that 
 we have been able to attend to during the last three montha 
 It is only to the unexpected delay of the steamer that I om 
 the leisure of this evening." 
 
 "You expect us to beHeve all that, I suppose," said 
 Graeme, laughing; 
 
 ** Indeed, you may believe me, Mss ElHott It is quite 
 true. I can't understand how it is that my wise brother 
 can stay away so long just now. If he does not know 
 how much he is needed it is not ior want of tdling, I assure 
 you.** 
 
 " You hear often from him, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Yes. I had a note from LiUas the other day, in a letter 
 I got from my mother. She sent ^ kind regards ' to the Misses 
 EUiott, which I take the present opportunity of deliveF 
 mg. 
 
 " Business having hitherto prevented," said Bose. 
 
 "You don't seem to have faith in my business engage 
 ments, Miss Bose ; but I assure you that Harry and I d» 
 serve great credit for having carried on the business so sao> 
 cessfully for the last three months." ;m 
 
 " Where is Mr. Gilchrist ? " asked Arthur. 4 r 
 
 ** Oh, he's here, there, and everywhere But Mr. GilcSirist 
 is an ' old fogie,' and he has not helped but hindered mattery 
 now and then. It is not easy getting on with those slow* 
 going, obstinate old gentlemen ; I can't understand how Air 
 Ian used to manage him so weU. However, he had vnr 
 
Janet's love and seevioe. 303 
 
 lioai^d confidence in Allan's powers, and let him do as he 
 
 « And the obstinate old gentleman has not unbomided con- 
 fidence in the powers of you and Harry?'* said Arthur, 
 laughing. " Upon the whole I think, in the absence of your 
 brother, it is as well that you two lads should have some check 
 \xgmjovLf now and then." 
 
 "Not at all, I assure you," said Charlie. " As for Hany — 
 }Sjsa Elliott, I wish I could tell you half the kind things I 
 hoar about Harry from our correspondents out there." 
 
 Graeme smiled brightly. She was permitting herself to rely- 
 entirely upon Harry now. 
 
 "Bii, Ciarlie," said Will from his comer, "what is this 
 nonsense you have been telling Harry about Arthur and th& 
 beautiful Miss Grove?'* 
 
 Charlie started and colored, and so did Graeme, and both 
 glanced hastily at Arthur, who neiiJier started nor colored, aa 
 Graeme was very glad to perceive. 
 
 "Nonsense! " said CharHd, with a great show of astonish* 
 ment and indignation. '* I don't understand you, Wifl." 
 
 "Wlll.,"^ said Bose, laughing, ''you are mistaken. It was 
 Ifr. Green who had been hinting to Harry something you re- 
 member ; you read it to us the other morning." 
 
 ''Yes, but Harry said that Charlie had been saying some- 
 thing of the same kind," persisted simple Will., who never 
 dreamed of making any one feel ujicomf ortable. 
 
 " Hinting 1 " repeated Charlie. " I never hint. I leave that 
 to Mrs. Gridley and her set. I think I must have told 
 Harry that I had seen Arthur in the Grove carriage one 
 morning, and another day standing beside it talking to Misa 
 Fanny, while her mamma was in ordering nice things at 
 Alexander's." 
 
 Graeme laughed, she could not help it 
 
 ''Oh, that terrible carriage I " said Bose. 
 
 "A very comfortable and convenient carriage I found it 
 many a time, when I was staying at Mrs. Smith's," said Arthur, 
 ooolly. " Mrs. Grove was so polite as to invite me to take a 
 
804 Janet's love and sebyioe. 
 
 seat in it more than once, and much obliged I was to her 
 some of those warm August mornings." 
 
 " So you see, Will," said Charlie, triumphantly, " I waa 
 telling Harry the simple truth, and he was mean to aocose 
 me of hinting * nonsense,* as you call it" 
 
 " I suppose that is what Mrs. Gridley meant the other daj 
 when she nodded so significantly toward the Grove carxiage^ 
 and asked whether she was to congratulate us." 
 
 Rose spoke with a httle hesitation. She was not sure that 
 her brother would be quite pleased by Mrs. Gridley*8 con- 
 gratulations, and he was not 
 
 " Ohl if we are to have Mrs. Gridley's kind concern and in- 
 terest in our afifairs, we shall advance rapidly," said he, alitQe 
 crossly. " It would of course be very desirable to discuss our 
 affairs with that prudent and charitable lady." 
 
 "But as I did not suppose there was on that occasion any 
 matters to discuss, there was no discussioii," said Graeme, by 
 no means unwilling that her brother should see that she waa 
 not pleased by his manner and tone to Rose. 
 
 "Oh! never mind, Graeme," said Bose, laughing, "we 
 shall have another chance of being congratulated, and I only 
 hope Arthur may be here himseli Mrs. Gridley was passing 
 when the Grove carriage stood at our door this morning. I 
 saw her while I was conaing up the street She virill be here 
 in a day or two to offer again her congratulations or her 
 sympathy." 
 
 "Was Mrs. Grove here this morning? " enquired Arthur. 
 ''She must have given you her own message then, I sap 
 pose.*' 
 
 " She was at the door, but she did not get in. I was outj 
 and Graeme was busy, and sent her word that she was 
 engaged." 
 
 " Yes," said Graeme, " I was helping Nelly, and I was in 
 my old blue wrapper." 
 
 "Now> Graeme," said Will, "that is not the least like yon. 
 "What about a wrapper ? " 
 
 "Nothing, of course. But a call at that hour is not at all 
 
Janet's love and servici:. aO." 
 
 tiineB convenient, unless from one's intimate friends, and we 
 are not intimate." 
 
 " But perhaps she designs to honor you with her intimate 
 friendship," said Charlie. 
 
 Graeme laughed. 
 
 " I am very much obUged to her. But I think we could 
 each make a happier choice of friends." 
 
 " She is a very clever woman, though, let me tell you,*' said 
 Arthur ; " and she can make herself very afc,reeable, too, when 
 she chooses." 
 
 " Well, I cannot imagine ever being charmed by her," said 
 Graeme, hastily. " There is something — a feeling that she 
 is not sincere — that would spoil all her attempts at being 
 agreeable, as far as I am concerned." 
 
 " Smooth and false," said CharUe. 
 
 "No, Charlie. You are much too severe," said Arthur. 
 " Graeme's idea of insincerity is better, though very severe 
 for her. And, after all, I don't think that she is consciously 
 insincere. I can scarcely tell what it is that makes the dear 
 lady other than admirable. I think it must be her taste for 
 management, as Miss Fanny calls it. She does not seem to 
 be able to go straight to any point, but plans and arranges, 
 and thinks herself very clever when she succeeds in maldng 
 people do as she wishes, when in nine cases out of ten, she 
 would have succeeded quite as well by simply expressing her 
 desires. After all, her manoeuvering is very transparent, 
 and therefore very harmless." 
 
 " Transparent ! Harmless 1 " repeated Charlie. " You 
 must excuse me if I say I think you do the lady's talents 
 great injustice. Not that I have any personal knowledge of 
 the matter, however : and if I were to repeat the current re- 
 ports, Miss Elliott would caU them gossip and repudiate 
 them, and me too, perhaps. She has the reputation of having 
 the * wisdom of the serpent,* the slyness of the cat, I think." 
 
 They all laughed, for Charlie had warmed as he went on. 
 
 " I am sure it must be very uncomfortable to have any- 
 thing to do with such a person," said Bose. " I should feel 
 19 
 
806 janet'b love and berviob. 
 
 as though I must be always on the watch foi something qq. 
 expected." 
 
 " To be always on the watch for something unexpected, 
 would be rather uncomfortable — * for a continuance ' as 
 Janet would say. But I don't see the necessity of that with 
 Mrs. Grove. I think it must be rather agreeable to have 
 everything arranged for one, with no trouble. You should 
 hear Miss Fanny when in some difficult conjunction of ci^ 
 cumstances — she resigns herself to superior guidance. 
 * MaLama will manage it.' Certainly she does manage Boiue 
 difficult matters." 
 
 There was the faintest echo of mimicry in Arthur's tone, 
 as he repeated Miss Fanny's words, which Graeme was quite 
 ashamed of being glad to hear. 
 
 "It was very stupid of me, to be sure ! Such folly to sup- 
 pose that Arthur would fall into that shallow woman's snares. 
 No ; Arthur's vnie must be a very different woman from 
 pretty Httle Fanny Grove. I wish I knew anyone good 
 enough and lovely enough for him. But there is no haste 
 about ii Ah, me I Changes mJl come soon enough, we 
 need not seek to h^isten them. And yet, we need not fear 
 them whatever they may be. I am very sure of thai But I 
 am very glad that tJiere is no harm done." 
 
 And yet, the harm that Graeme so much dreaded, was 
 done before three months were over. Before that time she 
 had it from Arthur's own Hps, that he had engaged himself 
 to Fanny Grove, one who, to his sisters, seemed altogether 
 unworthy of him. SRe never quite knew how to receive his 
 announcement, but she was conscious at the time of feeling 
 thankful ; and she was ever afterwards thankful, that Jie had 
 not heard it a day sooner, to mar the pleasure of the last few 
 hourn of Norman's stay. 
 
 For Norman came vdth his bride even sooner than they had 
 expected. Graeme was not disappointed in her new sister, 
 and that is saying much, for her expectations had been 
 highly raised. She had expected to find her an inteUectoal 
 and self-reliant woman, but she had not expected to see so 
 
Janet's love and seevioe. 30^ 
 
 cbsrming and lovable a little lady. They all loved her 
 dearJy from the very first ; and Graeme satisfied Norman by 
 her unfeigned dehght in her new sister, who was frank, and 
 natural and childlike, and yet so amiable and wise as 
 
 well. 
 And Graeme rejoiced over Norman even more than over 
 
 Hilda. He was just what she had always hoped he might 
 
 become. Contact «vith the world had not spoiled him. He 
 
 was the same Norman ; perhaps a Utfcle graver than he used 
 
 to be in the old times, but in all things true, and frank, and 
 
 earnest, as the Merleville school-boy had been. 
 
 How they lived over those old times ! There was sadness 
 in the pleasure, for Norman had never seen the two graves in 
 that quiet churchyard ; and the names of the dead were 
 Bpoken softly. But the bitterness of their grief had long been 
 past, and they could speak cheerfully and hopefully now. 
 
 There was a great deal of enjoyment crowded into the few 
 weeks of their stay. " K Harry were only here ! " was said 
 many times. But Harry was well, and well content to be 
 where he was, and his coming home was a pleasure which 
 lay not very far before them. Their visit came to an end too 
 soon for them aU ; but Norman was a bu^ man, and they 
 were to go home by Merleville, for Norman declared he 
 should not feel quite assured of the excellence of his wife till 
 Janet had pronounced upon her. Graeme was strongly 
 tempted to yield to their persuasions, and go to Merleville 
 with them ; but her long absence during the summer, and 
 the hope that they might go to Emily's wedding soon, de- 
 cided her to remain at home. 
 
 Yes ; they had enjoyed a few weeks of great happiness ; 
 and the very day of their departure brought upon Graeme 
 the pain which she had ahnost ceased to fear. Arthur told 
 her of his engagement to Miss Grove. His story was very 
 short, and it was told with more shamefacedness than was at 
 aU natural for a triumphant lover. It did not matter much, 
 however, as there was no one to take note of the dream- 
 stances. From the first shock of astonishment and pain 
 
308 .auet's love and seevice. 
 
 which his announcement gave her, Graeme roused herself to 
 hear her brother say eagerly, even a Httle impatiently — 
 
 "Of course, this will make no difference with us at home? 
 You will never think of going away because of this, Rose and 
 you?" 
 
 By a great effort Graeme forced herself to speak — 
 
 " Of course not, Arthur. "What difference could it make? 
 Where could we go ?" 
 
 When Arthur spoke again, which he did not do for a mo- 
 ment, his tone showed how much he was reheved by his 
 sister's words. It was very gentle and tender too, Graeme 
 noticed. 
 
 " Of course not. I was quite sure this would make no 
 change. Eather than my sisters should be made unhappy 
 by my — ^by this affair — I would go no further in it. My ea* 
 gagement should be at an end." 
 
 " Hush, Arthur I It is too late to say that now." '♦ '- 
 
 "But I was quite sure you would see it in the right way. 
 You always do, Graeme. It was not my thought that you 
 would do otherwise. And it will only be a new sister, an- 
 other Rosie to care for, and to love, Graeme. I know you 
 will be such a sister to my wife, as you have ever been to 
 Rose and to us all" i,- 
 
 Graeme pressed the hand that Arthur laid on hers, bul; 
 she cduld not speak. " If it had been any one else but that 
 pretty, vain child," thought she. She almost fancied she had 
 spoken her thought aloud, when Arthur said, 
 
 "You must not be hard on her, Graeme. You do not 
 know her yet She is not so wise as you are, perhaps, but 
 she is a gentle, yielding httle thing ; and removed from her 
 stepmother's influence and placed under your's, she will be- 
 come in time all that you could desire." 
 
 She would have given much to be able to respond heartily 
 and cheerfully to his appeal, but she could not. Her heart 
 refused to dictate hopeful words, and her tongue could not 
 have uttered them. She sat silent and grave while her brother 
 was speaking, and when he ceased she hardly knew whether 
 
.Janet's love and seevice. 309 
 
 ghe were glad, or not to perceive that, absorbed in his own 
 thouehts, he did not seem to notice her silence or miss her 
 
 sympathy. 
 
 That night Graeme's head pressed a sleepless pfllow, and 
 among her many, many thoughts there were few that were 
 not sad. Her brother was her ideal of manly excellence and 
 ,nsdom, and no exercise of charity on her part could make 
 the bride that he had chosen seem other than weak, frivolous, 
 vain. She shrank heartsick from the contemplation of the 
 future, repeating rather in sorrow and wonder, than in anger, 
 « How could he be so blind, so mad ?" To her it was incom- 
 prehensible, that with his eyes open he could have placed his 
 happiness in the keeping of one who had been brought up 
 with no fear of God before her eyes— one whose highest 
 wisdom did not go beyond a knowledge of the paltry fash- 
 ions and fancies of the world. He might dream of happiness 
 now, but how sad would be the wakening. 
 
 If there rose in her heart a feeUng of anger or jealousy 
 against her brother's choice, if ever there came a fear that the 
 love of years might come to seem of httle worth beside the 
 k)ve of a day. it vvis not till afterwards. None of these min- 
 gled with the bitter badness and compassion of that night. 
 Herbrother's doubtful future, the mistake he had made, and 
 the disappointment that must follow, the change that might 
 be wrought in his character as they went on ; all these came 
 and went, chasing each other through her mind, till the power 
 of thought was well nigh lost. It was a miserable night to 
 her, but out of the chaos of doubts and fears apd anxieties, 
 she brought one clear intent, one firm determination. She 
 repeated it to herself as she rose from her sister's side in the 
 dsmi of the dreary autumn morning, she repeated it as part 
 of her tearful prayer, entreating for wisdom and strength to 
 keep the vow she vowed, that whatever changes or disap- 
 pomtments or sorrows might darken her brother's future, he 
 should find her love and trust unchanged for ever. 
 
'■ H 
 
 '% 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 ARTHUR ELLIOTT was a young man of good intellect 
 and superior acquirements, and he liad ever been 
 supposed to possess an average amount of penetration, and 
 of that invaluable quahty not always found in connection 
 with superior intellect — common sense. He remembered bis 
 mother, and worshipped her memory. She had been a wise 
 and eamest^ninded woman, and one of God's saints besides. 
 Living for years in daily intercourse vdth his sister Graeme, 
 he had learned to admire in her the quaHties that made hei 
 a daughter worthy of such a mother. Yet in the choice of 
 one who was to be "tiU death did them part" more than sis- 
 ter and mother in one, the qualities which in them were bis 
 pride and delight, were made of no account. Flesh of bis 
 flesh, the keeper of his honor and his peace henceforth, the 
 maker or marrer of his hfe's happiness, be it long or shorl^ 
 was this pretty, unformed, wayward child. 
 
 One who has made good use of long opportunity for ob- 
 servation, tells me that Arthur Elhott's is by no means a 
 singular case. Quite as often as othervdse, men of high intel* 
 lectual and moral qualities hnk their lot v^th women who 
 are far inferior to them in these respects ; and not always un- 
 happily. If, as sometimes happens, a woman lets her heart 
 slip from her into the keeping of a man who is intellectually 
 or morally her inferior, happiness is far more rarely the re- 
 sult. A woman may, vriih. such help as comes to her by 
 chance, keep her solitary way through life content. But if 
 love and marriage, or the ties of blood, have given her an 
 arm on which she has a right to lean, a soul on whose guid* 
 ancc she has a right to trust, it is sad indeed if these fail her. 
 (310) 
 
Janet's love and sebvice. 311 
 
 For then she has no right to walk alone, no power to do so 
 Wpily. Her intellectual and social life m.v< grow together, 
 or one must grow awry. What God has joined cannot be 
 put asunder without suffering or loss. 
 
 But it is possible for a man to separate his intellectual life 
 from the quiet routine of social duties and pleasures. It is 
 not always necessary that he should have the sympathy of 
 his housekeeper, or even of the mother of his children, in those 
 ■'higher pursuits and enjoyments, which is the true life. The 
 rising doubt, whether the beloved one have eyes to see what 
 is beautiful to him in nature and art, may come with a chill 
 and a pang; the certain knowledge of her blindness must 
 come with a shock of pain. But when the shudder of the 
 chill and the shock of the pain are over, he finds himself in 
 the place he used to occupy before a fair face smiled down 
 on him from all high places, or a soft voice mingled with all 
 harmonies to his entranced ear. He grows content in time 
 mth his old soHtary place in the study, or with striving up- 
 ward amid manly minds. When he returns to the quiet and 
 comfort of his well-arranged home, the face that smiles oppo- 
 site to him is none the less beautiful because it beams only 
 for home pleasures and humble household successes. The 
 voice that coos and murmurs to his baby in the cradle, that 
 recounts as great events the little varieties of kitchen and 
 parlor life, that tells of visits made and received, with items 
 of harmless gossip gathered up and kept for his hearing, is 
 none the less dear to him now that it can discourse of noth- 
 ing beyond. The tender care that surrounds him with quiet 
 and comfort in his hours of leisure, in a little while contents 
 him quite, and he ceases to remember that he has cares and 
 pains, aspirations and enjoyments, into which she can have 
 no part. 
 
 But this is a digression, and T daresay there are many who 
 will not agree with all this. Indeed, I am not sure that I 
 quite agree with all my friend said on this subject, myselfl^^ 
 There are many ways of looking at the same thing, and if 
 all were said that might be said about it, it would appear that 
 
812 jai7£t's love and sebyioe. 
 
 an incapacity on the part of the wife to share, or at least to 
 Eiympathize with all the hopes, pursuits, and pleasures of her 
 husband, causes bitter pain to both ; certainly, he who cannot 
 assure himself of the sympathy of the woman he loves, when 
 he would pass beyond the daily routine of domestic duties 
 and pleasures, fails of obtaining the highest kind of domestic 
 happiness. 
 
 Charlie Millar's private announcement to his friend Hany 
 of his brother Arthur's engagement, was in these words : 
 
 " The efforts of the maternal Grove have been crowned 
 with success. Your brother is a captive soon to be chained—" 
 
 Charlie was right. His clear eye saw, that of which A^ 
 thur himself remained in happy unconsciousness. And what 
 Charhe saw other people saw also, though why the wise lady 
 should let slip through her e^ert fingers the wealthy Mr. 
 Green, the great Western merchant, and close them so firm* 
 ly on the comparatively poor and obscure young lawyer, was 
 a circumstance that could not so easily be understood. Had 
 the interesting fact transpired, that the great EUas had not 4 
 so much slipped through her fingers, as, to use his own ford* 
 ble and elegant language, " wriggled himself clear," it might 
 have been satisfactory to the world in general But Mr. 
 Green was for away intent on more important matters, on 
 the valuation and disposal of fabulous quantities of pork and 
 wheat, and it is not to be supposed that so prudent a general 
 as Mrs. Grove would be in haste to proclaim her own defeat 
 She acted a wiser part ; she took the best measures for coy- 
 oringit. 
 
 When the pretty Fanny showed an inclination to console 
 herself for the defection of her wealthy admirer by making 
 the most of the small attentions of the handsome young 
 lawyer, her mamma graciously smiled approval Fanny might 
 do better she thought, but then she might do worse. Mr. 
 Elliott was by no means Mr. Green's equal in the great essen- 
 tials of wealth won, and wealth in prospect, still he was a 
 rising man as all might see ; quite presentable, vdth no 
 considerable connections, — except perhaps his sisters, who 
 
janbt's love and service. 313 
 
 could easily be disposed -^i And then Fanny, though very 
 pretty, was " a silly little thing," she said to herself with 
 jrreat candor. Her beauty was not of a kind to increase 
 with years, or even to continue long. The chances were, if 
 she did not go off at once, she would stay too long. Then 
 there were her sisters growing up so fast, mamma's own 
 darlings ; Charlotte twelve and Victoria seven, were really 
 quite tall and mature for their years, and at anyrate, it would 
 be a relief to have Fanny well away. 
 
 And so the unsuspecting youth enjoyed many a drive in 
 the Grove carriage, and ate many a dinner in the Grove 
 mansion, and roamed with the fair Fanny by daylight and by 
 moonlight among the flowers and fruits of the Grove gardens, 
 during the three months that his brother and sisters passed 
 at the seaside. He made one of many a pleasant driving or 
 riding party. There were picnics at which his presence was 
 claimed in various places. Not the cumbrous affairs which 
 called into requisition all the baskets, and boxes, and available 
 conveyances of the invited guests — ^parties of which the aim 
 seems to be, to collect in one favored spot in the country, 
 all the luxuries, and airs, and graces of the town — ^but httle 
 impromptu efforts in the same direction in which Mrs. Grovo 
 had all the trouble, and her guests aU the pleasure. Very 
 charming httle fetes her guests generally pronounced them to 
 be. Arthur enjoyed them vastly, and all the more that it never 
 entered into his head, that he was in a measure the occasion 
 of them all. Ho enjoyed the companionship of pleasant 
 people, brought together in those pleasant circumstances. 
 He enjoyed the sight of the green earth, and the blue water, 
 the sound of the summer winds among the hills, the songs 
 of birds amid rustling leaves and waving boughs, until he 
 came to enjoy at last the guardianship of the fair Fanny, 
 generally his on those occasions ; and to associate her pretty 
 &ce and hght laughter with his enjoyment of all those pleas- 
 ant things. 
 
 Everything went on naturally and quietly. There yas no 
 open throwing them together to excite speculation in the 
 
314 Janet's love and sekvice. 
 
 minds of beholders, or uncomfortable misgivings in f^ 
 minds of those chiefly concerned. Quite the contrary, if 
 any watchful fairy had suggested to Arthur the possibflityof 
 sncli a web, as the skillful mamma was weaving around hint 
 he would have laughed at the idea as the suggestion of aYery 
 illnatured, evilminded sprite indeed. Did not mamma keep 
 watchful eyes on Fanny always ? Kad she not many and many 
 a time, interrupted Httle confidences on the part of the yoong 
 lady, at the recollection of which he was sometimes indined to 
 smile ? Had she not at all times, and in all places, acted the 
 part of a prudent mamma to her pretty stepdaughter, and of 
 a considerate hostess to him, her unworthy guest ? 
 
 And if the fairy, in seU-justifioation, had ventured farther 
 to insinuate, that there is more than one kind of prudence, 
 and that the prudence of Mrs.. Grove was of another and 
 higher kind, than a simple youth could be supposed to com- 
 prehend, his en%htenment might not yet have been accom- 
 pUshed. If it had been averred that mamma's faith in her 
 daughter's tact and conversational powers was not sufficient 
 to permit her to allow them to be too severely tried, he 
 might have paused to recall her little airs and gestures, and 
 to weigh the airy nothings from those pretty hps, and he could 
 not but have acknowledged that mamma's faithlessness was 
 not surprising. As to the ultimate success of the sprite in 
 opening his eyes, or in breaking the invisible meshes which 
 were meant to hold the victim fast,, that is quite another 
 matter. 
 
 But there was no fairy, good or bad, to mingle in theii 
 affairs, and they flowed smoothly on,, to the content of aiU 
 concerned, till Graeme eame home from Cacouna, to play, 
 in Mrs. Grove's opinion,, the part of a very bad fairy indeed. 
 She was mistaken, however. Graeme took no part in the 
 matter, either to make or to mar. Even had she been made 
 aware of all the possibilities that might arise out of her 
 brother's short intimacy with the Groves, she never cobW 
 have regarded the matter as one in which she had a right to 
 interfere. So, if there came a pause in the lady's operation^ 
 
Janet's love and servioe. 315 
 
 if ArUiar was more seldom one of their party, even when 
 special pains had been takon to secure him, it was owing 
 to no efforts of Graeme. If he began to settle down into the 
 old quiet home life, it was becaud' "^he life suited him ; and 
 
 ^i Graeme's influence was exerted and felt, only as it had ever 
 
 • been in a silent, sweet, sisterly foshion, with no reference to 
 
 '} Mrs. Grove, or her schemes. 
 
 ^ But that there came a pause in the eflfective operations of 
 that clever lady, soon became evident to herself. She could 
 
 , not conceal from herself or Miss Fanny, that the beckoninga 
 
 ii^ from the carriage window were not so quickly seen, or so 
 promptly responded to as of old. Not that this defection on 
 
 ^ Arthur's part was ever discussed between them. Mrs. Grove 
 had not suflficient confidence in her dai^hter to admit of this. 
 
 ■ Fanny was not reHable, mamma felt. Indeed,^ she was very 
 
 I soon taking consolation in the admiration excited by a pair 
 of shining epaulets, which began about this time to gleam 
 
 ^vfith. considerable frequency in their neighborhood. But 
 mamma did not beheve in officers, at least matrimonially 
 speaking, and as to the consolation to be derived from anew 
 Birtation, it was but doubtful and transitory at the best. 
 Besides she fancied that Mr. Elliott's attentions had been 
 observed, and she was quite sure that his defection would bo 
 so, too. Two failures succeeding each other so rapidly, would 
 lay her skill open to question, and " mar dear Fanny's pros- 
 pects." 
 
 And so Mrs. Grove concentrated all her forces to meet the 
 emeigency. Another invitation was given, and it was accept- 
 ed. In the single minute that preceded the entrance into 
 
 ^^ the dining-roon, the first of a series of decisive measures was 
 carried into effect. With a voice that trembled, and eyes that 
 ghstened vdth grateful tears, the lady thanked her "dear 
 friend" for the kind consideration^ the manly delicacy that 
 had induced him to withdraw himself from their society, as 
 soon as he had become aware of the danger to her sweet, 
 but too susceptible Fanny. 
 ** Fanny does not dream that her secret is suspected. But 
 
816 Janet's love aot) service. 
 
 oh 1 Mr. ElKott, when was a mother at fault when the happj. 
 ness of her too sensitive child was concerned ? " 
 
 In vain Arthur looked the astonishment he felt. In vain he 
 attempted to assure her in the strongest terms, that he had had 
 no intention of withdrawing from their society — that he did 
 not understand — that she must be mistaken. The tender 
 mother's volubiUty was too much for him. He could only 
 listen in a very embarrassed silence as she went on. -;'i 
 
 Mr. Elliott was not to suppose that she blamed him for the 
 unhappiness he had caused. She quite freed him from all in- 
 tention of wrong. And after all, it might not be so bad. A 
 mother's anxiety might exaggerate the danger ; she wotdd 
 try and hope for the best Change of scene must be tried ; 
 in the meantime her fear was, that pique, or wounded pride, 
 or disappointed affection might induce the unhappy child to 
 
 — ^in short Mr. Elliott must understand . And Mrs. Grove 
 
 glanced e^ressively toward the wearer of the shining epau- 
 lets, with whom Arthur being unenlightened, might have 
 fancied that the unhappy child was carrying on a pretty 
 energetic and prosperous flirtation. 
 
 But " pique and wounded pride 1 " He had never in all 
 his life experienced a moment of such intense uncomfortable- 
 ness as that in which he had the honor to hand the lady of the 
 house to her own well-appointed table. Indignation, vexa- 
 tion, disbelief of the whole matter spoiled his dinner effectu- 
 ally. Mrs. Grove's exquisite soup might have been ditch- 
 water for all he knew to the contrary. The motherly concern 
 so freely expressed, looked to him dreadfully Hke something 
 not so praiseworthy. How she could look her deai Fanny in 
 the face, and talk so softly on indifferent subjects, after 
 having so— so unnecessarily, to say the least, betrayed her 
 secret, was more than he could understand. If, indeed. Miss 
 Fanny had a secret. He wished very much not to beheve ii 
 Secret or not, this was a very uncomfortable ending to a 
 pleasant three months' acquaintance, and he felt very much 
 annoyed, indeed. 
 
 Not till course after course hpd been removed, and the des- 
 
• Janet's love and service. 317 
 
 sort had beon placed on the table, did he summon resolution 
 to withdraw his attention from the not very interesting con- 
 yersation of his host, and turn bis eyes to Miss Grove and 
 the epaulets. The result of his momentary observation was 
 the discovery that the young lady was looking very lovely, and 
 not at all miserable. Greatly relieved, he ventured an ap- 
 propriate remark or two, on the subject under discussion. 
 He was Hstened to with politeness, but not with Miss Fanny's 
 usual amiability and interest, that was evident. 
 
 By and by the gentlemen followed the ladies into the 
 drawing-room, and here Miss Fanny was distant and dignified 
 stilL She gave brief answers to his remarks, and glanced 
 now and then toward the epaulets, of whom Mrs. Grove had 
 taken possession, and to whom she was holding forth with 
 great energy about something she had found in a book. 
 Arthur approached the centre table, but Mrs. Grove was too 
 much occupied with Captain Starr to include him in the con- 
 versation. Mr. Grove wn s asleep in the dining-room still, and 
 Arthur felt there was i elp for him. Miss Fanny was left 
 on his hands ; and after another vain attempt at conversation, 
 he murmured something about music, and begged to be per- 
 mitted to hand her to the piano. Miss Grove consented, still 
 with more than her usual dignity and distance, and proposed 
 to sing a new song that Captain Starr had sent her. She did 
 sing it, very prettily, too. She had practised it a great deal 
 more than was necessary, her mamma thought, within the last 
 few days. Then she played a brilliant piece or two ; then Mrs. 
 Grove, from the centre table, proposed a sweet Scottish air, a 
 great favorite of hers, and, as it appeared, a great favorite of 
 Mr. Elliott's, also. Then there were more Scottish airs, and 
 French airs, and then there was a duet with Captain Starr, 
 and mamma withdrew Mr. Elliott to the centre table and the 
 book, and did not in the least resent the wandering of his 
 eyes and his attention to the piano, where the Captain's hand- 
 some head was at times in close proximiiy wdth that of the 
 fair musician. Then, when there had been enough of music. 
 Miss Grove returned to her embroidery, and Captain Starr 
 
* '■'■ ', ■ ■. '■ ■-' 
 
 o 
 
 IS Janet's love and seeviob. 
 
 held her cotton and her scissors, and talked such nonsense to 
 her, that Arthur hearing him now and then in the pauses of 
 the conversation, thought him a great simpleton ; and firmly 
 beHeved that Miss Fanny Ustened from '• pique or wounded 
 pride," or something else, not certainly because she liked it 
 Not but that she seemed to like it. She smiled and responded 
 as if she did, and was very kind and gracious to the handsome 
 soldier, and scarcely vouchsafed to Mr. Elhott a single 
 glance. 
 
 By and by Mr. Grove came in and withdrew Mr. Elliott to 
 the discussion of the harbor question, and as Arthur knew 
 everything that could possibly be said on that subject, he had 
 a better opportunity still of watching the pair on the other side 
 of the table. It was very absurd of him, he said to himself 
 imd he repeated it with emphasis, as the young lady suddenly 
 looking up, colored vividly as she met his eye. It was very 
 absurd, buo, somehow, it was very interesting, too. Never, 
 during the whole course of their acquaintance, had his mind 
 been so much occupied with the pretty, siUy Uttle creatura 
 
 It is very hkely, the plan of piers and embankments, of 
 canals and bridges, which Miss Fanny's working implenients 
 were made to represent, extending from an imaginary Point- 
 St. -Charles, past an imaginary Griffintown, might have been 
 worthy of being laid before the town council, or the com- 
 missioner for pubHc works. It is quite possible that Mr. 
 Grove's explanations and illustrations of his idea of the new 
 harbor, by means of the same, might have set at rest the 
 doubts and fears of the over-cautious, and proved beyond all 
 controversy, that there was but one way of deciding the matter, 
 and of securing the prosperiiy of Mount Royal City, and of 
 Canada. And if Mr. Grove had that night settled the vexed 
 question of the harbor to the satisfaction of all concerned, 
 he would l.ave deserved all the credit, at least his learned and 
 talented legal adviser would have deserved none of it. 
 
 It was very absurd of him, he said again, and yet the inter* 
 est grew more absorbing every moment, till at last he received 
 a soft relenting glance as he bowed over Miss Fanny's white 
 
Janet's loye and service. 319 
 
 liand when he said good-nighi He bad one uncomfortable 
 moment. It was when Mrs. Grove hoped aloud that they 
 should see him often, and then added, for his hearing alone, 
 « It would look so odd, you know, to forsake us quite.*' 
 He was uncomfortable and indignant, too, when the cap- 
 tain, as they walked down the street together, commented in 
 a free and easy manner on Miss Grove's " good points," and 
 wondered " whether the old chap had tin enough to make it 
 worth a fellow's pains to follow up the impression he seemed 
 certain he had made." He was uncomfortable when he 
 thought about it afterward. What if " pique, or wounded 
 pride, or disappointed affection " should tempt the poor ht- 
 tle girl to throw herseK away on such an ass ! It would bo 
 Bad, indeed. 
 
 And then he wondered if Miss Grove really cared for him 
 in that way. Surely her stepmother would not have spoken 
 as she had done to him on a mere suspicion. As he kept on 
 thinking about it, it began to seem more possible to him, and 
 then more pleasant, and what with one thing, and what with 
 another, Miss Fanny began to have a great many of his 
 thoughts indeed. He visited Grove House a good many 
 times— not to seem odd — and saw a good deal of Miss Fanny. 
 Mamma was prudent stiU, and wise, and far-seeing, and bow 
 it came about I cannot teU, but the result of his visits, and 
 the young lady's smiles, an'd the old lady's management was 
 the engagement of these two ; and the first intimation that 
 Graeme had of it was given by Arthur on the night that Nor- 
 man .vent away. 
 
 Time passed on. The wedding day was set, but there 
 were many things to be brought to pass before it should ar- 
 rive. Graeme bad to finish the task she bad set for berself 
 on the night when Arthur bad bespoken her love and care 
 for a new sister. She bad to reconcile berself fully to the 
 thought of the marriage, and truly the task did not seem 
 to her easier as time went on. There were moments when 
 she thought berself content with the state of affairs, when, at 
 least, the coming in among them of this stranger did not 
 
'■r:^T, ;> ir'" f, ',w 
 
 320 janet'b love and bbevice. 
 
 .seem altogether like the end of their happy life, when IGm 
 Grove seemed a sweet and lovable Httle thing, and Gra^e 
 took hope for Arthur. This was generally on those occasions 
 when they were permitted to have Fanny aU to themsehee, 
 when she would come in of her own accord, in the early part 
 of the day, dressed in her pretty morning attire, without her 
 company manners or finery. At such times she was really 
 very charming, and flitted about their little parlor, or sat on 
 a footstool chattering with Rose in a way that quite won her 
 heart, and almost reconciled the elder sister to her brother's 
 choice. ignjv 
 
 But there were a great many chances against the pleasnre 
 lasting beyond the visit, or even to the end of ii On more 
 than one occasion Graeme had dispatched Nelly as a messen- 
 ger to Arthur, to tell him that Fanny was to lunch with them, 
 though her magnanimity involved the necessity of her prepa^ 
 ing the greater part of that pleasant meal with herovn 
 hands ; but she was almost always sorry for it afterward 
 For Fanny never appeared agreeable to her in Arthur's pre- 
 sence ; and what was worse to bear still, Arthur never ap- 
 peared to advantage, in his sister's eyes, in the presence of 
 Miss Grove. The r'oouettish airs, and pretty tyrannical ways 
 assumed by the young lady toward her lover, might have ex- 
 cited only a little uncomfortable amusement in the minds of 
 the sisters, but to see Arthur yielding to all her whims and 
 caprices, not as one yields in appearance, and for a time, to a 
 pretty spoiled child, over whom one's authority is only dele- 
 gated and subject to appeal, but really as though her whims 
 were wisdom, and her caprices the result of mature delibera- 
 tion, was more than Graeme could patiently endure. It was 
 irritating to a degree that she could not always control or 
 conceal The lovers were usually too much occupied with 
 each other to notice the discomfort of the sisters, but this iib 
 difference did not make the folly of it all less distasteful to 
 them : and at such times Graeme used to fear that it was vain 
 to think of ever growing content with the future before them 
 
 And almost as disagreeable were the visits which Faimj 
 
JAinST's LOVB AND BEBYIOB. 321 
 
 QBde with her stepmother. These became a great deal more 
 beqaent, during the last few months, than Graeme thought 
 at fdl necessary. They used to call on their way to pay visits, 
 or on their return from shopping expeditions, and the very 
 sight of their carriage of state, and their fine array, made 
 Graeme and Bose imcomfortable. The Utile airs of superi- 
 ority, with which Miss Fanny sometimes favored them, were 
 only assumed in the presence of mamma, and were generally 
 called forth by some allusion made by her to the future, and 
 they were none the less disagreeable on that account How 
 would it be when Fanny's marriage should give her step- 
 mother a sort of right to advise and direct in their household ? 
 At present, her deHcate attempts at patronage, her hints, sug* 
 gestive or corrective, were received in silence, though resented 
 in private with sufficient energy by Bose, and sometimes even 
 hj Graeme. But it could not be so always, and she should 
 never be able to tolerate the interference of that vain, meddle- 
 some, superficial woman, she said to herself many a time. 
 
 It must be confessed that Graeme was a httle unreasonable 
 in her dread and dislike of Fanny's clever stepmother. Some- 
 times she was obliged to confess as much to herself More 
 than once, about this time, it was brought home to her con- 
 science that she was unjust in her judgment of her, and her 
 motives, and she was startled to discover the strength of her 
 feelings of dislike. Many times she found herself on the 
 point of dissenting from opinions, or opposing plans proposed 
 by Mrs. Grove, with which she might have agreed had they 
 come from any one else. It is true her opinions and plans 
 were not generally of a nature to commend themselves to 
 Graeme's judgment, and there was rather apt to be more in- 
 tended by them than at first met the eye and ear. As Miss 
 Fanny said on one occasion, " One could never tell what 
 mamma meant by what she said," and the consequence often 
 was aa uncomfortable state of expectation or doubt on the part 
 of those who were included in any arrangement dependent on 
 mamxaa. Yet, her schemes were generally quite harmless. 
 They were not so deep as to be dangerous. The little insin* 
 20 
 
322 Janet's love and seevicje. 
 
 cerities incident to their almost daily intercourse, the small 
 deceits made use of in shopping, marketing, making visitB, or 
 sending invitations, were no such mighty matters as to jeop. 
 ardize the happiness, or even the comfort of any one with 
 eyes keen enough to detect, and vnth skill and will to circum- 
 vent them. So Graeme said to herself many a time, and yet, 
 saying it she could not help suffering herself to be made im- 
 comfortable stiU. 
 
 The respect and admiration which Mrs. Grove professed 
 for Miss Elliott might have failed to propitiate her, even had 
 she given her credit for sincerity. They were too freely ex- 
 pressed to be agreeable under any circumstances. Her joy 
 that the Elliotts were stiU to form one household, that her 
 dear thoughtless Fanny was to have the benefit of the elder 
 sister's longer experience and superior wisdom was great, and 
 her surprise was great also, and so was her admiration. It 
 was so dear in Miss Elliott to consent to it. Another person 
 might have resented the necessity of having to take the second 
 place, where she had so long occupied the first in her brother's 
 house. And then to be superceded by one so much yomiger 
 than herself, one so much less wise, as all must acknowledge 
 her dear Fanny to be, was not, could not be pleasant. Miss 
 Elliott must be a person possessing extraordinary quaUtiee^ 
 indeed. How could she ever be grateful enough that her 
 vrayward child was to have the advantage of a guardianship 
 80 gentle and so judicious as her's was sure to be I She 
 only hoped that Fanny might appredato the privilege, and 
 manifest a proper and amiable submission in the new cdrcim* 
 stances in which she was to be placed. 
 
 Graeme might well be uncomfoi table under all this, know- 
 log as she did, that mamma's private admonitions to her 
 " wayward daughter " tended rather to the encouragement of 
 a "judicious resistance " than of " a proper and amiable sub- 
 mission " to the anticipated rule. But as a necessary abdica- 
 tion of all household power made no part of Graeme's 
 trouble, except as she might sometimes doubt the chances of 
 a prosperous administration for her successor, she was ablo 
 
JAirar's LOVE AND SEEVICB. 323 
 
 to reetrain all outward evidence of discomfort and indigna- 
 tion. She was the better able to do this, as she saw that the 
 dever lady's declaration of her sentiments on this subject, 
 made Arthur a little uncomfortable too. He had a vague idea 
 that the plan as to their all continuing to Hve together, had 
 not at first been so delightful to Mrs. Grove. He had a 
 remembrance that the doubts as to how his sisters might like 
 the idea of his intended marriage, had been suggested by 
 her, and that these doubts had been coupled with hints as to 
 the proper means to be taken in order that the happiness of 
 her dear daughter might be secured, he remembered very 
 weU ; and that she had ejected and desired no assistance 
 from his sisters to this end, he was very well assured. 
 
 "However, it is all right now," said Arthur, congratulating 
 himselt "Graeme has too much sense to be put about by 
 mamma's twaddle, and there is no fear as far as Fanny and 
 she Me concerned.'* 
 
 The extent to which " manama's twaddle " and other matters 
 "put Graeme about" at this time she concealed quite, as far 
 as Arthur was concerned. The best was to be made of things 
 now ; and though she could not help wishing that his eyes 
 might be more useful to him on some occasions, she knew 
 that it would not have mended matters coidd he have been in- 
 duced to make use of her clearer vision, and so her doubts 
 and fears were kept to herself, and they did not grow fewer 
 or less painful as time went on. 
 
 But her feelings changed somewhat She did not cease to 
 grieve in secret over what she could not but call Arthur's 
 mistake in the choice he had made. But now, sometimes 
 anger, and sometimes a little bitter a^musement mingled with 
 her sorrow. There seemed at times something ludicrous in be- 
 stowing her pity on one so content with the lot he iiad chosen. 
 She was quite sure that Arthur would have smiled at the little 
 follies and inconsistencies of Miss Grove, had he seen them 
 in any one else. She remembered that at their first acquaintr 
 ance he had smiled at them in her. Now how blind he was I 
 All her little defects of character, so painfully apparent to 
 
;f'y «•;;(. 'i^'isf ■ 
 
 324 Janet's love and service. 
 
 his sisters were quite invisible to him. She was very amiaUe 
 and charming in his eyes. There were times when one 
 might have supposed that he looked upon her as the wisest 
 and most sensible of women ; and he began to listen to her 
 smaU views and assent to her small opinions, in a way, and 
 to an extent that would have been amusing if it had not been 
 painful and irritating to those looking on. 
 
 Graeme tried to beh'eve that she was glad of aU this— that 
 it was better so. If it was so that these two were to pass 
 their lives together, it was well that they should be blind to 
 each other's faults. Somehow married people seemed to get 
 on together, even when their tastes, and talents, and tempers 
 differed. If they loved one another that was enough, she 
 supposed ; there must be something about it that she did not 
 understand. At any rate, there was no use vering herself 
 about Arthur now. If he was content, why should not she 
 be so ? Her brother's happiness might be safer tiian she 
 feared, but whether or not, nothing could be changed now. 
 
 But as her fears for her brother were put from her, the 
 thought of what the future might bring to Bose and her, 
 came oftener, and with a sadder doubt. She called herself 
 foolish and faithless — selfish even, and scolded herself vigor* 
 ously many a time ; but she could not drive away her fears, 
 or make herself cheerful or hopeful in looking forward. 
 When Arthur should come quite to see with Famiy's eyes, and 
 hear with her ears, and rely upon her judgment, would they 
 all live as happily together as they had hitherto done ? Fanny, 
 kept to themselves, she thought she would not fear, but in* 
 fluenced by her stepmother, whose principles and practice were 
 so different from all they had been taught to consider right, 
 how might their Hves be changed ! 
 
 And so the wedding-day was drawing nigh. As a part of 
 her marriage-portion, Mr. Grove was to present to his 
 daughter one of the handsome new houses in the neighbor* 
 hood of Columbus Square, and there the young lady's mar* 
 ried life was to commence. The house was quite a little for* 
 tune in* itself, Mrs. Grove said, and she could neither unde^ 
 
Janet's love aiid service. 326 
 
 gfond nor approve of the maimer in which her triumphant an- 
 nouncement of its destination was received by the Elliotta It 
 is just possible that Arthur's intimate knowledge of the state 
 of his future father-in-law's aflfairs, might have had something 
 to do with his gravity on the occasion. The troubles in the 
 mercantile world, that had not left untouched the long- 
 established house of Elphinstone & Co., had been felt more 
 fleriously still by Mr. Grove, and a doubt as to whether he 
 could, with justice to all concerned, withdraw so large an 
 amount from his busmess, in order to invest it for his 
 daughter's benefit, could not but suggest itself to Arthur. He 
 ^^as not mercenary ; it would not be true to say he had not felt 
 a certain degree of satisfaction in knowing that his bride 
 would not be altogether undowered. But the state of Mr. 
 Grove's afifairs, was, to say the least, not such as to warrant 
 a present withdrawal of capital from his business, and Arthur 
 might well look grave. 
 Not that he troubled himself about it, however. He had 
 
 ' never felt so greatly elated at the prospect of marrying an 
 heiress, as to feel much disappointed when the prospect be- 
 came doubtful. He knew that Miss Grove had a right to 
 something which she had inherited from her mother, but he 
 said to himself that her right should be set aside, rather than 
 that there should be any defilement of hands in the transfer. 
 So, if to Mrs. Grove's surprise and disgust, he remained silent 
 when she made known the munificent intentions of Fanny's 
 father, it was not for a reason that he chose to discuss with 
 
 .her. His remarks were reserved for Mr. Grove's private ear, 
 
 ' and to him they were made with sufficient plainness. 
 
 \ As for Graeme, she could not but see that their anticipated 
 change of residence might help to make certainties of all her 
 
 3 doubts and fears for their future. If she had dreaded 
 changes in their manner of life before, how much more were 
 they to be dreaded now ? They might have fallen back, after 
 a time, into their old, quiet routine, when Fanny had quite be* 
 come one of them, had they been to remain still in the home 
 where they had all been so happy together. But there 
 
326 janet'b love and bbbvioe. 
 
 seemed little hope of anything so pleasant as that now, for 
 Fanny's handsome house was in quite a fashionable neighbor 
 hood, away from their old friends, and that would make a sad 
 difference in many ways, she thought ; and all this added 
 much to her misgivings for the future. 
 
 " Fanny's house I " could it ever seem like home to them ] 
 Her thoughts flew back to Janet and Merleville, and for a 
 little, notwithstanding all the pain she knew the thought 
 would give her brother, it seemed possible — nay best and 
 wisest, for her and Eose to go away. 
 
 " However, we must wait awhile ; we must have patience. 
 Things may adjust themselves in a way that I cannot see just 
 now." 
 
 In the lesson, which with tears and prayers and a good: 
 will Graeme had set herself to learn, she had got no farther 
 than this, " We must wait — ^we must have patience." And 
 she had more cause to be content with the progress she 
 had made than she thought ; for, amid all the cures for the 
 ills of Ufe, which wisdom remembers, and which foUy forgets, 
 what better, what more effectual than "patient waiting?" 
 
 
 j 
 
 k 
 

 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 . ■'f ■ 
 
 ^» A RE you quite sure that you are glad, Graeme." 
 
 f\ " I am very glad, Will Why should you doubt it ? 
 Tou know I have not so heartsome a way of showing my 
 delight as Bosie has." 
 
 « No. I don't know any such thing. I can't be quite glad 
 myseli^ till I am sure that you are glad, too." 
 
 "Well, you may be quite sure, Will It is only my old 
 perverse way of looking first at the dark side of things, and 
 this matter has a dark side. It vnll seem less hke home 
 than ever when you are gone, Will" 
 
 "Less like home than ever 1" repeated WiH " Why, 
 Graeme, that sounds as if you were not quite contented vdth 
 the state of affiairs." 
 
 '^oes it?" said Graeme, laughing, but not pleasantly. 
 
 ''But^ Graeme, everything has turned out better than we 
 expected. Fanny is very nice, and " 
 
 "Yes, indeed," said Graeme, heartily. "Everything has 
 tnmed out much better than we used to fear. I le^emhest the 
 time when I was quite afraid of Fanny and her fine house — 
 my old perversity, you see." v 
 
 "I remember," said WilL, gravely. 
 
 "I was quite morbid on the subject, at one time. Mamma 
 Grove was a perfect night-mare to me. And really, she is — 
 Weill she is not a very formidable person, after alL" 
 
 " WeU, on the whole, I think we could dispense with mamma 
 Grove," said WilL, vnth a shrug. 
 
 '* Oh 1 that is because she is down upon you in the matter 
 of Master Tom. You will have to take him, WilL" 
 
 (327) 
 
328 Janet's love and seevioe. 
 
 " Of course. But then, I would do a great deal more than 
 that for Fanny's brother, without aU this talk." 
 
 " But then, without ' all this talk,* as you call it, you might 
 not have discovered that the favor is done you, nor that the 
 letter to her English friend will more than compensate yon, 
 for going fifty nules out of your way for the boy." 
 
 "Ohl well, it is her way, and a very stupid way. Le| 
 her resi" 
 
 " Yes, let her rest And, Will., you are not to think I am 
 not glad that you are going home. I would choose no other 
 lot for you, than the one that is before you, an opportunity 
 to prepare yourself for usefulness, and a wide field to labor 
 in. Only I am afraid I would stipulate that the field should 
 be a Canadian one." 
 
 " Of course. Canada is my home." 
 
 " Or Merleville. Deacon Snow seems to think you are to 
 be called to that field, when you are ready to be called" 
 
 "But that is a long day hence. Perhaps, the deacon may 
 change his mind, when he hears that I am going home to 
 learn from the ' British.' " 
 
 " There is no fear. Sandy has completed the woik which 
 my father and Janet began. Mr. Snow is tolerant of t!ie 
 North British, at any rate. What a pleasant life our Merle* f 
 ville life was. It seems strange that none of us, but Norman, 
 has been back there. It won't be long now, however." 
 
 " I am afraid I cannot wait for Emily's wedding. Bat I 
 shall cer'.^iily go and see them all, before I go to Scotland." 
 
 "If you do, I shall go with you, and spend the summer^ 
 there." ,.; 
 
 " And leave Bose, here ?" said Will., in some surprise. ,,^ 
 
 " Na I wish to go for Bose's sake, as much as for my 
 own. It seems as though going to Merleville and Janet)^ 
 would put us all right again." 11 
 
 **I hope you may both be put right, without going bo 
 &r," said Will. 
 
 * Do you know. Will., I sometimes wonder whether I can 
 be the same person who came here with Bose and you? CSr* 
 
JiLBTBT's LOVE AND BEEVIOB. 329 
 
 cnmslanoes do change people, whether they will or not I 
 ^|,infe I should come back to my old self again, with Janet 
 to take me to task, in her old sharp, loving way." 
 
 "I don't think I understand you, Graeme." 
 
 "Don't you? Well, that is evidence that I have changed; 
 and that I have not improved. But I am not sure that I un- 
 derstand myoeM." 
 
 "What is wrong with you, Graeme." 
 
 " I cannot tell you, WiU. I don't know whether the wrong 
 is with me, or with matters and things in general. But 
 there is no good in vexing you, unless you could tell me how 
 to help ii" 
 
 "HI knew what is wrong I might try," said Will., gravely. 
 
 "Then, tell me, what possible good I shall be able to do in 
 the world, when I shall no longer have you to care for?" 
 
 " If you do no good, you wfll fall far short of your duty." 
 
 "I know it. Will. But useless as my way of life is, I can- 
 not change ii Next year must be like this one, and except 
 nursing you in your illness, and Fanny in hers, I have done 
 nothing worth naming as work." 
 
 " That same nursing was not a Httle. And do you call the 
 housekeeping nothing? It is all very well, Fanny's jingling 
 her keys, and playing lady of the house, but we all know 
 who has the care and trouble. If last year has nothing to 
 show for work, I think you may make the same complaint 
 of all the years that went before. It is not that you are 
 getting weary of the * woman's work, that is never done/ is 
 it, dear?" 
 
 "No, Will I hope not I think not But this last year 
 has been very dlfl'eront from all former years. I used to 
 have something definite to do, something that no one else 
 could do as well I cannot explain it. You would laugh at 
 the trifles that moko the difference." 
 
 "I see one difference," said Will. " Tou have the trouble, 
 and Fanny has the credit" 
 
 "No, Will. Don't say that I don't think that troubles me. 
 It ought not ; but it is not good for Fanny, to allow her to sup- 
 
830 jaset's love and beevioe. 
 
 pose she has the responsibility and care, when she has not 
 really. And it is not fair to her. When the time comes that 
 she must have them, she will feel the trouble all the more for 
 her present delusion. And she is learning nothing. She ig 
 utterly careless about details, and complicates matters whe& she 
 thinks she is doing most, though I must say, Nelly is veiy toW 
 ant of the ' whims' of her young mistress, and makes the best 
 of everything. But Will., aU this must sound to you like 
 finding fault with Fanny, and indeed, I don't wish to do any- 
 thing so disagreeable." ^^^ 
 
 " I am sure you do not, Graeme. I think I can unde^ 
 stand your troubles, but I am afraid I cannot tell yon how 
 to help thena." 
 
 " No, Will The kind of life we are living is not good for 
 any of ua What I want for myself is some kind of real 
 work to do. And I want it for Rose." 
 
 " But, Graeme, you would never surely think of going away, 
 — ^I mean, to stay always ?" 
 
 "Why not? We are not needed here, Rose and! No, 
 Win I don't think it is that I am growing tired of * woman's 
 worL* It was very simple, humble work I used to do, trifles, 
 odds and ends of the work of hfe; stitching and mending, 
 sweeping and dusting, singing and playing, reading and talk- 
 ing, each a trifling matter, taken by itsell But of Bach 
 trifles is made up the life's work of thousands of women, 
 far wiser and better than I am; and I was content with it. 
 It helped to make a happy home, and that was mucL" 
 
 "You have forgotten something in your list of trifles, 
 Graeme, — ^your love and care for us alL" 
 
 " No, Win These are implied. It is the love and care 
 that made all these trifles really * woman's work.' A poor 
 dreary work it would be without these." 
 
 " And, Graeme, is there nothing still, to sanctify your daily 
 labor, and make it work indeed?" said Will 
 
 There is, indeed, WiU. If I were only sure that it is my 
 work. But, I am not sure. And it seems as though — some- 
 where in the world, there must be something better worth 
 
janet'b love and sekvice. 331 
 
 {he luuno of work, for me to do." And letting her hands 
 £ill in her lap, she looked away oyer the numberless roofs of 
 ihe city, to the grey line of the river, beyond. 
 
 " Oh I WiU.," she went on in a Httle, " you do not know. 
 You who have your life's work laid out before you, can never 
 understand how it is with me. You know the work before 
 ' you is your work — given you by God himsell You need 
 have no misgivings, you can make no mistake. And look 
 at the difference. Think of all the years I may have to spend, 
 doing the forgotten ends of another's duty, filling up the 
 time with trifles, visits, frivolous talk, or fancy work, or other 
 things which do good to no one. And all the time not know- 
 ing whether I ought to stay in the old round, or break away 
 . from it all — never sure but that elsewhere, I might find whole- 
 ' some work for God and man." 
 
 Yeiy seldom did Graeme allow herself to put her troubled 
 thoughts into words, and she rose now and went about the 
 room, as if she wished to put an end to their talk. But 
 WiU. said, 
 
 "Even if it were true and real, all you say, it may not be 
 for long. Some day, you don't know how soon, you may 
 have legitimate * woman's work' to do, — ^love, and sympathy, 
 and care, and all the rest, without encroaching on Fanny's 
 domain." »• x 
 
 He began gravely, but blushed and stammered, and 
 glanced with laughing deprecation at his sister, as he ended. 
 She did not laugh. 
 
 "I have thought of that, too. It seems so natural and 
 proper, and in the common course of things, that a woman 
 fihoTild marry. And there have been times, during this last 
 year, when, just to get away from it all I have thought that 
 any change would be for the better. But it would not be 
 
 right, unless " she hesitated. 
 
 *' No, unless it was the right person, and all that^ but may 
 we not reasonably hope that the right person may come ?" 
 
 " We won't talk about it, Will There must be some other 
 way than that. Many women find an appropriate work to 
 
832 JANEI^'S LOTE AND SEBVIOE. 
 
 do withort marrying. I wish I could do as the Merlevflle 
 girls used to do, spin and weave, or keep a school" 
 
 " But, they don't spin and weave now, since the factories 
 have been built And as for school-keeping " 
 
 "It would be work, good wholesome work, in which, 
 with God's help, I might try to do as our father and mother 
 did, and leave the world better for my labor." 
 
 " But you could not part from Hose, and Arthur could 
 never be made to see it right that you should go away," 
 said Will 
 
 "Rose should go with me. And Arthur would not hke it 
 at first, nor Fanny, but they would reconcile themselves to it 
 in time. And as to the school, that is only one kind of work, 
 though there are few kinds left for a woman to do, the more's 
 the pity." 
 
 " There is work enough of the best kind. It is the re- 
 muneration that is scant And the remuneration could not 
 be made a secondary consideration, if yon left home." 
 
 "In one sense, it ought to be secondary. But I think 
 it must be delightful to feel that one is 'making one's 
 living,' as Mr. Snow would say. I should like to know how 
 it feels to be quite independent Will., I must confess." 
 
 " But, Graeme, there is no need; and it would make A^ 
 thur quite unhappy, if he were to hear you speak m that 
 way. Even to me, it sounds a little like pride, or discontent" 
 
 "Does it. Will. That is dreadful It is quite posable 
 that these evil elements enter into my vexed thoughts. We 
 won't speak any more about it. Will." 
 
 " But, why should we not speak about it ? You may be 
 quite right At anyrate, you are not likely to set yourself 
 right, by keeping your vexed thoughts to yourself." 
 
 But, if Graeme had been ever so willing, there was no 
 more time just now. There was a knock at the door, and 
 Sarah, the housemaid, presented herself. 
 
 "If you please. Miss Graeme, do you think I might go 
 out as usual It is Wednesday, you know." 
 
 Wednesday was the night of the weekly lecture in Sarah's 
 
janbt's love and service. 333 
 
 {irk. She was a good little girl, and a worshipper in a small 
 way of a popular young preacher of the day. 
 "If Nelly thinks she can manage without you," said 
 
 Graeme. 
 "It was NeUy proposed it She can do very well, unless 
 
 1^ Elliott brings home some one with her, which is un- 
 likely so late." 
 
 "Well, go then, and don't be late. And be sure you come 
 home with the Shaws' Sarah," said Miss Elhott. 
 
 "They are late," said Will " I am afraid I caimot wait 
 for dinner. I promised to be with Dr. D. at seven." 
 
 They went down stairs together. Nelly remonstrated, 
 mth great earnestness against Will.'s "putting himself off 
 mih bread and cheese, instead of dinner." 
 
 "Though you need care the less about it, that the dinner's 
 spoiled already. The fowls werena much to begin with. It 
 needs sense and discretion to market, as well as to do most 
 tilings, and folk that winna come home at the right hour 
 most content themselves with things overdone, or else in the 
 dead thraw." 
 
 \ "I am very sorry WilL should lose his dinner," said 
 Graeme ; "but they cannot be long in coming now." 
 
 " There *s no saying. They may meet in with folk that may 
 keep them to suit their ain convenience. It has happened 
 before." 
 
 More than once, when Fanny had been out with her mother, 
 they had gone for Arthur and dined at Grove house, without 
 giving due notice at home, and the rest, after long waiting, 
 had eaten their dinner out of season. To have a success in 
 her department rendered vain by careless or culpable delay, 
 was a trial to Nelly at any time. And if Mrs. Grove had 
 anything to do with causing it, the trial was all the greater. / 
 
 For Nelly — to use her own words — had no patience with 
 that " meddlesome person." Any interference on her part in 
 household matters, was considered by her a reflection on the 
 housekeeping of her young ladies before Mrs. Arthur came 
 among them, and was resented accordingly. All hints, sug- 
 
334 Janet's love and bervioe. 
 
 gestions, recipes, or even direcfc instructions from her, were 
 utterly ignored by Nelly, when it could be done without poa. 
 tive disobedience to Miss Graeme or Mrs. Elliott. If direct 
 orders made it necessary for her to do violence to her feelings 
 to the extent of availing herself of Mrs. Grove's experience, it 
 was done under protest, or with an open incredulousness as 
 to results, at the same time irritating and amusing. 
 
 She had no reason to suppose that Mrs. Grove had aiiy< 
 thing to do with her vexation to-night, but she chose to as- 
 sume it to be so, and following Graeme into the dining room, 
 where Will, sat contentedly eating his bread and cheese, she 
 said, Mu- 
 
 ** As there is no counting on the time of their home coming, 
 with other folks' convenience to consult, you had best let me 
 bring up the dinner, Miss Graeme." 
 
 " We will wait a few minutes longer. There is no haste," 
 said Graeme, quietly. 
 
 Graeme sat a long time looking out of the wiuuow before 
 they came — so long that Nelly came up stairs again intending 
 to expostulate still, but she did not ; she went down again, 
 quietly, muttering to herself as she went, 
 
 " 1 11 no' vex her. She has her ain troubles, I daresay, 
 with her young brother going away, and many another thing 
 that I ken nothing about. It would ill set me to add to her 
 vexations. She is not at peace with herself, that 's easy to be 
 seen." 
 
 
CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 GRAEME was not at peace with herself, and had not 
 been so for a long time, and to-night she was angry 
 vith herself for having spoiled Will's pleasure, by letting him 
 see that she was ill at ease. 
 
 "For there is no good vexing him. He cannot even ad* 
 yise me ; and, indeed, I am afraid I have not the conrago 
 really to go away." 
 
 But she continued to vex herself i^ore than was wise, as 
 she sat there waiting for the rest in the gathering darkness. 
 
 They came ftt last, but not at aU aa they ought to have 
 come, with the air of culpritcx. but chatting and laughing 
 merrily, and quite at their leisi re, accompanied— to Nelly's 
 indignant satisfaction — by Mis. Grove. Graeme could 
 hardly restrain an exclamation of amusement as she 
 hastened toward the door. Rose came first, and her sister's 
 question as to their delay was stopped by a look at her 
 radiant face. 
 
 " Graeme, I have something to tell yon. What is the 
 most delightful, and abnost the most unhkely thing that 
 could happen to us ? " 
 
 Graeme shook her head. 
 I "I should have to consider a while first — ^I am not good 
 at guessing. But won't it keep? Nelly is out of all 
 patience." 
 
 But Rose was too excited to heed her. 
 
 "No ; it won't keep. Guess who is coming— Janet 1 " 
 
 Graeme uttered an exclamation of surprise. 
 
 "Arthur got a letter frrm Mr. Snow today. Read ii" 
 
 Graeme read, Rose looking over her shoulder. 
 
 (335) 
 
336 janet's love and service. 
 
 ''I am very glad, ijut, "Rome, yoa must make hasta 
 Fanny will be down in a minute, and Nelly is impatient." 
 
 " No wonder I But I must tell her about Mrs. Snow." 
 
 And with her bonnet in her hand, she went dancing do\m 
 the kitchen stairs. Nelly would have been in an implacable 
 humour, indeed, if the sight of her bright face had not I 
 softened her. Eegardless of the risk to muslins and ribbons,' 
 she sprang at once into the midst of the delayed prepara. 
 tion& 
 
 " Nelly I "Who do you think is coming ? You will never 
 guess. I may as well tell you. Mrs. Snow 1 " 
 
 "Eh, me ! That s news, indeed. Take care of the grayy, 
 Miss Bose, dear. And when is she coming? " 
 
 There was not the faintest echo of rebuke in Nelly's tone. 
 There was no possibility of refusing to be thus included in 
 the family joy, even in the presence of overdone fowls and 
 ruined vegetables. Besides, she had the greatest respect for 
 the oldest friend of the family, and a great desire to see her. 
 She looked upon her as a wonderful person, and aspired in a 
 humble way to imitate her virtues, so she set the gravy diah 
 on the table to hear more. 
 
 " And when will she be coming ? " she asked. 
 
 '* Some time in June. And, Nelly, such preparations as 
 we shall have I But it is a shame, we kept dinner waiting. 
 We could not help it, indeed." 
 
 ''You dinna need to tell me that. I heard who came 
 with you. Carry you up the plates, and the dinner will be 
 up directly." 
 
 "And so, your old nurse is coming?" said Mrs. Grove, 
 after they had been some time at the table. " How delight- 
 ful ! You look quite excited, Bose. She is a very nice pe^ < 
 son, I believe, Miss EUiott." 
 
 Graeme smUed. Mrs. Grove's generally descriptive term 
 hardly indicated the manifold virtues of their friend ; but, 
 before she could say so, Mrs. Grove continued. 
 
 ** We must think of some way of doing her honor. We 
 must get up a little fete — a pio-nic or something. Will she 
 
Janet's love aiid seevice. 8t»i 
 
 stay here or at Mr. Bimie's. She is a friend of his, I suppose, 
 as Bose stopped him in the street to tell him she is coming. 
 It is rather awkward having sach people staying in the 
 house. They are apt to fancy, you know ; and really, one 
 cannot devote all one's time — " 
 
 " Bose sent her a glance of indignation; Graeme only 
 smiled. Arthur had not heard her last remark, so he 
 answered the first. 
 
 «I doubt such things would hardly be in Mrs. Snow's 
 way. Mrs. Grove could hardly make a lion of our Janet, I 
 fancy, Graeme." 
 < « I fancy not," said Graeme, quietly. 
 
 "Oh! I assure you, I shall be willing to take any trouble. 
 I truly appreciate humble worth. We so seldom find among 
 the lower classes anything like the faithfulness, and the 
 gratitude manifested by this person to your family. You 
 must tell me all about her some day, Bose." 
 
 Bose was regarding her with eyes out of which all indigna- 
 tion had passed, to make room for astonishment. Mrs. 
 Grove went on. 
 
 " Did n't she leave her husband, or something, to com" 
 with you? Certainly a lifetime of such devotion should \x, 
 rewarded — " 
 
 " By a pic-nic," said Bose, as Mrs. Grove hesitated. 
 
 " Bose, don't be satirical," said Arthur, tryin<^ '^'st to laugh. 
 
 "I am sure you must be delighted, Fanny — xxxthur's old 
 norse you know. It need not prevent you going to the sea- 
 side, however. It is not you she comes to see." 
 
 "I am not so sure of that," said Arthur, smiling across 
 the table to his pretty wife. " I feuicy Fanny h&B as much 
 to do with the visit as any of us. She wiU have to be on her 
 good behaviour, ana to look her prettiest, I can assure her." 
 
 " And Janet was not Arthur's nurse," said Bose. " Graeme 
 was baby when ahe came first." 
 
 **And I fancy nursing was but a small part of Janet's 
 
 work in those days." said Arthur. " She was nurse, and 
 
 cook, and housemaid, all in one. Eh, Graeme ? " 
 21 
 
338 Janet's love and bervioe. 
 
 "Aj, and more than that — ^more than could be told in 
 words," said Graeme, with glistening eyes. 
 
 "And I am sure you will like her," said Kose, looking 
 straight into Mrs. Grove's face. " Her husband is very rich. 
 I think he must be almost the richest man in MerleTille." 
 
 Arthur did not reprove Bose tlra time, though she weU de- 
 served it. eJhe rtad her reproof in Graeme's look, and 
 blushed and hung her head. She did not look very mnch 
 abashed, however. She knew Arthur was enjoying the home 
 thrust ; but the subject was pursued no farther. 
 
 " Do you know, Fanny," said Mrs. Grove, in a little, "I 
 saw Mrs. Tilman this morning, and a very superior person 
 she turns out to be. She has seen better days. It is sad to 
 see a lady — ^for she seems to have been quite a lady— so » 
 duced." 
 
 "And who is Mrs. Tihnan,** asked Arthur. 
 
 Fanny looked annoyed, but her mamma went on. 
 
 "She is a person Mrs. Gridley was speaking to Fanny 
 about — a very worthy person indeed." 
 
 "She was speaking to you, you mean, mamma," said 
 Fanny. 
 
 " Was it to me ? Well, it is all the same. She is a widow. 
 
 She lived in Q a while and then came here, and was a 
 
 housekeeper in Haughton Place. I don't know why she 
 left Some one married, I think. Since then she has been 
 a sick nurse, but it did n't agree with her, and lately she has 
 been a cook in a small hotel" 
 
 " She seems to have experienced vicissitudes," said Arthur, 
 for the sake of saying something. 
 
 " Has she not ? And a very worthy person she is, I unde^ 
 stand, and an admirable cook. She markets, too— or she 
 did at Haughton House — and that is such a relief She 
 must be an invaluable servant." 
 
 "I should think so, indeed," said Arthur, as nobody else 
 seemed inclined to say anything. 
 
 Graeme and Bose were speaking about Janet and her ra> 
 pected visit, and Fanny sat silent and embarrassed. Bat 
 
'^-A'; 'fVE-.i?' •■*»-■: 
 
 Janet's love and sekvioe. 339 
 
 Nelly, busy in taking away the things, lost nothing of what 
 was said ; and Mrs. Grove, strange to say, was not altogether 
 inattentive to the changing face of the energetic table maid. 
 An uncomplimentary remark had escaped the lady, as to the 
 state of the overdone fowls, and Nelly "could put this and 
 that together as well as another." The operation of removing 
 tiie things could not be indefinitely prolonged, however, and 
 as Nelly shut the door Mrs. Grove said, 
 
 "She is out of place now, Fanny, and would just suit you. 
 But you must be prompt if you wish to engage her." 
 
 "Oh I there is no hurry about it, I suppose," said Fanny, 
 glancing imeasDy at Graeme. But Graeme took no notice. 
 Mrs. Grove was rather in the habit of discussing domestic 
 affiurs at the table, and of leaving Graeme out of the conver- 
 sation. She was very veiling to be left out. Besides, she 
 never thought of influencing Fanny in the presence of her 
 stepmother. 
 
 "Ohl but I assure you there is," said Mrs. Grove. 
 "There are several ladies wishing to have her. Mrs. Ruthven 
 among the rest" 
 
 "Oh! it is such a trouble changing," said Fanny, wearily, 
 as if she had had a trying experience and spoke advisedly. 
 
 "Not at aU. It is only changing for the worse that is so 
 troublesome," said Mrs. Grove, and she had a right to know. 
 "I advise you not to let this opportunity pass." 
 
 "But, after all, Nelly does very welL She is stupid some- 
 times and cross, but they are all that, more or less, I sup- 
 pose," said Fanny. 
 
 "You are quite right, Fanny," said Arthur, who saw that 
 his wife was annoyed without very weU knowing why. "I 
 daresay NeUy is a better servant — ^notwithstanding the un- 
 fortunate chickens of to-day, which was our own fault, you 
 know — than the decayed gentlewoman. She will be a second 
 Janet, yet — an institution, an established fact in the history 
 of the family. We couldn't do without NeUy. Eh, 
 Graeme?" 
 
 Graeme smiled, and said nothing. Bose answered for her. 
 
340 jaket's love ajstd sebyioe. 
 
 "No, indeed. I am so glad Nelly will see Mrs. Snow." 
 
 "Very well," said Mrs. Grove. "Since Miss Elliott seems 
 to be satisfied with Nelly, I suppose she must stay. It is a 
 pity you had not known sooner, Fanny, so as to save me the 
 trouble of making an appointment for her. "'ut she may as 
 well come, and you can see her at any rate.'* 
 
 Her carriage being at the door, she went away, and a 
 rather awkward silence followed her departure. 
 
 "What is it all about 1 Who is Mrs. Tilman?" asked 
 Arthur. 
 
 " Some one Mrs. Grove has seen," said Graeme, evasively. 
 
 "But what about Nelly ? Surely you are not thinking of 
 changing servants, Graeme?" 
 
 " Oh ! I hope not ; but Nelly has been out of sorts lately— 
 grumbled a little — " 
 
 " Out of sorts, grumbled 1 " exdaimed Fanny, vexed that 
 Mrs. Grove had introduced the subject, and more vexed still 
 that Arthur should have addressed his question to Graeme. 
 "She has been very disagreeable, indeed, not to say imperti* 
 nent, and I shall not bear it any longer." ,,^ 
 
 Poor httle Fanny could hardly keep back her tears. 
 
 "Impertinent to you, Fanny," cried Graeme and Arthur in 
 abreatlL 
 
 "Well, to mamma — and she is not very respectful to me, 
 sometimes, and mamma says Nelly has been long enough 
 here. Servants always take Uberties after a time ; and, be- 
 sides, she looks upon Graeme as mistress rather than me. 
 She quite treats me like a child," continued Fanny, her in* 
 dignation increasing as she proceeded. 
 
 " And, besides," she added, after there had been a moment's 
 uncomfortable silence, " Nelly wishes to go." 
 
 "Is Barkis willing at last? " said Arthur, trying to laugh 
 off the discomfort of the moment 
 
 Bpse laughed too. It had afforded them all much amuse- 
 ment to watch the slow courtship of the dignified Mr. 
 Stirling. Nelly always denied that there was anything more 
 in the gardener's attritions, than just the good-will and friend* 
 
Janet's love akd edebyigz. 341 
 
 liness of a countryman, and lie certainly was a long time in 
 (joming to the point they all acknowledged. 
 <* Nonsense, Arthur! That has nothing to do with it," 
 
 aaid Fanny. 
 
 "Then, she must be going to her sister — ^the lady with a 
 &bulou«^ number of cows and children. She has spoken 
 about that every summer, more or less. Her conscience 
 pricks her, every new baby she hears of. But she will get 
 over it. Tt is aU nonsense about her leaving." 
 
 " But it is not nonsense," said Fanny, sharply. " Of course 
 Graeme wiU not like her to go, but Nelly is very obstinate 
 and disagreeable, and mamma says I shall never be mistress 
 in m> own house while she stays. And I think we ought 
 to take a good servant when we have the chance." 
 
 "But how good a servant is she?" asked Arthur. 
 
 " Did n't you hear what mamma said about her ? And, of 
 ooarse, she has references and written characters, and aU 
 that sort of thing." - 
 
 "Well, I think we may as well 'sleep upon it,' as Janet 
 used to say. There will be time enough to decide after to- 
 night," said Arthur, taking up his newspaper, more annoyed 
 than he was willing to confess. 
 
 The rest sat silent. Bose was indignant, and it needed a 
 warning glance from Graeme to keep her indignation from 
 overflowing. Graeme was indignant, but not surprised. 
 Indeed, Nelly had given warning that she was to leave ; but 
 she hoped and believed that she would think better of it, 
 and said nothing. 
 
 ' She was not indignant with Fanny, but with her mother. 
 She felt that there was some truth in Fanny's declaration, 
 that Nelly looked upon her as a child. She had Nelly's own 
 word for that. She considered her young mistress a child to 
 be humored and "no* heeded" when any serious business 
 was going on. But Fanny would not have found this out 
 if left to herself, at least she would not have resented it. 
 
 The easiest and most natural thing for Graeme, in the 
 torn affidrs had taken, would be to withdraw from aU inter* 
 
342 Janet's love and sebviob. 
 
 ference, and let things take their course ; but just became 
 this would be easiest and most agreeable, she hesitated. She 
 felt that it would not be right to stand aside and let Fanny 
 punish herself and all the rest because of the meddlesome 
 folly of Mra Grove. Besides, it would be so ungrateful to 
 Nelly, who had served them so faithfully all those years. 
 And yet, as she looked at Fanny's pouting hps and frowning 
 brow, her doubts as to the propriety of interference grew 
 stronger, and she could only say to herself, with a sigh, 
 
 " We must have patience and wait" 
 
 And the matter was settled without her interference, 
 though not to her satisfaction. Before a week, Nelly was on 
 her way to the country to make acquaintance of her sister's 
 cows and children, and the estimable Mrs. Tilman was in- 
 stalled in her place. It was an uncomfortable time for all 
 Bose was indignant, and took no pains to hide it. Graeme 
 was annoyed and sorry, and, all the more, as Nelly did not 
 see fit to confine the stiffiiess and coldness of her leave-tak< 
 ings to Mrs. Elliott as she ought to have done. If half as 
 earnestly and frankly as she expressed her sorrow for her de* 
 parture, Graeme had expressed her vexation at its cause, 
 NeUy would have been content. But Graeme would not 
 compromise Fanny, and she would not condescend to recog- 
 nize the meddlesomeness of Mrs. Grove in their affairs. And 
 yet she could not bear that Nelly should go away, after five 
 years of loving service, with such angry gloom in her kind 
 eyes. 
 
 "Will you stay with your sister, Nelly, do you think? 
 or will you come back to town and take another place? 
 There are many of our friends who would be very glad to 
 get you." 
 
 " I *m no' sure, Miss EUiott. I have grown so fractious 
 and contrary lately that maybe my sister winna care to have 
 me. And as to another place " 
 
 Nelly stopped suddenly. If she had said her say, it would 
 have been that she could bear the thought of no other place. 
 But she said nothing, and went away — ^ran away, indeed. 
 
 .r 
 
JAITEt's love and 8EBYI0E. 343 
 
 for when she saw the sorrowful tears in Graeme's eyes, and 
 ^ the warm pressure of her hand, she felt she must run or 
 break out into tears ; and so she ran, never stopping to answer 
 ^en Graeme said : 
 
 " You 11 let us hear from you, Nelly. You 11 surely let us 
 hear from you soon ?" 
 
 Theie was very little said about the new order of affairs. 
 The remonstrance which Fanny expected from Graeme never 
 came. Mrs. Grove continued to discuss domestic afBEiirs, 
 and to leave Graeme out, and she was quite willing to be 
 left out^ and, after a Uttle, things moved on smoothly. Mrs. 
 Tilman was a very respectable-looking person. A Uttle stout^ 
 a little red in the face, perhaps. Indeed, very stout and very 
 red in the face ; so stout that Arthur suggested the propriety 
 of having the kitchen staircase widened for her benefit ; and 
 so red in the face as to induce Graeme t^ keep her eyes on 
 the keys of the sideboard when Fanny, as she was rather 
 apt to do, left them lying about. She was a very good ser- 
 vant, if one might judge after a week's trial ; and Fanny 
 might have triumphed openly if it had not been that she 
 felt a little uncomfortable in finding herself without a strug- 
 gle, sole ruler in their domestic world. Mrs. Tilman mark- 
 eted, and purchased the groceries, and that in so dignified a 
 manner that Fanny almost wondered whether the looking 
 over the grocer's book and the butcher's book might not be 
 considered an impertinent interference on her part. Her 
 remarks and allusions were of so dignified a character as to 
 impress her young mistress wonderfully. She was almost 
 ashamed of their limited establishment, in view of Mrs Til- 
 man's magnificent experiences. But the dignified cook, or 
 housekeeper, as she preferred being called, had profitted by 
 the afiSictive dispensations that seemed to have fallen upon 
 her, and resigned herself to the occupancy of her present 
 humble sphere in a most exemplary manner. 
 
 To be sure, her marketing and her shopping, interfered a 
 little with her less conspicuous duties, and a good deal more 
 Uian her legitimate share of work was left to SaraL But 
 
»• 
 
 844 * jankt's love and sbbviob. 
 
 fortunately for her and the household generally, Graeme ^im 
 as ready as ever to do the odds-and-ends of other people's 
 duties, and to remember things forgotten, so that the do- 
 mestic machinery moved on with wonderful smoothnesa 
 Not that Nelly's departure was no longer regretted ; but in 
 her heart Graeme belieyed that they would soon have her 
 in her place again, and she was determined that, in the meao' 
 time, all should be pleasant and peaceful in their family lifa 
 
 For Graeme had set her heart on two things. First, that 
 there should be no drawback to the pleasure of Mrs. SnoVs 
 visit ; and second, that IVJxs. Snow should admire and love 
 Arthur's wife. She had had serious doubts enough herself as 
 to the wisdom of her brother^s choice, but she tried to think 
 herself quite contented with it now. At any rate, she could 
 not bear to think that Janet should not be quite content 
 Not that she was very much afraid. For Graeme's feelings 
 toward Famiy had changed very much since she had beoi 
 one of theno. She was not very wise or sensible, but she 
 was very sweetrtempered and affectionate, and Graeme had 
 come to love her dearly, especially since the very severe ilt 
 ness from which Fanny was not long recovered. Her fanlti^ 
 at least many of them, were those of education, which she 
 would outlive, Graeme hoped, and any little disagreeable dis- 
 play whidi it had been their misfortune to witness during 
 the year could, directly or indirectly, be traced to the influence 
 or meddlesomeness of her stepmother, and so it could easily 
 be overlooked. This influence would grow weaker in time, 
 and Fanny would improve in consequence. The vanity and 
 the carelessness of the feelings of others, which were^ to 
 Graeme, her worst faults, were faults that would pass away 
 with time and experience, she hoped. Indeed, they were not 
 half so apparent as they used to be, and whether the change 
 was in Fanny or herself she did not stop to inquire. 
 
 But she was determined that her new sister should appear 
 to the best advantage in the eyes of their dear old friend, and 
 to this end the domestic sky must be kept clear of clouda 
 So Mrs. Tilman's administration conunenced under the most 
 
JANET'S LOVE AITO 8EEVI0B. 
 
 845 
 
 fcTorable cirouxnstances, and the surprise which all felt at the 
 (nnetness with which this great domestic revolution had been 
 hronght about was beginning to give place, on Fanny's part, 
 to a little triumphant self-congratulation which Bose was 
 inclined to resent Graeme did not resent it, and Bose was 
 leady to forgive Fanny's triumph, since Fanny was so ready 
 to share her delight at the thought of Mrs. Snow's visit. Aa 
 for Will., he saw nothing in the whole circle of events to dis- 
 turb anybody's equanimity or to regret, except, perhaps, that 
 the attraction of the Mclntyre children and cows had proved 
 inesistible to Nelly at last. And Arthur congratulated him- 
 sdf on the good sense and good management of his little 
 wife, firmly believing in the wisdom of the deluded little 
 creatore, never doubting that her skill and will were equal to 
 the triumphant encounter with any possible domestic emerg> 
 eDcy. 
 
 •'>^ 
 
CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 THEY came at last. Arthur and Will, met them on the 
 other side of the river, and Graeme and Bose would 
 fain have done the same, but because of falling rain, and be- 
 cause of other reasons, it was thought not best for them 
 to go. 
 
 It was a very quiet meeting — a little restrained and tearful 
 just at first ; but that wore away, and Janet's eyes rested on 
 the bairns from whom she had been so long separated with 
 love and wonder and earnest scrutiny. They had all changed, 
 she said. Arthur was like his father ; WilL was like both 
 &ther and mother. As for Bosie 
 
 **Miss Graeme, my dear," said Mrs. Snow, " I think Bosie 
 is nearly as bonny as her sister Marian," and her eye rested 
 on the girl's blushing face with a tender admiration that was 
 quite as much for the dead as for the Hving. Graeme had 
 changed least of all, she said ; and yet in a little she found 
 herself wondering whether, after all, Graeme had not changed 
 more than any of them. 
 
 As for Fanny she found herself in danger of being ove^ 
 looked in the general joy and excitemeni^ and went abont 
 jingling her keys, and rather ostentatiously hastening the 
 preparations for the refreshment of the travellera She need 
 not have been afraid. Her time was coming. Even now 
 she encountered an odd glance or two from Mr. Snow, 
 who was walking off his excitement in the hall. That there 
 was admiration mingled with the curiosity tLey expressed 
 was evident, and Fanny relented. What might soon have 
 become a pout on her pretty lip changed to a smile. They 
 
Janet's love amd bekvioe. 347 
 
 ^ goon on very friendly terms with each other, and be- 
 fore Janet had got through with her first tremulous recog- 
 nition of her bairns, Mr. Snow fancied he had made a just 
 eetimate of the qualities— good— and not so good— of the 
 pretty little housekeeper. 
 
 After dinner all were more at their ease. Mr. Snow walked 
 op and down the gallery, past the open window, and Arthur sat 
 there beside him. They were not so far withdrawn from the 
 rest but that they could join in the conversation that went on 
 vithin. Fanny, tired of the dignity of housekeeping, brought 
 a footstool and sat down beside Graeme, and Janet, seeing 
 how naturally and lovingly the hand of the elder sister rested 
 on the pretty bowed head, gave the httle lady more of her at- 
 tention than she had hitherto done, and grew rather silent in 
 the scrutiny. Graeme grew silent too. Indeed she had been 
 rather silent all the afternoon ; partly because it pleased her 
 best to listen, and partly because she was not always sure of 
 her Toice when she tried to speak. 
 
 She was not allowed to be silent long, however, or to fall 
 into recollections too tender to be shared by them all Rose's 
 extraordinary restlessness prevented that She seemed to 
 have lost the power of sitting still, and flitted about from one 
 to another, now exchanging a word with Fanny or Will-, now 
 joining in the conversation that was going on between Mr. 
 Snow and Arthur outside. At one moment she was hanging 
 over Graeme's chair, at the next, kneeling at Mrs. Snow's 
 side ; and all the time v^th a face so radiant that even Will, 
 noticed it^ and begged to be told the secret of her delight. 
 
 The truth was, Rose was having a Uttle private jubilation 
 of her own. She would not have confessed it to Graeme, she 
 was shy of confessing it to herself, but as the time of Mrs. 
 Snow's visit approached, she had not been quite free from 
 misgivings. She had a very distinct recollection of their 
 friend, and loved her dearly. But she found it quite impossi- 
 ble to recall the short active figure, the rather scant dress, 
 the neve^tiring hands, without a fear that the visit might be 
 a little disappointing— not to themselves. Janet would al- 
 
348 JANET^S LOVE AND 8EBVI0E. 
 
 ways be Janet to them — the dear friend of their ohilcQioo^ 
 with more real worth in her little finger than there was in ten 
 such fine ladies as Mrs. Grove. But Rose grew indignant 
 beforehand, as she imagined the supercilious smiles and 
 forced politeness of that lady, and perhaps of Fanny too 
 when all this worth should appear in the form of a little, plain 
 old woman, with no claim to consideration on account of 
 externals. 
 
 But that was all past now. And seeing her sitting there in 
 her full brown travelling dress, her snowy neckerchief and 
 pretty quaint cap, looking as if her life might have been 
 passed with folded hands in a velvet arm-chair. Hose's nifr 
 givings gave place to triumphant self-congratulation, which 
 was rather uncomfortable, because it could not well be shaied. 
 She had assisted at the arrangement of the contents of the 
 travelling trunk in wardrobe and bureau, and this might have 
 helped her a little. 
 
 " A soft black silk, and a grey poplin, and such lovely neck- 
 erchiefs and handkerchiefis of lawn — is not little Emily a da^ 
 ling to make her mother look so nice ? And such a beauty 
 of a shawl ! — ^that 's the one Sandy brought" 
 
 And so Bose came down-stairs triumphant, without a single 
 drawback to mar the pleasure with which she regarded Janet 
 as she sat in the arm-chair, letting her grave admiring glances 
 fall alternately on Graeme and the pretty creature at her feet 
 All Bosie*s admiration was for Mrs. Snow. 
 
 "Is she not just Hke a picture dtting there?" she whis- 
 pered to Will as she passed him. 
 
 And indeed Bosie's admiration was not surprising; she 
 was the very Janet of old times ; but she sat there in Fanny's 
 handsome drawing-room, with as much appropriateness as 
 she had ever sat in the manse kitchen long ago, and looked 
 over the vases and elegant trifles on the centre-table to 
 Graeme with as much ease and self-possession as if she had 
 been "used with" fine things all her life, and had never held 
 anxious counsehs with her over jackets and trowsers, and little 
 half-worn stockings and shoes. 
 
Janet's love and service. t 349 
 
 ^d yet there was no real cause for surprise. For Janet 
 was one of tbose whose modest, yet firm self-respect, joined 
 with a just appreciation of all worldly things, leaves to 
 ghangiiig circumstances no power over their unchanging 
 
 worth. 
 
 That Mr. Snow should spend the time devoted to their 
 visit within four walls, was not to be thought of. The deacon, 
 who, in the opinion of those who knew him best, " had the 
 Realty of doing 'most anything," had certainly not the facultv 
 of sitting still in a chair hke other people. The hall or the 
 gallery was his usual place of promenade, but when the in- 
 terest of the conversation kept him with the rest, Fanny suf- 
 fered constant anxiety as to the fate of ottomans, vases and 
 Kttle table* A judicious re-arrangement of these soon gave 
 him a clearer space for his perambulations ; but a man ao^ 
 costomed to walk miles daily on his own land, could not be 
 expected to content himself long vdthin such narrow hmits. 
 So one bright morning he renewed the proposal, made long 
 before, that WilL should show him Canada. 
 
 Up to a comparatively recent period, all Mr. Snow's ideas 
 of the country had been got from the careful reading of an 
 old " History of the French and Indian War." Of course, by 
 this time he had got a little beyond the belief that the gov- 
 ernment was a military despotism, that the city of Montreal 
 was a cluster of wigwams, huddled together vdthin a circular 
 enclosure of palisades, or that the commerce of the country 
 consisted in an exchange of beads, muskets, and bad whiskey 
 for the furs of the Aborigines. Still his ideas were vague 
 and indistinct, not to say disparaging, and he had already 
 quite unconsciously excited the amusement of Will, and the 
 indignation of Rose, by indulging in remarks indicative of a 
 low opinion of things in general in the Queen's dominions. 
 So when he proposed that WilL should show him Canada, 
 Bose looked gravely up and asked, 
 
 ; " Where will you go first. Will. ?— to the Red liver or Hud- 
 son's Bay or to Nova Scotia ? You must be back to lunoih." 
 
 They alllaughed, and Arthur said, 
 
350 ' Janet's love and SER^^CE. 
 
 " Oh, fie, Eosie I not to know these places are all 
 the limits of Canada ! — such ignorance !" 
 
 " They are in the Queen's dominions, though, and Mr. Snow 
 wants to see all that is worth seeing on British soil." 
 
 " Well, I guess we can make out a full day's work in Caa- 
 ada, can't we ? It *s best to take it moderate,*' said Mr. Snow 
 smiling benignly on Rose. He was tolerant of the yonng 
 lady's petulance, and not so ready to excite it as he used to 
 be in the old times, and generally listened to h^ Uttle salUeB 
 with a deprecating smile, amusing to see. 
 
 He was changed in other respects as well. Indeed, it must 
 be confessed that just at first Arthur was a little disappointed 
 in him. He had only a slight personal acquaintance \ntb 
 him, but he had heard so much of him from the others that 
 he had looked forward with interest to making the acquaint- 
 ance of the " sharp Yankee deacon." For ^arry had a good 
 story about "TJnde Sampson" ready for all occasions, and 
 there was no end to the shrewd remarks and scraps of worldly 
 wisdom that he used to quoto from his lips. But HanyB 
 acquaintance had been confined to the first years of their 
 Merleville life, and Mr. Snow had changed much since then. 
 He saw all things in a new Hght. Wisdom and folly had 
 changed their aspect to him. The charity which "beheveth 
 and hopeth all things," and which " thinketh no evil," lived 
 within him now, and made him slow to see, and slower still 
 to comment upon the faults and foibles of others with the 
 sharpness that used to excite the mirth of the lads long aga 
 Not that he had forgotten how to criticise, ai d that severe^ 
 too, whatever he thought deserved it, or would be the better 
 for it, as Will, had good reason to know before he had done 
 much in the way of "showing him Canada,' but he far more 
 frequently surprised them aU by his gentle tolerance towards 
 what might be displeasing to him, and by his quick appreo* 
 ation of whatever was admirable in all he saw. 
 
 The first few days of sightseeing were passed in the dty 
 and its environs. With the town itself he was greatly pleased 
 The gi*eat grey stone structures suited him well, suggesting, 
 
r 
 
 Janet's love Mm seevioe. 351 
 
 ig ihey often do to the people accustomed to houses of brick 
 or wood, ideas of strength and permanence. But as he was 
 ngoally content with an outside view of the buildings, with 
 aach a view as could be obtained by a slow drive through the 
 etreete, the town itself did not occupy him long. Then came 
 ibe wharves and ships ; then they visited the manufactories 
 and workshops, lately become so numerous in the neighbor- 
 hood of the canal. All these pleased and interested him 
 greatly, but he never failed, when opportunity offered, to point 
 oat various particulars, in which he considered the Montreal- 
 ere "a leetle behind the times." On the whole, however, his 
 appreciation of British energy and enterprise was admiring 
 and sincere, and as warmly expressed as could be expected 
 under the circumstance&i. 
 
 "YouVe got a river, at any rate, that about comes up to 
 one's ideas of what a river ought to be — Abroad and deep and 
 foil," he said to Arthur one day. " It kind of satisfies one 
 to stand and look at it, so grand and powerful, and still al- 
 ways rolling on to the sea." 
 
 ♦'Yes, it is like your Father of Waters,*' said Arthur, a Httle 
 saiprised at his tone and manner. 
 
 "One wouldn't be apt to think of mills and engines and 
 snoh things at the first glimpse of thai I did n't see it the 
 day when I crossed it, for the mist and rain. To-day, as we 
 stood looking down upon it, I couldn't but think how it had 
 been rolling on and on there, ever since creation, I suppose, 
 or ever since the time of Adam and Eve — if the date ain't the 
 same as some folks seem to think." 
 
 "I always think how wonderful ic must have seemed to 
 Jacques Gartier and his men, as they sailed on and on, with 
 ilie never ending forest on either shore," said Bose. "No 
 wonder they thought it would never end, till it bore them to 
 the China seas." -^ ,. ^ v>:^«. 
 
 "A wonderful highway of nations' it is, though it disap- 
 pointed them in that," said Arthur. " The sad pity is, that 
 it is not available for commerce for more than two-thirds of 
 the year." 
 
352 jakbt's love Aim sesviob. 
 
 " If ever the bridge they talk about should be buili^ iSinU 
 do something towards making this a place of importance 
 in this part of the world, though the long winter is agamst 
 too/' 
 
 " Oh I the bridge will be built, I suppose, and the benefit 
 will not be confined to us. The Western trade will be bene- 
 fited as well. What do you think of your Massachusetts 
 men, getting their cotton round this way? This commnni- 
 cation with the more northern cotton growing States is more 
 direct by this than any other way." 
 
 " Well, I ain't prepared to say much about it Some folb 
 wouldn't think much of thai But I suppose you arebonnd 
 to go ahead, anyhow." 
 
 But to the experienced eye of the farmer, nothing gave bo 
 much pleasure as the cultivated country lying aroand the 
 city, and beyond the mountain, as far as the eye conld 
 roach. Of the mountain itself, he was a Httle contemptooos 
 in its character of mountain. 
 
 "A mountain with smooth fields, and even orchards, reacb- 
 ed almost to the top of it ! Why, our sheep pasture at 
 Merleville, is a deal more like a mountain than that. It is 
 only a hill, and moderate at that. You must have been 
 dreadful hard up lL<^(r mountains, to call that one. Yon'Te 
 forgotten all about MerleviUe, Bosie, to be content with that 
 for a mountain." 
 
 WJiile he admired the farms, he did not hesitate to oom> 
 ment severely on the want of enterprise shown by the fnrmers, 
 who seemed to be content " to putter along" as their fathen 
 had done, with little desire to avail themselves of the many 
 inventions and discoveries which modem science and art had 
 placed at the diq)osal of tho farmer. In MerlevUle, evay 
 man who owned ten, or even five acres of level land, had 
 an interest in sowing and mowing machines, to say nothing 
 of other improvements, that could be made available on hiH 
 or meadow. If the strength and patience so freely expended 
 among the stony New England hiUs, could but be applied to 
 the fertile valley of the Si Lawrence, what a garden it mi| 
 
JAMEl's LOVB AJXD SEBVIGB. 353 
 
 lieoome I And the Yankee farmer grew a little contemptuous 
 of the contented acquiescence of Canadians to the order of 
 aiBurs estabKshed by their fathers. 
 
 One afternoon he and Will went together to the top of 
 ilie monntain toward the western end. They had a fair day 
 for a fair sight, and when Mr. Snow looked down on the 
 scene, bounded by the blue hills beyond both rivers, all other 
 thoughts gave place to feelings of wondering admiration. 
 Above was a sky, whose tender Hue was made more lovely 
 by the snowy clouds that sailed now and then majestically 
 across it, to break into flakes of silver near the far horizon. 
 
 Beneath lay the valley, clothed in the numberless shades of 
 verdure with which June loves to deck the earth in this 
 northem dimate. There were no waste places, no wilder* 
 ness, no arid stretches of sand or stone. Far as the ^e 
 oould reach, extended fields, and groves, and gardens, scatter^ 
 ed through with clusters of cottages, or solitary &mn houses. 
 
 Up through the stillness of the summer air, came stealing 
 the &int sound of a distant bell, seeming to deepen the silence 
 round them. 
 
 ''I suppose, the land that Moses saw from Pisgah, must 
 have been like this,^' said Mr. Snow, as he gazed. 
 
 ''Tes» the Pronused Land was a land of hills, and valleys, 
 and brooks of water," said Will., softly, never moving his 
 ^es from the wonderful picture. Coul they ever gaze 
 enough? Could they ever weary themselves of the sight? 
 The shadows grew long; the douds, that had made the 
 beauty of the summer sky, followed eadi other toward the 
 west, and rose in pirmades of gold, and amber, and amethyst ; 
 and then they rose to go. 
 
 "I wouldn't have missed tha£ now, for considerable," said 
 
 Mr. Snow, coming back with an effort to the realization of 
 
 the fact that this was part of the sightHseeing that he had set 
 
 himsell " No, I would n't have missed it for considerable more 
 
 than that miserable team 11 cost," added he, as he came in sight 
 
 of the carriage, on whose uncomfortable seat the drowie^ 
 
 driver had been slumbering all the afternoon. WilL smiled, 
 22 
 
854 Janet's love and bebvice. 
 
 and made no answer. He was not a yain h..\ but it is jnst 
 possible that there passed through his mind a doubt whetiier 
 the enjoyment of his friend had been as real, as high, or as 
 intense, as his had been all the afternoon. To Will's imag^ 
 ination, the valley lay in the gloom of its primeval forests, 
 peopled by heroes of a race now passed away. He was one 
 of them. He fought in their battles, triumphed in their 
 victories, panted in the eagerness of the chase. In imaginar 
 tion, he saw the forest faU under the peaceful weapons of the 
 pale face ; then wandered westward to die the dreary death 
 of the last of a stricken race. Then his thoughts came do^ 
 to the present, and on into the future, in a yague dream, 
 which was half a prayer, for the hastening of the time yrhen 
 the lovely valley should smile in moral and spiritual beauty 
 too. And coming back to actual life with an effort — a sense 
 of pain, he said to himself, that the enjoyment of his friend 
 had been not so high and pure as his. 
 
 But WiU. was mistaken. In the thoughts of his friend, 
 that summer afternoon, patent machines, remimerative labor, 
 plans of supply and demand, of profit and loss, fomid no 
 place. He passed the pleasant hour on that green hill-side, 
 seeing in that lovely valley, stretched out befcwre them, a very 
 land of Beulah. Looking over the blue line of the Ottawa, 
 as over the river of Death, into a land visible and dear to 
 the eye of faith, he saw sights, and heard sounds, and enjoy* 
 ed communion, which, as yet, lay far in the future, as to the 
 experience of the lad by his side ; and coming back to actual 
 lifie, gave no sign of the Divine Companionship, save that which 
 afterward was to be seen in a life growing liker every day to 
 the Divine Exemplar. 
 
 Will thought, as they went home together, that a new 
 light beamed, now and then, over the keen but kindly face, 
 and tha^i the grave eyes of his friend had the look of one 
 who saw something beyond the beauty of the pleasant fields, 
 growing dim now in the gathering darkness ; and the lad's 
 heart grew full and tender as it dawned upon him, how this 
 was a token of the shining of God's face upon his servant^ 
 
Janet's love aud seevioe. 355 
 
 and he longed for a glimpse of that which his friend's eyes 
 flaw. A word might have won for him a glimpse of the 
 happiness ; but WiQ. was shy, and the word was not spoken ; 
 and, all unconscious of his longing, his friend sat with the 
 Biuile on liis lips, and the light in his eye, no thought further 
 from him than that any experience of his should be of value 
 to another. And so they feU quite into silence, till they 
 near dd the streets where the lighted lamps were burning dim 
 in tlie fading dayhght. 
 
 That night, in the course of his wanderings up and down, 
 Mr. Snow paused, as he often did, before a portrait of the 
 nmdster. It was a portrait taken when the minister had 
 been a much younger man than Mr. Snow had ever known 
 him. It had belonged to a friend in Scotland, and had been 
 sent to Arthur, at his death, about a year ago. The likeness 
 had been striking, and to Janet, the sight of it ha.d been a 
 great pleasure and surprise. She was never weary of look- 
 ing at it, and even Mr. Snow, who ht,d never known the 
 minister but as a grey-haired man, was strangely fascinated 
 by the beauty of the grave smUe t^iat he remembered so 
 well on his face. That night he stood leaning on the back 
 of a chair, and gazing at it, while the coi versation flowed on 
 as usual around him. In a Httle, Bosv? came and stood 
 beside hiuL 
 
 "Do you think it is very like him ? " asked she. 
 
 "Well," said Mr. Snow, meditatively, "it's like him and 
 it ain't like him. I love to look at it, anyhow." 
 
 "At first it puzzled me," said Eose. " It seemed like the 
 pictore of some one I had seen in a dream ; and when I shut 
 my eyes, and tried to bring back my father's face as it used 
 to be in Merleville, it would not come — the face of the dream 
 came between." 
 
 "Well, there is something in that," said Mr. Snow, and he 
 paused a moment, and shut his eyes, as if to call back the 
 fees of his Iriend. " No, it won't do that for me. It would 
 take something I hain't thought of yet, to make me forget 
 
356 Janet's love and seevioe. 
 
 "It does not trouble me now/' said Bose. ''I can dnrt 
 my eyes, and see him, O ! so plainly, in the church, and at 
 home in the study, and out under the trees, and as he lay-, 
 in his coffin — " She was smiling still, but the tears ^re 
 ready to gush over her eyes. Mr. Snow turned, and layi&ff 
 his hand on her bright head, said softly, 
 
 " Yes, dear, and so can L If we did n't know that it must 
 be right, we might wonder why he was taken from us. Bat 
 I shall never forget him — ^never. He did too much for me, 
 for thai He was the best friend I ever had, by all odds—the 
 very best." *? 
 
 Bose smiled through her tears. 
 
 " He brought you Mrs. Snow," said ahe, softly* 
 
 " Yes, dear. That was much, but he did more than that. 
 It was through him that I made the acquaintance of a better 
 and dearer friend than even s^ is — ^ond that is saying con* 
 siderable," added he, turning his eyes toward the traiijD[iiil 
 figure knitting in the armrchair. 
 
 "Were you speaking ?" said Mnsi Snow, looking up at the 
 sound of his voice. 
 
 " Yes, I was speaking to Bosie, here. How do you sap- 
 pose we can ever persuade her to go back to Merleville witii 
 us?" 
 
 " She i? going with us, or she will soon follow us. What 
 would Emily say, if she didna come ? " 
 
 " Yes, I know. But I meant, to stay for good and alL 
 
 Graeme, won't you give us this little girl ? " 
 
 Graeme smiled. 
 
 " Yes. On one condition — if you will take me too." 
 ! Mr. Snow shook his head. ^''^' 
 
 "I am afraid that would bring us no nearer the end. We 
 should have other conditions to add to that one." 
 
 "Yes," said Arthur, laughing. "You would have to take 
 Fanny and me, as well, in that case. I don't object to yoor 
 having one of them at a time, now and then, but both of 
 them — that would never do." 
 
 "But it must be both or neither," said Graeme, eager^, 
 
JANiir's LOVE AND 8EEVICB. ^ 367 
 
 "I cooldna trust Bosie away from me. I haYena these sixteen 
 jean»— ber whole life, have 1^ Janet ? If you want Bosie, you 
 must have me, too.** 
 
 She spoke lightly, but earnestly ; she meant what she said. 
 Indeed, so earnest was she, that she quite flushed up, and the 
 tears were not far away. The others saw it, and were silent^ 
 bat Fanny who was not quick at seeing things, said, 
 
 "But what could we do without you both? That would 
 not be fair—" 
 
 " Oh I you would have Arthur, and Arthur would have you- 
 At any rate, Bosie is mine, and I am not going to give her to 
 any one who won*t have me, too. She is all I shall have left 
 whenWilL goes away.** 
 
 "Graeme would not trust Bosie with Arthur and me,** said 
 Fanny, a little pettishly. " There are so many things that 
 Graeme don't approve of. She thinks we would spoil Bose.'* 
 
 Janet's hand touched hers, wl^ether by accident or design 
 Graeme did not know, but it 1 ad the effect of checking the 
 response that rose to her Ups, md she only said, laughingly, 
 
 "Mrs. Snow thinks that yo i and Arthur are spoiling us 
 both, Fanny." 
 
 Janet smiled fondly and g^^-avely at the sisters, as she said, 
 stroking Graeme*s bowed head, 
 
 "I dare say you are no' past spoiling, either of you, but I 
 have seen worse bairns.** 
 
 After this, Mr. Snow and Will began the survey of Canada 
 in earnest First they went to Quebec, where they Ungered 
 seyeral days. Then they went farther down the river, and up 
 the Saguenay, into the very heart of the wilderness. This 
 part of the isip Will, enjoyed more than his friend, but Mr. 
 Snow showed no sign of impatience, and prolonged their stay 
 for his sake. Then they went up the coimtry, visiting the 
 chief towns and places of interest They did not confine 
 themselves, however, to the usual route of travelers, but 
 went here and there in wagons and stages, through a farming 
 country, in which, though Mr. Snow saw much to criticise, he 
 saw more to admire. They shared the hospitality of many a 
 
858 janet'b love and sebvioe. 
 
 quiet farmhouse, as freely as it was offered, and enjoyed icanj 
 a pleasant conversation with the farmers and their fftTnii ^ 
 seated on doors-steps, or by the kitchen fire. 
 
 Though the hospitality of the country people was, as a 
 general thing, fully and freely offered, it was sometimes, it 
 must be confessed, not without a certain reserve. That a 
 "Hve Yankee," cute, and able-bodied, should be going about 
 in these out-of-the-way parts, for the sole purpose of satisfying 
 himself as to the features, resources, and inhabitants of the 
 country, was a circumstance so rare, so unheard of, indeed, 
 in these parts, that the shrewd country people did not lib 
 to commit themselves at the first glance. Will.'s frank, hand- 
 some face, and simple, kindly manners, won him speedily 
 enough the confidence of all, and Mr. Snow's kindly advances 
 were seldom long withstood. But there sometimes lingered 
 an uneasy feeling, not to say suspicion, that when he had soo 
 ceeded in winning their confidence, he would turn round and 
 make some starthng demand on their faith or their purses in 
 behalf of some patent medicine or new invention — perhaps 
 one of those wonderful labor-saving machines, of which he 
 had so much to say. As for himself, if he ever observed their 
 reserve or its cause, he never resented it, or commented tqpon 
 it) but entered at once into the discussion of all possible sub- 
 jects with the zest of a man determined to make the most of 
 the pleasant circumstances in which he found himsell Ti he 
 did not always agree with the opinions expressed, or approye 
 of the modes of farming pursued, he at least found that the 
 sturdy fanners of Glengarry and the country beyond had 
 more to say foi their opinions and practice than " so had 
 their Withers said and done before them," and their discus- 
 sions ended, quite as frequently as otherwise, in the American 
 frankly confessing himself convinced that all the agricultoial 
 wisdom on the continent did not lie on the south side of the 
 line forty-five. 
 
 Will was greatly amused and interested by all this. He 
 was, to a certain extent, able to look at the ideas, ojanions, 
 and prejudices of each from the other's point of view, and 90 
 
janet'b love and service. 860 
 
 to enjoy with double zest the discussion of subjects which 
 oonid not fail to present such dissimilar aspects to minds so 
 differently constituted, and developed under circumstances 
 and inflaences so different. This power helped him to make 
 the opinions of each more clear to the other, presenting to 
 both juster notions of each other's theory and practice than 
 their own explanations could have done. By this means, too, 
 he won for himself a reputation for wisdom, about matters 
 and things in general, which surprised no one so much as him* 
 sell They would have liked to linger far longer, over this 
 part of their trip, than they had time to do, for the days were 
 hastening. 
 
 Before returning home, th^y visited Niagara, that wonderful 
 work of God, too great and grand, as Mr. Snow told Bosie, 
 to be the pride of one nation exclusively, and so it had been 
 placed on the borders of the two greatest nations in the 
 world. This part of the trip was for Will.'s sake. Mr. Snow 
 had visited them on his way West many years ago. Indeed, 
 there were other parts of the trip made for Will's benefit, 
 but those were not the parts which Mr. Snow enjoyed least, 
 as he said to his wife afterwards. 
 
 "It paid well. I had my own share of the pleasure, and 
 Will.'s, too. If ever a lad enjoyed a hoUday he enjoyed his. 
 It was worth going, just to see his pleasure." 
 
 When the time allotted to their visit was drawing to a close, 
 it was proposed that a few days should be passed in that most 
 beautiful part of Canada, known as the Eastern Townships. 
 Arthur went with them there. It was but a glimpse they 
 oould give it. Passing in through Missisquoi County to the 
 head of the lovely lake Memphremagog, they spent a few days 
 on it, and along its shorea Their return was by a drcuitons 
 course across the country through the County of Stanstead, in 
 the midst of beautiful scenery, and what Mr. Snow dedared to 
 be " as fine a farming country as anybody need wish to see." 
 
 This " seeing Canada" was a more serious matter than ho 
 had at first supposed, Mr. Snow acknowledged to the delighted 
 Rose. It oould not be done justice to in a few days, he said; 
 
860 
 
 janet'b lote and sebyige. 
 
 but he would try and reconcile himself to the hastiness of bis 
 trip, by taking it for granted that the parts he had not seen 
 were pretty much like those he had gone through, and a verv 
 fine country it was. 
 
 "Canada will be heard from yet, I expect," said he, one 
 night when they had returned home. "By the time thai you 
 get some things done that you mean to now, you H be ready 
 to go ahead. I don't see but you have as good a chance as 
 ever we had — ^better, even. You have got the same elements 
 of prosperity and success. You have got the Bible and a free 
 press, and a fair proportion of good soil, and any amount of 
 water-power. Then for inhabitants, you've got the Scotchman, 
 cautious and farnseeing ; the Irishman, a little hot and heady, 
 perhaps, but earnest ; you've got the EngHshman, who 11 
 never iajl of his aim for want of self-confidence, anyhow; 
 you've got Frenchmen, Germans, and a sprinkling of the 
 dark element out west ; and you've got what we didn't have 
 to b^in vTith, you've got the Yankee element, and that ig 
 considerable more than you seem to think it is, Kosie." 
 
 Bose laughed and shook her head. She was not going to 
 allow herself to be drawn into a discussion of nationalities 
 that night. 
 
 " Yes," continued he, *' the real live Yankee is aboot as 
 complete a man as you 'U generally meet anywhere. He has 
 the caution of the Scot, to temper the fire of the Irishman, 
 and he has about as good an opinion of himself as the English- 
 man has. He 11 keep things going among you. He 11 bring 
 you up to the times, and then he won't be likely to let yon 
 fall back again. Yes; if e^er Canada is heard from, the 
 Yankee will have something to do vdth it, and no mistake." 
 
 ,iji. 
 
 !" !• f ^' v^ ill'- x'yii tC 
 

 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 r\ the mean time rery quiet and pleasant days were pass* 
 ing over those who were at home. Fanny jingled her 
 keys, and triumphed a little at the continued success oi a£Eairs 
 in Mrs. Tilman's department. Graeme took no notice of her 
 triumph, but worked away at odds and ends, remembering 
 ftimgs forgotten, smoothing difficulties, removing obstacles, 
 and making, more than she or any one knew, the happiness 
 of them alL Hose sung and danced about the house as usual, 
 and devoted some of her superfluous energy to the embellish- 
 ment of a cobweb fabric, which was, under her skillful fingers, 
 destined to assume, by and by, the form of a wedding pocket* 
 handkerchief for Emily. And through all, Mrs. Snow was 
 calmly and silently pursuing the object of her visit to Canada. 
 Through the pleasant hours of work and leisiu^, in all their 
 talk of old times, and of the present time, in all moods, grave 
 and gay, she had but one thought, one desire, to assure her* 
 self by some unfailing token that her bairns were as good 
 and happy as they ought to be. 
 
 The years that had passed since the bairns had been parted 
 from her had made Janet old^ than they ought to have 
 done, Graeme thought It was because she was not so strong 
 as she used to be, she said herself ; but it was more than 
 sickness, and more than the passing years that had changed 
 her. The dreadful shock and disappointment of her mother's 
 death, followed so soon by the loss of Marian and the minis- 
 ter, had been too much for Janet. It might not have been, 
 her strong patient nature might have vnthstood it, if the 
 breaking up of the beloved family circle, the utter vanishing 
 of her baims from her sights had not followed so dose upon 
 
 (361) 
 
362 jaitet's love atto service. 
 
 it For weeks she had been utterly prostrate. The lettenL 
 which told the bairns, in their Canadian home, that their dear 
 friend was ill, and " wearying " for them, told them little of 
 the terrible suffering of that time. The misery that had 
 darkened her first winter in MerleviUe came upon her again 
 with two-fold power. Worse than the homo-sickness of that 
 sad time, was the never ceasing pain, made up of sorrow for i, 
 the dead, and inappeasable longing for the presence of the 
 hving. That she should have forsaken her darlings, to cast 
 in her lot with others — that between her and them should lie 
 miles and miles of mountain and forest, and barriers, harder 
 to be passed than these, it sickened her heart to know. She 
 knew it never could be otherwise now ; from the sentence she 
 hod passed upon herself she knew there could be no appeal 
 She knew that unless some great sorrow should fall upon 
 them, they could never have one home again ; and that peace 
 and happiness could ever come to hej.*, being separated from 
 them, she neither believed nor desived. Oh ! the misery of 
 that time ! The fields and hills, aixd pleasant places she had 
 learned to love, shrouded themselves in gloom. The very 
 light grew hateful to her. Her prayer, as she lay still, while 
 the bitter waters rolled over her, was less the prayer of &ith, 
 than of despair. 
 
 And, through all the misery of that time, her husband 
 waited and watched her vnih a tender patience, beautifol to 
 see ; never by word or deed, giving token of aught but 
 sympathy and loving pity for the poor, sick, struggling heart 
 Often and often, during that dreary time, did ^e wake to 
 hear, in the stillness of the night, or of the early morning, his 
 whispered prayer of strong entreaty rising to Heaven, that 
 the void might be filled, that in God's good time and way, 
 peace, and healing, and content, might come back to the sick 
 and sorrowful heart. 
 
 And this came after long waiting. Slowly the bitter waters 
 rolled away, never to return. Faith, that had seemed dead, 
 looked up once more. The sick heart thrilled beneath the 
 touch of the Healer. Again the light grew pleasant to her eyes, 
 
JAIJET'S LOVE AND SERVICE. 863 
 
 md Janet came back to her old household ways, seeing in the 
 life before her God-given work, that might not be left undone. 
 Bat she was never quite the same. There was never quite 
 the old sharp ring in her kindly voice. She was not less 
 cheerful, perhaps, in time, but her cheerfulness was of a far 
 quieter kind, and her chidings were rare, and of the mildest, 
 now. Indeed, she had none to chide but the motherless 
 fimWj j who needed little chiding, and much love. And much 
 love did Janet give her, who had been dear to all the bairns, 
 and the especial friend of Marian, now in Heaven. And so 
 Qod's peace fell on the deacon's quiet household, and the 
 gloom passed away from the fields and hills of Merleville, 
 and its pleasant nooks and comers smiled once more with a 
 look of home to Janet, as she grew content in the knowledge 
 that her darlings were well and happy, though she might 
 never make them her daily care again. But she never forgot 
 them. Her remembrance of them never grew less loving, and 
 tender, and true. And so, as the years passed, the old long- 
 ing came back, and, day by day, grew stronger in her heart 
 the wish to know assuredly that the children of her love were 
 as good and happy as they ought to be. 
 
 Had her love been less deep and yearning she might have 
 been more easily content with the tokens of an innocent and 
 happy life visible in their home. If happinesL^ had been, 
 in her estimation, but the enjoyment of genial days and 
 restfdl nights, with no cares to harrass, and only pleasant 
 daties to perform ; if the interchange of kindly offices, the 
 little acts of self-denial, the giving up of trifles, the taking 
 cheerfully of the Uttle disappointments, which even their 
 pleasant life was subject to— if these had been to her sufficient 
 ' tests of goodness, she might have been satisfied with all she saw. 
 
 Bat she was not satisfied, for she knew that there are few 
 hearts so shallow as to be filled full with all that such a life 
 of ease could give. She knew that the goodness, that might 
 seem to suffice through these tranquil and pleasant days, 
 ooold be no defence against the strong temptations that might 
 beset them amid the cares of life. '* For," said she to her- 
 
364 Janet's love and fjrnvicE. 
 
 self, **tho bum runs smoothly on over the pebbles in ita bed 
 without a break or eddy, till the pebbles diange to rocks and 
 stones, and then it brawls, and murmurs, and dashes ijse]! 
 to foam among them — ^and no help." She was content T?ith 
 no such evidence of happiness or goodness as lay on the sm^ 
 face of their pleasant life, so she waited and watched, seeing 
 without seeming to see, many things that less loving eyes 
 might have overlooked. She saw the unquiet light that 
 gleamed at !imes in Graeme's eyes, and the shadow of ihe 
 cloud that now and then rested on her brow, even in their 
 most mirthful moments. She smiled, as they all did, at the 
 lively sallies, and pretty willfulneas of Bose, but shekne^r 
 full well, that that which made mirth in the loving home* 
 circle, might make sorrow for the household darling, when 
 the charm of love was no longer round her. And so she 
 watched them all, seeing in trifles, in chance words and mioon> 
 sdoQS deeds, signs and tokens for good or for evil, that would 
 never have revealed themselves to one who loved them le% 
 
 For Will, she had no fear, xie was his father's own son, 
 with his father's work awaiting him. All would be well with 
 Will. And for Arthur, too, the kind and thoughtful elder 
 brother — the father and brother of the Httle household, both 
 in one, her hopes were stronger than her doubts or fears. It 
 would have given her a sore heart, indeed, to beheve him far 
 from the way in which his father walked. 
 
 " He has a leaven of worldliness in him, I *11 no* deny," 
 said she to her husband one night, when they were alone in 
 the privacy of their own apartment. " And there is more de- 
 sire for wealth in his heart, and for the honor that comes 
 from man, than he himself kens. He 11 maybe get them, and 
 maybe no'. But if he gets them, they 11 no' satisfy him, and 
 if he gets them not, he '11 get something better I have small 
 fear for the lad. He minds his father's ways and walk too 
 well to be long content with his own halting pace. It's* 
 fine life just now, with folk looking up to him, and putting 
 trust in him, but he 11 weary of it. There is nothinff in it to 
 fill, for long, the heart of hL father's son.** 
 
janet'b love and service. 365 
 
 And in her qniet waiting and watching, Janet grew assared 
 for them aU at last Not that they were very wise or good, 
 bat her faith that they were kept of God grew stronger every 
 day ; and ^ ^ ^^^ ^ God's keeping, meant to this humble, 
 fxlu^iiai, Christian woman, to have all that even her yearning 
 lo^e could crave for her darlings. It left her nothing to fear 
 for them, nothing to wish in their behalf ; so she came to be 
 at peace about them all ; and gently checked the .Tillful words 
 and ways of Bose, and waited patiently till Graeme, of her 
 own accord, should show her the cloud in the shadow of 
 wluch she sometimes sat 
 
 As to Fanny, the new claimant for her love and inter* 
 est^ she was far from being overlooked all this time, and the 
 pretty little creature proved a far greater mysteiy to the 
 shrewd, right-judging friend of the family than seemed at all 
 ieasonabl& There were times when, had she seen h^c else> 
 where, she would not have hesitated to pronounce her frivo- 
 lous, vaia, overbearing. Even now, seeing her loved and 
 cared for, in the midst of the bairns, there were moments 
 ythm she found herself saying it in her heart. A duller 
 sent and weaker penetration could not have foiled to say 
 iihe sajie. But Fanny was Arthur's wife, and Arthur was 
 neither frivolous, nor vain, nor overbearing, but on the oon- 
 ianiy, wise, and strong, and gentle, possessing all the virtues 
 that ever had made his father a model in Janet's Lxlniring 
 eyes, and it seemed a bold thing, indeed, to think lightly of 
 his wife. So she mused, and pondered, and watched, and 
 put Fanny's beautiful face and winning manners, and pretty, 
 affectionate ways, against her very evident defects, and said 
 to herseh^ though Arthur's wife was not like Arthur's mother, 
 nor even like his sisters, yet there were varieties of excel- 
 lence, and surely the young man was better able to be trusted 
 in the choice of a life-long friend than an old woman like her 
 oould be ; and still she wa'.ted and pondered, and, as usual, 
 the results of Ler musings were given to her attentive hus- 
 band, and this time with a little impatient sigh. 
 "I needna wondei at it. Love is blind, they say, and 
 
366 Janet's love and service. 
 
 goes where it is sent, and it is sent far more rarely to "maAm 
 and worth, and humble goodness, than to qualities that are 
 far less deserving of the happiness it brings ; and Mr. Ar- 
 thur is no' above making a mistake. Though how he should 
 — minding his mother as he does — amazes me. But he 's 
 well pleased, there can be no doubt of that, as yet, and 
 Graeme is no' iU-pleased, and love wouldna blind her. 
 I canna but wonder after all is said." :. 
 
 And she stiU wondered. There were in her vocabulary no 
 gentler names for the pretty Fanny's defects, than just 
 frivolity and vanity, and even after a glimpse or two of her 
 stepmother, Janet's candid, straightforward nature could 
 hardly make for those defects all the allowance that was to 
 be made. She could not realize how impossible it was, that 
 a fashionable education, tmder such a teacher as Mrs. Grove, 
 should have msde her daughter other than she was, and so, 
 not realizing i^aat her worst faults were those of education, 
 which time, and experience, and the circumstances of her 
 life riust correct, she had, at times, little hope of Fanny's fu- 
 ture worth or wisdom. 
 
 That is, she would have had Httle hope but for one thing- 
 Graeme had faith in Fanny, that was clear. Love uiljjlit 
 blind Arth^'ir's eyes to her faults, or enlighten them to see 
 virtues invisible to other eyes, but it would not do that for 
 Graeme ; and Graeme was tolerant of Fanny, even at times 
 when her little airs and exactions made her not quite agree- 
 able to her husband. She was patient and forbearing to- 
 wards her faults, and smiled at the little housekeeping airs 
 and assumptions, which Bose openly, and even in Arthur's 
 presence, never failed to resent. Indeed, Graeme ' *used to 
 see Fanny's faults, or she refused to acknowledge that she 
 saw them, fmd treated her always vrith the respect due to her 
 brother's vidfe, and the mistress of the house, as well as with 
 the love and forbearance due to a younger sister. 
 
 And that Fanny, with all her faults and folUes, loved and 
 trusted Graeme was very evident. There was confidence be- 
 tween them, to a certain extent at any rate, and seeing these 
 
Janet's love aot) servioe. 367 
 
 {longs, Janet took courage to hope that there was more in 
 the " bonny vain creature " than it was given her to see, and 
 to hope also that Arthur might not one day find himself dis- 
 appointed in his wife. Her doubts and hopes on the matter 
 were all silent, or shared only with the worthy deacon, in the 
 solitude of their chamber. She was slow to commit herself 
 to Graeme, and Graeme was in no haste to ask her friend's 
 opinion of her brother's wife. 
 
 They had plenty of other subjects to discuss. All their 
 Merleville life was gone over and over during these quiet sum- 
 mer days. 
 
 The talk was not always gay ; sometimes it was grave 
 enough, even sad, but it was happy, too, in a way ; at any 
 rate they never grew weary of it. And Mrs. Snow had 
 much to tell them about the present state of their old home ; 
 how the old people were passing away, and the young people 
 were growing up ; how well the minister was remembered 
 there still, and how glad aU. would be to see the minister's 
 balms among them again ; and then Sandy and Emily, and 
 the approaching wedding made an endless subject of talk. 
 Bose and Fanny never wearied of that, and Mrs. Snow was as 
 pleased to tell, as they were to hear. 
 
 And when Rose and Fanny were away, as they often were, 
 and Graeme was left alone with her friend, there were 
 graver things discussed between them. Graeme told her 
 more of their family life, and of their first experiences than 
 she had ever heard before. She told her of her illness, and 
 homesickness, and of the many mi^ivings she had had as 
 to whether it had been wise for them all to come to bur- 
 den Arthur. She told her of Harry, and her old terrors on 
 his account, and how all these had given place to hope, that 
 was ahnost certainty now, that she need never fear for him 
 for the same cause more. They rejoiced together over Hilda 
 and Norman, and recalled to one another their old pride in 
 the lad when he had saved the little German girl from the 
 terrible fate that had overtaken her family, and smiled at the 
 mii^vings they had had when he refused to let her go with 
 
368 Janet's love and seryioe. 
 
 the fiionas who would have taken her. This was all to be le^ 
 joiced over now. No doubt the care and pains which Norman 
 had needed to bestow on his Utile adopted sister, had done 
 much to correct the native thoughtlessness of his character 
 and no doubt her love and care would henceforth make tiie 
 happiness of his life. So they said to one another with 
 smiles, and not without grateful tears, in view of the OTe^ 
 ruling love and care visible in all they had to remember of 
 one and alL 
 
 And Will, who seemed to be Graeme's own more than 
 either of the other brothers, because she had cared for him, 
 and taught him, and watched over him, from the very first, 
 she permitted herself to triumph a little ova: him, in private 
 with her friend, and Janet was nothing loth to hear and 
 triumph too, for in the lad his UiYieac lived again to her, and 
 she was not slow to bdieve in his sister's loving prophecy as 
 to his future. Graeme could not conceal, indeed she did not 
 try to conceal from heir friend, how much she feared the part- 
 ing from him, and though Janet chid her for the tears that 
 fell so fast, it was with a gentle tenderness that only quioken- 
 ed their How. 
 
 And now and then, in these long talks and frequent Bolenoe, 
 Janet fancied that she caught a glimpse of the cloud that had 
 cast a shadow over Graeme's life, but she was never sure. 
 It was not to be spoken about, however, nothing could be 
 clearer than that 
 
 " For a doud that ctui be blown away by a friend's word, 
 win lift of itself without help in a while. And if it is no' a 
 doud of that kind, the fewer wordu the better. And time 
 heals many a wound that the touch of the kindest hand 
 would hurt sorely. And God is good." But all this was 
 said in Janet's secret prayer. Not even her husband shared 
 her thoughts about Graeme. 
 
 " What a dismal day it is I " said Fanny, as she stood at 
 the window, listening to the wind and watching the fall of 
 the never-ceasing rain. 
 
 It was dismal. It must have been a dismal day even in 
 
Janet's love aud sebyicb. 869 
 
 the conntry, where the rain was falliiig on beautiful green 
 things to Uieir refreshment ; and in the city street^ out npon 
 whidi Fanny looked, it was worse. Now and then a milk 
 cart, or a carriage with the curtains closely drawn, went past; 
 Bud now and then a foot passenger, doing battle with the 
 wind for the possession of his umbrella ; but these did not 
 brighten the scene any. 
 
 It was dismal within doors, too, Fanny thought. It was 
 daring the time of Mr. Snow and WiE's first trip, and Ar* 
 thnr had gone away on business, and was not expected home 
 for a day or two, at least. A household of women is not 
 neooessanly a dismal affair, even on a rainy day, but a house- 
 hold suddenly deprived of the male element, is apt to become 
 so in those circumstances, unless some domestic business 
 gnpposed to be most successfully accomplished at such a 
 time is being carried on ; and no wonder that Fanny wan- 
 dered from roo n to room, in an uncomfortable state of 
 mincL 
 
 ^ Graeme and Eose were not uncomfortable. Bose had a 
 way of putting aside difficult music to be practised on rainy 
 days, and she was apt to become so engrossed in her pleasant 
 occapation, as to take little heed of what was going on about 
 her, and aU Fanny's exclamations of discontent were lost on 
 her. Graeme was writing letters in the back parlor, and 
 Mrs. Snow was supposed to be taking her after*dinner^s rest, 
 np stairs, but she came into the room in time to hear Fanny 
 exclaim petulantly, 
 
 "And we were very foolish to have an early dinner. That 
 ^nld have been something to look forward to. And no one 
 can possibly calL Even Mr Green would be better than 
 nobody — or even Olutrlie Millar.'* 
 
 ''These gentlemen would be highly flattered if they heard 
 yon," said Rose, laughing, as she rose to draw forward the 
 arm-chair to Mrs. Snow. 
 
 "Arc you not tired playing. Rose," said Fanny, fretfally. 
 
 ** By no means. I hope my playing does not disturb you. 
 I think this march is charming. Oome and try it. " 
 23 
 
370 janet'b love and sebyioe. 
 
 *' No, I thank you. If the mnsio does not disturb Mr& 
 Snow, / don't mind it" 
 
 "I Hke it," said Mrs. Snow. "The music is cheerful thig 
 dull day. Though I would Uke a song better." 
 
 "By and by yon shall have a song. I would just like to 
 go over this two or three times more." 
 
 "Two or three times 1 Two or three hundred times, you 
 mean," said Fanny. " There *s no end to Rose's playing when 
 she begins." 
 
 Then she wandered into the back parlor again. 
 
 " Are you going to write all day, Graeme ?" 
 
 " Not all day. Has Mrs. Snow come down? " asked ahe, 
 coming forward. "I have been neglecting Harry lately, and 
 I have so much to tell him, but 1 11 soon be done now." 
 
 "My dear," said Mrs. Snow, "dinna heed me ; I have my 
 knitting, and I enjoy the musia" 
 
 " Oh ! dear 1 I wish it did 'nt rain," said Fanny. 
 
 "My dear, the earth was needing it," said Mrs. Snow, by 
 way of saying something, " and it will be beautiful when tho 
 
 rain is over." 
 
 "I beheve Graeme Ukes a rainy day," said Fanny. "It is 
 very stupid, I think." 
 
 "Yes, I sometimes like a rainy day. It brings a little 
 .eisure, which is agreeable." 
 
 Fanny shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 " It is rather dismal to-day, however," said Graeme. " You 
 look cold with that light dress on, Fanny, why don't you go 
 and change it?" 
 
 "What is the use? I wish Arthur were coming home. 
 He might have come, I 'm sure." 
 
 " You may be sure he will not stay longer than he can 
 help," said Graeme, turning to her letter again. 
 
 " And my dear, might you no' take a seam 1 It would pass 
 the time, if it did nothing else," said Mrs. Snow. 
 
 But the suggestion was not noticed, and partly because she 
 did not wish to interfere, and partly because she had some 
 
janet'b love and seevioe. 871 
 
 eariosify to see how the little lady would get ont of her 
 discomfort, Mrs. Snow knitted on in silence. 
 
 »Make something nice for tea/' suggested Eose, glancing 
 over her shoulder. 
 
 "That is not necessary 'now" said Fanny, shortly. 
 
 "Ohl I only suggested it for your sake— topasb the time," 
 said Rose. 
 
 It lasted a good while longer. It lasted till Graeme, 
 catching Mrs* Snow's lools^ became suddenly aware, that their 
 old friend was thinlring her own thoughts about "Mra 
 Arthur." She rose at once, and shutting her desk, and 
 going to the window where Fanny was standing, said with a 
 shiver : 
 
 "It is dismal, indeed. Fanny, look at that melancholy 
 cat She wants to come in, but she is afraid to leave her pres* 
 ent shelter. Poor wee pussy." 
 
 "Graeme, don't you wish Arthur were coming home," said 
 Fanny, hanging about her as she had a fashion of doing now 
 and then. 
 
 "Yes, indeed. But we must not tell him so. It would 
 make him vain if he knew how much we missed him. Go 
 and change your dress, dear, and we 11 have a fire, and an 
 early tea, and a nice little gossip in the firelight, and then 
 we won't miss him so much." 
 
 "Fire !" repeated Bose, looking disconsolately at the pret- 
 ty ornaments of the grate with which she had taken so much 
 paina *'Who ever heard of a fij:e in a grate at this time of 
 the year?" 
 
 But Bose was overruled. They had a fire and an early 
 tea, and then, sitting in the firelight, they had a gossip, too, 
 about many different things. Janet told them more than 
 she had ever told them before, of how she had "wearied 
 for them" when they first left Merleville, and by and by Bose 
 said, 
 
 "But that was all over when Sandy came." 
 
 "It was over before that, for his coming was long ddayod, 
 
372 Janet's love and sebyioe. 
 
 as yon 11 mind yourselves. I was quite content before iliai 
 time, but of course it was a great thing to me, the coining of 
 my Sandy.'* 
 
 "Oh I how glad you must have been!" said Eose. «I 
 wish I had been there to see. Tell us what you said to hLi, 
 and what he said to you." 
 
 " I dinna mind what I said to him, or if I said anything 
 at alL And he just said, * Weel mother ! ' with his heartsome 
 smile, and the shine of tears in his bonny blue e'en," said 
 Janet, with a laugh that might very easily have changed to 
 a sob ; " and oh I bairns, if ever I carried a thankful heart to 
 a throne of grace, I did that night." 
 
 "And would you have known him ? " asked Rose, gently. 
 
 " Oh I ay, would I. No* but what he was much changed. I 
 wouldna have minded him, but I would have kenned him 
 anywhere.** 
 
 Janet sat silent with a moved face for a little, and then she 
 wont on. 
 
 "I had had many a thought about his coming, and I grew 
 afraid as the time drew near. Either, I thought, he winna 
 like my husband, or they winna agree, or he wiU have forgot- 
 ten me altogether, and winna find it easy to call me his 
 mother, or he *I1 disappoint me in some way, I thought Ton 
 see I had so set my heart on seeing him, that I was afraid of 
 myself^ and it seemed to be more than I could hope that he 
 should be to me all that I desired. But when he came, my 
 fears were set at rest. He is an honest, God fearing lad, my 
 Sandy, and I need say nae mair about him." 
 
 " And so clever, and handsome I And what did Mr. Snov 
 say?" 
 
 ** Oh ! his heart was carried cap'ive, from the very firsts 
 with Sandy's heartsome, kindly ways. It made me laugh to 
 mysei:^ many a time, to see them together, and it made me 
 greet whiles, as well. All my fears were rebuked, and it is 
 the burden of my prayers from day to day, that I may hftv^ i 
 a thankful heart." , ^: , 
 
 "And how did Sandy like Merleville, and all the people?" 
 
Janet's love and sebyiob. 373 
 
 "Oi he liked them well, yon may be sure. It would have 
 lieen veiy migrateful if he had not, they made so mnch of 
 him— Mr* a^^d Mrs. Greenleaf, especially, and the Merles, and 
 plenty besides He made himself very useful to Mr. Green- 
 lea^ in many ways, for he is a clever lad, my Sandy. It's on 
 bis business that he 's West now. But he 11 soon be home 
 
 again." ' 
 
 "And Emily! Tell us just what they said to each other 
 at nrst, and what they thought of each other." 
 
 "I canna do that, for I was na there to hear. Emily saw 
 my Sandy before I saw him myself, as you 11 mind I told 
 you before." 
 
 "And was it love at first sight ? " asked Fanny. 
 
 "And did the course of true love for once run smooth," 
 said Rose. Mrs. Snow smiled at their eagerness. 
 
 "As for the love at first sight — ^it came very soon to my 
 Sandy. I am no' sure about Emily. As for its running 
 smooth, there was a wee while it was hindered. They had 
 their doubts and fears, as was natural, and their misunder^ 
 standings. But, Oh I bairns, it was just wonderful to sit by 
 and look at them. I saw their happy troubles coming on 
 before they saw it themselves, I think. It was like a stoiy 
 out of a book, to watch them ; or like one of the songs folk 
 used to sing when I was young — ^the sweet old Scottish songs, 
 that are passing out of mind now, I fear. I never saw tiie 
 two together in our garden, but I thought of the song that 
 begins, 
 
 " Ae Bimmer nicht when blobs o* dew, 
 Garred ilka thing look bonny—" 
 
 Ah ! WeU. God has been good to them, and to us alL" 
 "And Mr. Snow was well pleased, of course," said Fanny. 
 *' Pleased is hardly the word for it. He had just set his 
 heart on it from the very first, and I had, whiles, much ado 
 to keep him from seeming to 'see things, and to keep liitn 
 from putting his hand to help them a wee, which never does, 
 yon ken. Folk must find out such things for themselvei^ and 
 

 874 janet'b loye and enkvioE. 
 
 the oanniest hand may hinder, rather than help, with the 
 very best wilL ay, he was well pleased." 
 
 "And it is so nice that they are to be so dose beside yog. 
 I daresay we shall hardly know our old home, it will be so 
 much improved." 
 
 "It is impioved, but no* beyond your knowledge of it It 
 was aye a bonny place, you 11 mind. And it is improved, 
 doubtless, for her father thinks there is nothing too good for 
 Emily." ? 
 
 " And bairns, we have a' reason to be thankfoL If ^e 
 trust our affairs in God's hand, He 'U ' bring it to pass,' as be 
 has said. And if we are his, there is no fear but the yeiy 
 best thing for us will happen in the end." 
 
 ca 
 
 •■inm 
 
 .^•: 
 
 
^ CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 44-rTrTHO is Mr. Green, anyhow?" 
 
 Y Y The question was addressed by Mr. Snow to tbe 
 company generally, as he paused in his leisurely walk up and 
 down the gallery, and stood leaning his elbow on the window, 
 looking in upon them. His manner might have suggested the 
 idea of some mystery in connection with the name he had 
 mentioned, so slowly and gravely did his eyes travel from one 
 iJEMe to another turned toward him. As his question had 
 been addressed to no one in particular, no one answered for a 
 minute. 
 
 "Who is Mr. Green, that I hear tell so much about?" he 
 repeated impressively, fixing Will, with his eye. 
 
 "Mr. Green? Oh ! he is an American merchant from the 
 West," said the literal Will., not without a vague idea that 
 the answer, though true and comprehensive, would f aiTto con- 
 Tey to the inquiring mind of the deacon all the information 
 dodred. 
 
 " He is a Green Mountain boy. He is the most perfect spec- 
 imen of a real live Yankee ever encountered in these parts, 
 —cool, sharp, farnseeing, ^" 
 
 Charlie MiUar was the speaks, and he was brought up 
 rather suddenly in the midst of his descriptive eloquence by 
 a sadden merry twinkle in the eye of his principal listener; 
 and his confusion was increased by a touch from Bose's 
 little hand, intended to remind him that real Hv3 Yankees 
 were not to be indiscreetly meddled with in the present 
 company. • 
 
 "Is that all yon can say for your real live Yankee, Charlie;' 
 man?" said Arthur, whose seat on the gallery permitted 
 
 (375) 
 
376 Janet's love and sekvioe. 
 
 him to hear, but not to see, all that was going on in the 
 room. " Why don't you add, he speculates, he whittles, he 
 chews tobacco, he is six feet two in his stockings, he knows the 
 market value of every article and object, animate and inani: 
 mate, on the face of the earth, and is a Hving illustration of 
 the truth of the proverb, that the cents being cared for, no 
 apprehension need be entertained as to the safety of the 
 dollars." 
 
 " A-ud a Uving contradiction of all the stale old sayings 
 about the vanity of riches, rad their inabiUty to give even a 
 transitory content," said Charlie, with laughing defiance at 
 Rose. 
 
 " Quite true, CharUe," said Arthur ; " if Mr. Green has ever 
 had any doubts about the almighty doUar being the 'ulti- 
 mate end,' he has nursed or combated his doubts in se- 
 cret. Nothing has transpired to indicate any such wavering 
 of faith.'* 
 
 " Yes, it is his only standard of worth in all things material 
 and moral," said Charlie. "When he enters a room, you can 
 see by his look that he is putting a price on all things in it 
 — the carpet and curtains — the books and pretty things — even 
 the ladies — " 
 
 "Yes," continued Arthur ; "if he were to come in here just 
 now, it would be — Mrs. Snow worth so much — naming the 
 sum ; Miss EUiott so much more, because she has on a silk 
 gown ; Mrs. Elliott more still, because she is somehow or other 
 very spicy, indeed, to-night , he would appreciate details that 
 go beyond me. As for Rosie, she would be the most valuable 
 of all, according to his estimate, because of the extraordinary 
 Bbining things on her head." 
 
 ** The possibility of their being only imitations, might sug* • 
 gest itself," interposed Charlie. 
 
 " Yes, to be sure. And imitation or not, they would indi- ' 
 cate all the same the young lady's love of finery, and suggest 
 to his acute mind the idea of danger to the purse of her ftt» •" 
 ture possessor. No, Bosie would n't have a chance with him. 
 
jauet's love and service. 377 
 
 You needn't frown, Eosie, you haven't. Whether it is the 
 fihining things on your head, or the new watch and chain, or 
 the general weakness in the matter of bonnets that has been 
 developing in your character lately, I can't say, but nothing 
 can be plainer, than the fact, that hitherto you have failed to 
 make the smallest impression on him." 
 
 "A circumstance which cannot fail to give strength to the 
 general impression that he is made of oast iron," said Charlie. 
 
 "Arthur, I am shocked and astonished at you," said Rose, 
 as soon as she was permitted to speak. " You have forgotten, 
 Charlie, how kindly he cared for your brother when he was 
 sick, long ago. And Harry says that his hardness and selfish- 
 ness is more in appearance, than real He has a very kind 
 heart." 
 
 "Oh ! if you come to his heart, Miss Rose, I can't speak 
 for that. I have never had an opportunity of satisfying my- 
 self as to that particular. I didn't know he had one, indeed, 
 and should doubt it now, if we had not Harry's authority 
 and yours." 
 
 "You see, Rosie, when it comes to the discussion of hearts, 
 Charhe gets beyond his depth. He has nothing to say." 
 
 "Especially tender hearts, " said Charlie ; " I have had a 
 little experience of a flinty article or two of that sort." 
 
 " Charlie, I won't have you two quarreling," said Graeme, 
 laughing. " Rose is right. There is just a grain or two of 
 truth in what they have been saying," she added, turning to 
 Mr. Snow. Mr. Green is a real live Yankee, with many valua- 
 ble and excellent qualities. A Uttle hard — perhaps, a little 
 worldly. But you should hear him speak of his mother. You 
 would sympathize with him then, CharHe. He told me all 
 about his mother, one evening that I met him at Grove House, 
 I think. He told me about the old homestead, and his 
 fether's saw-mill, and the log school-house ; and his manner of 
 speaking quite raised him in my opinion. Arthur is wrong in 
 saying he cares for nothing but money." 
 
 " But, who is he ? " asked Mr. Snow, with the air of one much 
 
3T8 Janet's love and seeviob. 
 
 interested His question was this time addressed to Fanny 
 who had seated herself on the window seat close by her hus- 
 band, and she replied eagerly, 
 
 " Oh ! he is a rich merchant — ever so rich. He is going to 
 give up business, and travel in Europe." 
 
 " For the improvement of his mind," said Arthur. 
 
 " I don't know what he goes for, but he is very rich, and 
 may do what he likes. He has built the handsomest house in 
 ihe State, Miss Smith tells me. Oh ! he is ever so rich, and 
 he is a bachelor." 
 
 " I want to know ? " said Mr. Snow, accepting Fanny's tri- 
 umphant climax, as she gave it, with great gravity. 
 
 " He is a great friend of mine, and a great admirer of Miss 
 ElUott," said Mrs. Grove, with her lips intending that her face 
 should say much more. 
 
 "Do tell?" said Mr. Snow. 
 
 " A singular and eccentric person you see he must be," said 
 Will. 
 
 " A paradoxical specimen of a Hve Yankee. Do n't from, 
 Miss Eose. Mrs. Grove's statement proves my assertion," said 
 Charhe. 
 
 " If you would like to meet him, Mr. Snow, dine with us 
 on Friday " said Mrs. Grove. " I am quite sure you will lite 
 and admire each other. I see many points of resemblance 
 between you. Well, then, I shall expect you cdl. Miss Elliott 
 you will not disappoint me, I hope." 
 
 " But so large a party I Mrs. Grove, consider how many 
 there are of us," said Graeme, who knew as well as though 
 she were speaking aloud, that the lady was saying that same 
 thing to herself, and that she was speculating as to the ne- 
 cessity of enlarging the table. 
 
 "Pray, don't mention it. We are to have no one else. 
 Quite a family party. I shaU be quite disappointed if I don't 
 see you all. The garden is looking beautifully now." 
 
 " And one more wouldn't make a bit of difference. Mifls 
 Rose, can't you speak a good word for me," whispered 
 Charlie. 
 
Janet's love and service. 379 
 
 "Thank you," said Graeme, in answer to Mrs. Grove. "I 
 have been longing to show Mrs. Snow your garden I hope 
 the roses are not quite over." 
 
 «0h, nol" said Arthur. "There are any number left; 
 and Charlie, man, be sure and bring your flute to waken the 
 echoes of the grove. It will be dehghtful by moonUght, won't 
 
 it, Rosie?" 
 
 Mrs. Grove gave a little start of surprise at the liberty 
 taken by Arthur. "So unlike him," she thought Mr. 
 Millar's coming would make the enlargement of the table 
 absolutely necessary. However, she might ask one or two 
 other people whom she ought to have asked before, " and 
 have it over," as she said. So she smiled sweetly, and said, 
 
 "Pray do, Mr. Millar. We shall expect you with the 
 
 rest" 
 
 Charlie would be delighted, and said so. 
 
 "But the flute," added he to Rose. " Well, for that agree- 
 able fiction your brother is responsible. And a family party 
 will be indeed charming." 
 
 Dining at Grove House was not to any of them the 
 pleasantest of afifaii-s, on those occasions when it was Mrs. 
 Grove's intention to distinguish herself, and astonish other 
 people, by what she called a state dinner. Graeme, who was 
 not apt to shirk unpleasant duties, made no secret of her dis- 
 like to them, and caught at any excuse to absent herself with 
 an eagerness which Fanny declared to be anything but 
 polite. But, sitting at table in full dress, among dull people, 
 for an indefinite length of time, for no good purpose that she 
 had been able to discover, was a sacrifice which neither 
 Graeme nor any of the others felt inclined to make often. j 
 
 A dinner en famUle, however, with the dining room win- 
 dows open, and the prospect of a pleasant evening in the 
 garden, was a very different matter. It was not merely en- 
 durable, it was dehghtfuL So Rose arrayed herself in her 
 pretty pink muslin, and then went to superintend the toilette 
 of Mrs. Snow— that is, she went to arrange the folds of her 
 best black silk, and to insist on her wearing her prettiest 
 
380 Janet's love and service. 
 
 cap — ^in a state of pleasurable excitement that was mfectiom 
 and the whole party set off in fine spirits. Graeme and 
 Kose exchanged doubtful glances as they passed the dininw. 
 room windows. There was an ominous display of silver on 
 the sideboard, and the enlargment of the table had been on 
 an extensive scale. 
 
 " If she has spoiled Janet's evening in the garden, by in- 
 viting a lot of stupids, it will be too bad," whispered Eose. 
 
 It was not so bad as that, however. Of the guests whose 
 visits were to be " put over," on this occasion, only Mr. 
 Proudfute, a very pleasant, harmless gentleman, and Fanny's 
 old admirer, Captain Starr, came. As to making it a state 
 affair, and sitting two or three hours at table, such a thing 
 was not to be thought of. Mr. Snow could eat his dinner 
 even in the most unfavorable circumstances, in a tenth part 
 of that time, and so could Mr. Green, for that matter ; so 
 within a reasonable period, the ladies found themselves, not 
 in the drawing-room, but on the lavra, and the gentlemen 
 soon followed. 
 
 It was the perfection of a summer evening, vdth neither 
 dust nor insects to be a drawback, vdth just wind enough to 
 make tremulous the shadows on the lawn, and to waft, from 
 the garden above the house, the odors of a thousand flowera 
 The garden itself did not surpass, or even equal, in beauty 
 of arrangement, many of the gardens of the neighborhood ; 
 but it was very beautiful in the unaccustomed eyes of Mr. 
 and Mrs. Snow, and it was v^ith their eyes that Graeme looked 
 at it to-night. They left the others on the lawn, the gentle- 
 men — some of them at least — smoking in the shade of the 
 great cedar, and Kose and Fanny making wreaths of the 
 roses the children were gathering for them. The garden 
 proper was behind the house, and thither they bent their 
 steps, Graeme inwardly congratulating herself that she and 
 Will, were to have the pointing out of its beauties to their 
 friends all to themselves. They did not need to be pointed 
 out to the keen, admiring eyes of Mr. Snow. Nothing 
 escaped him, as he walked slowly before them, looking over 
 
JAUEt's love and 8EKVI0E. 881 
 
 his shoulder now and then to remark on something that par- 
 ticularly interested him. Mrs. Snow's gentle exclamations 
 alone broke the silence for some time. She lingered with an 
 interest, which to Graeme was quite pathetic, over flowers 
 familiar in her childhood, but strangers to her for many a 
 
 year. 
 
 "It minds me of the Ebba Gardens," said she, after a 
 little. "Not that it is hke them, except for the flowers. The 
 Ebba Gardens were on a level, not in terraces hke this. You 
 winna mind the Ebba Gardens, Miss Graeme." 
 
 They had reached by this time a summer house, which 
 commanded a view of the whole garden, and of a beautiful 
 stretch of country beyond, and here they sat down to wait 
 the coming of the others, whose voices they heard below. 
 
 "No," said Graeme, "I was not at the Ebba often. But 
 I remember the avenue, and the gHmpse of the lake that 
 comes so unexpectedly after the first turning from the gate. 
 I am not sure whether I remember it, or whether it is only 
 fancy ; but it must have been very beautiful." 
 
 "It is only fancy to you, I doubt, for we turned many a 
 time after going in at the gate, before the lake came in 
 
 "Perhaps so. But I don't think it can all be fancy. I 
 am sure I mind the lake, with the swans sailing on it, and 
 the wee green islets, and the branches of the birch trees 
 drooping down into the water. Don't you mind ? " 
 
 "Yes, I mind welL It was a bonny place," said Janet, 
 with a sigh. 
 
 "But, what a tiny lake it must have been! I remember 
 we could quite well see the flowers on the other side. It 
 could not have been half so large as Merle ville Pond." 
 
 "It wasn't hardly worth while calling it a lake, was it ? " 
 said Mr. Snow. 
 
 "It did for want of a bigger, you know," said Graeme, 
 laughing. " It made up in beauty what it wanted in size." 
 
 "It was a bonny spot," said Mrs. Snow. 
 
 "And the birds 1 Whenever I want to imagine bird music 
 
382 Janet's love and service. 
 
 in perfection, I shut my eyes, and think of the birches 
 drooping over the water. I wonder what birds they were 
 that sang there ? I have never heard such singing of birds 
 since then." 
 
 "No, there are no such singing birds here," said Mrs. 
 Snow. " I used to miss the lark's song in the morning, and 
 the evening voices of the cushat and the blackbird. There 
 are no birds Hke them here." 
 
 " Ain't it just possible that the music may be fancy, too, 
 Miss Graeme," said Mr. Snow, who did not hke to hear the 
 regretful echo in his wife's voice when she spoke of " home." 
 Graeme laughed, and Mrs. Snow smiled, for they both unde^ 
 stood his feeHng very well, and Mrs. Snow said, 
 
 "No, the music of the birds is no fancy, as you might 
 know from Sandy. There are no birds Hke them here ; but 
 I have learned to distinguish many a pleasant note among 
 the American birds — not like our own linties at home, but 
 very sweet and cheerful notwithstanding." 
 
 " The birds were real birds, and the music was real music. 
 Oh I I wonder if I ever shall hear it again I " said Graeme, 
 with a sigh. " You will hear it Will., and see the dear old 
 place. Oh I how I wish you could take me too." WiU. smiled. 
 
 " I shall be glad to hear the birds and see the places again. 
 But I don't remember the Ebba, or, indeed, any of the old 
 places, except our own house and garden, and your mother's 
 cottage, Mrs. Snow. I mind the last time we were there well." 
 
 " I mind it, too," said Mrs. Snow, gravely. 
 
 " And yet, I should be almost sorry to go back again, lest 
 I should have my ideas disturbed by finding places and 
 people different from what I have been fancying them all this 
 time. AJl those old scenes are so many lovely pictures to 
 me, and it would be sad to go and find them less lovely than- 
 they seem to me now. I have read of such things," said 
 Graeme. '^^ 
 
 "I would na fear anything of that kind," said Mrs. Snow; 
 " I mind them all so well" 
 
 "Do you ever think you would like to go back again?" 
 
janbt's love and service. 383 
 
 laid Will. " Would nrot you like to see the old faces and the 
 old places once more ? " 
 
 "No, lad," said Mrs. Snow, emphatically. "I have no 
 wish ever to go back." 
 
 •♦ You are afraid of the sea ? But the steamers are very 
 .different from the old ' Steadfast.' " 
 
 "I was not thinking of the sea, though I would dread that 
 too. But why should I vyish to go back ? There are two or 
 three places I would hke to see — the glen where my moth- 
 er's cottage stood, and two or three graves. And when I 
 shut my eyes I can see them here . No, I have no wish to 
 go back." 
 
 There was a moment's silence, and then Mrs. Snow, turn- 
 ing her dear, kind eyes on her husband, over whose face a 
 wistful, expostulating look was stealing, said, 
 
 "Hike to think about the dear faces, and the old places, 
 sometimes, and to speak about them with the bairns ; it is 
 both sad and pleasant now and then. But I am quite con- 
 tent with all things as they are. I wouldna go back, and I 
 wouJdna change my lot if I might. I am quite content." 
 
 Mr. Snow smiled and nodded in his own peculiar fashion 
 for reply. There could be no doubt of his content, or Mrs. 
 Snow's either, Graeme acknowledged, and then her thoughts 
 went back to the time when Janet's lot had been so different. 
 She thought of the husband of her youth, and how long the 
 grave had closed over him; she remembered her long years of 
 patient labor in the manse; the bitter home-sickness of the 
 first months in Merleville, and all the changes that had come 
 since then. And yet, Janet was not changed. She was the 
 very same. The quahties that had made her invaluable to 
 them all those years, made the happiness of her husband and 
 her home still, and after all the changes that hfe had brought 
 she was content. No one could doubt that. And Graeme 
 asked herself, would it ever be so VTith her V Would she ever 
 cease to regret the irrevocable past, and learn to grow happy 
 in a new way ? She prayed that it might be so. She longed 
 for the tranquil content of those old days before her heart 
 
384 Janet's love and service. 
 
 was startlod from its girlhood's quiet. How long it seemed 
 since she had been quite at peace with herself ! Would she 
 ever be so again ? It did not seem possible. She tried in 
 vain to fancy herself among other scenes, with other hopes 
 and friends, and interests. And yet, here was Janet, not of 
 a Ught or changeful nature ; how she had loved, and lost, and 
 suffered I And yet she had grown content ? 
 
 " What are you thinking about, Graeme ?" said WilL, who, 
 as well as Mr. Snow, had been watching her troubled face. 
 Graeme started. 
 
 " Oh ! of a great many things. I don't know why it 
 should have come to my mind just now, but I was thinking 
 of a day in Merleville, long ago — an Indian-summer day. I 
 remember walking about among the fallen leaves, and look- 
 ing over the pond to the hills beyond, wondering foolishly, I 
 suppose, about what the future might bring to us alL How 
 lovely it was that day !" 
 
 " And then you came and stood within the gate, and hard- 
 ly gave me a look as I passed out. I mind it, very well," 
 said Mr. Snow. 
 
 "I was not friends with you that day. But how should 
 you remember it ? How should you know it was that day, 
 of which I was thinking ?" 
 
 " I saw, by your fcice, you were thinking of old times, and 
 of aU the changes that had come to you and yours ; and it 
 was on that day you first heard of one of them. That is 
 how I came to think of it." 
 
 " And then you came into the house, and called me from 
 the foot of the stairs. You wema well pleased with me, 
 either, that day," said Mrs. Snow. 
 
 " Oh I I was afraid ; and you spoke to me of aunt Marian, 
 and of our own Menie, and how there might be sadder 
 changes than even your going away. Ah, me 1 I don't think 
 I have been quite at peace with myself since that nighi" 
 
 " Miss Graeme I my dear," expostulated Mrs. Snow. 
 
 " No, I have aye been afraid to find myself at peace. Bnt 
 I am glad of one thing, though I did not think that day it 
 
Janet's love and service. 385 
 
 would ever make me glad. Uncle Sampson, did I over tell 
 you— I am afraid I never did — ^how glad I am now, that you 
 were stronger than I was, and prevailed — in taking Janet 
 from us, I mean ?" 
 
 She was standing behind him, so that ho did not see her 
 face. He did not turn round, or try to see it. Ho looked 
 towards his wife, with a grave smile. 
 
 "I don't think you ever told me in words." 
 
 "No, because it is only a Uttle while that I have been really 
 glad ; it is only since your coming has made me sure she is 
 happier — far happier with you, and Emily and Srndy, than 
 ever we could make her now; almost as happy as she deserves 
 to be." 
 
 " I reckon, the happiness ain't all on one side of the house, 
 by a great deal," said Mr. Snow, gravely. 
 
 "No, I know that — ^I am sure of that. And I am glad — 
 so glad, that it reconciles me to the knowledge that we can 
 never be quite the same to her as we used to be, and that is 
 saying much." 
 
 "Ain't you most afraid that it might hurt her to hear you 
 say so ?" said Mr. Snow, his eyes never leaving his wife's face. 
 They were quite alone by this time. Will, had obeyed the 
 call of the children, and was gone away. 
 
 "No, I am not afraid. She knows I would not hurt her 
 willingly, by word or deed, so you must let me say how very 
 glad I am we lost her, for her sake. And when I remember 
 all that she has lived through — all the sorrow she has seen ; 
 knowing her steadfast, loving heart, and how Httle she is 
 given to change, yet seeing her happy, and with power to 
 make others happy, it gives me courage to look into the 
 future ; it makes me less afraid." 
 
 His eyes left his wife's face now, and turned, with a look of 
 wonder, to Graeme. 
 
 " "What is it, dear ?" he asked. " Is there anything I may 
 not know?" 
 
 "No. Only I am glad for Janet's sake, and for yours, 
 
 and for mine, too, because " 
 
 24 
 
886 janet'b love and seevioe. 
 
 It would not have been easy to say more, and, besides, the 
 others were coming up the walk, and, partly because there 
 were tears in her eyes, and partly because she shrunk ne^ 
 vously from the excessive friendliness with which it seemed 
 to be Mrs. Grove's intention on the occasion to distinguish 
 her, she turned, hoping to escape. She did not succeed, how* 
 ever, and stood still at the door, knowing very well what 
 would be Mrs. Grove's first remark. 
 
 " Ah 1 I see you have an eye for the beautiful." 
 
 She had heard her say it just as many times as she had 
 stood with her on that very beautiful spot ; and she nver 
 expected to stand there without hearing it, certainly not i^ 
 as on the present occasion, there were strangers there too. 
 It was varied a little, this time. 
 
 " You see, Mr. Green, Miss Elliott has an eye for the bean- 
 tifol. I knew we should find her here, with her friends." 
 
 The rest was as usual 
 
 " Observe how entirely different this is, from aU the other 
 views about the place. There is not a glimpse of the river, 
 or of the mountains, except that blue line of hills, very dis- 
 tant indeed. The scene is quite a pastoral one, you see. Can 
 you imagine anything more tranquil ? It seems the very do- 
 main of silence and repose." 
 
 The last remark was not so effective as usual, because of 
 the noise made by Charlie Millar and Will., and the yomig 
 Groves, as they ran along the broad walk fuU in sight 
 
 " It is a bonny, quiet place," said Mrs. Snow. 
 
 " The garden is not seen at its best now," continued Mr& 
 Grove. " The beauty of the spring flowers is over, and except 
 the loses, we have not many suumier flowers ; we make abet- 
 ter show later in the season." 
 
 *'It looks first-rate," said Mr. Snow. 
 
 " It costs a great deal of trouble and expense to keep it 
 up as it ought to be kept," continued Mrs. Grove. " I some- 
 times think it is not right to spend so much time and money 
 for what is a mere gratification to the eye." 
 
 Mrs. Grove was bent on being agreeable to all present, and 
 
Janet's love and service. 887 
 
 ghe thought " the economical dodge " was as good as any, con- 
 sidering her audience. 
 
 "There is something iu that," said IVIr. Snow, meditative- 
 ly ; "but a place like this ought to be a great deal more than 
 that, I think." 
 
 " Oh 1 I expect it pays," said Mr. Green. " To people who 
 are fond of such things, I expect there is more pleasure to 
 be got for the same money from a garden than from 'most 
 any other thing." 
 
 , "To say nothing of the pleasure given to other folk — to 
 one's friends," suggested Mrs. Snow. 
 
 " I was calculating that, too," said Mr. Green. " The pleas- 
 ure one's friends get tells on one's own comfort ; you feel 
 better yourself, if the folks about you feel well, especially if 
 you have the dorug of it. Tliat pays." 
 
 " If we are travelUng in the right road, the more we see 
 of the beautiful things God has made, the better and the 
 happier we will be," said Mr. Snow. " It wiU pay in that w;iy, 
 I guesa" 
 
 He turned an inquiring look on Mr. Green, as he spoke, 
 but that gentleman, probably not being prepared to speak 
 advisedly on the subject, neither agreed nor dissented, and 
 his ^es travelled on till they rested on the face of his wife. 
 
 "Yes," said die, softly, "the more we see of God's love 
 and wisdom in the beautiful things He has made, the more 
 we shall love Him, a nd in loving Him we shall grow like Him." 
 
 Mr. Snow nodded. Mr. Green looked curio^isly from one 
 to the other as they spoke. 
 
 " I suppose we may expect something wonderful in the way 
 of gardenf and pleasure-grounds, when you have completed 
 your place, Mr. Green," said Mrs. Grove, who did not care 
 that the conversation should take a serious turn on this oc- 
 casion. She flattered hej^elf that she had already won the 
 confidence and admiration of Mr. and Mrs. Snow, by her 
 wannly-expressed sympathy vdth their "rather pecuHar" 
 views and opinions. Whether Mr. Green would be so fortu- 
 nate was questionable, so she went on quickly, 
 
388 jaistet's love and seevice. 
 
 " Miss Elliott, Mr. Green has been telling me about his 
 place as we came up the garden. It mnst be very lovely, 
 star ding, as it does, on the borders of one of those vast 
 prairies that we all admire." 
 
 Thus appealed to, it was unpardonable in Graeme that she 
 should respond to the lady's admiring enthusiasm with only 
 the doubtful assent impUed in a hesitating " Indeed ;" but 
 her enthusiasm was not to be damped. 
 
 " There must be something grand and elevating in the con- 
 stant view of a prairio. It must tend to enlarge one's ideas, 
 and satisfy one ; don't you ihhik bo, Miss Elliott ? " 
 
 " I don't know," said Graeme, hesitatingly. " For a place 
 of residence, I should suppose it might be a Uttle dull and 
 unvaried." 
 
 " Oi course, if there was nothing besides the prairie ; but 
 with such a residence as Mr. Green's — I forget what style of 
 architecture it is." 
 
 But Mr. Green was not learned on the subject of architec- 
 ture, and said nothing about it. He only knew that people 
 called his house a very handsome one, and that it had cost 
 him a deal of money, and he said so, emphatically, adding 
 his serious doubts whether the investment would " pay." 
 
 " Oh ! you cannot tell yet," said Mrs. Grove. "That will 
 depend altogether on circumstances. It is quite time that 
 you were settling down into a quiet family man. You have 
 been roaming about the world quite long enough. I don't 
 at al approve of the European trip, unless, indeed — " 
 
 She paused, and looked so exceedingly arch and wise, that 
 Mr. Green looked a httle puzzled and fooHsh by contrast, pe^ 
 haps. 
 
 "Miss EUiott," continued Mrs. Grove, bent on carrying out 
 her laudable intention of drawing Graeme into the conversa- 
 tion, "have you quite decided on not accompanying your 
 brother?" 
 
 " Accompanying Will ? Oh I I have never for a moment 
 thought of such a thing. The expense would put it quite out 
 
Janet's love and service. 389 
 
 of the question, even if there were no other reasons against 
 
 it" 
 
 "Indeed, then I must have misunderstood you when I fan- 
 cied I heard you say how much you would like to go. I 
 thought you longed for a chance to see Scotland again." 
 
 "I daresay you heard me say something of the kind. I 
 should like to visit Scotland very much, and other countries, 
 too. And I intend to do so when I have made my fortune," 
 added she, laughing. 
 
 " Ori when some one has made it for you ; that would do 
 as well, would it not ?" asked Mrs. Grove. 
 
 "Oh, yes! a great deal better. When some one makes 
 my fortune for me, I shall visit Europe. I think I may prom- 
 ise that" 
 
 "Have you ever been West, yet. Miss ElUott ? You spoke 
 of going at one time, I remember," said Mr. Green. 
 
 "Never yet. All my travelling has been done at the fire- 
 side. I have very much wished to visit my brother Norman. 
 I daresay Eose and I will find ourselves there some day," 
 added she, turning to Mr. Snow. 
 
 " Unless we keep you in Merleville," said he, smiling. 
 
 " Oh ! well, I am very willing to be kept there on certain 
 conditions you know." 
 
 "How do you suppose Fanny could ever do without you ?" 
 asked Mrs. Grove, reproachfully. 
 
 " Oh ! she would miss us, I daresay. But I don't think we 
 are absolutely necessary to her happiness." 
 • " Of course, she will have to lose you one of these days. 
 We cannot expect that you will devote yourself to your bro- 
 thers always, I know." 
 
 "Especially as they don't stand iu particular need of my 
 devotion," said Graeme, stiffly, as she offered her arm to 
 Mrs. Snow. " Let us walk again. What can Will, and the 
 children be doing? Something extraordinary, if one may 
 judge by the noise." 
 
 Mrs. Grove rose to go with them, but lingered a moment 
 
390 Janet's love and seevice. 
 
 behind to remark to Mr. Snow on the exceeding loveliness of 
 Miss Elliott's disposition and character, her great superiority 
 to young ladies in general, and especially on the devotion so 
 apparent in all her intercourse -with her old friend. 
 
 " And with you, too," she added ; " I scarcely can say 
 which she honors most, or on which she most relies for conor 
 sel." 
 
 ** There," said she to herself, as she followed the others 
 down the walk, "I have given him an opening, if he only has 
 the sense to use it. One can see what he wants' 
 enough, and if he knows what is for his advantage he will 
 the good word of his countryman, and he ought to thank me 
 for ttie ohancQ." 
 
■d'f'-'' ■ 
 
 Hi: '■•■ ' ' 
 
 ^ CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 WHY Mrs. Grove thought IVIr. Green might need an 
 opening for anything he had to say to Mr. Snow did 
 not appear, as he did not avail himself of it. It was Mr. 
 Snow who spoke first, after a short silence. 
 " Going to give up business and settle down. Eh ?" 
 
 " I have thought of it I don't beheve I should enjoy life 
 half as well if I did, however." 
 " How much do you enjoy it now ?" inquired Mr. Snow. 
 
 "Well, not a great deal, that is a fact ; but as weU as folks 
 generally do, I reckon. But^ after all, I do believe to keep 
 hard to work is about as good a way as any to take comfort 
 in the world." 
 
 Mr. Green took a many-bladed knife from his pocket, and 
 plucking a twig from the root of a young cedar, began 
 fashioning it into an instrument slender and smooth. 
 
 " That is about the conclusion I have come to," repeated 
 he ; " and I expect I will have to keep to work if I mean to 
 get the good of hfe." 
 
 " There are a good many kinds of work to be done in the 
 world," suggested Mr. Snow. 
 
 Mr. Green gave him a glance curious and inquiring. 
 
 " Well, I suppose there are a good many ways of working 
 in the world, but it all comes to the same thing pretty much, 
 I guess. Folks work to get a hving, and then to accumulate 
 property. Some do it in a large way, and some in a small 
 way, but the end is the same." 
 
 " Suppose you should go to work to spend your money 
 now?" suggested IVIr. Snow, again. 
 
 " Well, I 've done a little in that way, too, and I have 
 (391) 
 
392 janet'b love and service. 
 
 about come to the conclusion that that don't pay as weU as 
 the making of it, as far as the comfort it gives. I ain't a 
 very rich man, not near so rich as folks think ; but I had got 
 a kind of sick of doing the same thing aU the time, and so 
 I thought I would try something else a spelL So I rather 
 drew up, though I ain't out of business yet, by a great deal 
 I thought I would try and see if I could make a home, bo I 
 built But a house ain't a home — ^not by a great sight. I 
 have got as handsome a place as anybody need wish to have, 
 but I would rather hve in a hotel any day than have the 
 bother of it. I don't more than half beheve I shall ever live 
 there long at a time." 
 
 He paused, and whittled with great earnestness. 
 
 "It seems a kind of aggravating, now, don't it, when a 
 man has worked hard half lus life and more to make prop- 
 erty, that he shouldn't be able to enjoy it when he has 
 got it" 
 
 " What do you suppose is the reason ? " asked Mr. Snow, 
 gravely, but with rather a preoccupied air. He was wonder- 
 ing how it was that Mr. Green should have been betrayed 
 into giving his dreary confidences to a comparative alranger. 
 
 "Well, I don't know," replied Mr. Green, meditatively. 
 " I suppose, for one thing, I have been so long in the mill 
 that I can't get out of the old jog easily. I should have 
 begun sooner, or have taken work and pleasure by turns as I 
 went along. I don't take much comfort in what seems to 
 please most folks." 
 
 There was a pause ; Mr. Snow had nothing to say in reply, 
 however, and ia a httle Mr. Green went on : 
 
 " I have n't any very near relations ; cousins and cousin's 
 children are the nearest I have helped them some, and 
 would rather do it than not, and they are willing enough to 
 be helped, but they don't seem very near to me. I enjoy 
 well enough going to see them once in a while, but it don't 
 amoimt to much all they care about me ; and, to tell the 
 truth, it ain't much I care about theno. If I had a &inily 
 of my own, it would be difibrent Women folks and young 
 
jauet's love and seevice, 393 
 
 folks enjoy spending money, and I suppose I would have 
 enjoyed seeing them do it. But I have about come to the 
 conclusion that I should have seen to that long ago." 
 
 Without moving or turning his head, he gave his new 
 friend a look out of the coraer of his eyes that it might have 
 Borprised him a Httle to see ; but Mr. Snow saw nothing at 
 the moment. To wonder as to why this new acquaintance 
 should bestow his confidence on him, was succeeding a feel- 
 ing of piiy for him — a desire to help him — and he was con- 
 sidering the propriety of improving the opportunity given to 
 " drop a word in season " for his benefit. Not that he had 
 much confidence in his own skiU at this sort of thing. It is 
 to be feared the deacon looked on this way of witnessing for 
 the truth as a cross to be borne rather than as a privilege to 
 be enjoyed. He was readier with good deeds than with good 
 words, and while he hesitated, Mr. Green went on : 
 
 " How folks can hang round with nothing particular to do 
 is what I can't understand. I never should get used to it, I 
 fcaow. I *ve made considerable property, and I espect I have 
 enjoyed the making more than I ever shall enjoy the spend- 
 ing of it." 
 
 " I should n't wonder if you had," said Mr. Snow, gravely. 
 
 " I have thought of going right slap into pohtical hfe. I 
 might have got into the Legislature, time and again ; and I 
 don't doubt but I might find my way to Congress by spend- 
 ing something handsome. That might be as good a way to 
 let off the steam as any. When a man gets into politics, he 
 don't seem to mind much else. He has got to drive right 
 through. I don't know how weU it pays." 
 
 " In the way of comfort, I 'm afraid it don 't pay," said Mr. 
 Snow. 
 
 " I expect not. I don't more than half think it would pay 
 me. Politics have got to be considerably mixed up in our 
 country. I don't believe I should ever get to see my vr&j 
 dear to go all lengths ; and I don't beheve it would amount 
 to anything if I could. Besides, if a man expects to get very 
 far along in that road, he hsi^ got to take a fair start in good 
 
394 Janet's love and service. 
 
 season. I learned to zead and cypher in the old log school- 
 house at home, and my mother taught me the catechism on 
 Sunday afternoons, and that is about all the book-learning I 
 ever got. I should n't hardly have an even chance with some 
 of those college-bred chaps, though there are some things I 
 know as well as the best of them, I reckon. Have you ever 
 been out West?" 
 
 " I was there once a good many years ago. I had a great 
 notion of going to settle there when I was a young man. I 
 am glad I did n't, though." 
 
 " Money ain't to be made there anything like as fast as it 
 used to be," said Mr. Green. " But there is chance enough, 
 if a man has a head for it. I have seen some cool business 
 done there at one time and another." 
 
 The chances in favor of Mr. Snow's "word in season" 
 were becoming fewer, he saw plainly, as Mr. Green wandered 
 oS from his dissatisfaction to the varied remembrances of bis 
 business-life ; so, with a great effort, he said : 
 
 "Ain't it just possible that your property and the spending 
 of it don't satisfy you because it is not in the nature of such 
 things to give satisfaction ? " 
 
 Mr. Green turned and looked earnestly at him. 
 
 " Well, I have heard so, but I never beUeved it any more 
 for hearing it said. The folks that say it oftenest don't act as 
 if they believed it themselves. They try as hard for it as 
 any one else, if they are to be judged by their actions. It is 
 all right to say they beUeve it, I suppose, because it is in the 
 Bible, or something like it is." 
 
 " And you believe it, not because it is in the Bible, but be- 
 cause you are learning, by your own experience, every day 
 you live." /"^ 
 
 ISIr. Green whistled. 
 
 *'Oome, now ; ain't that going it a little too strong? I 
 never said I didn't expect to enjoy my property. I en- 
 joy it now, after a fashion. If a man ain't going to enjoy 
 his property what is he to aijoy ?" 
 
 "All that some people enjoy is the making of it Yon 
 
Janet's love and eERvicE. 395 
 
 have done that, you say. There is less pleasure to be got 
 from wealth, even in the most favorable circumstances, than 
 those who have n't got it believe. They who have it find that 
 out, as you are doing. 
 
 "But I can fancy myself getting all the pleasure I want out 
 of my property, if only some things were different — if I had 
 something else to go with it. Other folks seem to take the 
 comfort out of theirs as they go along." 
 
 " They seem to ; but how can you be sure as to the enjoy- 
 ment they really have ? How many of your friends, do you 
 suppose, suspect that you don't get all the satisfaction out 
 of yours that you seem to ? Do you suppose the lady who 
 was saying so much in praise of your fine place just now, has 
 any idea that it is only a weariness to you ?" 
 
 "I was telling her so as we came along. She says the rear 
 son I don't enjoy it is because there is something else that I 
 haven't got, that ought to go along with it ; and I agreed 
 with her there," 
 
 Again a furtive glance was sent towards Mr. Snow's 
 thoughtful face. He smiled and shook his head. 
 
 "Yes, it is something else you want. It is always some- 
 thing else, and ever will be till the end comes. That some- 
 thiog else, if it is ever yours, wiU bring disappointment with 
 it It will come as you don't expect it or want it, or it will 
 come too late. There is no good talking. There is nothing 
 in the world that it will do to make a portion of." 
 
 Mr. Green looked up at him with some curiosity and sur- 
 prise. This sounded very much like what he used to hear in 
 conference meeting long ago, but he had an idea that such 
 remarks were inappropriate out of meeting, and he wondered: 
 a little what could be Mr. Snow's motive for speaking in that 
 way just then. 
 
 "As to making a portion of it, I don't know about that ; 
 but I do know that there is considerable to be got out of 
 money. Wliat can't it get? Or rather, I should say, what 
 can be got without it ? I don't say that they who have the 
 most of it are always best off, because other things come in 
 
396 Janet's love and service. 
 
 to worry them, maybe ; but the chances are in favor of the 
 man that has all he wants to spend. YouTl never deny that" 
 
 " That ain't just the way I would put it," said Mr. Snow. 
 " I would say that the man who expects his property to make 
 hinn happy, will be disappointed. The amount he has got 
 don't matter. It ain't in it to give happiness. I know, partly 
 because I have tried, and it has failed me, and partly because 
 I am told that " a man's life consisteth not in the abundance 
 of the things that he possesseth." 
 
 " Well, now, if that is so, will you tell me why there ain't 
 one man in ten thousand who beheves it, or at least who acts 
 as if he beheved it ? Why is all the world chasing after wealth, 
 as if it were the one thing for body and soul ? If money ain't 
 Tvorth having, why hasn't somebody found it out, and set the 
 world right about it before now?" 
 
 "As to money not being worth the having, I never said 
 that. What I say is, that God never meant that mere wealth 
 should make a man happy. That has been found out times 
 without number ; but as to setting the world right about it, 
 I expect that is one of the things that each man must leam 
 by experience. Most folks do leam it after awhile, in one 
 way or other.'* 
 
 " Well,'* said Mr. Green, gravely, " you look as if you be- 
 lieved what you say, and you look as if you enjoyed life pretty 
 well, too. If it ain't your property that makes you happy, 
 what is it?" 
 
 " It ain't my property, sartain" said Mr. Snow, with em- 
 phasis. " I know I should n't be any happier if I had twice as 
 much. And I am sure I shouldn't be less happy if I hadn't 
 half as much ; my happiness rests on a surer foundation than 
 anything I have goi" . <« 
 
 He paused, casting about in his thoughts for just the right 
 word to say — something that might be as " a fire and a ham- 
 mer" to the softening and breaking of that world-hardened 
 heart. 
 
 " He does look as if he believed what he was saying," Mr. 
 Green was tlunking to himself. " It is just possible he might 
 
Janet's love and service. 397 
 
 give me a hint. He don't look like a man who don't practise 
 as he preaches." Aloud, he said, 
 
 "Come, now, go ahead. What has cured one, may help 
 another, you know. Give us your idea as to what is a sure 
 foundation for a man's happiness." 
 Mr. Snow looked gravely into his face and said, 
 "Blessed is the man who feareth the Lord." 
 "Blessed is the man whose trust the Lord is." 
 "Blessed is the man whose transgression is forgiven, whose 
 sin is covered." 
 
 "Blessed is the man to whom the Lord imputeth not in- 
 iquity, in whose spirit there is no guile." 
 
 Mr. Green's eye fell before his earnest gaze. It came into 
 his mind that if there was happiness to be found in the world, 
 this man had found it. But it seemed a happiness very far 
 away from him — quite beyond his reach — something that it 
 would be impossible for him ever to find now. The sound 
 of his mother's voice, softly breaking the stillness of a Sab- 
 bath afternoon, with some such words as these, came back to 
 him, and just for a moment he realized their unchangeable 
 truth, and for that moment he knew that his life had been a 
 failure. A pang of regret, a longing for another chance, and 
 a sense of the vanity of such a wish, smote on his heart for 
 an instant and then passed away. He rose from his seat, 
 and moved a fiew paces dovm the walk, and when he came 
 back he did not sit dovm again. His cedar twig was smoothed 
 down at both ends to the finest possible point, and after bal- 
 ancing it for a minute on his forefingers, he tossed it over his 
 shoulder, and shutting his knife with a click, put it in his 
 pocket before he spoke. 
 
 " Well, I don't know as I am much better off for that," 
 said he, discontentedly. " I suppose you mean that I ought 
 to get reKgion. That is no new idea. I have heard that every 
 time I have gone to meeting for the last thirty years, which 
 hasn't been as often as it might have been, but it has been 
 often enough for all the good it has done me." , 
 He looked at Mr. Snow as if he expected him to make some 
 
898 Janet's love and service. 
 
 sort of a reply, but he was silent He was thinking how 
 vain any words of his would be to convince him, or to show 
 him a more excellent way. He was thinking of the old time 
 and of the talk wasted on him by the good people who would 
 fain have helped him. At last he said, gravely : 
 
 " It would n't amount to much, all I could say to you, even 
 if I was good at talking, which I ain'i I can only tell you 
 that I never knew what it was to be satisfied till I got relig. 
 ion, and I have never been discontented since, and I don't 
 beUeve I ever shall again, let what will happen to me." 
 
 He paused a moment, and added, 
 
 " I don't suppose anything I could say would help you to 
 see things as I vdsh you did, if I were to talk all nighi Talk 
 always falls short of the mark, unless the heart is prepared 
 for it, and then the simplest word is enough. There are 
 none better than the words I gave you a minute ago ; sud 
 when everything in the world seems to be failing you, just 
 you try what trust in the Lord will do." 
 
 Nothing more was said. The sound of approaching foot> 
 steps warned them that they were no longer alone, and in a 
 Uttle Mrs. Elliott and Eose were seen coming up the walk, fol- 
 lowed by Arthur and Captain Starr. They were discussing 
 something that interested them greatly, and their merry 
 voices fell pleasantly on the ear. Very pretty both young 
 ladies looked, crowmed with the roses they had been weaving 
 into wreaths. The grave look which had settled on Mr. 
 Green's face, passed away as he watched their approach. 
 
 " Pretty creatures, both of them," remarked he. " Mrs. El- 
 liott appears weU, dont she ? I never saw any one improve 
 so much as she has done in the last two years. I used to 
 think her — weU not very superior." 
 
 " She is a pretty Utile thing, and good tempered, I think," 
 said Mr. Snow, smihng. "I shouldn't wonder if our folks 
 made something of her, after all. She is in better keeping 
 than she used to be, I guess." 
 
 "She used to be — well, a little of a flirt, and I don't be- 
 lieve she has forgot all about it yet," said Mr. Green, nod* 
 
JANEt'b love AlTD SEBYIOE. 899 
 
 ^Qng in the direction of Captain Starr, with a knowing look. 
 Xhe possibility of a married woman's amusing herself in that 
 yjM was not among the subjects to which Mr. Snow had 
 given his attention, so he had nothing to say in reply. 
 «And the other one — she understands a little of it, too, I 
 
 guess." 
 
 "What, Bosie? She is a child. Graeme will teach her 
 better than that. She despises suoh things," said Mr. Snow, 
 
 warmly. 
 
 " She don*t flirt any herself, does she ? '* asked Mr. Green, 
 coolly. " Miss EUiott, I mean." 
 
 Mr. Snow turned on him astonished eyes. 
 
 "I don't know as I understand what you mean by flirting. 
 I always supposed it was something wrong, or, at least, some- 
 thing unbecoming in any woman, maxried or single. Graeme 
 ain't one of that sort." 
 
 Mr. Gh:een shrugged his shoulders incredulously. 
 
 "Oh I as to its being wrong, and so forth, I don't know. 
 They all do it, I guess, in one way or other. I don't suppose 
 Miss Graeme would go it so strong as that Httle woman, but 
 I guess she knows how." 
 
 The voice of Rose prevented Mr. Snow's indignant reply. 
 
 " But, Arthur, you are not a disinterested judge. Of course 
 70a would admire Fanny's most^ and as for Captain Starr, he 
 
 is " 
 
 " He is like the ass between two bundles of hay." 
 
 "Nonsense, Arthur. Fanny, let us ask Mr. Snow," said 
 Bose, springing forward, and slightly bending her head. 
 "Now, TJnde Sampson, which is prettiest ? I '11 leave the de- 
 cision to you." 
 
 "Unde Sampson" was a very pleasant sound in Mr. 
 Snow's ears, and never more so, than when it came from the 
 lips of Bose, and it was with a loving as well as an admiring 
 look that he answered — , 
 
 " Well, I can't say which is the prettiest You are both as 
 pretty as you need to be. If you were as good as you are 
 pretty!" 
 
400 Janet's love and sebvioe. 
 
 1 
 Eose pouted, impatient of the laughter which this speech 
 
 excited. 
 
 " I mean our wreaths. Look, mine is made of these dear 
 little Scotch roses, with here and there a moss-rose bud. 
 Fanny's, you see, are all open roses, white and damask. Now, 
 which is the prettiest ? " i 
 
 She took her wreath from her head in her eagerness, and 
 held it up, admiringly. 
 
 "Yours ain't half so pretty as it was a minute ago. I 
 think, now, I should admire Mrs. EUiott's most," said Mr. 
 Green, gravely. 
 
 They both curtesyed to him. 
 
 " You see, Eosie, Mr. Green has decided in my favor," 
 said Fanny, triumphantly. 
 
 *' Yes, but not in favor of your wreath. The others thought 
 the same, but I don't mind about that. It is our wreaths I 
 want to know about,. Let us ask Graeme." 
 
 But Graeme did not come alone. The little Groves came 
 with her, and Will, and Charlie followed, a rather noisy 
 party. The little girls were delighted, and danced about, 
 exclaiming at the beauty of the flowery crowns ; and in a lit- 
 tle. Miss Victoria was wearing that of Rose, and imitating 
 the airs and graces of her elder sister in a way that must 
 have encouraged her mother's hopes as to her ultimate suc- 
 cess in life. The other begged piteously for Fanny's, but the 
 was too well aware of its charming effect on her own head to 
 yield at once to her entreaties, and in the midst of the laugh- 
 ing confusion, that accompanied the carrying of the child's 
 point, Graeme and Mrs. Snow, who confessed herself a httle 
 tired after her walk, entered the summer-house again. Mrs. 
 Grove and Mr. Proudfute entered with them, and the others 
 disposed themselves in groups about the door. Mr. Green 
 stood leaning on the door-post looking in upon them. ..i f 
 
 " Miss EUiott," said Mr. Proudfute, presently, " what has 
 become of you for a long time ? I have hardly seen you for 
 years — for a year at least — and we used to meet so often." 
 Graeme laughed. .,: 
 
Janet's love and bebvioe. 401 
 
 **I have seen you a great many times within a year. I am 
 afraid my society doesn't make the impression on you it 
 ought. Have you forgotten your New Year's visit, and a visit 
 or two besides, to say nothing of chance meetings in the 
 street and in the market?" 
 
 "Oh, but excuse me. I mean we have not met in society. 
 You have been making a hermit of yourself, which is not very 
 kind or very complimentary to your friends, I assure you." 
 
 "I am very glad to hear you say so," exclaimed Mrs. 
 Orove. " That is a subject on which Miss ElMott and I never 
 floree— I mean the claims society has upon her. If she 
 makes a hermit of herself, I assure you she is not permitted 
 to do so without remonstrance." 
 
 " Your ideas of a hermit's life differ from those generally 
 held," said Graeme, vexed at the personal turn of the conver- 
 sation, and more vexed still vdth Mrs. Grove's interference. 
 "What does the ballad say? 
 
 ^* ' A scrip with fruits and herbs well stored, 
 
 ■/"''' And water from the spring.' 
 
 *I am afraid a hermit's life would not suit me." 
 
 " Oh ! of course, we are speaking of comparative seclusion," 
 said Mrs. Grove. " Still, as ladies are supposed to have a 
 fancy for going to extremes, Miss Elliott's taste for quietness 
 is the most desirable extreme of the two." 
 
 The remark was addressed to Mr. Green, who was an inter- 
 ested listener, but Mr. Proudfute answered it. 
 
 '*I am by no means sure of that, my dear madam. I can 
 understand how those who have an opportunity of daily or 
 frequent intercourse with Miss Elliott should be content to 
 think so ; but that she should withdraw herself altogether 
 from society, should not be permitted. "What charming par- 
 ties, I remember, we used to enjoy." 
 
 "Mr. Proudfute," said Graeme, gravely, "look at Mra 
 
 Snow's face. You are conveying to her the idea that, at one 
 
 time, I was quite given up to the pursuit of pleasure, and she 
 
 is shocked, and no wonder. Now, my own impression ia, 
 
 that I was never very fond of going into society, as you caU 
 25 
 
402 Janet's love and seevioe. 
 
 ii I certainly never met you more than two or three timeg 
 — at large parties, I mean." ?**% 
 
 Mr. P^oudfute bowed low. ' W 
 
 " Well, that shows how profound was the impression which 
 your society made on me, for on looking back I imiformly 
 associate you with all the pleasant assemblies of the season. 
 You went with us to BeloeU, did you not ? " 
 
 Graeme shook her head. 
 
 "Well, np wonder I forget, it is so long ago, now. 
 You were at Mrs. Eoxbury's great affair, were you not? It 
 happened not long before Mr. Elphinstone's death. Yes I 
 remember you were there." 
 
 '* Yes, I remember you were kind enough to point out to 
 me the beauties of that wonderful picture, in the little room 
 up stairs," said Graeme, smiling. 
 
 "Yes, you were ill, or sHghtly imwell, I should say, for yon 
 recovered immediately. You were there, Mr. Green, I remem- 
 ber. It was a great affair, given in honor of Miss Elphin- 
 stone and your friend Ruthven. By-tbe-by, Miss EUiott, 
 they lay themselves open to censure, as well as you. They 
 rarely go out now, I hear." 
 
 " I am to be censured in good company, it seems," said 
 Graeme, laughing. 
 
 "I suppose you see them often," continued he. "Yon 
 used to be quite intimate with my pretty cousir. — ^I call her 
 cousin, though we are only distantly connected. She is a 
 very nice little woman." 
 
 " Yes, I believe you used to be very intimate with them 
 both," said Mrs. Grove, " and there has hardly been any 
 intercourse since Fanny's marriage. I have often wondered 
 at and regretted it." 
 
 " Have you ? " said Graeme, coldly. " We have had little 
 intercourse with many old friends since then." 
 
 " Oh I yes, I daresay, but the Rrthvens are very different 
 from most of your old friends. Lad worth the keeping. I 
 must speak to Fanny ah out it." 
 
 " We saw Miss Elphinstone often during the first winter 
 
janet'b love Ain) service. 403 
 
 after her return. That was the winter that Mr. Proudfute re- 
 membera as so gay," said Graeme. "Did I ever tell you 
 about the beginning of Rosie's acquaintance with her, long 
 before that, when she wandered into the garden and saw the 
 gowans ? " 
 
 *' Yes, dear, you told me about it in a letter," said Mrs. Snow. 
 
 " I never shall forget the first ghmpse I got of that bunch 
 of flowers," said Graeme, rather hurriedly. " Rose has it yet 
 among her treasures. She must show it you." ' 
 
 But Mrs. Grove did not care to hear about Rosie's flowers 
 just then, and rather perversely, as Graeme thought, reverted 
 to the falling away of their old intimacy with the Ruthvens, 
 and to wonder at its cause ; and there was somethuag in her 
 tone that made Mrs. Snow turn grave, astonished eyes upon 
 her, and helped Graeme to answer very quietly and coldly to 
 her remark : 
 
 " I can easily see how marriage would do something towards 
 estranging such warm friends, when only one of the parties 
 are interested ; but you were very intimate with Mr. Ruthven, 
 as well, were you not ? " 
 
 "Ohl yes; more so than with Miss Elphinstone. Mr. 
 Ruthven is a very old friend of oars. "We came over in the 
 same ship together." 
 
 " I mind him well," interposed Mrs. Snow; " a kindly, well- 
 intentioned lad he seemed to be. Miss Rose, my dear, I 
 doubt you shouldna be sitting there on the grass, with the dew 
 falling, nor Mrs. Arthur, either." 
 
 A movement was made to return to the house. 
 
 "Ohl Janet," whispered Graeme, "I am afraid you are 
 Ured, mind as well as body, after all this foolish talk." 
 • "By no means, my dear. It wouldna be very edifying for 
 a continuance, but once in a way it is enjoyable enough. He 
 seems a decent, harmless body, that Mr. Proudfute. I wonder 
 if he is any friend of Dr. Proudfute, of Knockie ? " 
 
 " I don't know, indeed," said Graeme, laughing ; '* but if he 
 is a great man, or connected with great folk, I will ask him. 
 It will be an easy way of giving him pleasure." 
 
404 JANET^S LOVE AND SEBVIOE. 
 
 They did not make a long evening of it. Mr. Green was 
 presented by Mrs. Grove with a book of plates, and Graeme 
 was beguiled to a side-table to admire them with hirn , ]^^ 
 Proudf ate divided his attention between them and the piano, to 
 which Kose and Fanny had betaken themselves, till at the 
 suggestion of Mrs. Grove, Arthur challenged him to a game 
 of chess, which lasted all the evening. Mrs. Grove devoted 
 herself to Mrs. Snow, and surprised her by the significant 
 glances she sent now and then in the direction of Graeme 
 and Mr. Green ; while Mr. Grove got Mr. Snow into a comer, 
 and enjoyed the satisfaction of pouring out his heart on the 
 harbor question to a new and interested auditor. 
 
 " Kose," said Fanny, as they sat together the next day after 
 dinner, " what do you think mamma said to me this morning? 
 Shall I teU you?" 
 
 " If it is anything particularly interesting you may," said 
 Rose, in a tone that imphed a doubt. 
 
 " It was about you," said Fanny, nodding significantly. 
 
 " Well, the subject is interesting," said Eose, " whatever the 
 remark might be." 
 
 " What is it, Faniiy ? " said Arthur. " Rosie is really very 
 anxious to know, though she pretends to be so indifferent I 
 daresay it was some appropriate remarks on her flirtation 
 with the gallant captain, last night." ^ 
 
 ** Mamma did n't raention Captain Starr, but she said she 
 had never noticed before that Eose was so fond of admiratioo,s 
 and a little inclined to flirt." ■""■ 
 
 Rose reddened and bit her lips. -'^ 
 
 " I am much obliged to Mrs. Grove for her good opinion. 
 Were there any other appropriate remarks ? " 
 
 " Oh 1 yes ; plenty more," said Fanny, laughing. " I told 
 mamma it was all nonsense. She used to say the same of 
 me, and I reminded her of ii I told her we all looked upon 
 Bose as a child, and that she had no idea of flirting — andEmch 
 things." 
 
 " I hope you did not do violence to your conscience when 
 you said it," said Arthur, gravely. 
 
f;v 
 
 Janet's love and sebvice. 405 
 
 « Of course not. But still when I began to think about it, 
 I oould not be quite sure." 
 
 "Set a thief to catch a thief," said her husband. 
 
 Fanny shook her finger at him. 
 
 "But it was n't Captain Starr norCharhe Millar mamma 
 meant. It was Mr. Green." 
 
 The cloud vanished from Rosie's face. She laughed and 
 clapped her hands. Her brothers laughed, too. 
 
 "Well done, Rosie," said Arthur. "But from some 
 manceuvering I observed last-night, I was led to believe that 
 Mrs. Grove had other views for the gentleman." 
 
 " So she had," said Fanny, eagerly. " And she says Rose 
 may spoil all if she divides his attention. It is just what 
 a man of his years is Hkely to do, mamma says, to fall in love 
 with a young girl like Rosie, and Graeme is so much more 
 smtable. But I told mamma Graeme would never have him." 
 
 "Allow me to say, Fanny, that I think you might find some 
 more suitable subject for discussion with Mrs. Grove," said 
 Rose, indignantly. Arthur laughed. 
 
 "You ought to be very thankful for the kind interest taken 
 in your welfare, and in Graeme's, too. I am sure Mr. Green 
 would be highly flattered if he could be aware of the sensation 
 he is creating among us." 
 
 "Mr. Green admires Graeme very much, he told mamma ; 
 and mamma says he would have proposed to her, when he 
 was here before, if it had not been for Mr. Ruthven. You 
 fcQOW he was very intimate here then, and every body said he 
 and Graeme were engaged. Mamma says it was a great pity 
 he did not. It would have prevented the remarks of Hl- 
 natored people when Mr. Ruthven was married — about 
 Graeme, I mean." 
 
 ■v "It is be hoped no one will be ill-natured enough to repeat 
 anything of that sort in Graeme's hearing," said Arthur, very 
 much annoyed. 
 
 "Ohl don't be alarmed. Graeme is too well accustomed 
 by this time, to Mrs. Grove's impertinences, to allow anytbiiig 
 she says to trouble her," said Rose, with flashing eyes. 
 
406 Janet's love and service. 
 
 Mrs. Snow's hand was laid softly on that of the young gW 
 who had risen in her indignation. 
 
 " Sit down, my dear," she whispered. ^^ 
 
 " Nonsense, Rosie," said her brother ; " there is nothing to 
 be vexed about. How can you be so fooUsh ? " 
 
 " Indeed," said Fanny, a htttle frightened at the excite- 
 ment she had raised, " mamma didn't mean anything that 
 you would n't like. She only thought " 
 
 " We had better say nothing more about it," said Arthnr 
 interrupting her. " I dare say Graeme can manage her own 
 affairs without help from other people. But there is nothing 
 to be vexed about, Rosie. Don't put on a face like that about 
 it, you foohsh lassie." 
 
 " What is the matter here, good people ? " said Graeme, 
 entering at the moment. "What are you quarrelling about? 
 What ails Rosie ? " 
 
 " Oh ! Mrs. Grove has been giving her some good advice, 
 which she don't receive so meekly as she might," said Arthur. 
 
 "That is very ungrateful of you, Rosie," said her sister. 
 Mrs. Grove's interference did n't seem a sufficient matter to 
 frown about. 
 
 " How is she now, my dear? " inquired Mrs. Snow, by way 
 of changing the subject. 
 
 She was Mrs. Tilman, who had of late become subject to 
 sudden attacks of illness, " not dangerous, but severe," as she 
 herself declared. They had become rather frequent, but as 
 they generally came on at night, and were over before morning, 
 so that they did not specially interfere with her work, they 
 were not alarming to the rest of the household. Indeed, they 
 seldom heard of them till they were over ; for the considerate 
 Mrs. Tilman was wont to insist to Sarah, that the ladies should 
 not be disturbed on her account. But Sarah had become a 
 little imcomfortable, and had confessed as much to Graeme, 
 and Graeme desired to be told the next time she was ill, and 
 so it happened that she was not present when a subject so in* 
 ieresting to herself was discussed. 
 
janbt's love and seeviob. 407 
 
 «'Is Mrs. Tilman ill again? " asked Fanny. " How annoy* 
 ingl She is not very ill, I hope." 
 
 " No," said Graeme, quietly; " she will be better to-morrow." 
 
 That night, in the retirement of their chamber, Mr. and 
 Jlrs. Snow were in no haste to begin, as was their custom, the 
 comparing of notes over the events of the day. This was 
 usually the way when anything not very pleasant had occur 
 red, or when anything had been said that it was not agreeable 
 to recall. It was Mr. Snow who began the conversation. 
 
 "Well, what do you think of all that talk?" asked he, when 
 his wife sat down, after a rather protracted putting away of 
 Tijious articles in boxes and drawers. 
 
 "Oh! I think little of it — just what I have aye thought — 
 that yon is a meddlesome, short-sighted woman. It is a pity 
 her daughter hasna the sense to see it." 
 
 "Oh ! I don't think the little thing meant any harm. But 
 Bosie flared right up, didn't she ? " 
 
 "I shouldna wonder but her conscience told her there 
 was some truth in the accusation — about her love of admira- 
 tion, I mean. But Mrs. Arthur is not the one that should 
 throw stones at her for that, I'm thinking." 
 ■ " But about Greame I She will never marry that man, 
 will she?" 
 
 ' "He 'D never ask her," said Mrs. Snow, shortly. "At least 
 I think he never wiU." 
 
 ® "Well, I don't know. It looked a little hke it, last night; 
 and come to think of it, he talked a little like it, too." 
 ?■ " He is no' the man to ask any woman, till he is sure he 
 will not ask in vain. He may, but I dinna think it." 
 
 "Well, perhaps not. Of course, I could see last night, 
 that it was all fixed, their being together. But I thought 
 she stood it pretty well, better than she woidd if she had n't 
 liked it." 
 
 " Hoot, man ! She thought nothing about ii Her thoughts 
 were far enough from him, and his likes, and dislikes," said 
 Mr& Snow, with a sigh. 
 
408 janbt's love and seevioe. 
 
 "As a general thing, girls are quick enough to find out 
 when a man cares for them, and he showed it plainly to ma 
 I guess she mistrusts." 
 
 "No, a woman kans when a man has lost his heart to her. 
 He lets her see it in many ways, when he has no thought of 
 doing so. But a woman is not likely to know it, when a 
 man without love wishes to marry her, till he tells her in 
 words. And what heart has twenty years cheat'ry of hia 
 fellowmen left to yon man, that my bairn should waste a 
 thought on a worldling like him ? " 
 
 Mr. Snow was silent. His wife's tone betrayed to him that 
 something was troubling her, or he would have ventured a 
 word in his new friend's defence. Not that he was inclined 
 to plead Mr. Green's cause with Graeme, but he could not 
 help feeling a little compassion for him, and he said : 
 
 "Well, I suppose I feel inclined to take his part, because 
 he makes me think of what I was myself once, and that not 
 80 long ago." 
 
 The look that Mrs. Snow turned upon her husband was 
 one of indignant astonishment 
 
 « like you 1 You dry stick I " 
 
 "Well, ain't he?'* You used to think me a pretty hard 
 case. Now, didn't you ? " 
 
 " I 'm no' going to tell you to-night what I used to think 
 of you," said his wife, more mildly. I never saw you on the 
 day when you didna think more of other folks' comfort than 
 you thought of your own, and that couldna be said of him, this 
 many a year and day. He is not a fit mate for my bairn." 
 
 "Well — ^no, he ain't. He ain't a Christian, and that is the 
 first thing she would consider. But he ain'u satisfied with 
 Imnsel^ and if anybody in the world could bring him to 
 be what he ought to be, she is the one." And he repeated 
 the conversation that had taken place when they were left 
 alone in the summer-house. 
 
 " But being dissatisfied with himself is very far from being 
 a changed man, and that work must be done by a greater 
 than Graeme. And besides, if he were a changed man 
 
Janet's love and servioe. 409 
 
 tonight, he is no' the man to win Miss Graeme's heart, and 
 lie 11 no ask her. He is far more like to ask Eosie ; for I 
 doubt she is not beyond leading him on for her own amuse- 
 ment." 
 
 " Oh ! Come now, ain't you a little too hard on Rosie," said 
 Mr. Snow, expostulatingly. He could not bear that his pet 
 should be found fault with. " I call that as cruel a thing as 
 a woman can do, and Eosie would never do it, I hope." 
 
 "Not with a conscious desire to give pain. But she is a 
 bonny creature, and she is learning her own power, as they 
 all do sooner or later ; and few make so good a use of such 
 power as they might do ;" and Mrs. Snow sighed. 
 
 " You don't think there is anything in what Mrs. Grove 
 said about Graeme and her friend I have heard so much 
 about ? " a^ed Mr. Snow, after a pause. 
 
 " I dinna ken. I would believe it none the readier that 
 yon foolish woman said it." 
 
 "She seems kind of down, though, these days, don% she? 
 She's graver and quieter than she used to be," said Mr. Snow, 
 mth some hesitation. He was not sure how his remark 
 would be taken. 
 
 "Ohl well, maybe. She's older for one thing," said his 
 wife, gravely. " And she has hei^ cares ; some of them I see 
 plainly enough, and some of them, I daresay, she keeps out 
 of sight. But as for Allan Euthven, it's not for one woman 
 to say of another, that she has given her heart unsought. 
 And I am sure of her, that whatever befalls her, she is one 
 of those that need fear no eviL" 
 
 ^i 
 
■.Tr?r ™*'C, ^T ■ ■ , ; ".'77> ''!*'- 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. *}^ 
 
 6 6 "Tr"T is a wonder to me, Miss Graeme," said Mrs. Snow, 
 i after one of their long talks about old times — " it isa 
 wonder to me, that minding Merleville and all your friends 
 there as well as you do, you should never have thought it 
 worth your while to come back and see us." 
 
 " Worth our while ! " repeated Graeme. " It was not 
 indifference that hindered us, you may be sure of that I 
 wonder, myself, how it is we have never gone back again. 
 When we first came here, how WiU., and Rosie, and I, used 
 to plan and dream about it I I may confess, now, how very 
 homesick we all were — how we longed for you. But, at first, 
 the expense would have been something to consider, you 
 know ; and afterwards, other things happened to prevent us. 
 We were very near going once or twice." . t? 
 
 **And when was that? " asked Mrs. Snow, seemingly intent 
 on her knitting, but all the time aware that the old shadow 
 was hovering over Graeme. She did not answer immedi- 
 ately. 
 
 "Once was with Norman and Hilda. Oh I I did so 
 long to go with them ! I had almost made up my mind to 
 go, and leave Rosie at home. I was glad I did n't, afterward." 
 
 " And why did you not ?" demanded her friend. 
 
 " For one thing, we had been away a long time in the 
 Etummer, and I did not like to leave home again. Arthur did 
 not encourage me to go. It was on the very night that 
 Norman went away that Arthur told me of his engagement" 
 
 " I daresay you did right to bide at home, then." 
 
 "Yes, I knew it was best, but that did not prevent mo 
 wishing very much to go. I had the greatest desire to go to 
 
Janet's love aitd servioe. 411 
 
 joxL I had no one to speak to. I daresay it would not have 
 seemed half so bad, if I could have told you all about it" 
 
 "My dear, you had your sister." 
 
 '*Tes, but Eosie was as bad as I was. It seemed like the 
 breaking up of all things. I know now, how wrong and 
 foolish I was, but I could not help being wretched then." 
 
 "It was a great change, certainly, and I dinna wonder 
 that the prospect startled you." 
 
 Mrs. Snow spoke very quietly ; she was anxious to hear 
 more ; and forgetting her prudence in the pleasure it gave 
 her to unburden her heart to her friend, Graeme went on 
 rapidly, 
 
 " If it only had been any one else, I thought We didn't 
 know Fanny very well, then — hardly at all, indeed, and she 
 seemed such a vain, frivolous Uttle thing, so different from 
 what I thought Arthur's wife should be ; and I disliked her 
 stepmother so much — more than I ever disliked any one, I 
 think, except perhaps Mrs. Page, when we first came to 
 Merleville. Do you mind her first visit with Mrs. Merle, 
 Janet?" 
 
 "I mind it well," said Mrs. Snow, smiling. "She was 
 no favorite of mine. I daresay I was too hard on her some- 
 times." 
 
 Graeme laughed at the remembrance of the " downset* 
 tings " which " the smith's wife " had experienced at Janet's 
 hands in those early days. The pause gave her time to think, 
 and she hastened to turn the conversation from Arthur and 
 his marriage to Merleville and the old times. Janet did not 
 try to hinder it, and answered her questions, and volunteered ' 
 some new items on the theme, but when there came a pause, ' 
 she asked quietly, 
 
 "And when was the other time you thought of coming to 
 see us all?" 
 
 " Oh ! that was before, in the spring. Arthur proposed 
 that we should go to Merleville, but we went to the seaside, 
 you know. It was on my accoxmt ; I was ill, and the doctor 
 said the sea-breeze was what I needed." 
 

 412 Janet's love and seevioe. 
 
 " The breezes among our hills would have been as good for 
 you, I daresay. I wonder you didn't come then." 
 
 " Oh I I could not bear the thought of going thon. I was 
 ill, and — good for nothing. It would have been no pleasure 
 for any one to see me then. I think I should hardly have cared 
 to go away anywhere, if Arthur had not insisted, and the 
 doctor too." 
 
 Unconsciously Graeme yielded to the impulse to say to her 
 friend just what was in her heart 
 
 " But wliat ailed you 7" asked Mrs. Snow, looking up with 
 astonished eyes, thai; reminded Graeme there were some 
 things that could not be told even to her friend. 
 
 " What ailed you ?" repeated Mra Snow. 
 
 ** I can't tell you. An attack of the nerves, Nelly called it, 
 and she was partly right I was tired. It was just after 
 WiU.*s long illness, and Harry's going away, and other 
 things." 
 
 "I dai'esay you were iveary and sorrowful, too, and no 
 wonder," said Mrs. Sno\\^, tenderly, 
 
 "Yes, about Harry. I was very anxioufl. There were 
 some doubts about his going, for a while. Mr. Buthven 
 hesitated, and Harry chafed and vexed himself and me, too, 
 poor laddie ; but we got through that time at last," added 
 Graeme, with a great sigh. 
 
 " Did Mi. Buthven ken of Harry's temptation ? Was it for 
 that he hesitated?" asked Mrs. Snow. 
 
 " I cannot say. Oh I yes, he knew, or he suspected. Biit 
 I don't think he hesitated altogether because of thai As soon 
 as he knew that we were quite willing — ^Arthur and I — he de* 
 cided at once. Mr. Buthven was very kind and considerate 
 through it aU." 
 
 " Miss Graeme, my dearj" said Mrs. Sno\\^ vdth some hesita- 
 tion, "** did you ever think there was anything between your 
 brother Harry and his master'* daughter — <fche young lady 
 that Allan Bath^ven married — or was it only Sandy's fancy?" 
 
 Graeme's face grew white as she turned her startled eyes 
 on her friend. 
 
Janet's love and beevice. 413 
 
 "Sandy I Did he see it? I did not think about it at the 
 time ; but afterward I knew it, and, oh I Janet, you cannot 
 think how it added to my wretchedness about Harry." 
 
 " My bairn 1 There have been some rough bits on the road 
 you have been travelling. No wonder your feet get weary, 
 
 whiles." 
 
 Graeme rose, and, without speaking, came and laid her head 
 upon her friend's lap. In a Httle she said, 
 
 " How I longed for this place ! I had no one to speak 
 to. I used to think you might have helped and comforted 
 me a little." 
 
 She did not try to hide her tears ; but they did not flow 
 long. Janet's kind hand had not lost its old soothing power, 
 and by and by Graeme raised herself up, and, wiping away 
 her tears, said, with a faint smile, 
 
 "And so Sandy saw poor Harry's secret? I did not, at 
 first I suppose little Emily had sharpened his eyes to see 
 such things, even then." 
 
 "Yes, Sandy saw it, and it was a great surprise to us all 
 when there came word of her marriage. Sandy never 
 thought of Allan Buthven and his cousin coming to- 
 gether." 
 
 Graeme rose and took her work again. It was growing 
 dark, and she carried it to the window and bent over it. 
 
 " Was it for her money— or why was it ?" 
 
 " Oh I no. I never could think so. She was a very sweet 
 and lovely creature ; we loved her dearly, Bose and I. They 
 had been engaged a long time, I beUeve, though the marriage 
 was sudden at last. That was because of her father's illness. 
 He died soon after, you remember." 
 
 " Yes, I remember. Well, I didna think that Allan Buth- 
 ven was one to let the world get a firm grip of him. But 
 folk change. I didna ken." 
 
 " Oh 1 no, it was not that," said Graeme, eagerly. Indeed, 
 at that time, Mr. Elphinstone's affairs were rather involved. 
 He had met with great losses, Harry says, and Arthur 
 thought that nothing but Mr. Buthven's high character and 
 
414 janet's lote Amy beevioe. 
 
 great business talents could have saved the firm from min. 
 Oh 1 no ; it was not for money." 
 
 " Well, my dear, I am glad to hear you say it I am glad 
 that Allan Buthven hasna changed. I think you said he 
 hasna changed ?" 
 
 "At first I thought him changed, but afterwards I thouglit 
 him just the same." 
 
 " Maybe it was her that wanted the money ? If her father 
 was in trouble—" ^i., 
 
 " No, oh 1 no ! Tou could never have such a thought if 
 you had ever seen her face. I don't know how it happened \ 
 As all marriages happen, I suppose. It was very natural ; but 
 we won't speak about it." 
 
 " They seem to have forgotten their friends. I think yon 
 said you seldom see them now." 
 
 " We don't see them often. They have been out of to\raa 
 good deal, and we have fallen a httle out of acquaintance. 
 But we have done that with many others ; we have made so 
 many new acquaintances since Arthur's marriage — friends of 
 Fanny's, you know ; and, somehow, nothing seems quite the 
 same as it used to do. If Mr. Buthven knev^ you were in 
 town, I am sure he would have been to see you before 
 now." 
 
 " I am no' wearying to see him," s \id IVIrs. Snow, coldly. 
 " But, my dear, is your work of more valoe than your eyes, that 
 you are keeping at it in the dark ?" 
 
 Graeme laughed and laid it down, but did not leave the 
 window, and soon it grew so dark that she had no excuse for 
 looking out. So she began to move about the room, busying 
 herself with putting away her work, and the books and 
 papers that were scattered about. Janet watched her silently. 
 The shadow was dark on her face, and her movements, as 
 she displaced and arranged and re-arrranged the trifles on the 
 table were quick and restless. When there seemed nothing 
 more for her to do, she stood still with an uneasy look on her 
 face, as though she thought her friend were watching her, 
 and then moved to the other end of the room. 
 
jankt'b love and service. 415 
 
 "My dear," said Mrs. Snow, in a little, "how old are you 
 
 now?" 
 
 Graeme laughed, and came and took her old neat 
 
 " Oh ! Janet, you must not ask. I have come to the point 
 when ladies don't hke to answer that question, as you might 
 very well know, if you would stop to consider a minute." 
 
 "And what point may that be, if I may ask ?" 
 
 " Oh ! it is not to be told. Do you know Fanny begins to 
 shake her head over me, and to call me an old maid." 
 
 "Ay I that is aye the way with these young wives," said 
 Janet, scornfully. " There must be near ten years between 
 you and Rose." 
 
 "Yes, quite ten years, and she is almost a woman — ^past 
 sixteen. I am growing old." 
 
 " What a wee white Rose she was, when she first fell to your 
 care, dear. Who would have thought then that she would 
 ever have grown to be the bonny creature she is to-day ?" 
 
 "Is she not lovely? And not vain or spoiled, though it 
 would be no wonder if she were, she is so much admired. 
 Do you mind what a cankered wee fairy she used to 
 be?" 
 
 "I mind well the patience that never wearied of her, even 
 at the worst of times," said Mrs. Snow, laying her hand 
 tenderly on Graeme's bowed head. 
 
 "I was weary and impatient often. "What a long time it is 
 since those days, and yet it seems like yesterday." And 
 Graeme sighed. 
 
 **Were you sighing because so many of your years he be- 
 hind you, my bairn ?" said Mrs. Snow, softly. 
 
 "No, rather because so many of them lie before me," said 
 Graeme, slowly. " Unless, indeed, they may have more to 
 show than the years that are past." 
 
 "We may all say that, dear," said Mrs. Snow, gravely. 
 "None of us have done all that we might have done. But, 
 my bairn, such dreary words are not natural from young 
 lips, and the years before you may be few. You may not 
 have tune to grow weary of them." 
 
416 JAiTET's LOVE AND SEBVIOE. 
 
 ** That is true," said Graeme. " And I ought not to grow 
 weary, be they many or few." 
 
 There was a long pause, broken at last by Graeme. 
 
 "Janet," said she, "do you think I could keep a school?" 
 
 " A school," repeated Mrs. Snow. " Oh, aye, I daresay you 
 could, if you put your mind to it. "What would hinder you?| 
 It would depend some on what kind of a school it was, too 
 I daresay." 
 
 " You knov^, teaching is almost the only thing a woman 
 can do to earn a livelihood. It is the only thing I could do. 
 I don't mean that I could take charge of a school ; I am afraid 
 I am hardly fit for thai But I could teach classes. I know 
 French well, and music, and German a Httle." 
 
 " My dear," said Mrs. Snow, gravely, " what has put such 
 a thought in your head ? Have you spoken to your brother 
 about it ? What does he say ? " 
 
 " To Arthur ? No, I have n't spoken to him. He wouldn't 
 like the idea at first, I suppose ; but if it were best, he would 
 reconcile himself to it in time." 
 
 •* Yon speak about getting your livelihood. Is there any 
 need for it? I mean, is there more need than there has 
 been ? Is not your brother able, and willing " ">i 
 
 " Oh 1 yes, it is not that. I don't know. Our expenses 
 are greater than they used to be — double, indeed. But there 
 is enough, I suppose. It is not that — at least it is not that 
 only, or chiefly." ?p 
 
 " What is it then, dear child ? " asked her friend. iC! 
 
 But Graeme cm::ld not answer at the moment. There 
 were many reasons why she should not continue to live her 
 present unsatisfying life, and yet she did not know how to 
 tell her friend. They were all plain enough to ner, but some 
 of them she could not put in words for the hearing of Janet, 
 even. She had been saying to herself, all along, that it was 
 natural, and not wrong for her to grow tired of her useless, 
 aimless life, and to Icug for earnest, bracing work ; such as 
 many a woman she could name was toiling bravely ai But 
 with Janet's kind hand on her head, and her calm, dear eyes 
 
Janet's love and servioe. 417 
 
 looking down upon her face, she was constrained to acknow- 
 ledge Siat, but for one thing, this restless discontent might 
 never have found her. * To herself she was willing to confess 
 it Long ago she had looked her sorrow in the face, and 
 said, "With God's help I can bear it." She declared to her- 
 self that it was well to be roused from sloth, even by a great 
 sorrow, so that she could find work to do. But, that Janet 
 should look upon her with pityiag or reproving eyes, she 
 oonld not bear to think ; so she sat at her feet, having no 
 power to open her lips, never thinking that by her silence, 
 and by the unquiet Ught in her downcast eyes, more was 
 revealed to her faithful old friend than spoken words could 
 have told. 
 
 "What is it my dear?" said Mrs. Snow. "Is it pride or 
 disoontentj or is it something worse ? *' 
 
 Graeme laughed a Kttle bitterly. 
 
 "Can anything be worse than these ? " 
 
 "Is it that your b other is wearying of you? " 
 
 "No, no I I could not do him the vrrong to think that. 
 It would grieve him to lose us, I know. Even when he 
 thought it was for my happiness to gu away, tho thought of 
 parting gave him pain." 
 
 "And you have more sense than to let the airs and non- 
 sense of his bairn-wife vex you ? " 
 
 , Graeme was silent a moment She did not care to enter 
 upon the subject of Arthur's vnfe just at ihis time. 
 
 "I don't think you quite understand Fanny, Janet," said 
 ,8he, hesitating. 
 
 "Weel, dear, maybe no. The bairns that I have had to 
 deal with have not been of her kind. I have had no ex- 
 perience of the like of her." 
 
 "But what I mean is that her faults are such as every one 
 can see at a glance, and she has many sweet and lovable 
 qualities. I love her dearly. And, Janet, I don't think it is 
 quite kind in you to think that I grudge Fanny her proper 
 place in her own housa I only wish that " 
 
 "You only wish that she were as able to fill it with credit. 
 26 
 
418 Janet's love and seevice. 
 
 as you are "willing to let her. I wish that, too. And I ta^ 
 very far from thinking that you grudge h^r anything that 
 she ought to have." 
 
 '* Oh ! Janet," said Graeme, with a sigh, " I shall never be 
 able to make you understand." 
 
 " You might try, however. You havena tried yet," said 
 Janet, gently. " It is not that you are growing too proud to 
 eat bread of your brother's winning, is it ? " , ,^^ 
 
 " I don't think it is pride. I know that Arthur considers 
 that what belongs to him belongs to us all. But, even when 
 that is true, it may be better, for many reasons, that I should 
 eat bread of my own winning than of his. Everybody has 
 something to do in the world. Even rich ladies have their 
 houses to keep, and their families to care for, and the daiins 
 of society to satisfy, and aU that. An idle life like mine is 
 not natural nor right. No wonder that I weary of it I 
 ought not to be idle." 
 
 " Idle I I should lay that imputation at the door of any- 
 body in the house rather than at yours. You used to be 
 over fond of idle dreaming, but I see none of it now. Ton 
 are aye busy at something." 7'^ 
 
 " Yes, busy about something," repeated Graeme, a litUc 
 scornfully. "But about things that might as well bo 
 left undone, or that another might do as well." lajs 
 
 " And I daresay some one could be found to do the work 
 of the best and the busiest of us, if we werena able to do it 
 But that is no' to say but we may be working to some piu> 
 pose in the world for aU that. But it is no' agreeable to do 
 other folks' work, and let them get the wages, I '11 allow." ^ 
 
 "Will, said something like that to me once, and it is 
 possible that I may have some despicable feehng of that sori^ 
 since you and he seem to think it," said Graeme, and hor 
 voice took a grieved and desponding tone. 
 
 " My dear, I am bringing no such accusation against yoa 
 I am only saying that the Uke of that is not agreeable, and 
 it is not profitable to anybody concerned. I daresay Mrs. 
 Arthur ^des that it is her, and no' you that keeps the 
 
Janet's love and service. 419 
 
 house ii a state of perfectioii that it is a pleasure to see. 
 She persuades her husband of it, at any rate." 
 
 "Fanny does not mean — she does not know much about 
 it. But that is one more reason why I ought to go. She 
 ought to have the responsibiUty, as well as to fancy that she 
 has it ; and they would get used to being without us in time." 
 
 "Miss Graeme, my dear, I think I must have told you 
 what your father said to me after his first attack of illness, 
 when he thought, maybe, the end wasna far away." 
 * " About our all staying together while we could. Yes, you 
 told me." 
 
 ^ "Yes, love, and how he trusted in you, that you would 
 always be, to your brothers and Rose, aU that your mother 
 would have been if she had been spared ; and how sure he 
 was that you would ever think less of yourself than of them. 
 My dear, it should not be a Kght thing that would make you 
 give up the trust your father left to you." 
 
 "But, Janet, it is so different now. "When we first came 
 heit3, the thought that my father wished us to keep together 
 made me willing and erlad to stav even when Arthur had to 
 struggle hard to make the ends meet. I knew it was better 
 for him and for Harry, as well as for us. But it is different 
 now. Arthur has no need of us, and would soon content 
 himself without us, though he may think he would not ; and 
 it may be years before this can be Will.'s home again. It 
 may never be his home, nor Harry's either." 
 ■ "My dear, it will be Harry's home, and Will.'s, too, while 
 it is yours. Their hearts will aye turn to it as home, and 
 they wouldna do so if you were only coming and going. 
 And as for Mr. Arthur, Miss Graeme, I put it to yourself, 
 if he were left alone with that bonny wee wife of his, would 
 his home be to him what it is now ? Would the companion- 
 ship of yon bairn suffice for his happiness ?" 
 
 "It ought to do so. A man's wife ought to be to him 
 more than all the rest of the world, when it is written, * A 
 man shall leave all, and cleave to his wife.' Married people 
 ought to suffice for one another." 
 
420 janet'b love and service. 
 
 " TV ell, it may be. And if you were leaving your brothert 
 house for a bouse of your own, or if you were coming with 
 us, as my husband seems to have set his heart on, I would 
 think it different. Not that I am sure of it myself much as 
 it would delight me to have you. For your brother needs 
 you, and your bonny new sister needs you. Have patience 
 with her, and with yourself, and you will make something of 
 her in time. She loves you dearly, though she is not at all 
 times very considerate of you." 
 
 Graeme was silent. What could she say after this, to prove 
 that she could not stay, that she must go away. "Where 
 could she turn now? She rose with a sigh. ., , 
 
 " It is growing dark. I vdll get a light. But, Janet, you 
 must let me say one thing. You are not to think it is be- 
 cause of Fanny that I want to go away. At first, I was mj. 
 happy — ^I may say so, now that it is all over. It was less for 
 myself and Rose than for Arthur. I didn't think Fanny 
 good enough for him. And then, everything was so differ- 
 ent, for awhile it seemed impossible for me to stay. Fanny 
 was not so r»onsidftrate as she might have been, about our old 
 friends, and about household affairs, and about Nelly, and 
 all thai Arthur saw nothing, and Bosie got vexed some- 
 times. Will, preached patience to us both; you know, gen- 
 tlemen cannot understand many things that may be vexa- 
 tious to us ; and we were very uncomfortable for a while. I 
 don't think Fanny was so much to blame; but her mothei 
 seemed to fancy that the new mistress of the house was not 
 to be allowed to have her place without a struggle. Arthur 
 saw nothing vrrong. It was laughable, and irritating, too, 
 sometimes, to see how blind he was. But it was far better 
 he did not. I can see that now." 
 
 " Well, we went on in this way a while. I daresay a good 
 deal of it was my fault I think I was patient and forbea^ 
 ing, and I am quite sure I gave Fanny her own place from 
 the very first. But I was not cheerful, partly because of the 
 changes, and all these htUe things, and partly for other rea- 
 sons. And I am not demonstrative in my friendliness, liliie 
 
janet'b love and service. 421 
 
 Rosie, you know. Fanny soon came to be quite frank and 
 nice with Rosie, and, by and by, with me too. And now, 
 everything goes on just as it ought with us. There is no 
 coldness between us, and you must not think there is, or that 
 it is because of Fanny I must go away." 
 
 She paused, and began to arrange the lamp. 
 
 "Never mind the light, dear, unless your work canna be 
 left " said Mrs. Snow ; and in a little Graeme came and sat 
 down again. 
 
 : « And about Fanny's not being good enough for Arthur," 
 ahe went on. "If people really love one another, other 
 things don't seem to make so much difference. Arthur is con- 
 tented. And Janet, I don't think I am altogether selfish in 
 my wish to go away. It is not entirely for my own sake. I 
 think it would be better for them both to be left to each 
 other for a httle while. If Fanny has faults, it is better 
 that Arthur should know them for the sake of both — that he 
 may learn to have patience vdth them, and that she may 
 learn to correct them. It is partly for them, as well as for 
 llose and me. For myself, I must have a change." 
 ' "You didna use to weary for changes. Vvuat is the rea- 
 son now? You may tell me, dear, surely. There can be no 
 reason that I may not know ?" 
 
 Janet spoke softly, and laid her hand lovingly on that of 
 Graeme. 
 
 "Oh! I don't know. I cannot tell you," she cried, with u 
 sudden movement away from her friend. " The very spirit 
 of unrest seems to have gotten possession of me. I am tired 
 doing nothing, I suppose. I want real earnest work to do, 
 and have it I will." She rose hastily, but sat down again. 
 
 " And so you think you would like to keep a school ?" said 
 Mrs. Snow, quietly. 
 
 "Ohl I don't know. I only said that, because I did not 
 know what else I could do. It would be work." 
 
 "Ay. School-keeping is said to be hard work, and thank- 
 less, often. And I daresay it is no better than it is called. 
 But» my dear, if it is the work you want, and not the wages, 
 
r* i>. . ??;»> »T*^ 
 
 422 Janet's love and service. 
 
 surely among the thousands of this great town, you miglit 
 find something to do, some work for the Lord, and for his 
 people. Have you never thought about working in that way 
 dear?" 
 
 Graeme had thought of it many a time. Often had sho 
 grieved over the neglected little ones, looking out upon her 
 from narrow lanes and alleys, with pale faces, and great 
 hungry eyes. Often had the fainting heai'ts of toilers in the 
 wretched places of the city been sustained and comforted by 
 her kind words and hor alms-deeds. There were many hum- 
 ble dwellings within sight of her home, where her face came 
 like sunlight, and her voice like music. But these were 
 the pleasures of her life, enjoyed in secret This was not the 
 work that was to make her life worthy, the work for God 
 and man that was to fiU the void in her life, and still the 
 pain in her heart. So she only said, quietly, 
 
 " It is not much that one can do. And, indeed, I have Ht- 
 tlo time that is not occupied with something that cannot be 
 neglected, though it can hardly be called work. I cannot tell 
 you, but what with the httle things to be cared for at home^ - 
 the visits to be made, and engagements of one kind or other, 
 'ittle time is left. I don't know how I could make it othe^ 
 wise. My time is not at my own disposal." 
 
 Mrs. Snow assented, and Graeme went on. 
 
 " I suppose I might do more of that sort of work — caring 
 for poor people, I mean, by joining societies, and getting my- 
 self put on committees, and aU that sort of thing, but I don't 
 think I am suited for it, and there are plenty who like it 
 However, I daresay, that is a mere excuse. Don't you mind, 
 Janet, how Mrs. Page used to labor with me about the sewing 
 meetings." 
 
 " Yes, I mind," said Mrs. Snow, with the air of one who 
 was thinking of something else. In a httle she said, hesita- 
 tingly : 
 
 " Miss Graeme, my dear, you speak as though there were 
 nothing between Uving in your brother's house, and keeping 
 
janbt's love Aim sekvioe. 423 
 
 ascihooL Have you never glanced at the possibility that 
 sometime you may have a house of your own to keep." 
 
 Graeme laughed. 
 
 « Will said that to me once. Yes, I have thought about it 
 But the possibility is such a slight one, that it is hardly worth 
 while to take it into account in making plans for the future." 
 J! "And wherefore not ?" demanded Mrs. Snow. 
 , "Wherefore not?" echoed Grraeme. " I can only say, that 
 here lam at six and twenty; and the probabilities as to n^iar- 
 riage don't usually increase with the years, after that. Fan- 
 ny's fears on my account have some foundation. Janet, do 
 you mind the song foolish Jean used to sing? 
 
 r ' The lads that cast a fflance at me 
 
 I dinna care to see, 
 »ft! ;. j^^ ^Yie lads that I would look at 
 
 Winna look at me.' 
 
 ^:- 
 
 ' " Well, dear, you mastna be angiy though I say it, but 
 you may be ower ill to please. I told you that before, you 'U 
 mind" 
 
 " Oh 1 yes, I mind. But I oonviiiced you of your error. 
 Indeed, I look upon myself as an object for commiseration 
 rather than blame ; so you mustna look cross, and yr a 
 mujtna look too pitiful either, for I am going to prove to 
 yoVL and Fanny and all the rest that an old maid is, by no 
 means, an object of pity. Quite the contrary.'* 
 
 " But, my dear, it seems strange-like^ and not quite right 
 for you to be setting your face against what is plainly or- 
 dained as woman's lot It is no' aye an easy or a pleasant 
 one, as many a poor woman kens to her sorrow ; but " 
 
 "But, Janet, you are mistaken. I am not setting my face 
 against anything ; but why should you blame me for what I 
 canna help? And, besides, it is not ordained that every 
 woman should marry. They say married life is happier, and 
 all that ; but a woman may be happy and useful, too, in a 
 angle hfe, even if the higher happiness be denied her." 
 
424 'janet'b love and servici:. 
 
 ** But, my dear, what ailed you at him you sent away the 
 other week — him that Bosie was teUing me of ? " 
 
 " Bosie had Utile to do telling you anything of the kind. 
 Nothing particular ailed me at him. I liked him very well 
 till . But we won't speak of it." 
 
 " Was he not good enough ? He was a Christian man, 
 and well ofl^ and well-looking. What said your brother to 
 your refusal ? " persisted Janet. *v: 
 
 " Oh ! he said nothing. What could ho say ? He would 
 have known nothing about it if I had had my will. A woman 
 must decide these things for herself. I did what I thought 
 right. I could not have done otherwise." 
 
 "But, my love, you should consider " 
 
 ** Janet, I did consider. I considered so long that I came 
 very near doing a wrong thing. Because he was Arthur's 
 friend, and because it seems to be woman's lot, and in the 
 common course of things, and because I was restless and 
 discontented, and not at peace with myself, and nothing 
 seemed to matter to me, I was very near saying ' Yes,' and 
 going with him, though I cared no more for him than for 
 half a dozen others whom you have seen here. What do yoa 
 think of that for consideration ? " 
 
 " That would have been a great wrong both to him and 
 to yoursell I canna think you would ever be so sinful as 
 to give the hand where the heart is withheld. But; my dear, 
 you might mistake. There are more kinds of love than 
 one ; at least there are many manifestations of true love ; 
 and, at your age, you are no' to expect to have your heart 
 and &ncy taken utterly captive by any man. You have too 
 much sense for the like of that." 
 
 ** Have I ? " said Graeme. " I ought to have at my age." 
 
 It was growing quite dark — ^too dark for ]VIrs. Snow to see 
 Graeme's troubled face ; but she knew that it was troubled 
 by the sound of her voice, by the weary posture into which 
 she drooped, and by many another token. 
 
 " My dear," said her friend, earnestly, " the wild carrying 
 away of the fancy, that it is growing the fashion to call love, 
 
Janet's love and sebvice. 425 
 
 ig not to be desired at any age. I am not denying that it 
 comes in youth with great power and sweetness, as it came 
 to your father and mother, as I mind well, and as you have 
 heard yourself. But it doesna always bring happiness. The 
 Lord is kind, and cares for those who rush blindly to theiz 
 &,te ; but to many a one such wild captivity of heart is but 
 the forerunner of bitter pain, for which there is no help but 
 just to ' thole it/ as they say." 
 
 , She paused a moment, but Graeme did not, by the move- 
 ment of a finger, indicate that she had anything to say in 
 
 reply. 
 
 "Mutual respect, and the quiet esteem that one friend 
 gives to another who is worthy, is a far surer foundation for 
 a lifetime of happiness to those who have the fear of God 
 before their eyes, and it is just possible, my dear, that you 
 may have been mistaken." 
 
 " It is just possible, and it is too late now, you see, Janet 
 But 1 11 keep all you have been saying in mind, and it may 
 stand me in stead for another time, you ken." 
 
 She spoke lightly, but there was in her voice an echo of 
 bitterness and pain that her friend could not bear to hear ; 
 and when she raised herself up to go away, as though there 
 were nothing more to be said, Janet laid her hand lightly 
 but firmly on her shoulder, and said, 
 
 " My dear, you are not to be vexed with what I have said. 
 Do you think I can have any wish but to see you useful and 
 happy ? You surely dinna doubt me, dear ? " 
 
 " I am not vexed, Janet," said she. " And who could I 
 trust if I doubted you ? " 
 
 "And you are not to think that I am meaning any disre- 
 spect to your new sister, if I say it is no wonder that I dinna 
 find you quite content here. And when I think of the home 
 that your mother made so happy, I canna but wish to see 
 you in a home of your ovra." 
 
 " But happiness is not the only thing to be desired in this 
 \7orld," Graeme forced herself to say. 
 
 " No, love, nor the chief thing — that is true," said Mr& Snow. 
 
420 Janet's love and seevice. 
 
 " And even if it were/' continued Graeme, " there is more 
 than one way to look for haziness. It seems to me the 
 chances of happiness are nut so unequal in single and max- 
 ried life as is generally supposed." , ,, < 
 
 " You mayna be the best judge of that," said Mrs. Snow, 
 gravely. . ,^ 
 
 " No, I suppose not," said Graeme, with a laugh. " But I 
 have no patience with the nonsense that is talked about old 
 maids. Why! it seems to be thought if a woman reaches 
 thirty, still single, she has failed in hfe, she has missed the 
 end of her creation, as it were ; and by and by people begin 
 to look upon her as an object of pity, not to say of contempt 
 In this very room I have heard shallow men and women 
 speak in that way of some who are doing a worthy work for 
 God and man in the world." 
 
 " My dear, it is the way with shallow men and women to 
 put tilings in the wrong places. Why should you be sm- 
 prised at that ? " 
 
 " But, Janet, more do it than these people. Don't you 
 mind, the other day, wh^i Mrs. Grave was repeating that 
 absurd story about Miss Lester, and I said to her that I did 
 not believe Miss Lester would marry the best man on the 
 face of the earth, you said in a way that turned the laugh 
 against me, that you doubted the best man on the face of 
 the earth wasna in her oflfer." ,:!.i^ 
 
 " But, Miss Graeme, I meant no reflection on your friend, 
 though I said that. I saw by the shining of your eyes, and 
 the color on your cheek, that you were in earnest, and I 
 thought it a pity to waste good earnest words on yon shallow 
 
 woman." 
 
 "Well," said Graeme, with a long breath, "you left the j 
 impression on her mind that you thought her right and me 
 
 wi'ong." 
 
 " That is but a small matter. And, my dear, I am no' 
 siu'e, and you canna be siu-e either, that Mi's. Grove was 
 altogether wrong. If, in her youth, some good man— not to 
 
Janet's love and service. 427 
 
 gay the best man on the face of the earth — had offered love 
 to your friend, are you sure she would have refused him ? " 
 
 "There ! — that is just what I dislike so much. That is just 
 what Mrs. Grove was hinting with regard to Miss Lester. 
 If a woman Hves single, it is from necessity — according to 
 the judgment of a discriminating and charitable world. I 
 know that is not the cast) with regard to Miss Lester. But 
 even if it were, if no ma,n had ever graciously signified his 
 approbation of her — if she were an old maid from dire neces- 
 sity — does it follow that she has lost her chance in life ? — that 
 life has been to her a faDure ? 
 
 "If she has failed in life ; so do God's angels. Janet, if I 
 could only tell you half that she has done 1 I am not intimate 
 with her, but I have many ways of knowing about her. If 
 you could know all that she has done for her family I She 
 was the eldest daughter, and her mother was a very delicate^ 
 nervous woman, and the charge of the younger children fell 
 to her when she was quite a girL Then when her father 
 failed, she opened a school, and the whole family depended 
 on her. She helped her sisters till they married, and liber- 
 ally educated her younger brothers, and now she is bringing 
 np the four children of one of them who died young. Her 
 father was bedridden for several years before he died, and he 
 lived in her home, and she watched over him, and cared for 
 him, though she had her school And she has prepared 
 many a young girl for a life of usefulness, who but for her 
 might have been neglected or lost. Half of the good she has 
 done in this way wiUi never be known on earth. And to hear 
 women who are not worthy ,to tie her shoe, passing their pa- 
 tronizing or their disparaging remarks upon her! It in- 
 censes me 1" 
 
 "My dear, I thought you were past being incensed at any- 
 thing yon shallow woman can say." 
 
 " But she is not the only one. Even Arthur sometimes 
 provokes me. Because she has by her laborious profession 
 made herself independent, he jestingly talks about her bank 
 
428 Janet's love and sekvioe. 
 
 stock, and about her being a good speculation for some needy 
 old gentleman. And because that beautiful, soft grey hair 
 of hers will curl about her pale face, it is hinted that she 
 makes the most of her remaining attractions, and would be 
 nothing loth. It is despicable." 
 
 " But, my dear, it would be no discredit to her if it were 
 proved that she would marry. She has a young face yek, 
 though her hair is grey, and she may have many years before 
 her. Why should she not marry ?" 
 
 " Don't speak of it," said Graeme, with great impatience ; 
 " and yet, as you say^ why should she not ? But that is not 
 the question. What I declare is, that her single life has been 
 an honorable and an honored one — and a happy one too. 
 Who can doubt it ? There is no married woman of my ac- 
 quaintance whose life vnll compare with hers. And the high 
 place she will get in heaven, vdll be for no work she will do 
 as Mrs. Dale, though she wore to marry the Reverend Doctor 
 to-night, but for the blessed success that God has given her 
 in her work as a single woman," 
 
 " I believe you, dear," said Mrs. Snow, warmly. 
 
 "And she is not the only one I could name," continued 
 Graeme. " She is my favorite example, because her position 
 and talents, her earnest nature and her piety, make her work 
 a wonderful one. But I know many, and have heard of 
 more, who in a quiet, unobtrusive way are doing a work, not 
 so great as to results, but as true and holy. Some of them 
 are doing it as aunts or maiden sisters ; some as teachers ; 
 some are only humble needlewomen ; some are servants in 
 other people's kitchens or nurseries — ^women who would be 
 spoken of by the pitying or slighting name of ' old maid,' who 
 are yet more worthy of respect for the work they are doing, 
 and for the influence they are exerting, than many a ma^ 
 ried woman in her sphere. Why should such a woman be 
 pitied or despised, I wonder ?" 
 
 "Miss Graeme, you look as though you thought I was 
 among the pitiers and despisers of such women, and you are 
 wrong. Every word you say in their praise and honor is 
 
Janet's love and service. 420 
 
 truth, and canna be gainsaid. But that doesna prove what 
 you began with, that the chanceB of happiness in married 
 and single life are equal." 
 "It goes far to prove it — the chances of usefulness, at any 
 
 rate." 
 
 "No, my dear, because I dare say, on the other band, 
 many could be told of who fail to do their work in single Ufe, 
 and who fail to get happiness in it as well. Put the one class 
 over against the other, and then consider the many, many 
 women who marry for no other reason than from the fear of 
 living single, it will go far to account for the many unhappy 
 marriages that we see, and far to prove that marriage is the 
 natural and proper expectation of woman, and that in a sense 
 she does fail in Ufe, who falls short of thai In a certain 
 sense, I say." 
 
 "But it does not follow from that that she is thenceforth 
 to be an object of pity or derision, a spectacle to men and 
 angels I" 
 
 " "Whist, my dear ; no, that doesna follow of necessity. 
 That depends on herself somewhat, though not altogether, 
 and there are too many single women who make spectacles 
 of themselves in one way or other. But, my dear, what I say 
 is this : As the world is, it is no easy thing for a woman to 
 warstle through it alone, and the help she needs she can get 
 better from her husband than from any other friend. And 
 though it is a single woman's duiy to take her lot and make 
 the best of it, with God's help, it is no' to be denied, that it is 
 not the lot a woman would choose. My saying it doesna 
 make it true, but ask you the women to whom you justly 
 give so high a place, how it was with them. Was it their 
 own free choice that put them where they are ? If they speak 
 the truth, they will say *No.' Either no man asked them — 
 though that is rare — or else in youth they have had their 
 work laid ready to their hands. They had a &ther and 
 mother, or brothers and sisters, that they could not forsake 
 for a stranger. Or they gave their love nnsought, and ha4[ 
 none to give when it was asked. Or they fell oat with their 
 
430 Janet's love and sebvicb. 
 
 lovers, or another wiled them away, or death divided them, 
 Sometimes a woman's life passes quietly and busily away, 
 with no thoughts of the future, till one day she wakes up -witii 
 a great start of surprise and pain, to the knowledge that her 
 youth is past — that she is an 'old maid.' And if a chance 
 offer comes then, ten to one but she shuts her eyes, and laya 
 hold on the hand that is held out to her — so feared is she of 
 the solitary life before her.'* 
 
 "And," said Graeme, in a low voice, " God is good to her 
 if she has not a sadder wakening soon." 
 
 " It is possibfe, my dear, but it proves the truth of what I 
 was saying, aU the same ; that it is seldom by a woman's free 
 choice that she finds herself alone in life. Sometimes, but not 
 often, a woman sits down and counts the cost, and chooses 
 a solitary path. It is not every wise man that can discern a 
 strong and beautiful spirit, if it has its home in an unlovely 
 form, and many such are passed by with a slighting look, or 
 are never seen at alL It is possible that such a woman may 
 have the sense to see, that a solitary life is happiness com* 
 pared with the pain and shame a true woman must feel in 
 having to look down upon her husband ; and so when the 
 wise and the worthy pass by, she turns her eyes from aU 
 others, and says to herself and to the world, with what heart 
 she may, that she has no need of help. But does that end 
 the pain ? Does it make her strong to say it ? May not the 
 slight implied in being overlooked rankle in her heart till it 
 is changed and hardened? I am afraid the many single 
 women we see and hear of, who Hve to themselves, giving no 
 sympathy and seeking none, proves it past all denying. My 
 dear, folk may say what they like about woman's sphere and 
 woman's mission — and great nonsense they have spoken of 
 late — but every true woman kens well that her right sphere 
 is a home of her own, and that her mission is to find her 
 happiness in the happiness of her husband and children. 
 There are exceptional cases, no doubt, but that is the law of 
 nature. Though why I should be saying all this to you, Mias 
 Graeme, my dear, is mair than I ken." > 
 
JANET'8 LOVE AND SEEVICE. 431 
 
 There was a long silence after this. Mrs. Snow knew well 
 that Graeme sat without reply because she would not have 
 the conversation come back to her, or to home affairs, again. 
 But her friend had something more to say, and though her heart 
 ached for the pain she might give, she could not leave it unsaid. 
 
 " We were speaking about your friend and the work she 
 has been honored to do. It is a great work, and she is a 
 noble woman. God bless her I And,, dear, though J. dinna 
 like the thought oi your leaving your brother's house, it is not 
 because I dinna think that you might put your hand to the 
 same work with the same success. I am sure you could do, 
 in that way, a good work for God and man. It is partly that 
 I am shy of new schemes, and partly because I am sure the 
 restlessness that is urging you to it will pass away ; but it is 
 chiefly because I think you have good and holy work laid to 
 your hand already. Whatever you may think now, dear, 
 they are far better and happier here at home, and will be all 
 their lives, because of you. 
 
 "I'm no' saying but you might go away for a wee while. 
 The change would do you good. You will come with us, or 
 you wiU follow after, if you like it better ; and then you 
 might take your sister, and go and see your brother Norman, 
 and your wee nephew, as we spoke of the other day. But 
 this is your home, love, and here Ues your work, believe me. 
 And, my bairn, the restless fever of your heart will pass 
 away; not so soon, maybe, ,>s if it had come upon you 
 earlier in life, or as if you were of a lighter nature. But it 
 win pass. Whist! my darling," for Graeme had risen with 
 a gesture of entreaty or denial. " Whist, love. I am not 
 asking about its coming or its causes. I am only bidding 
 you have patience till it pass away." 
 
 Graeme sat down again without % word. They sat a long 
 time quite silent, and when Graeme spoke, it was to wonder 
 that Arthur and the others were not come home. 
 
 "They must have gone to the lecture, after all, but that 
 must be over by this time. They will be as hungry as hawks. 
 I must go and speak to Sarah." 
 
432 jaitet's loye and BEBYIOIs. 
 
 And she went away, saying sadly and a little bitterly to 
 herself, that the friend on whose kindness and counsel she 
 had reUed, had failed her in her time of need. 
 
 " But I must go all the same. I cannot stay to die by dow 
 degrees, of sloth, or weariness, or discontent^ whichever it may 
 be. Oh me I And I thought the worst was past, and Janet 
 says it will never be quite pcbi, iul^ I am grown old." 
 
 And Janet sat with reverent, haJ-averted eyes, seeing the 
 sorrow, that in trying to hide, the child of her love had bo 
 plainly revealed. She knew that words are powerless to help 
 the soreness of such wounds, and yet she chid herself that 
 she had so failed to comfort her. She knew that Graeme 
 had come to her in the vague hope for help and counsel, and 
 that she was saying now to herself that her friend had fEuled 
 her. 
 
 "For, what could I say? I couliina bid her go. "What 
 good would that do, when she carries her care with her? 
 And it is not for the like of her to vex her heart out ^th 
 bairns, keeping at a school. I ken her better than she kens 
 herself. Oh I but it is sad to think that the best comfort I can 
 give her, is to look the other way, and not seem to see. 
 Wdl, there is One she winna seek to hide her trouble from, 
 and He con comfort her." 
 
%iV CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 THE only event of importance that occurred before Mrs. 
 Snow went away, was the return of NeUy. She came 
 in upon them one morning, as they sat together in the break- 
 fast room, with more shamefacedness than could be easily ao- 
 connted for at the first moment And then she told tiiem 
 8be was married. Her sudden departure had been the means 
 of bringing Mr. Stirling to a knowledge of his own mind on 
 the matter of wedlock, and he had followed her to her sister's, 
 and " married her out of hand.*' Of course, she was properly 
 oongratulated by them all, but Bose was inclined to be indig- 
 nant 
 
 "Tou promised that I was to be bridesmaid, and I think 
 it is quite too bad that you should disappoint me," said she. 
 "Yes, I know I promised, but it was with a long prospect 
 of waiting. I thought your own turn might come first. Miss 
 Bose. He didna seem in a hurry about it Bui Mj leisure 
 was over when I was fairly away out of reach. So he came 
 after me to my sister's, and nothing would do, but back I 
 must go with him. He couldna see what difference a month 
 or two could make in a thing that was to be for a lifetime ; 
 and my sister and the rest up there — they sided with him. 
 And there was reason in it I couldna deny ; so we just went 
 down to the manse one morning, and had it over, and me 
 with this very gown on, not my best by two or three. Ho 
 made small count of any preparations ; so you see, Miss 
 Bose, I couldna well help myself ; and I hope it will all be 
 for the best" 
 
 They all hoped that, and, indeed, it was not to be doubted. 
 Bat, though congratulating Mra Stirling heartily, Qraeme 
 27 (433) 
 
434 JAJfEx's LOVE AND SERVICE. 
 
 was greatly disappointed for themselves. She had been loot 
 ing forward to the time when, Mrs. Tilman's temporary 8e^ 
 vice over, they should have Nelly back in her old place agam; 
 but the best must be made of it now, and Nelly's pleasure 
 must not be marred by a suspicion of her discontent So 
 she entered, with almost as much eagerness as Bose, into a 
 discussion of the plans of the newly married pair. 
 
 "And is the market garden secmred?" asked she. "Or 
 is that to come later? " , . j, 
 
 "It will not be for a while yei He is to stay where he is 
 for the present. You will have heard that Mr. Buthven and 
 his family are going home for a while, and we are to stay in 
 the house. I atn to have the charge. It will be something 
 coming in through my ovtu hands, which will be agreeable to 
 me/' added the prudent and independent Nelly. 
 
 The meeting of Mrs. Snow and Mrs. Stirling was a great 
 pleasure to them both. They had much to say to one an- 
 other before the time of Mrs. Snow's departure came, and she 
 heard many things about the young people, their way of life, 
 their love to each other, and their forbearance with Fanny 
 and her friends, which she would never have heard from 
 them. She came to have a great respect for Mrs. Stirling's 
 sense and judgment, as well as for her devotion to the inte^ 
 ests of the young people. One of the few expeditions unde^ 
 taken by her was to choose a wedding present for the bride, 
 and Bose had the satisfaction of helping her to decide upon 
 a set of spoons, usefcQ and beautiful at the same time ; and 
 " good property to have," as Mr. Snow justly remarked, 
 whether they used them or not. 
 
 The day of departure came at last. Will., Graeme, and 
 Bose went with them over the river, and Fanny would have 
 liked to go, too, but she had an engagement with Mrs. Grove, 
 and was obliged to stay at home. Arthur was to be at tiie 
 boat to see them off, if it could be managed, but that vras 
 doubtful, so he bade them good-bye in the morning before 
 he went away. There was a crowd, as usual, on the boat, 
 
Janet's love and bervioe. 435 
 
 and Graeme made haste to get a seat with Mr& Snow, in a 
 quiet comer out of the way. 
 
 "Look, Graeme," said Eose. " There is Mr. Proudfute, 
 and there are the Boxburys, and ever so many more people. 
 And there is Mr. Buthven. I wonder if they are going away 
 today." 
 
 "I don't know. Don*t let us get into the crowd," said 
 Graeme, rather hurriedly. " We shall lose the good of the 
 last minutes. Stay here a moment, Will., and see wheth- 
 er Arthur comes. I will find a seat for Mrs. Snow. Let us 
 get out of the crowd." 
 
 It was not easy to do, however, and they were obliged to 
 pass quite close by the pariy towards which Eose had been 
 looking, and which Graeme had intended to avoid. 
 
 « Who is that pretty creature with the child on her lap ? " 
 asked Mrs. Snow, with much interest "You bowed to her, 
 I think." 
 
 ^' "Yes. That is Mrs. Ruthven. I suppose they are going 
 away today. I should like to say good-bye to her, but there 
 are so many people with her, and I am not sure that sho 
 knew me, though she bowed. Ah ! she has seen Bosie. They 
 are coming over here." 
 ^ She rose and went to meet them as they came near. 
 
 "You have never seen my baby," said Mrs. Buthven, 
 eagerly. " And I want to see Mrs. Snow." 
 
 Graeme took the little creature in her arms. 
 
 "No, we were unfortunate in finding you out when we 
 called, more than once — and now you are going away." 
 
 " Yes, we are going away for a httle while. I am so glad we 
 have met to-day. I only heard the other day that Mrs. Snow 
 had come, and I have not been quite strong, and they would 
 not let me move about. I am so very glad to see you," added 
 she, as she took Janet's hand. " I have heard your name so 
 often, that I seem to know you well" 
 
 Mrs. Snow looked with great interest on the lovely, delicate 
 face, that smiled so sweetly up into hers. 
 
43G Janet's love and seiivice. 
 
 " I have heard about you, too," said she, gravely. " And 
 I am very glad that we chanced to meet to^y. And yon 
 are going home to Scotland ?** 
 
 " Yes, for a little v^hila I have not been quite well, and 
 the doctor advises the voyage, but we shall be home again 
 before vdnter, I hope, or at the latest, in the spring." 
 
 There was not time for many words. Arthur came at the 
 last minute, and mth him Charlie Millar. He held out his 
 arms for the baby, but she would not look at him, and dung 
 to Greame, who clasped her softly. 
 
 " She has discrimination, you see," said Charlie. " She 
 Imows who is best and wisest." 
 
 ** She is very like what Rosie was at her age," said Mrs. 
 Snow. " Don't you mind, Miss Graeme ?'* 
 
 " Do you hear that, baby ! " said Charlie. " Take heart 
 The wee white Lily may be a blooming rose, yet— who 
 knows?" 
 
 "You have changed," said Mrs. Snow, as Mr. Ruthven 
 came up to her with WilL 
 
 " Yes, I have changed ; and not for the better, I fear," said 
 he, gravely. 
 
 " I do not say that — though the world and it's ways do 
 not often change a man for the better. Keep it out of your 
 heart." 
 
 There was only time for a word or two, and Grueme wonld 
 not lose the last minutes with their friend. So she drew her 
 away, and turned her face from them all. 
 
 "Oh, Janet I Must you go? Oh 1 if we only could go 
 vdth you 1 But that is not what I meant to say. I am so 
 glad you have been here. If you only knew how much good 
 you have done me ! " 
 
 " Have I ? Well, I am glad if I have. And my dear, you 
 are soon to follow us, you ken ; and it will do you good to 
 get back for a little while to the old place, and the old ways. 
 God has been very good to you alL" 
 
 " Yes, and Janet, you are not to think me altogether u'O- 
 
Janet's love and sKiivicE. 437 
 
 (jumkfuL Forget all the discontented foolish things I have 
 Baid. God has been very good to us all." 
 
 " Yes, love, and you must take heart, and trust Him. And 
 you must watch over your sister, your sisters, I should say. 
 And Rose, dear, you are never to go against your sister's 
 judgment in tmything. And my bairns, dinna let the pleas* 
 ant life you are living make you forget another life. God 
 be with you." 
 
 Mr. Snow and Will, made a screen between them and the 
 crowd, and Janet kissed and blessed them virith a full heart. 
 There were only a few confused moments after that, and 
 then the girls stood on the platform, smiling and waving their 
 hands to their friends, as the train moved off. And then 
 Graeme caught a glimpse of the lovely pale face of Lilias 
 Buthven, as she smiled, and bowed, and held up her baby in 
 her arms ; and she felt as if that farewell was more for her, 
 than any of the many friends who were watching them as 
 they went away. 
 
 And then they turned to go home. There was a crowd in 
 the boat stiU, in the midst of which the rest sat and amused 
 themselves, during the few minutes sail to the other side. 
 But Graeme stood looking away from them all, and from the 
 city and crowded wharf to which they were drawing near. 
 Her eyes were turned to the far horizon toward which the 
 great river flowed, and she was saying to herself 
 
 "I mU take heart and trust Him, as Janet said. He has 
 been good to us alL I will not be afraid even of the days 
 that look so duU and profitless to me. God will accept 
 the little I can do, and I tvill be content." 
 
 Will and CharHe Millar left them, after they had passed 
 through a street or two. ' * '' 
 
 "We might just as weU have gone to MerleviBe with them, 
 for all the difference in the time," said Bose. ^ ' *'> ^ 
 
 " But then our preparations would have interfered with 
 our enjoyment of Janet's visit, and with her enjoyment, too. 
 It was a much better way for us to wait" 
 
438 Janet's love and service. 
 
 " Yes. And for some things it will be better to be there 
 after the wedding, rather than before. But I don't at aQ 
 like going back to an empty house. I don't like people 
 going away." 
 
 "But people must go away, dear, if they come ; and a 
 quiet time will be good for us both, before we go away," said 
 Graeme. 
 
 But the quiet was not for that day. On that day, two un- 
 expected events occurred. That is, one of them was unex- 
 pected to Graeme, and the other was unexpected to all the 
 rest Mr. Green proposed that Miss Elliott should accom- 
 pany him on his contemplated European tour ; and Mrs. 
 Tilman's time of service came to a sudden end. 
 
 As Graeme and Bose turned the comer of the street on 
 their way home, they saw the Grove carriage standing at 
 their door. 
 
 " That does not look much like quiet," said Bose. " How- 
 ever, it is not quite such a bugbear as it used to be ; don't you 
 remember, Graeme ? " 
 
 Bose's fears were justified. They found Fanny in a state 
 of utter consternation, and even Mrs. Grove not quite able 
 to conceal how much she was put about. Mrs. Tilman had 
 been taken suddenly ill, again, and even the undisceming 
 Fanny could not fail to understand the nature of her illness, 
 when she found her unable to speak, with a black bottle lying 
 on the bed beside her. Mrs. Grove was inclined to make 
 light of the matter, saying that the best of people might be 
 overtaken in a fault, on occasion ; but Graeme put her very 
 charitable suggestions to silence, by telling the secret of the 
 housekeeper's former illnesses. This was not the first fault 
 of the kind, by many. 
 
 There were a good many words spoken on this occasion, 
 more than it would be wise to record. Mrs. Grove professed 
 indignation that the '* mistress of the house" should have been 
 kept in ignorance of the state of afiGEiirs, and resented the idea 
 of Fanny's being treated as a child. But Fanny said nothing ; 
 and then her mother assured her, that in future she wonld 
 
Janet's love and sebyioe. 439 
 
 leave her to the management of her own household affairs ; 
 and Graeme surprised them all, by saying, very decidedly, 
 that in doing this, she would be quite safe and righi 
 
 Of course, after all this, Fanny could not think of going 
 out to pass the afternoon, and Graeme had little quiet that 
 day. There were strangers at dinner, and Arthur was busy 
 mth them for some time after ; and when, being at Uberfy at 
 last, he called to Graeme that he wanted to see her for a 
 miaate, it must be confessed that she answered with impa* 
 tience. 
 
 "Ohl Arthur, I am very tired. Won't it keep till morn- 
 ing? Do let Mrs. Tilman and domestic affairs wait." 
 
 "Mrs. Tilman I What can you mean, Graeme ? I suppose 
 Mrs. Grove has been favoring the household with some advice, 
 has she? 
 
 "Has not Fanny told you about it?" asked Graeme. 
 
 " No. I saw Fanny was in tribulation of some kind. I 
 shall hear it all in good time. It is something that concerns 
 only you that I wish to speak about How would you Hke 
 to visit Europe, Graeme ? " 
 
 "In certain circumstances I might Hke it.** 
 
 "Mr. Green wished me to ask the question — or another 
 
 "Arthur, don't say it," said Graeme, sitting dovm and 
 taming pale. " Tell me that you did not expect this." 
 
 " I cannot say that I was altogether taken by surprise. 
 He meant to speak to you himself but his courage failed 
 him. He is very much in earnest^ Graeme, and very much 
 afraid." .; - . , , . ,-'.,: -.- .v ;i;ui;^ tvi^a.^ 
 
 "Arthui^" said his sister, earnestly, "you do not think 
 this is my fault? If I had knovm, it should never have 
 oometothis." ' ' : .^i-' 
 
 "He must have an answer now." • j 2 :^ ¥^* : 
 
 " Yes, you vdll know what to say to him. I am sorry." 
 
 "But, Graeme, you should take time to think. In the 
 eyes of the world this would be a good match for you." 
 
 Graeme rose impatiently. ,,, ,,. 
 
 i'.^.i.i.i 
 
440 '* Janet's love and bervioe. 
 
 *'What has the world to do with it? Tell me, Artbnr, 
 that you do not think me to blame for this." 
 
 ^* I do not think you intended to give Mr. Green encourage- 
 meni But I cannot understand why you should be so siu^ 
 prised. I am not." 
 
 "You have not been seeing with your own eyes, and the 
 encouragement has not been from me. It cannot be helped 
 now. You will know what to say. And, Arthur, pray let 
 this be quite between you and me." 
 
 " Then, there is nothing more to be said ? " ^ 
 
 "Nothing. Goodnight" 
 
 Arthur was not surprised. He knew quite well that Mr. 
 Green was not good enough for Graeme. But, then, who 
 was ? Mr. Green was very rich, and it would have been a 
 splendid settlement for her, and she was not very young 
 now. If she was ever to many, it was surely time. And 
 why should she not? 
 
 He had intended to say something like this to her, bat 
 somehow he had not found it easy to do. Well, she was old 
 enough and wise enough to know her own mind, and to de- 
 cide for herself ; and, taken without the help of his position 
 and his great wealth, Mr. Green was certainly not a very in- 
 teresting person ; and probably Graeme had done wciU to 
 refuse him. He pondered a long time on this question, and 
 on others ; but when he went up stairs, Fanny was waiting 
 for him, wide awake and eager. 
 
 " Well, what did Graeme say ? Has she gone to bed ? " 
 
 Arthur was rather taken aback. He was by no means 
 sure that it would be a wise thing to discuss his sister's 
 afiiairs with his wife. Fanny would never be able to keep his 
 news to herseli 
 
 You ought to be in bed," said he. 
 
 Yes, I kiow I ought But is she not a wretch ? " 
 
 " Graeme, a wretch I " 
 
 "Nonsense, Arthur 1 I mean Mrs. Tilman. You know 
 very well." - 
 
 "Mrs. Tilman! What has she to do with it ?" ' 
 
 u 
 ((- 
 
Janet's love and service. 44-1 
 
 "What I did not Graeme tell you ? " 
 
 And then the whole story burst forth — all, and a good deal 
 more than has been told, for Fanny and Rose had been dis- 
 eossing the matter in private with Sarah, and she had ro- 
 fieved her mind of all that had been kept quiet so long. 
 
 "The wretch 1" said Arthur. "She might have burned 
 OS in our beds." 
 
 "Just what I said," exclaimed Fanny, triumphantly. 
 "But then, Sarah was there to watch her, and Graeme knew 
 about it and watched too. It was very good of her, I think." 
 
 ''But why, in the name of common sense, did they think 
 it necessary to wait and watch, as yon call it ? Why was she 
 not sent about her business ? Why was not I told ? " 
 
 "Sarah told us, it was because Miss EUiott would not 
 have Mrs. Snow's visit spoifed ; and Bose says she wanted 
 everything to go smoothly,, so that she should think I was 
 wise and discreet, and a good housekeeper. I am very much 
 afraid I am not." 
 
 Arthur laughed, and kissed her. 
 
 "live and learn," said he. 
 
 "Yes, and I shall too,. I am detenmned. But, Arthur, 
 was it not very nice- of Graeme to say nothing, but make the 
 best of it ? Especially when mamma had got Nelly away 
 andalL" 
 
 " It was very nice of her,*' said Arthur. 
 
 "And mamma was very angry to-day, and Graeme said 
 
 no, it was mamma who said she would let me manage my 
 own affairs after this, and Graeme said that would be much 
 the best way." 
 
 "I qdite agree," said her husband,, laughing. 
 
 "But, Arthur, I am afraid if it had not been foi Graeme, 
 things would have gone terribly wrong all this time. I am 
 afraid, dear, I am rather foolish." 
 
 " I am sure Graeme does not say so," said Arthur. 
 
 "No. She does not say so. But I am afraid it is true all 
 the same. But, Arthur, I do mean to try and learn. I think 
 Bose is right when she says there is no one hke Graema" 
 
4.42 Janet's love and seuvioe. 
 
 Her husband agreed with her here, too, and he thought 
 about these things much more than he said to his wife. It 
 would be a different home to them all without his sister, be 
 acknowledged, and he said to himself, that he ought to be 
 the last to regret Graeme's decision with regard to Mr. 
 Green and his European tour. 
 
 In the meantime, Graeme, not caring to share her thoughts 
 with her sister just then, had stolen down stairs again, and 
 sat looking, with troubled eyes, out into the night That 
 was at first, while her conversation with her brother remained 
 in her mind. She was annoyed that Mr. Green had been 
 permitted to speak, but she could not blame herself for it. 
 Now, as she was looking back, she said she might have seen it 
 coming ; and so she might, if she had been thinking at all 
 of Mr. Green and his hopes. She saw now, that from various 
 causes, with which she had had nothing at all to do, they 
 had met more frequently, and fallen into more ^miliar 
 acquaintanceship than she had been aware of while the time 
 was passing, and she could see where he might have taken 
 encouragement where none was meant, and she was grieved 
 that it had been so. But she could not blame herself and 
 she could not bring herself to pity him very much. 
 
 " He will not break his heart, if he has one ; and there arc 
 others far better fitted to please him, and to enjoy what he 
 has to bestow, than I could ever have done ; and, so that 
 Arthur says nothing about it, there is no harm done." "* 
 
 So she put the subject from her as something quite past 
 and done witL And there wa^ something else quite past 
 and done with. 
 
 " I am afraid I have been very foolish and wrong," she 
 said, letting her thoughts go farther back into the day. She 
 said it over and over again, and it was true. She had been 
 foolish, and perhaps a little wrong. Never once, since that 
 miserable night, now more than two years ago, when he had 
 brought Harry home, had Graeme touched the hand or met 
 the eye of Allan Euthven. She had frequently seen Lilian 
 and she had not consciously avoided him, but it had so hap- 
 
Janet's love and service. 443 
 
 pened that they had never met. In those old times she had 
 come to the knowledge that, unasked, she had given him 
 more than friendship, and she had shrunk, with such pain and 
 shame, from the thought that she might still do so, that she 
 had grown morbid over the fear. To-day she had seen him. 
 She had clasped his hand, and met his look, and listened to 
 bis friendly words, and she knew it was well with her. They 
 were friends whom time, and absence, and perhaps suffering, 
 had tried, and they would be friends always. 
 
 She did not acknowledge, in words, either her fear or her 
 retief ; but she was glad with a sense of the old pleasure in 
 the friendship of Allan and LiHas ; and she was saying to 
 herself that she had been foolish and wrong to let it slip out 
 of her hfe so utterly as she had done. She told herself that 
 true friendship, like theirs, was too sweet and rare a blessing 
 to be suffered to die out, and that when they came home 
 , again the old glad time would come back. 
 
 *'I am glad that I have seen them again, very glad. And 
 I am ^ad in their happiness. I know that I am glad now." 
 
 It was very late, and she was tired after the long day, but 
 she lingered still, thinking of many things, and of all that tlie 
 past had brought, of all that the future might bring. Her 
 thou^ts were hopeful ones, and as she went slowly up tbe 
 stairs to her room, she was repeating Janet's words, and 
 maJdng them her own. 
 
 "I wiU take heart and tmsi If the work I have here is 
 God-given, He will accept it, and make me content in it, be 
 It great or HUle, and I vnll take heart and trust. 
 
 
CHAPTER XXXVIf. 
 
 IF, on the night of the day Tvhen Janet went away, Graeme 
 could have had a glimpse of her outward life for the next 
 two years, she might have shrunk, dismayed, from the way that 
 lay before her. And yet when two years and more had passed, 
 over the cares, and fears, and disappointments, over the change 
 and separation which the time had brought, she could look 
 with calm content, nay, whith grateful gladness. They had 
 not been eventful years — that is, they had been unmarked by 
 any of the especial tokens of change, of which the eye of the 
 world is wcat to take note, the sudden and evident coming into 
 their lives of good or evU fortune. But Graeme had only to 
 recall the troubled days that had been before the time when 
 she had sought help and comfort from her old friend, to 
 realize that these years had brought to her, and to some oi 
 those she loved, a change real, deep, and blessed, and she 
 daily thanked God, for content and a quiet heart. 
 
 That which outwardly characterized the time to Graeme, 
 that to which she could not have looked forward hopefully or 
 patiently, but upon which she could look back without regret, 
 was her separation from her sister. At first all things had 
 happened as had been planned. They made their preparations 
 for their long talked of visit to Merleville ; they enjoyed the 
 journey, the welcome, the wedding. WiU. went away, and 
 then they had a few quiet, restful days with Janet ; and then 
 there came from home sad tidings of Fanny's illness — an ill- 
 ness that brought her in a single night very near to the 
 gates of death ; and Graeme did not need her brother's 
 agonized entreaties to make her hasten to her side. The sumr 
 mons came during a brief absence of Bose from Merleville, and 
 
Janet's love and service. 445 
 
 ^ns too imperative to admit of Graeme's waiting for her re- 
 tain, so she was left behind. Afterwards, when Fanny's 
 jaoger was over, she was permitted to remain longer, and 
 when sudden business brought their brother Norman east, his 
 determination to take her home with him, and her inclination 
 to go, prevailed over Graeme's unwillingness to consent, and 
 the sisters, for the first time in their Hves, had separate 
 home& The hope of being able to follow her in the spring, 
 had at first reconciled Graeme to the thought, but when 
 spring came, Fanny was not weU enough to be left, nor would 
 Nonnan consent to the return of Bose ; and so for one reason 
 }r other, more than two years passed before the sisters met 
 again. They were not unhappy years to Graeme. Many 
 anxions hours came in the course of them, to her and to 
 them all ; but out of the cares and troubles of the time came 
 peace, and more than peace at last. 
 
 The winter that followed her return from Merleville, was 
 rather a dreary one. The restraints and self-denials, which 
 the delicate state of her health necessarily imposed upon her, 
 «rere very irksome to Fanny; and Graeme's courage and cheer- 
 fulness, sometimes during these first months, were hardly 
 sufficient to answer the demands made upon her. But all this 
 changed as the hour of Fanny's trial approached — ^the hour that 
 was to make her a proud and happy mother ; or to quench her 
 hope, perhaps, her life, in darkness. All this was changed. Out 
 of the entire trust which Fanny had come to place in her sister 
 Graeme, grew the knowledge of a higher and better trust. 
 The love and care which, during those days of sickness and 
 Boffering, and before those days, were made precious and 
 assured, were made the means of revealing to h^"" a love 
 which can never fail to do otherwise than the very best for 
 its object — a care more than sufficient for all the emergencies 
 of life, and beyond life. And so as the days went on, the 
 possibilities of the future ceased to terrify her. Loving life, 
 and bound to it by ties that grew stronger and doser every 
 day, she was yet not afraid to know, that death might be be- 
 fore her ; and she grew ger tie and quiet with a peace so 
 
416 j\net's love and seevice. 
 
 sweet and deep, that it sometimes startled Graeme \nth a 
 sudden dread, that the end might, indeed, be drawing near. 
 
 Graeme was set at rest about one thing. If there had 
 lingered in her heart any fear lest her brother's happiness was 
 not secure in Fanny's keeping, or that his loye for her would 
 not stand the wear and tear of common life, when the first 
 charms of her youth and beauty, and her graceful, wiiming 
 ways were gone, that fear did not outlast this time. Through 
 the weariness and fretfuhiess of the first months of her illness, 
 he tended her, and hung about her, and listened to her com- 
 plaints with a patience that never tired ; and when her fret- 
 ful time was over, and the days came when she lay hushed 
 and peaceful, yet a little awed and anxious, looking forward 
 to she knew not what, he soothed and encouraged her with a 
 gentle cheerfulness, which was to Graeme, pathetic, in cont'tut 
 with the restless misery that seemed to take possession of him 
 when he was not by her side. One does not need to be very 
 good, or very wise, or even beautiful to win true love ; and 
 Fanny was safe in the love of her husband, and to her sister's 
 mind, growing worthier of it every day. -^ 
 
 Graeme would have hardly acknowledged, even to herself 
 how much Arthur needed the discipline of this time, but 
 afterwards she saw it plainly. Life had been going very 
 smoothly with him, and he had been becoming content with 
 its routine of business and pleasure. The small successes of 
 his profession, and the consideration they won for him, were 
 in danger of being prized at more than their value, and of 
 making him forget things better worth remembering, and this 
 pause in his life was needed. These hours in his wife's sick 
 room, apparently so full of rest and peace, but really so 
 anxious and troubled, helped him to a truer estimate of the 
 value of that which the world can bestow, and forced him to 
 compare them with those things over which the world has no 
 power. Fanny's eager, sometimes anxious questionings, 
 helped to the same end. The confidence with which she 
 brought her doubts and difficulties to him for solution, bor 
 evident behef in his superior wisdom and goodness, her pe^ 
 
Janet's love and seevice. 447 
 
 feet trast in his power and skill to put her right about 
 matters of ^^hich until now she had never thought, were a re- 
 proach to him often. Listening to her, and pondering on the 
 questions which her words suggested, he saw how fax he had 
 wandered from the paths which his father had trod, how far 
 he had fallen short of the standard at which he had aimed, 
 and the true object of life grew clearer to him during those days. 
 
 They helped each other to the finding of the better way ; 
 she helped him most, and Graeme helped them both. These 
 were anxious days to her, but happy days, as welL In caring 
 for these two, so dear to her, in seeking for them the highest 
 happiness, in striving, earnestly, that this time might not be 
 goffered to pass, without leaving a blessing behind, she for* 
 got herself and her own fears and cares, and in seeking their 
 happiness found her own. 
 
 " This quiet time came to an end. The little life so longed 
 for, so precious, lingered with them but a day, and passed 
 away. Fanny hovered for a time on the brink of the grave, 
 bat was restored again, to a new life, better loved and more 
 worthy of love than ever she had been before. 
 
 That summer they went south, to the sea-side, and after- 
 wards before they returned home, to Merleville, where Arthur 
 joined them. It was a time of much pleasure and profit to 
 them aU. It did Arthur good to stand with his sister beside 
 the two graves. They spoke there more fully and freely th i 
 they had ever spoken to each other before, of the old times, 
 of their father and mother, and of the work they had been 
 honored to do in the world ; and out of the memories thus 
 awakened, came earnest thoughts and high resolves to both. 
 Viewed in the light which shone from his father's life and 
 work, his own could not but seem to Arthur mean and worth- 
 less. Truths seen dimly, and accepted with reserve, amid 
 the bustle of business, and the influence of the world, pre- 
 sented themselves clearly and fuUy here, and bowed both his 
 heart and his reason, and though he said little to his sister, 
 she knew that life, with its responsibiUties and duties, would 
 henoeforth have a deeper and hoUer meaning to him. .... 
 
448 janjct's love and service, 
 
 Jaoiet never spoke to Qraeme of her old troubled thonghta 
 " It is all coming right with my bairn," she said, softly, to 
 herself, the very first glimpse she got of her face, and seeing 
 her and watching her during these few happy days, she knew 
 that she had grown content with her life, and its work, and 
 that the fever of her heart was healed. And as the 
 
 went on, and she saw Arthur more and more like his father, \ 
 in the new earnestness of his thoughts and hopes, and watch* ^ 
 ed Fanny gentle, and loving, mindful of others, dinging to \ 
 Graeme, and trusting and honoring her entirely, — a Fanny as i 
 different as could well be imagined from the vain, exacting 
 little house-keeper, who had so often excited her indignation, 
 ft year ago, she repeated again and again. "It is coming 
 right with them all" 
 
 Another year passed, bringing new cares, and new plea- 
 sures, and, to Arthur and Fanny, the fulfiUment of new hopes 
 in the birth of a son. To Graeme, it brought many longings 
 for the sight of her sister's face, many half formed plans for 
 ^ing to her, or for bringing her home, but Arthur's boy was 
 three months old before she saw her sister. Will, was still 
 in Scotland, to stay fo^ another year, at least Hany had ^ 
 been at home several i jaes since his first sorrowful departure, 
 and now there was a prospect that he would be at home alwaya 
 A great change had taken place in his afilEiirs. The firm of 
 Mphinstone and Company no longer existed. It was sao> j 
 ceeded by one, which bade fair to be as prosperous, and in 
 time, as highly honored as it had been, the firm of Elliott^ 
 Millar and Company. Mr. Buthven was still in the bod* 
 ness, that is, he had left in it the capital necessary to its es- 
 tabUshment on a firm basis, but he took no part in the masir 
 agement of its affairs. He lived in Scotland now, and had 
 done so ever since the death of his wife, which had taken 
 place, soon after they had reached that country. He had 
 since succeeded, on the death of his uncle, his father's brother, 
 to the inheritance of a small estate near his native place, and 
 there, with his mother and his Httle daughter, he resided. 
 Either, it was said, his undo had made his residence on the 
 
Janet's love and 8ervige7^^^^^^B!P 
 
 pifloe a condition of possession, or he had grown tired of a 
 life of business, but he evidently, did not intend to return to 
 Canada at present ; even his half brother, who deeply re* 
 gretted his early withdrawal from active life, and earnestly 
 remonstrated with him concerning it, knew Uttle about his 
 motives, except that his health was not so firm as it used to 
 be, and that he had determined not to engage in business 
 again. 
 
 Harry had changed much, during the years of his absence. 
 Up to the time of his lef ving home, he had retained his boyish 
 frankness and love of fun, more than is usual in one really 
 devoted to business, and successful in it. When he came 
 back, he seemed older than those years ought to have^nade 
 him. He was no longer the merry, impulsive lad, ready on 
 the shortest notice, to take part in anything that promised 
 amusement for the moment, whatever the next might bring. 
 He was quiet and observant now; hardly doing his part in 
 general conversation, holding his own views and opinions 
 with sufficient tenacity when they were assailed, but rather 
 indifferent as to what might be the views and opinions of 
 others ; as unlike as possible to the Harry who had been so 
 ready on all occasions, either in earnest or in sport, to throw 
 himself into the discussion of all manner of questions, with 
 aU kind of people. Even in their own circle, he Uked bet- 
 ter to listen than to speak, but he feU quite naturally and* 
 happily into his place at home, though it was not just the 
 old place. 
 
 Graeme thought him wonderfully improved, and made no 
 secret of her pride and delight in him. Arthur thought him 
 improved too, but he shocked his sister dreadfully, by profes- 
 sing to see in him indications of character, that suggested a 
 fature resemblance to their respected friend, Mr. Elias Green, 
 in more than in success. 
 
 "He is rather too devoted to business, too indifferent to the 
 
 claims of society, and to the pursuits of the young swells of 
 
 the day, to be natural, I am afraid. But it will pay. In the 
 
 course of fifteen or twenty years, we shall have him building 
 
 28 
 
450 Janet's love aitd sebyioe. 
 
 a 'palatial residence/ and boring himself and oUier people, 
 like our respected friend. You seem to be a little discontenti 
 ed with the prospect, Graema" 
 
 " Discontented 1" echoed Graeme. " It is with you, that I 
 am discontented. How can you speak of anything so honi- 
 ble ? You don't know Harry." 
 
 " I know what the result of such entire devotion to bosi* 
 ness must be, joined to such talents as Harry'& Success, of 
 course, and a measure of satisfaction with it, more or less, as 
 the case may be. No, you need not look at Harry's friend 
 and partner. He is * tarred with the same stick,' as Mr& 
 Snow would say." 
 
 Harry's friend and partner, laughed. 
 
 "Mrs. Snow would never say that about Mr. Millar," said 
 Graeme, indignantly, "nor about Harry either ; and nei- 
 tiler of them will come to a fate like that." 
 
 " They may fail, or they may many. I was only speaking 
 of the natural consequences of the present state of affiurs, 
 should nothing intervene to prevent such a conclusion." 
 
 " Harry will never grow to be like Mr. Green," said Fanny, 
 gravely. " Graeme will not let him." 
 
 *' There is something in that," said Arthur. 
 
 " There is a great deal in that," said Mr. Millar. 
 
 " There are a great many to keep Harry from a fete like 
 that, besides me," said Graeme, " even if there was any 
 danger, to one of his loving and generous nature." 
 
 She was more in earnest than the occasion seemed to oaU 
 for. 
 
 "Graeme," said Fanny, eagerly, "you don't suppose 
 Arthur is in earnest He thinks there is no one like Hany." 
 
 Arthur laughed. 
 
 " I don't think there are many like him, certainly, but he 
 is not beyond spoiUng, and Graeme, and you, too, make a 
 great deal too much of him, I am afraid." 
 
 " If that would spoil one, you would have been spoiled 
 bng ago," said Graeme, laughing. 
 
 "Oh 1 that is quite another matter ; but as to Hany, it is 
 
Janet's love and sebyioe. 451 
 
 a good fhing that Boeie is coming home, to divert the attention 
 of YOU two from him a while," added he, as his brother came 
 into the room. " And you will do your best to spoil her, too, 
 if some of the rest of us don't counteract your influence.*' 
 
 "What is it all about?" said Harry. "Are you spoiling 
 yonr son, Fanny ? Is that the matter under discussion ?" 
 
 " No. It is you that we are spoiling, Graeme and L "We 
 admire you quite too much, Arthur says, and he is afraid we 
 ghall do the same for Rose." 
 
 "As for Rose, I am afraid the spoiling process must have 
 commenced already, if admiration will do it," said Harry. 
 « H one is to beUeve what Norman says, she has been turn- 
 ing a good many heads out there." 
 
 " So that her own head is safe, the rest cannot be helped," 
 said Graeme, with a Uttle vexation. It was not Harry's 
 words, so much as his tone, that she disliked. He shrugged 
 his shoulders. 
 
 " "Oh 1 as to that, I am not sure. I don't think she tried 
 to help it. Why should she ? It is her natural and proper 
 sphere of labor — her vocation. I think she enjoyed it» 
 rather." 
 
 "Harry, don't I I can't bear to hear you speak of Eose 
 in that way." 
 
 " Oh ! my speaking of it can't make any diflference, you 
 know ; and if you don't beheve me, you can ask Charlie. 
 He is my authority for the last bit of news of Bosie." 
 
 Charlie looked up astonished and indignant, and reddened 
 as he met Graeme's eye. 
 
 "I don't understand you, Hany—the least in the world," 
 said he. 
 
 " Do you mean to say you have forgotten the postscript X 
 saw in Rowland's letter about Mr. Green and his hopes and 
 intentions ? Come, now, Charlie, that is a little too much." 
 
 " Mr. Green 1 " repeated Arthur and Fanny, in a breath. 
 
 '* Are we never to have done vdth that unhappy man ? " 
 said Graeme, indignantly. 
 
 " The idea of Rose ever lookinxr at him I " said Fanny. 
 
452 jauet's love and seevioe. 
 
 " Oh I she might look at him without doing herself any 
 harm," said Harry. " She might even indulge in a little Iq. 
 'nocent flirtation " 
 
 " Harry," said Fanny, solemnly, " if there is a word in the 
 English langaage that Graeme hates it is thai Don't say- it 
 again, I beg." 
 
 Harry shrugged his shoulders. Graeme looked vexed 
 and anxious. 
 
 "Miss Elliott," said Charlie, rising, in some embarrasth 
 ment, " I hope you don't think me capable of discussing-^jr 
 
 permitting . I mean, in the letter to which Harry refers, 
 
 your sister's name was not mentioned. You have received a 
 wrong impression. I am the last person in the world that 
 would be likely to offend in that way." 
 
 '* CharHe, man I you are making much ado about nothing; 
 and, Graeme, you are as bad. Of course, Eosie's name was 
 not mentioned ; but I know quite well, and so do you, who 
 ' La belle Canadienne ' waa But no harm was meant, and 
 none was done." 
 
 "It would be rather a good joke if Eosie were to role in 
 the * Palatial Residence * after aU, would n't it ? " said Arthur, 
 laughing. 
 
 " Arthur, don't ! It is not nice to have the child's namo 
 coupled with — with any one," said Graeme. 
 
 " It may not be nice, but it cannot be helped," said Harry. 
 " It is the penalty that very pretty girls, like Bose, have to 
 pay for their beauty — especially when they are aware of it— 
 as Bose has good right to be by this time. Small blame to 
 her." 
 
 "And I don't see that there is really anything to be an- 
 noyed about, Graeme," said Arthur. "A great deal more 
 than the coupling of names might happen vdthout Rosie 
 being to blame, as no one should know better than you." 
 
 " Of course. We are not speaking of blame, and we will 
 say no more about it," said Graeme, rising ; and nothing 
 more was said. By and by Harry and his friend and partner 
 rose to go. ' They lived together, now, in the house behind 
 
Janet's love A2n> sebyioe. 453 
 
 iSta wSlow trees, which Bose had taken such pleasure in 
 watching. It was a very agreeable place of residence still, 
 though a less fashionable locahty than it used to be ; and 
 they were fortunate enough to have the efficient and kindly 
 Nelly as housekeeper and general caretaker still, and she 
 magnified her office. 
 
 Harry had some last words to exchange with Arthur, and 
 then Mr. Millar approached Graeme and said, with a smile 
 that was rather forced and uncertain, 
 
 «I ought to apologize for coming back to the subject 
 again. I don't think you believe me likely to speak of your 
 sister in a way that would displease you. Won't you just 
 say so to me ? " 
 
 << Charlie 1 I know you could not You are one of om> 
 Bdves." 
 
 Charlie's face brightened. Of late it had been ''Mr. 
 llillar," mostly — not that Graeme liked him less than she 
 used to do ; but she saw him less frequently, and he was no 
 longer a boy, even to her. But this time it was, " Charlie," 
 and he was very much pleased. 
 
 "You have been quite a stranger, lately," she went on; 
 " but now that Mrs. Elliott is better and Bose coming home, 
 we shall be livelier and better worth visiting. We cannot 
 bring the old times quite back, even with Harry and Bose, 
 bat we shall always be glad to see you." 
 
 She spoke cordially, as she felt, and he tried to answer in 
 the same way ; but he was grave, and did not use many 
 words. 
 
 " I hope there is nothing wrong," said Graeme, observing 
 his dianging look. 
 
 '^ Nothing for which there is any help," said he. " No, there 
 is nothing wrong." 
 
 " I am ready, CharUe," said Harry, coming forward. "And 
 Graeme, you are not to 1ax>uble yourself about Bosie's con- 
 quests. When she goes to her own house — 'palatial' or 
 otherwise — and the sooner the better for all concerned — ^you 
 sae coming to take care of Charlie and me." 
 
454 
 
 JANET'S LOYB Ain> SEBVIOE. 
 
 "There may be two or three words to be said on thai 
 subject," said Arthur, laughing. 
 
 " I am sure neither you nor Fanny will venture to object ; 
 you have had Graeme all your life — at least for the last seven 
 years. I should like to hear you, just. I am not joking; 
 Graeme." 
 
 Graeme laughed. 
 
 " There is no hurry about it, is there ? I have heard of 
 people changing their minds ; and I won't set my heart on 
 it^ in case I should be disappointed." 
 
 ■4. 
 
 n 
 
 I. 
 
■,1 .,,,,. ,. ., .^A 
 
 
 ^,^. . CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 SO Bose came home at last Not just the Bose who had 
 left them, now more than two years ago, even in the 
 oyes of her sister. Her brothers thought her greatly changed 
 and improved. She was more womanly, and dignified, and 
 gelf-reliant, they said, and Graeme assented, wondering and 
 pleased, though it had been the desire of her heart that her 
 aster should come back to her just what she was when she 
 went away. 
 
 She would probably have changed quite as much during 
 those two years, had they been passed at home, though they 
 mi^t not have seen it so plainly. But Arthur declared that 
 sho had become Americanized to an astonishing degree, not 
 making it quite dear whether he thought that an improve- 
 ment, indeed not being very dear about it himselt Harry 
 agreed with him, without the reservation ; for Harry admired 
 the American ladies, and took in good part Bose's hints and 
 congratulations with regard to a certain Miss C!ora Snider, 
 
 an heiress and a beauty of C . "A trifle older than 
 
 Harry," explained she, laughing, aside to Graeme ; " but 
 that, of course, is a small matter, comparatively, other things 
 being agreeable." 
 
 " Of course," said Hany, with a shrug that set Graeme's 
 fancy at rest about Miss Cora Snider. 
 
 In less time than Graeme at first supposed possible, they 
 fell back into their old ways again. Bose's dignity and self- 
 reliance were for her brothers and her friends generally. 
 With Graeme she was, in a day or two, just what she had 
 been before she went away — a dear diild and edster, to be 
 
450 Janet's love and bebvicb. 
 
 oheckod and chided, now and then ; to be caressed and caied 
 for always ; growing, day by day, dearer and faiier to her 
 sister's loving eyes. She was glad to be at home again. She 
 was very fond of Norman and Hilda and their boys, and she 
 had been very happy with them ; but there was no one Hke 
 Graeme, and there was no place like homa So she fell into 
 her old place and ways, and was so exactly the Bosie of old 
 times, that Graeme smiled in secret over the idea of her 
 child having been in danger of being spoiled by admiration 
 or by a love of it. It was qnite impossible to believe that 
 a love of pleasure would let her be so content with their 
 quiet life, their household occupations, their unvaried round 
 of social duties and pleasures. Admired she might have 
 been, but it had not harmed her ; she had come back to 
 them quit/C unspoiled, heart free and fancy free, Graeme said 
 to herself, with a sense of relief and thankfobiess that grm 
 more assured as the time went on. 
 
 "It amuses me vexy much to hear Arthur say I am 
 changed," said Bose, one day, wrhen the sisters were sitting to- 
 gether. " Why, if I had come home a strong-minded woman 
 and the president of a convention, it would have been nothing 
 to the change that has taken place in Fanny, which I dare- 
 say he does not see at all, as a change ; he always was rather 
 blind where she was concerned. But what have you being 
 doing to Fanny, Graeme?" 
 
 " Bose, my dear," said Graeme, gravely, " Fanny has had 
 a great deal of sickness and suffering, and her change is for the 
 better, I am sure ; and, besides^ are you not speaking a little 
 foohshlyr 
 
 " Well, perhaps so, but not unkindly, as far as Fanny is 
 concerned. For the better! I should think so. But then I 
 fancied that Fanny was just the one to grow peevish in sick- 
 ness, and ill to do with, as Janet would say ; and I confess, 
 when I heard of the arrival of young ArUiur, I was afraid, 
 remembering old times, and her little airs, that she might not 
 be easier to live v^tL" 
 
 " Now, Bosie, that is not quite kind." 
 
Janet's love aot) sebvioe. 467 
 
 ** Bat it is quite true. That is just what I thought first, and 
 what I said to Norman. I know you said how nice she was, 
 and how sweet, and all that, but I thought that was just your 
 way of seeing things ; you never would see Fanny's faults, 
 you know, even at the very first." 
 
 Graeme shook her head. 
 
 '* I think you must have forgotten about the very first 
 We were botii foolish and faithless, then. It has all come 
 right; Arthur is very happy in his wife, though I never 
 thought it could be in those days." 
 
 There was a long pause after that^ and then Rose said, 
 
 " You must have had a very anxious time, and a great 
 deal to do, when she was so long ill that first vnnter. I oughf*. 
 to have been here to hdp you, and I should have been, if I 
 had known." 
 
 " I wished for you often, but I did not have too much to do, 
 or to endure. I am none the worse for it all." 
 
 "No," said Rose> and she came over and kissed her sister, 
 and then sail down again. Graeme looked very much pleased, 
 and a UtUe surprised. Bose took up her work, and said, 
 with a lough that veiled some feeling, 
 
 « I think you have changed — improved — almost as much as 
 Fanny, though there was not so much need.'" 
 
 Graeme laughed, toa 
 
 " There waa more need for improvem^oit than you know or 
 can imagina I am glad you see any." 
 
 "I am anxious about one thing, however, and so is Fanny, 
 I am sure,'* said Eose, as Fanny came into the room, vnth her 
 baby in her axma " I think I see an intention on your part 
 to become stout. I don*t object to a certain roundness, but 
 it may be too decided.'* '>'j?> 
 
 '* Graeme too stout I How can you saj sudi things, Bosie ?" 
 said Fanny, indignaoitly. - -• ♦' 
 
 " She is not so slender as. when I went away.** 
 
 *' No, but she vras too slender then. Arthur thinks she is 
 growing handsomer, and so do L" - » - j . . > 
 
 ''Well, perhaps," said Bose, making believe to examine 
 
458 Janet's loye akd sesvice. 
 
 Graome critically ; " still I must warn her against fiitnre poa- 
 aibilities as to stoutness — and other thing&" 
 
 " It is not the stoutness that displeases her, Fanny," said 
 Qraeme, laughing ; " it is the middle-aged look that is set- 
 tling down upon me, that she is discontented with." 
 
 "Fanny," said Bose, "don't contradict her. "She says 
 that on purpose to be contradicted. A middle-aged look, is 
 it? I dare say it is!" 
 
 " A look of contentment with things as they are," said 
 Graeme. " There is a look of expectation on most young faces, 
 you know, a hopeful look, which too often changes to an 
 anxious look, or look of disappointment, as youth passes 
 away. I mean, of coursa, with single women. I suppose it 
 is that with me ; or, do I look as if I were settling down con* 
 tent with things as they are ?" 
 
 " Graeme," said her sister, " if some people were to Efpea^ 
 like that in my hearing, I should say it sounded a little like 
 afifectation." 
 
 " I hope it is not politeness, alone, which prevents yon from 
 saying it to me ?" 
 
 " But it is all nonsense, Graeme dear," said Fanny. 
 
 " How old are you, Graeme ?" said Bose. " Middle«ged, 
 indeed I" 
 
 " Bosie, does not ten years seem a long time to look tor- 
 ward to ? Shall you not begin to think yourself middle-aged 
 ten years hence ?" 
 
 " Certainly not ; by no means ; I have no such intention, 
 unless, indeed — . But we won't speak about such unpleasant 
 things. Fanny sh&n't I take the baby while you do that?" 
 
 " If you ' ^uld like to take him," uad Fanqy, with some 
 hesitation. 
 
 Baby was a subject on which Bose and Fanny had not 
 quite come to a mutual understanding. Bose was not so im* 
 pressed with the wonderful attractions of her son as Fanny 
 thought she ought to be. Even Graeme had been surprised 
 other indifference to the charms of her nephew, and exposto- 
 lated with her on the subject But Bose had had a surfigit of 
 
Janet's love and bervioe. 459 
 
 baby sweetness, and, affcer Hilda's strong, beautifal boys, 
 Fanny's little, delicate three months' baby waa a disap- 
 pointment to her, and she made no secret of her amusement 
 at the devotion of Graeme, and the raptures of his mother 
 over him. But now, as she took him in her arms, she aston- 
 ished them with such eloqence of baby-talk as baby had never 
 heard before. Fanny was dehghted. Happily Graeme pre- 
 vented the question that trembled on her lips as to the com- 
 parative merits of her nephews, by saying, 
 
 "Well done, Bosie! K only Harry could hear you I" 
 
 " I have often wished that Hilda could see and hear you 
 both over this Uttle mortal You should see Hilda. Does 
 not she preserve her equanimity? ^ Fancy her walking the 
 room for hours with any of her boys, as you did the other 
 night with this one. Not she, indeed, nor any one else, with 
 her permission." 
 
 " I thought — ^I am sure you have always spoken about Hilda 
 as a model mother," said Fanny, doubtfully. 
 
 " An^ a fond mother," said Graeme. 
 
 " She w a model mother ; she is fond, but she is wise," said 
 ^ Bose, nodding her ' ^ad. " I say no more." n 
 
 "Fanny dear, wt, shall have to learn of Bose. We are 
 very inexperienced people, I fe x" said Graeme, smiling. 
 
 "Well, I daresay even I might teach you something. But 
 yon should see Hilda and her babies. Her eldest son is 
 three years old, and her second will soon bo two, and her 
 daughter is four months. Suppose she had begun by walk- 
 ing all night with each of them, and by humoring every 
 whimr 
 
 And then Bose began her talk with the baby again, saying 
 all sorts of things about the fond foolishness of his little 
 mamma and his Aunt Graeme, that it would not have been 
 at all pretty, she acknowledged, to say to themselves. Graeme 
 listened, smiling, but Fanny looked anxious. " ' ' ~ 
 
 "Bose," said she, tell me about Hildf/s way. I want to 
 have the very best way with baby. I knov7 1 am not very wise, 
 but I do widi to learn and to do right !" . ,' S ; 
 
460 Janet's love and skbvice. 
 
 Her words and her manner reminded Bose so forcibly, by 
 contrast, of tbe Fanny whose vanity and self-assertion had 
 been such a vexation so often, that, in thinking of those dd 
 times, she forgot to answer her, and sat playing with the 
 child's clasping fingers. 
 
 " She thinks 7. will never be like Hilda," said Fanny, dole- 
 fully, to Graeme. 
 
 Bose shook her head. 
 
 " There are not many like Hilda ; but I don't see any 
 reason why yo\i should not be as good a mother as she is, and 
 have as obedient children. You have aa good a teacher. Ko, 
 don't look at Graeme. I know what you mean. She has 
 taught you all the gocd that is in you. There are more of as 
 who could say the same — except for making her vain. It is 
 this young gentleman, I mean, who is to teach you." 
 
 And she began her extraordinary confidences to the child, 
 till Graeme and Fanny were botu laughing heartily at her 
 nonsense. 
 
 " m tell you what, Fanny," said she, looking up in a 
 little. "It is the mother-love that makes one wise, and 
 Solomon has something to do with it You must take him 
 into your confidence. But, dear me ! Think oT my Tentiuv 
 ing to give you good advice. I might be Janet herself." 
 
 ^* But, Bosie, dear," said Graeme, still laughing, '* Sobmon 
 has nothing to say about such infants as this <t ae." 
 
 '* Has he not 1 Well, that is Hilda's mistake, then. She 
 is responsible for my opinions. I know nothing. The wa- 
 dom I am dispensing so freely is entirely hers. You must go 
 and see Hilda and her babies, and you will understand all 
 about ii" 
 
 " I mean to go and see her, not entirely for the sake of her 
 wisdom, however, though it must be wonderful to have im- 
 pressed you so deeply." 
 
 " Yes, it in wonderful. But you will be in no hurry about 
 going, will you? Two or three years hence will be time 
 enough, I sL uld think. I mean to content myself here for 
 that time, and you are not going there, or anywhere, without 
 
Janet's love and seuvioe. 461 
 
 •ne. That is quite decided, whatever arrangements Norman 
 may have made." 
 
 "I don't think he will object to your going with me, if 
 Arthor does n't, and Fanny," said Graeme, smiling. 
 
 "Possibly not. But I am not going yet. And no plan 
 that is meant to separate yon and me shall prosper," said 
 Hose, with more heat than the occasion seemed to call for, as 
 though the subject had been previously discussed in a manner 
 not to her Uking. Graeme looked grave and was silent a 
 moment, then she said, 
 
 « I remember saying almost these very words before we 
 went to Merleville, to Emily's wedding. But you know how 
 differently it turned out for you and me. We will keep to- 
 gether while we can, dear, but we must not sec our hearts 
 upon it, or upon any other earthly good, as though we knew 
 best what is for our own happiness." 
 
 " Well, I suppose that is the right way to look at ii But 
 I am to be your first consideration this vnnter, you must 
 remember, and you are to be mine." 
 
 " Graeme," said Fanny, earnestly, " I don't think Rose is 
 spoiled in the least." 
 
 Fanny mad? malapropos speeches sometimes still, but they 
 TtJre never unkindly meant now, and she looked with veiy 
 loving eyes from one sister to the other. 
 
 "I hope you did not think Hilda was going to spoil me. 
 Did you?" said Rose, laughing. 
 
 " No, not Hilda ; and it was not I who thought so, nor 
 Graeme. But Harry said you were admired more than was 
 good for you, perhaps, and " 
 
 Rose shrugged her shoulders. 
 Jh 1 Harry is too wise for anything. I had a wor:l or 
 two with him on that subject myself the last time he was out 
 at Norman's. You must not mind what Harry says about 
 me, Fanny, dear." 
 
 " But, Rose, you are not to think that Harry said anything 
 that wi 18 not nice. It was one night when Mr. Millar was 
 bere, and there was something said about "Mr. Green. And 
 
462 Janet's love and sebyioe. 
 
 he thought — one of them thought that you — ^thai he I 
 
 have forgotten what was said. What was it, Graeme? Ioq 
 were here as well as L" 
 
 " I am very sure there was nothing said that was not nice," 
 said Gx'aema " I don't quite remember about ii There was 
 nothing worth remembering or repeating." , a 
 
 "I daresay Harry told you I was a flirt. He told me so, 
 myself, once/' said Bose, tossing her head ui a way Graeme 
 did not like to see. 
 
 " Hush, dear. He said nothing unkind, you may be sure." 
 
 " And, now I remember, it was not Harry but Mr. Millar 
 who spoke about Mr. Green," said Fanny, " and about the 
 ' palatial residence,' and how Eose, if she liked, might " 
 
 Bose moved about impatiently. 
 
 "I must say I cannot admire the taste that would permit 
 the discussion of any thing of that sort with a stranger," said 
 she, angrily. 
 
 " My dear, you are speaking foolishly. There was no sacih 
 discussion. And if you say anything more on the subject, I 
 shall think that Harry was right when he said you were fond 
 of admiration, and that your conscience is troubling von 
 ahout something. Here comes nurse for baby. I suppose it 
 is time for his bath, is it mamma ? " 
 
 Fanny leffc the room with the child, and, after a few min- 
 utes' silence, Bose said, with an effort, 
 
 " Now, Graeme, please tell me what all this is about." 
 
 " Dear, there is nothing to tell. I fancy Harry used to 
 think that I was too anxious and eager about your coming 
 home, and wanted to remind me that you were no longer a 
 child, but a woman, who was admired, and who might, by and 
 by, learn to care for some one else, more than for your sister 
 and brotj lers. But he did not seriously say anything that 
 you need care about. It would have been as well, perhaps, 
 not to have said anything in Mr. Millar's presence, since we 
 seem to have Mien a little out of acquaintance with him late* 
 ly. But Harry has not, and he did not consider, and, indeed, 
 there was nothing said that he might not very well hear." 
 
Janet's loye and sesyicb. 468 
 
 ('It seems it was he who had most to say/' 
 
 "No. 7ou are mistaken. Famiy did not remember cor- 
 rectly. It was either Arthur or Harry who had sometlung to 
 say about Mr. Green. I don't think Charlie had anything to 
 say about it. I am sure he would be the last one willingly to 
 displease me or you. And, really, I don't see why you should 
 be angry about it, dear Rosie." 
 
 "lam not angry. Why should I be angry?" But she 
 reddened as she met Graeme's eye. Graeme looked at her in 
 some surprise. 
 
 " Harry is — ^is unbeai -ible sometimes," said Bose. " Fancy 
 
 his taking me to task about — ^about his friend Oh I there 
 
 is no use talking about it. Graeme, are you going out ? " 
 
 "Tes, if you like. But, Bose, I think you are hard upon 
 Harry. There must be some misunderstanding. Why 1 he 
 is as fond and as proud of you as possible. You must not be 
 vain when I say so." 
 
 "That does not prevent his being very unreasonable, all 
 the same. However, he seems to have ^'ot over it, or forgot- 
 ten it Don't let us speak any more about it, Graeme, or 
 think about it either." 
 
 But Graeme did think about it, and at first had thoughts 
 of questioning Harry with regard to Bose's cause of quarrel 
 with him, but she thought better of it and did not Nor did 
 she ever speak about it again to Bose ; but it came into her 
 mind often when she saw the two together, and once, when 
 she heard Harry Qay something to Bose about her distance 
 und dignity, and how uncalled for all that sort of thing was, 
 she would have hked to know to what he was referring 
 to, but she did not ask, for, notwithstanding Uttle disagree- 
 ments of this kind, they were evidently excellent frienda 
 
 How exactly like the old time before Arthur's marriage, 
 and before Will, or Harry went away, some of the days were, 
 thai followed the coming home of Bose. They seemed like 
 the days even longer ago, Graeme felt^ with a sense of rest 
 and peace at her heart unspeakable. For the old content, 
 nay, something better and more abiding had come back to 
 
i64 Janet's love and bebviob. 
 
 her. The peace that comes after a time of tronhle, the oofr 
 tent that grows out of sorrow sanctified, are best BemoQi 
 boring what has gone before, we know how to estimate the 
 depth, and strength, and sweetness — the sharpness of past 
 pain being a measure for the present joy. And, besides, the 
 content that comes to us from God, out of disappointmeot 
 and sorrow, is ours beyond loss, because it is God-given, and 
 we need fear no evil 
 
 So these were truly peaceful days to Graeme, untroubled 
 by regrets for the past, or by anxious fears for the fatnie, 
 They were busy days, too, filled with the occupations that 
 naturally sprung out of happy home life, and agreeable social 
 relations. Bose< had been honored, beyond her deserts, she 
 said, by visits since she came home. These had to be re* 
 turned, and Graeme, who had fallen off from the performanoe 
 of such duties, during Bose's absence, and Fanny's illness, 
 took pleasure in going with her. She took real pleasure in 
 many of th<rse visits, sometimes because of the renewal of 
 friendly interest, sometimes for other reasons. The new way 
 in which the character and manner of Rose came out never 
 failed to amuse her. At home, and especiaUy in her inte^ 
 course with her, Bose was just what she had been as a child, 
 except the difference that a few added years must main. 
 But it was by no means so in her intercourse with the rest 
 of the world. She had ideas and opinions of her own, and 
 she had her own way of making them known, or of defending 
 them when attacked. There was not much opportunity for 
 seeing this during brief formal visits, but now and then 
 Graeme got a ghmpse that greatly amused her. The quiet 
 self-possession with which she met condescending advances^ 
 and accepted or declined comphments, the serene air with 
 which she ignored or rebuked the little pohte impertinences, 
 not yet out of fashion in fine drawing-rooms, it was Bomd> 
 thing to see And her perfect unconsciousness of her sister's 
 amusement or its cause was best of all to Graema Arthur 
 amused himself with this change in her, also, and had a bet' 
 ter opportunity to do so. For Graeme seldom went to large 
 
Janet's love and seevice. 465 
 
 ptriies, and it was under the chaperonage of Mrs. Arthur 
 that Bose, as a general thing, made her appearance in their 
 laige and agreeable circle, on occasions of more than usual 
 ceromony. Not that there were very many of these. Fanny 
 was perfectly well now, and enjoyed these gay gatherings in 
 moderation, but they were not so necessary to her happiness 
 as they used to be, and Bose, though she made no secret of 
 the pleasure she took in them, was not unreasonable in her 
 devotion to society. So the vnnter was rather quiet than 
 otherwise, and Graeme and Bose found themselves with a 
 good deal of leisure time at their disposal. 
 
 For true to her first idea of what was for the happiness of 
 her brother's household, Graeme, as Fanny grew stronger, 
 gradually withdrew from the bearing of responsibility where 
 household matters were concerned, and suffered it to fall, as 
 die Mt it to be right, on Arthur's wife. Not that she refused 
 to be helpfol, either in word or in deed, but it was as much 
 as possible at the bidding of the mistress of the house. It 
 was not always very easy to do, often not by any means so 
 eaey as it would have been to go on in the old way, but she 
 was very much in earnest about this thing. It was right that 
 it should be so, for many reasons. The responsibiUties, as 
 well as the honor, due to the mistress of the house, were 
 Fanny's. These could not, she being in health and able to 
 bear them, be assumed by her sister vrithout mutual injury. 
 The honor and responsibility could not be separated without 
 danger and loss. All this Graeme tried to make Fanny see 
 without using many words, and she had a more docile pupil 
 than she would have had during the first year of her married 
 life. For Fanny had now entire confidence in the wisdom 
 and love of her sister, and did her best to profit by her 
 teaching. 
 
 It was the same where the child was concerned. While 
 she watched over both v«ith loving care, she hesitated to in- 
 terfere or to give advice, even in smaU matters, lest she should 
 lessen in the least degree the young mother's sense of respon- 
 sibility, knowing this to bo the best and suresi. guide to the 
 29 
 
4:66 Janet's love and sebvioe. 
 
 wise and faithful performance of a mother's duties. Ancl 
 every day she was growing happier in the assurance that all 
 was coming right with her sister, that she was learning the 
 best of all wisdom, the wisdom of gentleness and self-forget- 
 fulness, and of devotion to the welfare of others, and that all 
 this was bearing fruit in the greater happiness of the h(nm. 
 hold. And besides this, or rather as a result of this, she 
 bade fair to be a notable Uttle housemother also ; a litUe 
 over-anxious, perhaps, and not very patient with her own fail- 
 ures, or with the failures of others, but still in earnest to 
 attain success, and to be in all things what in the old times 
 she had only cared to seem. 
 
 Though Harry did not now form one of the household, he 
 was vjdth them very often. Mr. Millar did not quite fall into 
 the place which Harry's friend CharUe had occupied, but 
 though he said less about his enjoyment of the friendship of 
 their circle, it was evident that it was not because he enjoyed 
 it less than in the old times. He had only changed since 
 then by growing quieter and graver, as they all had dona 
 His brother's determination not to return to Canada had been 
 a great disappointment to him at the time, and he still re- 
 gretted it very much, but he said Uttle about it, less than was 
 quite natural, perhaps, considering that they had once been 
 such friends. Circumstances had made the brothers strangers 
 during the boyhood of the younger, and it was hard that gx- 
 cumstances should separate them again, just as they had been 
 beginning to know and to value each other. Charlie had 
 hoped for a long time that Allan might come back after a 
 year or two ; for his estate was by no means a large one, and 
 he beUeved that he would soon weary of a life of inactivity, 
 and return to business again. He was still young, and mighty 
 with his knowledge and experience, do anything he Tiked in 
 the way of making money, Charhe thought, and he could not 
 be satisfied with his decision. But Will., who had visited Al- 
 lan lately, assured Charlie that his brother was settling down 
 to the enjoyment of a quiet country life, and that though he 
 
Janet's love and bervioe. 467 
 
 might visit Canada, there was little chance of his ever making 
 that country his home again. 
 
 "I should think not, indeed," said Arthur, one night, as 
 they were discussing the matter in connection with Will 's 
 last letter. "You don't display your usual good judgment, 
 Charlie, man, where your brother is concerned. Why should 
 he return V He is enjoying now, a comparatively young man, 
 all that you and Harry expect to enjoy after some twenty or 
 {\irty years of hard labor — a competency in society congenial 
 to iiira. Why should he wait for this longer than he need?" 
 
 « Twenty or thirty years I" said Harry. " Not if I know it. 
 You are thinking of old times. But I must say I agree with 
 Charlie. It is strange that Mr. Buthven should be content 
 to sit down in comparative idleness, for, of course, the idea of 
 forming his own land is absurd. And to tell you the truth, I 
 uever thought him one to be satisfied with a mere compe- 
 tency. I thought him at one time ambitious to become a rich 
 man — a great merchant." 
 
 " It would not be safe or wise to disparage the life and aims 
 of a great merchant in your presence, Harry," said Bose, " but 
 one would think the life of a country gentleman preferable in 
 some respects." 
 
 "I don't think Allan aspires to the position of a country 
 gentleman — in the dignified sense in which the term is used 
 where he is. His place is very beautiful, but it is not large 
 enough to entitle him to the position of one of the great 
 landed proprietors." 
 
 " Oh I as to that, the extent makes Uttle difference. It is 
 the land that his fathers have held for generations, and that 
 is fvjthing to be proud of, and to give position, Bose thinks," 
 said ^trthur. 
 
 " His father never owned it, and his grandfather did not 
 hold it long. It was lost to the name many years ago, and 
 bought back again by Allan's uncle within ten years." 
 
 "Yes, with the good money of a good merchant," said 
 Karrv. 
 
4ti8 Janet's love and serviob. 
 
 " And did he make it a condition that he should live on itf 
 said Arthur. 
 
 " No, I think not Allan never has said any such thing as 
 that to me, or to my mother." 
 
 " Still he may think it his duty to live there." 
 
 "I don't know. It is not as though it were a large estate^ 
 with many tenants, to whom he owed duty and care and all 
 thai I think the life suits him. My mother always thought 
 it was a great disappointment to him to be obliged to leave 
 home when he did to enter upon a life of business. He did 
 not object decidedly. There seemed at the time nothing else 
 for t^inn to do. So he came to Canada." 
 
 "I daresay his present life is just the very life he could 
 enjoy most I wonder that you are so vexed about his stay- 
 ing at home, Charlie." 
 
 " I daresay it is selfishness in me. And yet I don't ittitiTf 
 it is so altogether. I know, at least I am almost sure, that it 
 would be better for him to come here, at least for a time. He 
 might always have the going home to look forward to." 
 
 « I cannot imagine how he can content himself there, afto 
 the active life he Uved on this side of the water ; he will de- 
 generate into an old fogie, vegetating there," said Hany. 
 
 " But I think you are hard on yourself Mr. Millar, calling 
 it selfishness in yon to vidsh your brother to be near jou," 
 said Graeme, smiling. " I coald find a much nicer name for 
 it than that." 
 
 " I would like him to come for his own sake," said Charlie. 
 " As for me, I was just beginning to know him — to know how 
 superior he is to most men, and then I lost him." He paused 
 a moment — 
 
 " I mean, of course, we can see httle of each other now, and 
 we shall find it much easier to forget one another than if we 
 had lived together and loved and quarrelled with each other 
 as boys. I shall see him if I go home next summer, and I 
 don't despair of seeing him here fc ; a visit, at least," 
 
 " WiU. says he means to oome some time. Perhaps he will 
 
Janet's love and bebvioe. 469 
 
 come back with you, or with Will, himself when he comes," 
 
 said Bose. 
 
 " Oh 1 the voyage is nothing ; a matter of ten days or less,*' 
 said Arthur. ** It is like living next door neighbors, in com- 
 parison to what it was when we came over. Of course he 
 may come any month. I don't understand your desolation, 
 
 Charlie.' 
 Charlie laughed. " When is Will coming ?" 
 "It does not seem to be decided yet," said Graeme. lie 
 may come in the spring, but if he decides to travel first, as 
 he seems to have an opportunity to do, he will not be here till 
 next autumn, at the soonest. It seems a long time to put it 
 ofl^ but we ought not to grudge the delay, especially as he 
 may never get another chance to go so easily and pleas- 
 antly." 
 
 "What if Will, should think, like Mr. Ruthven, that a life 
 at home is to be desired ? How would you like that, girls ?" 
 
 said Harry. 
 
 "Oh I but he never could have the same reason for think- 
 ing so. There is no family estate in his case," said Rose, 
 
 laughing. 
 
 " Who knows ? " said Arthur . " There may be a Uttle dim 
 kirk and a low-roofed manse waiting him somewhere. That 
 would seem to be the most appropriate inheritance for his 
 father's youngest son. What would you say to that 
 
 Graeme?" 
 
 " I would rather say nothing— thmk nothing about it," said 
 Graeme, hastUy. "It is not likely that could ever happen. 
 It will all be arranged for us, doubtless." 
 
 "It was very stupid of you, Harry, to say anything of that 
 sort to Graeme," said Rose. "Now, she will vex herself 
 about her boy, as though it were possible that he could stay 
 there. He never wiH, I know." 
 
 "I shall not vex myself, indeed, Rosie— at least I shall not 
 until I have some better reason for doing so, than Harry's 
 foolish speeches. Mr. Millar, you said you might go home 
 
470 Janet's love and service. 
 
 next summer. Is that something new ? Or is it only new to 
 ns?" 
 
 " It is possible that I may go. Indeed, it is very likely. I 
 shall know soon." 
 
 " It depends on circumstances over which he has no con- 
 trol," said Harry, impressively. " He has my best wishes, 
 and he would have yours, Graeme, I think, if you knew about 
 it." 
 
 "He has them, though I don't know about it," said 
 Graeme. " I have confidence in him that he deserves success." 
 
 " Yes, it is safe to wish him success — if not in one thing, 
 in another. I am not sure that he quite knows what he 
 wants yet, but I think I know what ie good for him." 
 
 " Rosie," said Fanny, suddenly, " IVIr. Millar can set us right 
 now. I am glad I thought of it. Mr. Millar, is Mrs. Rox- 
 bury your aunt, or only your brother's ? " 
 
 " I am afraid it is only Allan who can claim so close a re- 
 lationship as that. I do n't think I can claim any relation* 
 ship at all. I should have to consider, before I could make it 
 clear even to myself, how wo are connected." 
 
 " It is much better not to consider the subject, then," said 
 Arthur, " as they are rather desirable people to have for rela- 
 tions ; call them cousins, and let it go." 
 
 " But at any rate she is not your aunt, and Amy Eoxbury 
 is not your cousin, as some one was insisting over Rose and 
 me the other day. I told you so, Rosie." 
 
 " Did you ?" said Rose, languidly. " I do n't remember." 
 
 *'It was Mrs. Gridley, I think, and she said — ^no, it must 
 have been some one else — she said, you were not cousins, bufc 
 that it was a very convenient relationship, and very pleasant in 
 certain circumstances." 
 
 " Very true, too, eh, Charlie,'* said Arthur, laughing. 
 
 " I should scarcely venture to call Miss Roxbury cousin," 
 said Charlie. 
 
 " She is very nice, indeed," pursued Fanny. " Rose fell in 
 love with her at first sight, and tho admiration was mutual, 
 I think." 
 
Janet's love and service. 471 
 
 Rose shrugged lier shoulders. 
 
 "That is, perhaps, a Uttle strong, Fanny, dear. She is very 
 charming, I have no donbt, but I am not so apt to fall into 
 sudden admirations as I used to be." 
 
 "But you admired her very much. And you said she was 
 very like Lily Elpliinstone, when you first saw her. I am 
 sure you thought her very lovely, and so did Graeme." 
 
 « Did I ?" said Kose. 
 
 " Slie is very like her," said Mi'. Millar. " I did not notice 
 it till her mother mentioned it. She is like her in other res- 
 pects, too ; but liveHer and more energetic. She is stronger 
 than LUy used to be, and perhaps a little more like the modem 
 young lady." 
 
 " Fast, a little, perhaps,*' said Arthur. 
 
 " Oh ! no ; not like one in the unpleasant sense that the 
 word has. She is self reUant. She has her own ideas of men 
 and things, and they are not always the same as her mamma's. 
 But she is a dutiful daughter, and she is charming with her 
 little brothers and sisters. Such a number there are of them, 
 too." 
 
 Charlie spoke eagerly, looking at Graeme. 
 
 " You seem deeply interested in her," said Arthur, laughing." 
 
 Hany rose impatiently. 
 
 " We should have Mrs. Gridley here. I never think a free 
 discussion of our neighbors and their affairs can be conducted 
 on proper principles mthout her valuable assistance. Your 
 cousin would be charmed to know that you made her the 
 subject of conversation among your acquaintance, I have no 
 doubt, Charlie." 
 
 " But she is not his cousin," said Fanny. 
 
 " And Harry, dear, you are unldnd to speak of us as mere 
 acquaintances of Mr. Millar. Of course, he would not speak 
 of her everywhere ; and you must permit me to say you are 
 a little unreasonable, not to say cross." And Rose smiled very 
 sweetly on him as she spoke. 
 
 Harry did look cross, and Charlie looked astonished. 
 Graeme did not understand it. 
 
472 ' Janet's love and seevioe. 
 
 " Was that young Eoxbury I saw you driving mth the 
 other day ? " asked Arthur. " He is going into business, I 
 hear." 
 
 " It was he," said Charhe. "As to his going into business, 
 I cannot say. He is quite young yet. He is not of age. 
 Are you going, Harry ? It is not very late yet." 
 
 They did not go immediately, but they did not have much 
 pleasure after that. Rose was very hvely and amusing, and 
 tried to propitiate Harry, Graeme thought, but she was not 
 quite sure ; there were a good many allusions to events and 
 places and persons that she did not understand, and nothing 
 could be plainer than that she did not succeed. Then they 
 had some music. Rose sat at the piano till they went away, 
 playing pieces long, loud, and intricate ; and, after they went 
 away, she sat down again, and played on still. 
 
 "What put Harry out of sorts to-night? ** asked Arthur. 
 
 " Was he out of sorts ? " asked Graeme, a little anxiously. 
 
 Rose laughed. 
 
 " I shall have to give Harry some good advice," said she ; 
 and that was the last word she said, till she said "good 
 night." 
 
 "There is something wrong," said Graeme to herself 
 "though I am sure I cannot tell what it is. In old times, 
 Rosie would have burst forth with it all, as soon as we c&me 
 up stairs. But it is nothing that can trouble her, I am sure. 
 I hope it is nothing that will trouble her. I will not fret 
 about it before hand. We do not know our troubles from 
 our blessings at first sight. It ought not to be less easy to 
 trust for my darling than for myself. But, oh ! Rosie, I am 
 afraid I have been at my old folly, dreaming idle dreans 
 again." 
 
 
CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 /^ RAEME had rejoiced over her sister's return, " heart- 
 \JJ" free and fancy-free," rather more than was reasonable, 
 seeing that the danger to her freedom of heart and fancy was 
 as great at home as elsewhere, and, indeed, inevitable any- 
 where., ard, under certain circumstances, desirable, as well. 
 A very little thing had disturbed her sense of security before 
 many weeks were over, and then, amid the mingUng of anxiety 
 and hope which followed, she could not but feel how vain and 
 foolish her feeling of security had been. It was the look that 
 had come into CharUe Millar's face one day, as his eye fell sud- 
 denly on the face of Rose. Graeme's heart gave a sudden throb 
 of pain and doubt, as she saw it, for it told her that a change 
 was coming over their quiet life, and her own experience made 
 it seem to her a change to be dreaded. 
 
 There had been a great snow-shoe race going on that day, 
 in which they were all supposed to be much interested, because 
 Master Albert Grove was one of the runners, and had good 
 hope of winning a silver medal which was to be the prize of 
 the foremost in the race. Graeme and Bose had come with his 
 little sisters to look on, and Bose had grown as eager and 
 delighted as the children, and stood there quite unconscious 
 of the admiration in Charhe's eyes, and of the shock of pain 
 that thrilled at her sister's heart. It was more than admirar 
 tion that Graeme saw in bis eyes, but the look passed, and he 
 made no movement through the crowd toward them, and 
 everything was just as it had been before, except that the 
 thought had come into Graeme^s mind, and could not quite 
 be forgotten again. 
 
 After that the time still went quietly on, and Charlie came 
 
4:74: JAZTEt's love and SEIiVICE. 
 
 and went, and was welcomed as before ; but Graeme lookiiia 
 on Tiim now with enlightened eyes, saw, or thought she saw 
 more and more clearly every day, the secret that he did not 
 seem in haste to utter. And every day she saw it with less 
 pain, and waited, at last, glad and wondering, for the time 
 when the lover's word should change her sister's shy and 
 somewhat stately courtesy into a frank acceptance of what 
 could not but be precious, Graeme thought, though still un- 
 known or unacknowledged. And then the mention of Amy 
 Koxbury's name, and the talk that followed, startled her into 
 the knowledge that she had been dreaming. 
 
 " Eose," said she, after they had been up stairs for some 
 time, and were about to separate for the night, " what was 
 the matter with Harry this evening ? " 
 
 "What, indeed?" said Rose, laughing. "He was quite 
 oi^t of sorts about something." 
 
 " I did not think he knew the Roxburys. He certainly 
 has not known them long," said Graeme. 
 
 " No, not very long — at least, not Miss Amy, who has only 
 just returned home, you know. But I think she was not at 
 the root of his trouble; at least, not directly. I think he has 
 found out a shght mistake of his, with regard to 'his friend 
 and partner.' That is what vexed him," said Rose. 
 
 " I don't know what you mean ? " said Graei ne, gravely. 
 "I should think Harry could hardly be seriously mistaken in 
 his friend by this time, and certainly I should not feel inclined 
 to laugh at him." 
 
 " Oh I no. Not seriously miataken ; and I don't think he 
 was so much vexed at the mistake, as that I should know it." 
 
 " I don't understand you," said Graeme. 
 
 " It does not matter, Graeme. It will all come out right, I 
 daresay. Harry was vexed because he saw that I was 
 laughing at him, and it is just as well that he should be 
 teased a Uttle." i 
 
 "Rose, don't go yet. What is there between you and 
 Harry that I don't know about ? You would not willingly 
 make me unhappy, Rose, I am sure. Tell me how you have 
 
Janet's love and seevice. 475 
 
 vexed each other, dear. I noticed it to-night, and I have 
 several times noticed it before. Tell me all about it, Rose." 
 
 "There is nothing to tell, Graeme, indeed. I was very 
 much vexed with Harry once, but I da^resay there was no 
 need for it. Graeme, it is sUly to repeat it," added Rose, 
 reddening. 
 
 "There is no one to hear but me, dear." 
 
 "It was all nonsense. Harry took it into his head that I 
 had not treated his friend well, when he was out West, at 
 Norman's, I mean. Of course, we could not fall into home 
 ways during his short visit there ; everything was so differ- 
 ent. But I was not ' high and mighty' with him, as Harry 
 declared afterwards. He took me to task, sharply, and ac- 
 cused me of flirting, and I don't know what all, as though 
 that would help his friend's cause, even if his friend had 
 cared about it, which he did not It was v&rj absurd. I 
 cannot talk about it, Graeme. It was all Harry's fancy. 
 And to-night, when Mr. Millar spoke so admiringly of Amy 
 Roxbury, Harry was n't pleased, because he knew I remem- 
 bered what he had said, and he knew I was laughing at him. 
 And I fancy he admires the pretty httle thing, himself. It 
 would be great fun to see the dear friends turn out rivals, 
 would it not ? " said Rose, laughing. 
 
 " But that is all nonsense. Rose." 
 
 "Of course, it is aU nonsense, from begining to end. 
 That is just what I think, and what I have been saying to 
 you. So don't let us say or think anything more about it. 
 Good-night." 
 
 " Good-night. It will all come right, I daresay ;" and 
 Graeme put it out of her thoughts, as Rose had bidden her 
 do. 1 
 
 After this, Harry was away for a whilei, and they saw less 
 of Mr. Millar, because of his absence, Graeme thought. He 
 must have more to do, as the busy time of the coming and 
 going of the ships was at hand. So their days passed very 
 quietly, with only common pleasures to mark them, but they 
 were happy days for all that; and Graeme, seeing her sister's 
 
476 Janet's love and seevioe. 
 
 naif-veiled pleasure when Charlie came, and only half con^ 
 scious impatience when he stayed away, smiled to herself 
 as she repeated, "It will all come right." 
 
 It was a fair April day ; a httle colder than April days an 
 generally supposed to be, but bright and still — just the day 
 for a long walk, all agreed ; and Eose went up-stairs to pre- 
 pare to go out, singing out of a light heait as she went. 
 Graeme hastened to finish something that she had in her 
 hand, that she might follow, and then a visitor came, and before 
 Kose came down with her hat on, another came ; and the 
 one that came last, and stayed longest, was their old friend, 
 and Harry's aversion, Mrs. Gridley. Kose had reconciled 
 herself to the loss of her walk, by this time, and hstened 
 amused to the various subjects discussed, laying up an item 
 now and then, for Harry's special benefit. There was variety, 
 for this was her first visit for a long time. 
 
 After a good many interesting excursions among the 
 affairs of their friends and neighbors, she brought them bad 
 in her pleasant way to their own. 
 
 " By the by, is it true that young Eoxbury is going into 
 business with Mr. Millar and your brother ? " 
 
 " We have not been informed of any such design," said 
 Bose. 
 
 " Your brother is away just now, is he not ? Will he re- 
 turn ? Young men who have done business elsewhere, are 
 rather in the habit of calling our city slow. I hope your 
 brother Harry does not. Is young Eoxbury to take his place 
 in the firm, or are all three to be together ? " 
 
 " Harry does not make his business arrangements the sub- 
 ject of conversation very often," said Graeme, gravely. 
 
 " He is quite right," said Mrs. Gridley. " And I daresay, 
 young Eoxbury would not be a great acquisition to the firm, 
 though his father's money might. However, some of tM 
 may be got in a more agreeable way. Mr. Millar is doing 
 his best, they say. But, Amy Eoxbury is little more than a 
 child. Still some very fooUsh marriages seem to turn out 
 
/anet's love and service. 477 
 
 very well. Am I not to see Mrs. Elliott, to-day? She is a 
 very devoted mother, it seems." 
 
 « She would have been happy to see you, if she had been 
 at home." 
 
 " And she is quite well again ? What a relief it must be 
 to you," said Mrs. Gridley, amiably. "And you are all 
 quite happy together I I thought you were going to stay at 
 the West, Eose?" 
 
 "I could not be spared any longer; they could not do with- 
 out me." 
 
 "And are you going to keep house for Harry, at Elphin- 
 stone house, or is Mr. Millar to have that ? " 
 
 And so on, till she was tired, at last, and went away. 
 
 " What nonsense that woman talks, to be sure I " said Bose. 
 
 "Worse than nonsense, I am afraid, sometimes," said 
 Graeme. " Really, Harry's terror of her is not surprising. 
 Nobody seems safe from her tongue." 
 
 "But don't let us lose our walk, altogether. We have 
 time to go round the square, at any rate. It is not late," 
 said Bose. 
 
 They went out, leaving, or seeming to leave, all thought of 
 Mrs. Gridley and her news behind them. They mot Farmy 
 retunung home, before they had gone far down the street. 
 
 "Come with us, Fanny. Baby is all right. Are you 
 tired ? " said Bose. 
 
 "No, I am not tired. But is it not almost dinner time? 
 Suppose we go and meet Arthur." 
 
 " Well— only there 's a chance of missing him ; and it is 
 much nicer up toward S. street However, we can go home 
 that way. There will be time enough. How delightful the 
 fresh air is, after a whole day in the house ! " 
 
 "And after Mrs. Gridley," said Graeme, laughing. 
 
 "Have you had Mrs. Gridley ? " said Fanny. 
 
 " Yes, and columns of news, but it will keep. Is it not nice 
 to be out ? I would like to borrow that child's skipping rope, 
 and go up the street as she does." 
 
478 Janet's love and service. 
 
 Fanny laughed. "Wouldn't all the people be amazed? 
 Tell me what news Mrs. Gridley gave you." 
 
 Eose went over a great many items, very fast, and very 
 merrily. 
 
 " AH that, and more besides, which Graeme will give you, 
 if you are not satisfied. There is your husband. I hope he 
 may be glad to see us all." 
 
 " If he is not, he can go home by himself." 
 
 Arthur professed himseK deUghted, but suggested the pro- 
 priety of their coming one at a time, after that, so that the 
 pleasure might last longer. 
 
 " Very well, one at a time be it," said Rose. " Come, 
 Fanny, he thinks it possible to have too much of a good 
 thing. Let him have Graeme, to-night, and we will take care 
 of ourselves." 
 
 They went away together, and Arthur and Graeme follow- 
 ed, and so it happened that Graeme had lost sight of her sister, 
 when she saw something that brought some of Mrs. Grid- 
 ley's words unpleasantly to her mind. They had turned into 
 S. street, which was gay with cairiages, and with people rid- 
 ing and walking, and the others were at a distance before 
 them under the trees, when Arthur spoke to some one, and 
 looking up, she saw Miss Roxbury, on horseback, and at her 
 side rode Mr. Millar. She was startled, so startled that she 
 quite forgot to return Miss Roxbury's bow and smiie, and had 
 gone a good way dovm the street before she noticed that her 
 brother was speaking to her. He was saying something 
 about the possible admission of young Roxbury into the new 
 firm, apropos of the encounter of Mr. Millar and Amy. 
 
 " Harry is very close about his affairs," said Graeme, with 
 a Uttle vexation. " IVIrs. Gridley gave us that among other 
 pieces of news, to-day. I am not sure that I did not deny it, 
 decidedly. It is rather awkward when aU the town knows 
 of our affairs, before we know them ourselves." 
 
 "Awkward, indeed!" said Arthur, laughing. "But then 
 this partnership is hardly our affair, and Mrs. Gridley is not 
 
Janet's love axd service. 479 
 
 all the town, though she is not to bo lightlified, where the 
 spreading of news is concerned ; and she tells things before 
 they happen, it seems, for this is not settled, yet, and may 
 never be. It would do well for some things." 
 
 But Graeme could not Usten to this, or to anything else, just 
 then. She was wondering whether Rose had seen Charles 
 Millar and Miss Roxbury, and hoping she had not. And 
 then she considered a moment whether she might not ask 
 Arthur to say nothing about meeting them ; but she could 
 not do it without making it seem to herself that she was be- 
 traying her sister. And yet, how foolish such a thought was; 
 for Rose had nothing to betray, she said, a little anxiously, 
 to herself. She repeated it more firmly, however, when they 
 came to the corner of the street where Fanny and Rose were 
 waiting for them, and laughing and talking merrily together. 
 If Rose felt any vexation, she hid it well. 
 
 "I will ask Fanny whom they met. No, I will not," said 
 Graeme, to herself, again. " Why should Rose care. It is 
 only I who have been fooUsh. They have known each other 
 so long, it would have happened long ago, if it had been to 
 happen. It would have been, very nice for some things. 
 And it might have been, if Rose had cared for him. He 
 cared for her, I am quite sure. Who would not? But she 
 does not care for him. I hope she does not care for him. 
 Oh! I could not go through all that again ! Oh, my darling, 
 my darling ! " 
 
 It was growing dark, happily, or her face might have be- 
 trayed what Graeme was thinking. She started a Uttle when 
 her sister said, 
 
 " Graeme, do you think it would be extravagant in me to 
 wish for a new velvet jacket ? " 
 
 " Not very extravagant just to wish for one," said Graeme, 
 dubiously. Rose laughed. 
 
 "I might as well wish for a gown, too, while I am wishing, 
 I suppose, you think. No, but I do admire those little 
 so much. I might cut over my winter one, but it 
 
480 Janet's love and service. 
 
 would be a waste of material, and something lighter and lees 
 expensive would do. It would n't take much, they are worn 
 80 smaU. What do you think about it, Graeme ? " 
 
 " If you can aflford it. They are very pretty, certainly." 
 
 " Yes, are they not ? But, after all, I daresay I am foolish 
 to wish for one." 
 
 ** Why, as to that, if you have set your heart on one, I 
 daresay we can manage it between us." 
 
 " Oh 1 as to setting my heeirt on it, I can't quite say that. 
 It is not wise to set one's heart on what one is not sure of 
 getting — or on things that perish with the using — which is 
 emphatically true of jackets. This one has faded a great 
 deal more than it ought to have done, considering the cost," 
 added she, looking gravely down at her sleeve. 
 
 There was no time for more. 
 
 '* Here we are," said Fanny, as they all came up to the 
 door. "How pleasant it has been, and how much longer 
 the days are getting. We will all come to meet you again, 
 dear. I only hope baby has been good.'* 
 
 "She did not see them," said Graeme, to herself, "or she 
 does not care. If she had seen them she would have said 
 so, of course, unless — . I will watch her. I shall see if there 
 is any difference. But she cannot hide it from me, if she is 
 vexed or troubled. I am quite sure of that" 
 
 If there was one among them that night more silent than 
 usual, or less cheerful, it certainly was not Bose. She was 
 just what she always was. She was not lively and talkative, 
 as though she had anything to hide ; nor did she go to the 
 piano, and play on constantly and noisily, as she sometimes 
 did when she was vexed or impatient. She was just as usual 
 She came into Graeme's room and sat down for a few 
 minutes of quiet, just as she usuaUy did. She did not stay 
 very long, but she did not hurry away as though she wished 
 to be alone, and her mind was full of the velvet jacket still, 
 it seemed, though she did not speak quite so eagerly about it 
 as she had done at first Still it was an important matter, 
 beyond all other matters for the time, and when she went 
 
Janet's love and servioe. 481 
 
 away she laughingly confessed that she ought to be ashamed 
 to care so much about so small a matter, and begged her 
 giflter not to think her altogether vain and foolish. And then 
 Graeme said to herself, again, that Rose did not care, she was 
 quite sure, and very glad and thankful. 
 
 Glad and thankful ! Yet, Graeme watched her sister next 
 day, and for many days, with eyes which even Fanny could 
 see were wistful and anxious. Bose did not see it, or she 
 did not say so. She was not sad in the least degree, yet not 
 too cheerful. She was just as usual, Graeme assured herself 
 ip^ny times, when anxious thoughts would come ; and so she 
 was, as far as any one could see. 
 
 "When Mr. Millar called the first time after the night when 
 Graeme had met him with Miss Rosbury, Rose was not at 
 home. He had seen her going into the house next door, as 
 he was coming up the street, he told Mrs. Elliott, when she 
 wondered what had become of her. She did not come in till 
 late. She had been beguiled into playing and singing any 
 number of duets and trios with the young Gilberts, she said, 
 and she had got a new song that would just suit Fanny's 
 voice, and Fanny must come and try it And then she 
 appealed to Arthur, whether it was a proper thing for his 
 wife to give up all her music except nursery rhymes, and 
 carried her in triumph to the piano, where they amused 
 themselves till baby wanted mamma. She was just as 
 friendly as usual with Mr. Millar during the short time he 
 staid after that — ^rather more so, perhaps, for she reminded 
 him of a book which he had promised to bring and had f'^r- 
 gotten. He brought ic the very next night, but Rose, un- 
 happily, had toothache, and could not come down. She was 
 not "making believe," Graeme assured herself, when she 
 went up stairs, for her face was flushed, and her hands were 
 hot, and she paid a visit to the dentist next morning. In a 
 day or two Harry came home, and Mr. Millar came and went 
 with him as usual, and was very quiet and grave, as had come 
 to be his way of late, and to all appearance everything went 
 on as before. ,- , 
 
 SO 
 
482 janet'b love aitd service. 
 
 "Graeme," said Fanny, confidentially, one night when all but 
 Koso were sitting together, "1 saw the prettiest velvet jacket 
 to-day 1 It was trimmed in quite a new style, quite simply, 
 too. I asked the price." 
 
 "And were astonished at its cheapness," said Harry, v,^, 
 
 " For baby, I suppose ? " said Arthur. 
 
 " For baby ! A velvet jacket I What are you thinking o^ 
 Arthur?" said Fanny, answering her husband first. "No, 
 Harry, I was not astonished at the cheapness. But it was a 
 beauty, and not very deai*, considering." 
 
 " And it is for baby's mamma; then," said Arthur, making 
 beUeve to take out his pocket book. Fanny shook her head. 
 
 "I have any number of jackets," said she. 
 
 " But, then, you have worn them any number of times," 
 said Harry. 
 
 "They are as good as new, but old fashioned? Eh, 
 Fanny?" said her husband. 
 
 " Three weeks behind the latest style," said Harry. 
 
 "Nonsense, Arthur I What do you know about jackets, 
 Harry? But, Graeme, Bosie ought to have it You know 
 she wants one so much.** 
 
 " She spoke about it, I know ; but I don't think she 
 really cares for one. At any rate, she has made up her 
 mind to do without one." 
 
 " Of course, it would be foolish to care about what she 
 could not get," said Fanny, wisely. "But she would like it, 
 all the same, I am sure." 
 
 The velvet jacket had been discussed between these two 
 with much interest ; but Rose had given up all thought of 
 it with great apparent reluctance, and nothing had been 
 said about it for some days. Judging from what her own 
 feelings would have been in similar circumstances, Fanny 
 doubted the sincerity of Bose's resignation. 
 
 "I believe it is that which has been vexing her lately, 
 though she says nothing," continued she. 
 
 "Vexing her," repeated Graeme. "What do you mean, 
 Fanny? What have you seen ? " >?' 
 
janet'b love and service. 483 
 
 "Oh! I have seen nothing that you have not seen as well 
 But I know I should be vexed if I wanted a velvet jacket^ 
 and could not get it ; at least. I should have been when I 
 was a young girl like Rose," added Fanny, with the gentle 
 tolerance of a young matron, who has seen the f oUy of girlish 
 wishes, but does not care to be hard on them. The others 
 laughed. 
 
 "And even later than that — ^till baby came to bring you 
 wisdom," said her husband. 
 
 " And it would be nice if Rosie could have it before the 
 Convocation," continued Fanny, not heeding him. "It 
 would just be the thing with her new hat and gray poplin." 
 
 "Yes," said Graeme, "but I don't think Rosie would enjoy 
 it unless she felt that she could quite well afford it. I don't 
 really think she cu*es about it mucL" 
 
 " I know what you mean, Graeme. She would not like m. 
 to interfere about it, you think. But if Arthur or Hany 
 would have the sense to make her a present of it, just be- 
 cause it is pretty and fashionable, and not because she is sup* 
 posed to want it» and without any hint from you or me, that 
 would be nice.'* 
 
 "Upon my word, Fanny, you are growing as wise as your 
 mamma," said Harry. "A regultu: manager." 
 
 Fanny pouted a little, for she knew that her mamma's 
 wisdom and management were not admired. Graeme hast- 
 ened to interfere. 
 
 "It is very nice of you to care so much about it, Fanny. 
 You know Rose is very determined to make her means cover 
 her expenses ; but still i^ as you say, Harry should suddenly 
 be smitten with admiration for the jacket, and present it to 
 her, perhaps it might do. I am not sure, however. I have 
 my misgivings." 
 
 And not without reason. Rose had an allowance, liberal 
 enough, but not too liberal ; not so Uberal but that ta^te, 
 and skill, and care were needed, to enable her to look as 
 nice as she liked to look. But more than once she had 
 Med to express, or to feel gratitude to Fanny, in her attempts 
 
4:84 Janet's love and bebvioe. 
 
 to make it easier for her, either by an appeal to her brothers, 
 or by drawing on her own means. Even from Graeme, she 
 would only accept temporary assistance, and rather prided 
 herself on the Httle shifts and contrivances by whidi she 
 made her own means go to the utmost limit. 
 
 But there was no difficulty this time. It all happened 
 naturally enough, and Bose thanked Harry with more 
 warmth than was necesssary, in his opinion, or, indeed, in the 
 opinion of Graeme, 
 
 "I saw one on Miss Eoxbury," said Harry, "or, I ought to 
 say, I saw Miss Eoxbury wearing one ; and I thought it look* 
 ed very well, and so did CharKe." 
 
 " Oh !" said Rose, with a long breath. " But then yon 
 know Harry, dear, that I cannot pretend to such style as 
 Miss Eoxbury. I am afraid you will be disappointed in my 
 jacket." 
 
 " You want me to compliment you, Eosie. You know you 
 are a great deal prettier than little Amy Eoxbury. But she 
 is very sweet and good, if you would only take pains to know 
 her. You would win her heart directly, if you were to try." 
 
 "But then I should not know what to do with it, if I were 
 to win it, unless I were to give it away. And hearts are of 
 no value when given by a third person, as nobody should 
 know better than you, Harry, dear. But I shall do honor to 
 your taste all the same ; and twenty more good brothers 
 shall present jackets to grateful sisters, seeing how well I look 
 in mine. It is very nice, and I thank you, very much." 
 
 But she did not look as though she enjoyed it very much 
 Graeme could not help thinking. 
 
 " Of course, she did not really care much to have ii She 
 does not need to make herself fine. I daresay she will &ar 
 joy wearing it, however. It is well she can enjoy something 
 else besides finery." 
 
 They all went to the Convocation, and Eose wore her new 
 jacket, and her grey poplin, and looked beautiful, the rest 
 thought. The ladies went early vrith Arthur, but he was 
 called away, and it was a little tedious waiting, or it would 
 
JAUEt's love and 8ERVI0E. 485 
 
 have been, only it was very amusing to see so many people 
 coming in, all dressed in their new spring attire. Fanny en- 
 joyed this part of the affair, very much, and Boss said she 
 enjoyed it, too, quite as much as any part of the affair ; and, 
 by and by, Fanny whispered that there was Harry, with Miss 
 Roxbury. 
 
 " I thought Harry was not coming," said she. 
 
 "I suppose, he was able.to get away after all," said Graeme, 
 and she looked round for Mr. Millar. He was not to be 
 Been, but by and by Harry came round to them, to say that 
 there were several seats much better than theirs, that had 
 been reserved for the Eoxbury party, because Mr. Eoxbury 
 had something to do with the College, and Mrs. Roxbury 
 wanted them to come round and take them, before they were 
 filled. 
 
 "Oh I how charming!" said' Rose. "If we only could. 
 We should be quite among the great people, then, which is 
 what I dehght in." 
 
 "I thought you were not coming, Harry," said Graeme. 
 
 " I was afraid I could not get away, but I made out to do 
 so. — No, not at Charlie's expense. There he is now, speak- 
 ing to Mrs. Roxbury, and looking about for us, I daresay." 
 
 "WeD, Fanny, you go on with Harry, and Graeme and I 
 will follow," said Rose. "It would not do to separate, I sup- 
 pose? Are you sure there is room for all, Harry ?" 
 
 " Quite sure. No fear ; we wiD make room." 
 
 So Harry gave his arm to Fanny, and Graeme rose to fol- 
 low them, though she would much rather have staid where 
 she was. When she reached the other end of the long hall, 
 she turned to look for her sister, but Rose had not moved. 
 She could not catch her eye, for her attention was occupied 
 by some one who had taken the seat beside her, and Graeme 
 could not linger without losing sight of Harry and Fanny, 
 for the people were crowding up, now, and only the seats set 
 apart for the students were left vacant. So she was obliged 
 to hasten on. " 
 
 "I will send Harry back for her," said Graeme, to hersett 
 
486 Janet's love and seevioe. 
 
 " Or, perhaps, when Arthur returns, she will cross the hall 
 with him. We have made a very foolish move for all con- 
 cerned, I think. But Eosie seemed to like the idea, and I 
 did not care. I only hope we are not separated for the whole 
 affair." 
 
 But separated for the whole affair they were. Arthur re- 
 turned, but it was not easy for him to get through the crowd 
 to the place where he had left his wife and sisters, and when 
 he reached it, he saw that it would not be easy to get away 
 again. So as he could see and hear very well where he was, 
 and as Bose seemed quite satisfied with her place, and with 
 the companionship of her little friend. Miss Etta Goldsmith, 
 he contented himself where he was. 
 
 Miss Goldsmith had come to town to see her brother take 
 his diploma as doctor of medicine, and she was in a fever 
 of anxiety till " dear Dick," had got his precious bit of parch- 
 ment in his hands. And after that, till he had performed his 
 duty as orator of his class, ^nd had bidden farewell to each and 
 all, in English so flowing and flowery, that she was amazed, as 
 well as delisted, and very grateful to his classmates for the ap- 
 plause, which they did not spare. Bose sat beside the eager 
 little girl, so grave and pale, by contrast, perhaps, that Arthur 
 leaned over, and asked her if she were ill, or only very tired 
 of it all. Then she brightened. 
 
 "There is a great deal more of it, is there not? I must 
 not be tired yet. Why don't you find your way over to Fanny 
 and Graeme ? " 
 
 " Where are they ? Ah I yes, I see them over there among 
 the great folks — and Harry, too, no less, and his friend and 
 partner. And that bonny httle Amy is not far away, I'll 
 venture to say. No. I shall stay where I am for the 
 present." .:^M 
 
 Miss Goldsmith did not feel bound to be specially inte^ 
 ested in anybody or anything, except her big brother and his 
 bit oi parchment And so, when he had given her a nod and 
 ft smile, as he came down from the dais, crumpling his papers 
 in his big hands, she was ready to look about and enjoy her 
 
janet'b love aiid bkevioe. 487 
 
 gel£ And to the unaccustomed eyes of the country girl, 
 there was a great deal worth seeing. 
 
 " How beautifully the ladies are dressed 1 How pretty the 
 spring fashions are I I feel like an old dowdy ! Who is that 
 lady in blue ? What a love of a hat I And your jacket I It 
 is a beauty ! " 
 
 It was through such a running fire of questions and excla- 
 mations that Hose listened to all that was going on. There was 
 a good deal more to be said, for the law students were ad- 
 dressed by a gentleman, whose boast it seemed to be, that he 
 had once been a law student himself. Then they had some 
 Latin muttered over them, and their heads tapped by the 
 Principal, and some one else gave them their bits of parch> 
 ment, and then their orator spoke their farewell in flowing 
 and flowery English. And " will it ever be done?" thought 
 Rose, with a sigh. 
 
 It was not ''just the thing," all this discussion of hats and 
 fashions ; but little Miss Goldsmith spoke very softly, and dis- 
 turbed no one, breathed her questions almost, and Bose 
 answered as silently, with a nod, oi a smile, or a turn of the 
 eye ; and, at &ny rate, they were not the only people who 
 were thus taking refuge from the dullness of the Dean, and 
 the prosing of the Chancellor, Bose thought to herself, as she 
 • glanced about. Arthur whispered that the Chancellor sur- 
 passed himself on the occasion, and that even the Dean was 
 not very prosy, and Bose did not dissent, but she looked as 
 if it was all a weariness to her. She brightened a little when 
 it was all oirer, and they rose to ga 
 
 " Go and find Fanny and Graeme," said she to her brother. 
 " Dr. Goldsmith will take care of his sister and me." 
 
 Dr. Goldsmith was nothing loth, and Bose was so engaged 
 in offering her congratulations, and in listening to his replies, 
 and in responding to the greetings of her many friends as she 
 came down into the hall, that she did not notice that Graeme 
 and Mr. Millar were waiting for her at the head of the stairs. 
 There was a httle delay at the outer door, where there were 
 many carriages waiting. The Boxbury carriage was among 
 
488 " Janet's love and service. 
 
 the rest, and Miss Roxbury was sitting in it, though Bose 
 could not help thinking she loolred as though she would much 
 rather have walked on with the rest, as Harry was so bold 
 as to propose. They were waiting for Mr. Roxbury, it 
 seemed, and our party lingered over their last words. 
 
 " I will walk on with the Goldsmiths. I have somethiDg 
 to say to Etta," said Rose, and before Graeme could expostu* 
 late, or, indeed, answer at all, she was gone. The carriage 
 passed them, and Miss Roxbury leaned forward and bowed 
 and smiled, and charmed Miss Goldsmith with her pretty 
 manner and perfect hat In a Httle, Harry overtook them. 
 Rose presented him to Miss Goldsmith, and walked on mth 
 the Doctor. At the gate of the college grounds, their ways 
 separated. 
 
 "Mr. ElUott," said Miss Goldsmith, "your sister has al- 
 most promised to come and visit us when I go home. I do 
 so want papa and mamma to see her. Brother Dick goes 
 home to-morrow, but I am going to stay a day or twq and 
 then I want Rose to go vrith me. Do try and persuade Miss 
 EUiott to let her go." 
 
 Harry promised, with more pohteness than sincerity, say- 
 ing he had no doubt Graeme would be happy to give Rose 
 the pleasure, and then they got away. 
 
 " Papa, and mamma, and brother Dick. I declare it looks 
 serious. What are you meditating, now, Rosie, if I may 
 ask?" 
 
 " My dear Harry, if you think by chaff to escape the scold- 
 ing you know you deserve, you will find yourself mistaken. 
 The idea of your taking Graeme and Fanny away, and leaving 
 me there by myself I I don't know what I should have done 
 if Arthur had not come back. To be sure I had Etta Gold- 
 smith, who is a dear Uttle thing. I don't think her big bro- 
 ther is so very ugly if he had n't red hair. And he must be 
 clever, or he would not have been permitted to make that 
 speech. His papa and mamma must be delighted. But it 
 was very shabby of you, Harry, to go and leave me alone ; 
 was it not, Arthur ?" 
 
Janet's love and service. 489 
 
 « But, you might have come, too," said Famiy. " I thought 
 you were following us." 
 
 " And so did I," said Graeme. 
 
 " Well, dear httle Etta Goldsmith poimced upon me the 
 moment you left, and then it was too late. I did not feel 
 sufficiently strong-minded to elbow my way through the crowd 
 alone, or I might have followed you." 
 
 "I did not miss you at first," said Harry, "and then I 
 wanted Charlie to go for you, but " 
 
 "He very properly refused. Don't excuse yourself, Harry. 
 And I had set my heart on comparing jackets with Miss 
 Roxbiuy, too." 
 
 "Why did you not stay and speak to her at the door, 
 then? " said Harry, who had rather lost his presence of mind 
 under his sister's reproaches. He had hurried after her, fuUy 
 intending to take her to task for being so stiff and distant, 
 and he was not prepared to defend himsell 
 
 " Why did n't you wait and speak to her at the door ? " 
 
 "Oh! you know, I could not have seen it well then, as she 
 was in the carriage. It is very awkward looking up to car- 
 riage people, don't you think ? And, besides, it would not 
 have been quite polite to the Goldsmiths," added she, severe- 
 ly. "You know they befriended me when I was left alone." 
 
 "Befriended you, indeed. I expected every minute to see 
 your feather take fire as he bent his red head down over it. 
 I felt like giving him a beating," said Harry, savagely. Eose 
 laughed merrily. 
 
 " My dear Harry ! You could n't do ii He is so much 
 bigger than you. At least, he has greater weight, as the 
 fighting people say." 
 
 " But it is all nonsense, Eose. I don't like it. It looked 
 to me, and to other people, too, very much like a flirtation on 
 your part, to leave the rest, and go away with that big — 
 
 big " 
 
 "Doctor," suggested Rose. 
 
 "And we shall have all the town, and Mrs. Gridley, telling 
 us next, that vou " 
 
.■-ii:pr_™H|ii-*T« ■r:v\w;'Vy ':r--f*v'.''"',»' ^■^'" ■n,Tvvni.--^^»- — 
 
 490 Janet's love and beisvioe. «; 
 
 " Harry, dear, I always know wlien I hear you mention 
 Mrs. Gridley's name, that you are becoming incoherent / 
 leave you I Quite the contrary. And please don't use that 
 naughty word in connection with my name again, or I may 
 be driven to defend myself in a way that might not be agree- 
 able to you. Dear me, I thought you were growing to be 
 reasonable by this time. Don't let Graeme see us quarrel- 
 ling." 
 
 " You look tired, dear," said Graeme, as they went up stairs 
 together. 
 
 "WeU, it was a little tedious, was it not? Of course, it 
 wouldn't do to say so, you know. However, I got through 
 it pretty well, with little Etta's help. Did you enjoy the 
 Boxbury party much ? " 
 
 "I kept wishing we had not separated," said Graeme. 
 " Oh 1 yes, I enjoyed it. They asked us there to-night to 
 meet some nice people, they said. It is not to be a party. 
 Harry is to dine here, and go with us, and so is Mr. Millar." 
 
 " It will be very nice, I daresay, only I am so very tired 
 However, we need not decide till after dinner," said Bose. 
 
 After dinner she declared herself too sleepy for anything 
 but bed, and she had a headache, besides. 
 
 " I noticed you looked quite pale this afternoon," said A^ 
 thur. " Don't go if you are tired. Graeme, what is the use 
 of her going if she does not want to ?" 
 
 " Certainly, she ought not to go if she is not welL But I 
 think you would enjoy this much better than a regular party , 
 and we might come home early." 
 
 " Oh ! I enjoy regular parties only too welL I will go if 
 you wish it, Graeme, only I am afraid I shall not shine with 
 my usual brillian(yjr — that is alll" 
 
 " I hope you are really ill," said Harry. " I mean, I hope 
 you are not just making beUeve to get rid of it." 
 
 " My dear Harry ! "Wliy, in all the world, should I make be- 
 lieve not well * to get rid of it,' as you so elegantly express it? 
 Such great folks, too 1" 
 
 " Harry, don't be cross," said Fanny. " I am sure I heard 
 
Janet's love and seemob. 491 
 
 you say, a day or two since, that Rose was looking thin." 
 
 "Harry, dear I'* said Rose, with eflFiision, "give me your 
 hand. I forgive you all the rest, for that special compliment 
 I have had horrible fears lately that I was getting stout — mid- 
 dle-aged looking, as Graeme says. Are you quite sincere in 
 sayng that, or are you only making believe ?" 
 
 " I did n't intend it as a compliment, I assure you. I did n't 
 think you were looking very well" 
 
 "Did you not? What would you advise? Should I go 
 to the country ; or should I put myself undCT the doctor s 
 care ? Not our big friend, whom you were going to beat," 
 said Rose, laughing. 
 
 "I think you are a very silly girl," said Harry, with 
 dignity. 
 
 " Tou told me that once before, do n't you remember ? And 
 I do n't think you are at aU polite, do you, Fanny ? Come 
 up stairs, Graeme, and I will do your hair. It would not be 
 proper to let Harry go alone. He is in a dreadful temper, is 
 he not ?" And Rose made a pretence of being afraid to go 
 past him. " Mr. Millar, cannot you do or say something to 
 soothe your friend and partner ?" 
 
 Harry might understand all this, but Graeme could not^ 
 and she did not like this mood of Rose at all. However, she 
 was very quiet, as she dressed her sister's hair, and spoke of 
 the people they had seen in the afternoon, and of the ex- 
 ercises at the college, in her usual merry way. But she did 
 not wish to go out ; she was tired, and had a headache, listen- 
 iDg to two or three things at one time, sh<. said, and if Graeme 
 could only go this once without her, she would be so glad. 
 Graeme did not try to persuade her, but said she must go to 
 bed, and to sleep at once, if she were left at home, and then 
 she went away. 
 
 She did not go very cheerfully. She had had two or three 
 glimpses of her sister's face, after she had gone to the other 
 side of the hall with Harry, before Miss Goldsmith had com- 
 menced her whispered coniEidences to Rose, and she had seen 
 there a look which brought back her old misgivings that there 
 
492 Janet's love akd service. 
 
 was something troubling her darling. She was not able to 
 put it away again. The foolish, light talk between Bose and 
 Harry did not tend to re-assure her, and when she bade her 
 sister good-night, it was all that she could do not to show her 
 anxiety by her words. But she only said, " goodnight, and 
 go to sleep," and then went down stairs with a heavy heart 
 She wanted to speak with Harry about the sharp words that 
 had more than once passed between him and Bose of late ; 
 but Mr. Millar walked with them, and she could not do so, 
 and it was with an anxious and preoccupied mind that she 
 entered Mr. Boxbury's house. 
 
 The drawing-room was very handsome, of course, vTithvery 
 little to distinguish it from the many fine rooms of her 
 friends. Yet when Graeme stood for a moment near the 
 folding-doors, exchanging greetings with the lady of the 
 house, the remembrance of one time, when she had stood 
 there before, came sharply back to her, and, for a moment, 
 her heart grew hot with the angry pain and shame that had 
 throbbed in it then. It was only for a moment, and it was 
 not for herself. The pain was crossed by a thrill of gladness 
 for the more certain knowledge that came to her that for he^ 
 self she was content, that she wished nothing changed in 
 her ovm life, that she had outUved all that was to be regret- 
 ted of that troubled time. She had knovm this before, and 
 the knowledge came home to her joyfully as she stood there, 
 but it did not Ughten her burden of dread of what might lie 
 in the future for her sister. 
 
 It did not leave her all the evening. She watched the 
 pretty, gentle Amy, flitting about among her father's guests, 
 with a feeling which, but for the guileless sweetness of the 
 girl's face, the innocent unconsciousness of every look and 
 movement, might have grown to bitterness at last She 
 watched her ways and words with Mr. Millar, v^hing, in her 
 look or manner, to see some demand for his admiration and 
 attention, that might excuse the wandering of his fancy from 
 Bose. But she watched in vain. Amy was sweet and modest 
 with him as with others, more friendly and unreserved than 
 
Janet's love and seevioe. 493 
 
 wifch most, perhaps, but sweet and modest, and imconsciouB, 
 Btill. 
 
 " She is very like Lily Elphinstone, is she not ?" said her 
 brother Harry in her ear. 
 
 She started at his voice ; but she did not turn toward him^ 
 or remove her eyes from the young girl's face. 
 
 "She is very like Lily— in all things," said Graeme ; and 
 to herself she added, " and she will steal the treasure from 
 my darling's life, as Lily stole it from mine — innocently and 
 unconsciously, but inevitably still — and from Harry's, too, it 
 may be." 
 
 And, with a new pang, she turned to look at her brother's 
 face ; but Harry was no longer at her side. Mr. Millar was 
 there, and his eyes had been following hers, as Harry's had 
 been. 
 
 "She is very sweet and lovely — ^very like Lily, is she not?** 
 he whispered. 
 
 " Very like her," repeated Graeme, her eyes closing with a 
 momentary feeling of sickness. 
 "You are very tired of all this, I am afraid," said he. 
 " Very tired I If Harry only would take me home 1" 
 " Shall I take you home ? At least, let me take you out of 
 the crowd. Have you seen the new picture they are all talk- 
 ing about ? Shall I take you up stairs for a httle while." 
 
 Graeme rose and laid ];ier hand on his arm, and went up 
 stairs in a dream. It was all so like what had been before — 
 the Ughts, and the music, and the hum of voices, and the sick 
 pain at her heart ; only the pain was now for Bose, and so 
 much worse to bear. Still in a dream, she went from picture 
 to picture, Hstening and replying to she knew not what ; and 
 she sat down, with her eyes fixed on one beautiful, sad face, 
 and prayed with all her heart, for it was Bosie's face that 
 looked down at her from the canvas ; it was Bosie's sorrow 
 that she saw in those sweet, appealing eyes. 
 
 "Anything but this great sorrow," she was saying in her 
 heart, forgetting all else in the agony of her entreaty ; and her 
 companion, seeing her so moved, went softly away. Not 
 
"•in r* •TKif-*^- 
 
 494 Janet's love aitd sebyice. 
 
 ▼ery far, however. At the first sound of approaching foot- 
 steps he was at her side again. 
 
 "That is a very sad picture, I think," she said, coming 
 back with an effort to the present. " I have seen it once be- 
 fore." 
 
 Charlie did not look at the picture, but at her changing 
 face. An impulse of sympathy, of admiration, of respect 
 moved him. Scarce knowing what he did, he took her hand, 
 and, before he placed it within his arm, he raised it to his 
 lips. 
 
 "Miss Ellioti," murmured he, "you will never take your 
 friendship from me, whatever may happen ?" 
 
 She was too startled to answer for a moment, and then 
 they were in the crowd again. What was he thinking of 1 
 Of Allan and the past, or of Bose and Amy and the future? 
 A momentary indignation moved her, but she did not speak, 
 and then httle Amy was looking up in her face, rather anx- 
 iously and wistfully, Graeme thought. 
 
 "You are not going away, Miss Elliott, are you?" said she. 
 
 " I am very tired," said Graeme. " Oh 1 here is my brother. 
 I am very sorry to take you away, Harry, but if you don't 
 mind much, I should like to go home. Will you make my 
 adieux to your mother. Miss Roxbury ? — ^No, please do not 
 come up stairs. I would much rather you did not. Good 
 night" 
 
 "You might at least have been dvil to the little thing," 
 growled Harry, as she took his arm when they reached tibe 
 street. Graeme laughed. 
 
 " Civil !" she repeated and laughed again, a Httle bitterly. 
 "Ohl Harry, dear! there are so many things that you can- 
 not be supposed to know. But, mdeed, I did not mean to be 
 uncivil to the child." 
 
 " Then you were uncivil without meaning it," said Harry, 
 sharply. 
 
 Graeme was silent a moment 
 
 " I do not choose to answer a charge like that," said she. 
 
 **Ibegyour pardon, Graeme, but — " '" 
 
Janet's love and bervioe. 496 
 
 "Harry, hush I I will not Usten to you." 
 
 They did not speak again till they reached home. Then 
 Graeme said, 
 
 "I must say something to you, Harry. Let su walk on a 
 little. It is not late. Hariy, what is the trouble between 
 you and Rose ?" 
 
 "Trouble!" repeated Harry, in amazement "Do you 
 mean because she fancied herself left alone lis afternoon?" 
 
 "Of course I do not mean thai But more than once 
 lately you have spoken to each other as though you were 
 alluding to something of which I am ignorant — something 
 that must have happened when you were away from home — 
 at the West, I mean — something which I have not been told." 
 
 " Graeme, I don't understand what you mean. What could 
 possibly have happened which has been concealed from you? 
 Wiy don't you ask Rose ?" 
 
 "Because I have not hitherto thought it necessary to ask 
 any one, and now I prefer to ask you. Harry, dear, I don't 
 thmk it is anything very seriou& Don't be impatient with 
 me." 
 
 "Has Rose been saying anything to you?" 
 
 "Nothing that I have not heard you say yourself. Tou 
 accused her once in my hearing of being too fond of admint* 
 tbn, of— of flirting, in short — ** 
 
 "My dear Graeme I I don't think I ever made any such 
 assertion — at least in a way that you or Rose need to resent — 
 or complain of." 
 
 "Rose does not complain of it, she laughs at it Hairy, 
 dear, what is it ? Don't you remember one night when some- 
 thing was said about Mrs. Gridley — ^no, don't be impatient. 
 You were annoyed with Rose, then, and it was not about 
 anything that was said at the time, at least I thought not 
 I don't wish to seem prying or inquisitive, but what concerns 
 Rose is a great matter to me. She is more to me than any 
 one." 
 
 "Graeme," said Harry, gravely, "you don't suppose that I 
 love Rose less than you do. I think I know what you mean, 
 
tt 
 
 496 Janet's love and seevice. 
 
 however. I annoyed her once by something I said about 
 Charlie, but it was only for the moment. I am sure she does 
 not care about that now." 
 
 About Charlie I" repeated Graeme. 
 'Yes ; you did not know it, I suppose, but it was a serious 
 matter to Charhe when you and Eose went away that time. 
 He was like a man lost. And I do believe she cared for him, 
 too — and I told him so — only she was such a child." 
 
 " You told him so I" repeated Graeme, in astonishment. 
 
 " I could not help it, Graeme. The poor fellow was in 
 such a way, so— so miserable ; and when he went West last 
 winter, it was more to see Eose than for anything else. But 
 he came back quite downhearted. She was so much nm after, 
 he said, and she was very distant with him. Not that he said 
 very much about it. But when I went out there afterwards, 
 I took her to task sharply about it." 
 
 " Harry I How could you ?* 
 
 " Very easily. It is a serious thing wher a girl plays &st 
 and loose wiih a man's heart, and such a man as Charlie. 
 And I told her so roundly." 
 
 " And how did she take it ?" asked Graeme, in a maze be- 
 tween astonishment and vexation. 
 
 *' Oh I she was as high and mighty as possible, called my 
 interference rudeness and impertinence, and walked out of 
 the room like an offended princess — and I rather think I had 
 the worst of it," added Harry, laughing at the remembrance. 
 " But I don't bear maUce, and I don't think Bose does." 
 
 '* Of course, she does not. But Harry, dear, though I should 
 not call your interference impertinent in any bad sense, I 
 must say is was not a very wise thing to take her to task, as 
 you call it I don't beUeve Mr. Millar ever said a word to 
 her about — about his feelings, and you don't suppose she waa 
 going to confess, or allow you to scold her about — any one." 
 
 ** Now, Graeme, don't be missish 1 * Never Laid a word I'— 
 Why, a blind man might have «ieen it all along. I know we 
 all looked upon her as a child, but a woman soon knows 
 when a man cares for her." 
 
Janet's love and seevice. 497 
 
 "No "wise woman will acknowledge it to another till she 
 has been told so in words ; at least she ought not," said 
 Graeme, gravely. 
 
 "Oh, well ! — there is no use talking. Perhaps I was fool- 
 ish ; but I love CharHe, dearly. I daresay Eose thinks her- 
 self too good for him, because he does not pretend to be so 
 wonderfully intellectual as some of her admirers do, and you 
 may agree with her. But I tell you, Graeme, Charlie is pure 
 gold. I don't know another that will compare with him, for 
 everything pure and good and high-minded — ^unless it is our 
 own Will ; and it is so long since we have seen him, we don't 
 know how he may be changed by this time. But I can swear 
 for CharHe." 
 
 "You don't need to swear to me, Harry. You know well 
 I have always liked CharHe." 
 
 "Well, it can't be helped now. Charlie has got over it 
 Men do get over these things, though it doesn't seem possible 
 to them at the time," added Harry, meditatively. "I was 
 rather afraid of Rosie's coming home, and I wanted CharHe 
 to go to Scotland, then, but he is all right now. Of course 
 you are not to suppose that I blame Rose. Such things wiU 
 happen, and it is weU it is no worse. It is the way with those 
 girls not to know or value true worth because they see it 
 every day." . < 
 
 "Poor CharHe I" said Graeme, softly. 
 
 "Oh! don't frei^^ about CharHe. He is aU right now. He 
 is not the man to lose the good of his Hfe because a silly girl 
 doesn't know her ovm mind. * There 's as good fish in the 
 sea,' you know. If you are going to be sorry for any one, lot 
 it be for Rosie. She has lost a rare chance for happiness in 
 the love of a good man." , , , ^ a 
 
 "But it may not be lost," murmured Graeme. 
 
 "I am afraid it is," said Harry, gravely. "It is not in 
 Rose to do justice to CharHe. Even you don't do it, Graeme. 
 Because he lives just a common-place Hfe, and buys and sells, 
 and comes and goes, Hke other men, you women have not the 
 discrimination to see that he is one of a thousand. As for 
 31 
 
■TWT^r^'^VrrrriyrrvT ■^•«~i -^ "-".-tt^t^p^.^ jr^js^Tt^P?^ ■ 
 
 498 Janet's love and seevioe. 
 
 Bose, vdih her Fomonce, and her nonoense, she is lookmg for 
 a hero and a paladin, and doe3 not know a true heart when 
 it is laid at her feet. I only hope she wont * wait for the hats 
 till the blue-bonnets go by/ as Janet used to say." 
 
 " As I have done, you would like to add," said Graeme, 
 laughing, for her heart was growing light. "And Harry, 
 dear, Rosie never had anybody's heart laid at her feet It is 
 you who are growing foolish and romantic, in your love for 
 your friend.*' 
 
 " Oh ! well. It does n't matter. She will never have it 
 now. CharHe is all right by this time. Her high and mighty 
 airs have cured him, and her flippancy and her love of admi* 
 ration. Fancy her walking off to-day with that red-headed 
 fool, and quite ignoring Mrs. Roxbury and her daughter, 
 when they — Miss Roxbury, at least — ^wanted to see her to 
 engage her for this evening." 
 
 " He is not a fool, and he cannot help his red hair," said 
 Graeme, laughing, though there was both sadness and vexa- 
 tion in her heart. " The Goldsmiths might have called her 
 * high and mighty ' if she had left them and gone quite out 
 of her way, as she must have done, to speak to those ' fine 
 carriage people.* She could only dioose between the two 
 parties, and I think poHteness and kindness suggest^ed the 
 propriety of going on with her friends, not a love of a>dmirar 
 tion, as you seem determined to suppose." 
 
 " She need not have been rude to the Roxburys, however. 
 Oharlie noticed it as well as I." 
 
 "I think you are speaking very foolishly, Harry," said 
 Graeme. "What do th''- Roxbuiys care for any of us ? Do 
 you suppose Mrs. Roxbury would notice a slight from a young 
 girl like Rose. And she was not rude." 
 
 " No, perhaps not ; but she was poUte in a way so distant 
 and dignified, so condescending, even, that I was amazed, and 
 so was Charlie, I know, though he did not say so.** 
 ' " Nonsense, Harry I Rose knows them but very slightiy. 
 And what has Mr. Millar to do with it ?" 
 
 "Mr. Millar I" exclaimed Harry. "Do be reasonable, 
 
Janet's love and seevioe. 499 
 
 Graeme. Is it not of Mr. Millar that we have been speaking 
 all this time ? He has everything to do with it. And as for 
 not knowing them. I am sure Eose was at first delighted 
 with Miss Eoxbury. And Amy was as delighted with her, 
 and wanted to be intimate, I know. But Bose is such a 
 flighty, flippant little thing, that " 
 
 " That will do, Harry. Such remarks may be reserved for 
 Mr. Millar's hearing. I do not choose to listen to them. 
 You are very unjust to Rose." 
 
 "It is you who are unjust, Graeme, and unreasonable, and 
 a little out of temper, which does not often happen with you. 
 I am sure I don't understand it." 
 
 Graeme laughed. 
 
 "Well, perhaps I am a little out of temper, Harry, I 
 know I am dreadfully tired. We won't say anything more 
 about it to-night, except that I don't like to have Bose mii»> 
 understood." 
 
 " I was, perhaps, a little hard on Bosie, once, but I don't 
 think I misunderstand her," said Harry, wisely. " She is 
 just like other girls, I suppose ; only, Graeme, you have got 
 me into the way of thinking that my sisters should not be 
 just like other girls, but a great deal better in every way. 
 And I shan't be hard on her any more, now that it is all 
 light vdtli Ohaxlie." 
 
 But was it all right with Charlie? Graeme's talk with 
 Harry had not enlightened her much. Had pretfy, gentle 
 Amy Boxbury helped Charlie " to get over it," as Harry's 
 mamier of speaking seemed to imply ? Or did Charlie still 
 care for Bose ? And had Bose ever cared for him " in that 
 way?" Was Bose foolish, and flippant, and fond of admira- 
 tion, as Harry declared ; and was she growing dissatisfied 
 with their quiet, uneventful life? Was it this that had 
 brought over her the change which could not be talked 
 about or noticed, which, at most times, could not be behoved 
 in, but which, now and then, made itself evident as very real 
 and very sad ? Or was it something else that was bringing a 
 doud and a shadow over the life of her young sister ? Evea 
 
500 Janet's love and sebyioe. 
 
 in her thoughts, Graeme Bhrunk from admitting that Bose 
 might be coming to the knowledge of her own heart too late 
 for her happiness. 
 
 *' I will not believe that she has all that to pass through. 
 It cannot be so bad as that. I will have patience and tmsi 
 I cannot speak to her. It would do no good. I will wait 
 and trust." 
 
 Graeme sat long that night listening to the quiet breath- 
 ing of her sleeping sister ; but all the anxious thoughts that 
 passed through her mind could only end in this : " I will 
 wait and trust" «» 
 
 ££y7;l '. ■■■.■]■■' ■■ ■ v- a i. 
 
CHAPTER XL. 
 
 y^ BAEME awoke in the morning to wonder at all the 
 \Jf doubts and anrieties that had filled her mind in the 
 darkness ; for she was aroused by baby kisses on her lips, 
 and opened her eyes to see her sister Eose, with her nephew 
 in her arms, and her face as bright as the May morning, 
 Bmiling down upon her. Bose disappointed and sad I Bose 
 hiding in her heart hopes that were never to be realized I 
 She listened to her voice, ringing through the house, like the 
 voice of the morning lark, and wondered at her own folly. 
 She laughed, as Bose babbled to the child in the wonderful 
 baby language in which she so excelled ; but tears of thank- 
 fulness rose to her eyes as she remembered the fears of the 
 uigbt, and set them face to face with the joy of the morning. 
 
 " I could not have borne it," she said to herself. " I am 
 oEraid I never could have borne to see my darling drooping, 
 as she must have done. I am content with my own lot. I 
 think I would not care to change anything the years have 
 
 brought to me. But Eosie . Ah I well, I might have 
 
 known! I know I ought to trust for Bosie, too, even if 
 trouble were to come. But oh ! I am very glad and thankful 
 for her sake." 
 
 She was late in the breakfast-room, and she found Hany 
 there. 
 
 " ' The early bird,' you know, Graeme," said he. " I have 
 been telhng Bosie what a scolding you were giving me last 
 night on our way home." 
 
 " But he won't tell me what it was all about," said Bose. 
 
 "I cannot. I don't know myself. I have an idea that 
 you had something to do with it, Bosie. But I can give no 
 
 (501) 
 
. * 602 ' Janet's love and service. 
 
 detailed account of the circamstances, as the newspapers 
 say." 
 
 "It is not absolutely necessary that you should," said 
 Graeme, smiling. 
 
 " I hope you are in a much better humor this morning, 
 Graeme." 
 
 " I think I am in a pretty good humor. Not that I confess 
 to being very cross last night, however." 
 
 "It was he who was cross, I daresay," said Kose. * Yoa 
 brought him away before supper I No wonder he was croea 
 Are you going to stay very long, Harry ?" 
 
 " Why ? Have you any conmiands for me to execute ?" 
 
 " No ; but I am going to introduce a subject that will try 
 your temper, judging from your conduct yesterday. I am 
 afraid you will be threatening to beat some one." 
 
 Harry shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " Now, Graeme, don't you call that flippant ? Is it any- 
 thing about the big doctor, Bode ?" 
 
 " You won't beat him, will you Harry ? No. It is only 
 about his sister. Graeme, Fanny has given me leave to in* 
 vite her here for a few days, if you have no objection. She 
 cannot be enjoying herself very much where she is staying, 
 and it wiU be a real holiday to the Httle thing to come here 
 for a while. She is very easily amused. She makes pleasure 
 out of everything. May n't she come ?" 
 
 " Certainly, if you would like her to come j I should like 
 to know her very much." 
 
 " And is the big brother to come, too ?" asked Arthur. 
 
 "No. He leaves town to-day. WiU you go with me, 
 Harry, to fetch her here ?" 
 
 " But what about * papa and mamma,* to whom you were 
 to be shown? The cunning, little thing has some design 
 upon you, Eosie, or, perhaps, on some of the rest of us." 
 
 Bose laughed. * 
 
 "Don't be frightened, Harry. You are safe, as you are not 
 domesticated with us. And I intend to show myself to 
 .., * papa and TnaTmna * later, if you don't object." ^ 
 
Janet's love and sebyiob. 
 
 "There! look at Graeme. She thinks you and I are 
 quarrelUng, Rosie. She is as grave as a judge." 
 
 " Tell us about the party, Harry," said Fanny. 
 
 " It was very pleasant I don't think Graeme enjoyed it 
 much, however. I wonder, too, that she did not, for there 
 were more nice people there than we usually see at parties. 
 It was more than usually agreeable, I thought" 
 
 "You are degenerating, Harry," said his brother. "I 
 thought you were beyond all that sort of thing. I should 
 have thought you would have found it slow, to say the least." 
 
 " And then to make him lose the supper I It was too bad 
 of you, Graeme," said Rose. 
 
 " Oh I she did n't I went back again." 
 
 They all exclaimed. Harry, only, laughed. 
 
 " Can I do anything for you and your friend, Rosie ? " 
 asked he. 
 
 " Yes, indeed you can. I intend to make a real holiday for 
 the Httle thing. We are open to any proposal in the way of 
 pleasure, riding, driving, boating, picnidng, one and all." 
 
 " It is very kind of you, Harry, to oflfer," said Graeme. 
 
 " Hem I not at all. I shall be most happy," said Harry. 
 
 " Oh ! we shall not be exacting. We are easily amused, 
 Httle Etta and L" 
 
 Miss Goldsmith's visit was a success. She was a very nice 
 little girl, whose life had been passed in the country — not in 
 a village even, but quite away from neighbors, on a farm, in 
 which her father had rather unfortunately invested the greater 
 part of his means. It might not prove to be unfortunate in 
 the end, Etta explained to them, because the land was valuable, 
 only in the meantime it seemed to take all the income just to 
 keep things going. But by and by she hoped farming would 
 pay, and the place was beautiful, and they lived very happily 
 there, if they only had a little more money, Etta added 
 gravely. 
 
 Dick was the hero who was to retrieve the faUen fortunes 
 of the family, Etta thought. He was her only own brother. 
 All the rest of the children were only her half-brothers and 
 
604 ' Janet's love and service. 
 
 sisters. But notwithstanding the hard times to which Etta 
 confessed, they were a very happy family, it seemed, 
 
 Everything was made pleasure by this httlo girl. It was 
 pleasure just to drive through the streets, to see the well- 
 dressed people, to look in at the shop windo^rs. Shopping was 
 pleasure though she had little to spend. An hour in a boob 
 seller's, or in a tasiciy shop, was pleasure. The churches, old 
 and new, were wonderful to her, some for one reason, some 
 for another. Bose and she became independent and strong- 
 minded, and went everywhere without an escort. They spent 
 a day in wandering about the shady walks of the new cemetery, 
 and an afternoon gazing down on the city from the cathedral 
 towers. They paid visits and received them ; and, on rainy 
 days, worked and read together with great deKght, if not 
 with much profit Rose, with both heart and hands, helped 
 her friend to make the most of her small allowance for dress; 
 and contrived, out of odds and ends, to make pretty, inexpen- 
 sive ornaments for her, and presents for her little brothers 
 and sisters at home. She taught her new patterns in crochet, 
 and new stitches in Berlin wooL She even gave her a music 
 lesson, now and then, and insisted on her practising, daily, 
 that she might get back what she had lost since she left 
 school, and so be able the better to teach her Httle sisters 
 when she went home. In short, she contrived to fill up the 
 time with amusement, or with work of some sort. Not a 
 moment but was occupied in some way. 
 
 Of course, Graeme was sometimes included in their plans 
 for the day, and so were Fanny and baby, but for the most part 
 the young girls were occupied with each other ; and the visit, 
 which was to have been for a few days, lengthened out beyond 
 the month, and might have been longer than that, ever, only 
 Bose had a slight, feverish attack which cor fined her to her 
 room for a day or two, and then Etta could no longer hide 
 from herself that she ought to go home. 
 
 " I hope I shall not find that this pleasant time has spoiled 
 me. I tlunk papa and mamma are somewhat afraid. I mean to 
 be good, and contented, and helpful ; but I know I am only a 
 
Janet's love and serviok. 606 
 
 Billy little thing. Oh ! Bosie I if you were only going home 
 witii me for a little while ! " 
 
 " I should like it very much, indeed," said Rose. 
 
 "Of course, everything is very different at our house, but 
 you would n't mind that. Miss Elliott, do n't you think you 
 could spare Rose to me for a few days ? " 
 
 Graeme shook her head. 
 
 " I think I have spared her to you a good many days. I 
 have seen very little of her for a long time, I think.'* 
 
 Miss Goldsmith looked grieved and penitent. 
 
 " Nonsense, Etta," said Rose ; " she is only laugliing at you. 
 She has had you and me, too. And I should like very much 
 to go with you. This is the nicest time of the year to be in 
 the country, I think. What do you say Graeme ? " 
 
 Little Etta clasped her hands, and looked at Graeme so in- 
 treatingly, that Rose laughed heartily. But Graeme said 
 notJung encouraging. However, the very hottest days of the 
 sommer came that season among the first June days, and, be- 
 cause of the heat, Graeme thought Rose did not recover from 
 her illness so quickly as she ought to have done. She was 
 languid and pale, though pretty busy still, and cheerful, and 
 Graeme proposed that she should go with her , id for a 
 few days, at least. Etta was enchanted 
 
 "I am afraid my resolutions about being good, and helping 
 mamma, and teaching the httle ones, would have fallen 
 through, for I know I am a foolish giii. But with Rose to 
 help me, just at first, I shall succeed I know." 
 
 " Do n't be siUy, Etta," said Rose. " You are a great deal 
 wiser and better, and of a great deal more use in the world, 
 than ever J. was, or am like to be. All my wisdom is lip-wis- 
 dom, and 1 ay goodness hp-goodness. If they will help you, 
 you shall 'iave the benefit of them ; but pray do n't make me 
 blush before Graeme and Fanny, who know me so well" 
 
 No time had to be lost in preparations. The decision was 
 made one day, and they were to leave the next. Harry, with 
 his friend and partner, came up one night to bid Miss Gold- 
 ^ith good-bye, and heard for the first time of Rose's inten- 
 
506 Janet's love and sebvice. 
 
 tion to go with her. Harry did not hear it with pleasure, 
 indeed ; he made no secret of his vexation. There was a htUe 
 bantering talk between them, in the style that Graeme di» 
 liked so much, and then Rose went away for a few minutea 
 
 " Graeme," said Harry, " what is all this about? It seems to 
 me Rose ought to have had enough of her Uttle friend by this 
 time. What freak is this she has taken about the country, 
 and a change of air, and nonsense ? " 
 
 "If it is a freak, it is mine." said Graeme, quietly. "Rose 
 needs a change. She is not ill, but still she is not quite well, 
 and I am very glad she is to go with Miss Goldsmith." 
 
 " A change," repeated Harry, " Why could she not go 
 with Fanny to the seaside, if she needs a change ? " 
 
 " But Fanny is not going for several weeks yet. Rose will 
 be home before that time. She will not be away more than a 
 fortnight, I hop&" 
 
 " A fortnight, indeed I What has the time to do with it ? It 
 is the going at all that is so foolish. You astonishme, Graeme." 
 
 " You astonish me, Harry I Really I cannot understand 
 why you should care so much about it." 
 
 " Well, well ! If you are pleased, and she is pleased, I need 
 not trouble myself about it," said Harry, sulkily. h 
 
 " What has happened to you, Harry ? " said Fanny. "You 
 are not like yourself to-night.^ 
 
 " He is a great deal more like the Harry of old times," said 
 Graeme. "Like the Harry you used to know long ago, Mr. 
 Millar, than like the reasonable, dignified person we have had 
 among us lately." 
 
 " I was just thinking fio," said Mr. Millar. 
 
 " Why diould not Rosie go ? " persisted Fanny. " I think it 
 must be a very stupid place, from all that Etta says ; still, if 
 Rose wishes it, why should she not go ? " 
 
 " I believe it is the big brother Harry is afraid o^" said 
 Arthur, laughing. Graeme and Fanny laughed, too. 
 
 " I don't think it is a laughing matter," growled Hany. 
 " How would you like it if she were to throw herself away on 
 that red-headed giant ? " i. 
 
Janet's love and service. 607 
 
 Arihtir and Fanny laughed, still, but Graeme looked grave. 
 
 "It would be just like a silly girl like Rose," continued 
 Harry, gloomily. 
 
 "Harry," said Graeme, " I think you are forgetting what is 
 due to your sister. You should be the last person to couple 
 Bose's name with that of any gentleman." 
 
 " Of course, it is only among ourselves ; and, I tell you, 
 Graeme, you are spoiling Rosie— " 
 
 " Harry I be quiet. I dont choose to listen to you on that 
 subject. " 
 
 " I declare, Harry, you are getting morbid on the subject 
 of Bosie's conquests. It is the greatest folly imaginable," 
 said Arthur. 
 
 " Well, it may be so. At anyrate, I shall say no more. 
 Are you coming, CharHe ? I must go." 
 
 He went to the foot of the stairs, and called: 
 
 " Eose, are you coming down again ? I must go." 
 
 Rose came flying down. 
 
 " Must you go, Harry ? I am just done with what I need- 
 ed to do. Don't be cross with me, Harry." And greatly to 
 his surprise, as she put her arms around his neck, he felt her 
 tears upon his cheek. 
 
 "Why, Rosie, what ails you? I didn't mean to be cross, 
 Eosie, my darling." 
 
 But, in a minute. Rose was smiling through her tears. 
 
 "Rosie, dear," whispered her brottier, "you are a very silly 
 little girL I think you are the very silliest girl I know. I 
 ^nsh— " 
 
 Rose wiped her eyes. 
 
 " Don't go yet, Harry. I will come in immediately ; and . 
 please don't tell Graeme that I am so silly. She wound n't 
 like it at aU." 
 
 " Graeme is as silly as you are," growled Hany. 
 
 Rose laughed, and ran. up stairs, but came down in a min- 
 ute with Miss Goldsmith. Harry had brought a great paper 
 of sweets for the little sisters at home, for which Etta thank* 
 ed him very prettily, and then she said : * 
 
608 janet'b love akd sebvioe. 
 
 " I hope you are not afraid to trust Rose with us ? "We will 
 take great care of her, I assure you." 
 
 " Since I am too silly to take care of myself," said Rose. 
 
 They had a pleasant evening enough, aU things consider* 
 ed, and it was some time before Harry and his friend went 
 away. 
 
 " I must say good-bye for a long time, Miss Rose," said Mr. 
 Millar. " I shall have sailed before you are home again, I 
 suppose." 
 
 " You go in the first steamer, then ? " 
 
 " I don't know, I am not quite sure yet. I have not quite 
 decided." 
 
 " Of course, he goes by the first steamer," said Harry. 
 " He should have gone long ago. There is no use dwelling 
 longer over so simple a matter." 
 
 Rose opened her eyes very wide. 
 
 " Is that the way you speak to your friend and partner ? " 
 said Fanny. 
 
 " Really, Harry, I am afraid your fine temper is being 
 spoiled," said Rose. " I think Mr. Millar is very good not 
 to mind you." 
 
 " I understand Harry," said his friend. 
 
 "You don't understand yourself, nor what is good for 
 you. Gk)od-bye, dear, silly, Httle Rose." 
 
 " Good-bye, Harry. Don't be cross." 
 
 " Rose," said Graeme, when they were up stairs alons for 
 the night, " I think it is the big brother that put Harry out 
 of temper to-night." Rose laughed. 
 
 "He seems quite afraid of him," continued Graeme. 
 
 " And you are a Httle bit afraid of him, too, Graeme, or 
 you never would have told me about Harry." 
 
 " No. But I am just a Httle afraid for him," 
 
 " You need not be. Harry thinks my desire for admira* 
 tion insatiable, I know, but it is too bad of you, Graeme, to 
 intimate as much. I have a great mind to tell you a secret, 
 Graame. But you must promise nc t to tell it again ; at least, 
 not yet." 
 
JANEt's love and 8ERVI0E. 609 
 
 " Well," said Graeme. 
 
 "If I should stay away longer than I mean to do at present, 
 and Harry should get very unhappy about me, perhaps you 
 might tell him. Harry thinks I cannot manage my own 
 afliairs," added Rose, a vivid color rising on her cheeks. " And 
 he has a mind to help me. He has not helped me much, 
 yet Ah 1 well, there is no use going over all that." 
 
 " What is the secret you are going to tell me ? '' asked 
 Graeme. 
 
 "I don't know whether I ought to tell. But it will be safe 
 with you. Graeme, the big doctor is engaged." 
 
 " Well," said Graeme. 
 
 "It is not all smooth sailing, yei I am afraid it may inter- 
 fere somewhat with his success in retrieving the fortunes of 
 the family, as Etta has always been hoping he might do. But 
 she is quite pleased for all that, poor, dear, Httle thing. See 
 that you don't tell Harry." 
 
 "Well, is that all you have to say on the subject? " asked 
 her sister. 
 
 " Graeme 1 I do believe you are as bad as Harry. Do you 
 fancy that it is I to whom Dr. Goldsmith is engaged ? By 
 no means. I am afraid it is a foolish aS^aJr ; but it may fall 
 through yet. She is a young widow, and has two children, 
 and a little money. No. It is very foolish of Harry to fancy 
 things. He is very stupid, I think. But you are not to tell 
 him, because, really, the secret is not mine, and besides, I 
 have another reason. Good-night, dear." 
 
 And so they went away in the morning. Rose's visit to 
 the countiy was quite as agreeable as had been Miss Gold- 
 smith's to the town, judging from the time she stayed there, 
 and from the letters she sent home. The country was lovely, 
 and she wondered any one would live in the city who could 
 leave it. She kept a journal for Graeme, and it was filled 
 with accounts of rides, and drives, and sails ; with, now and 
 then, hints of work done, books read, of children's lessons, and 
 torn frocks, of hay-making, and butter-making ; and if 
 Graeme had any misgiving as to the perfect enjoyment of 
 
610 Janet's love and seevioe. 
 
 her sister, it could not have been her letters that had any- 
 thing to do with it. 
 
 At last there came word of an expedition to be undertaken 
 to a lake far away in the woods, where there were pond-lilies 
 and lake trout in abundance. They were to carry a tent, 
 and be out one night, perhaps two, and Mr. and Mrs. Gold- 
 smith were going with them, and all the children as well. 
 This was the last letter. Bose herself came soon after, to 
 find a very quiet house, indeed. Fanny and her son had 
 gone to the seaside, whither Graeme and Rose, perhaps, might 
 go, later. Mr. Millar had gone, too, not by the first steamer, 
 nor by the second, however. If Eose had been home two 
 days sooner, she might have seen him before he went, Harry 
 told her ; aad Rose said, " What a pity I If I had only known. 
 I could so easily have come I " That was all. 
 
 How quiet the house was during those long summer days! 
 It was like the coming again of the old time, when they and 
 NeUy used to have tiie house in the garden to themselves, 
 mth. only Will, coming and going, till night brought the 
 brothers home. 
 
 " What happy, happy days they were I " said Rose, with a 
 
 "They loere happy days," said Graeme. "Very happy 
 days." ' 
 
 She did not seem to hear the regretful echo in her sister's ' 
 voice, nor did she take her to task for the idle hands that lay - 
 folded on her lap, nor disturb by word or look the times of ^ 
 silent musing, that grew longer and more frequent as those 
 uneventful days passed on. What was to be said? The 
 doubts and fears that had made her unhappy in the spring, 
 and even before the spring, were coming back again. Rose - 
 was not at peace vdth herself, nothing was easier to be seen^ 
 than that ; but whether the struggle was with pride, or anger, 
 or disappointment, or whether all these and something more 
 had to do with it, she could only wait till time, or chance, or 
 Bose of her owjl free vnU, should telL 
 
 For Graeme could not bring herself to speak of the trouble 
 
"'c ■■',;. ■_^;'j,fi..' t.fi'T''. 
 
 ' Janet's love and service. 511 
 
 which her sister, sad and preoccupied, in so many nameless 
 ways betrayed. She would not even seem to see it, and so 
 Btrove to make it appear that it was her own industry, her 
 occupation with book, or pen, or needle, that made the si- 
 lence between them, on those days when Eose sat listless or 
 brooding, heedless of books, or work, or of whatever the 
 day might bring. And when the fit of gloom wore over, or 
 when, startled by some sudden fear of being observed, she 
 roused herself, and came back with an e£fort to the things 
 about her, Graeme was always ready, yet not too eager, to 
 make the most of excuses. Either the heat made her lan- 
 guid, or the rain made her dull, or the yesterday's walk had 
 been exhausting ; and Graeme would assent, and warn or 
 reprove, as the case seemed to require, never intimating, by 
 word or look, how clearly she saw through it all, and how 
 she grieved and suffered with her. 
 
 And, when seized upon by restlessness or impatience, she 
 grew irritable and eiuicting, and ''ill to do with," as Janet 
 would have said, Graeme stood between her and the wonder 
 and indignation of her brothers, and, which was harder to 
 do, shielded her from her own an^ sr and self-contempt, when 
 she came to herself again. She went out with h^ for long 
 walks, and did what was kinder still, she let her go by her* 
 sel^ to rest her mind by tiring out her body, at times when 
 the fever fit was on her, making her fret and chafe at trifles 
 that would have made her laugh if all had been well with 
 her. 
 
 It was an anxious time to Graeme. When their brothers 
 were with them, Rose was little different from the Bose of 
 old, as &r as they could see ; and, at such times, even Graeme 
 would be beguiled into a momentary belief that she had 
 been letting her fears speak^ when there was Httle cause. 
 But another day would come, bringing the old Ustlessness or 
 restlessness, and Graeme could only watch and wait for the 
 moment when a cheerful word, or a chiding one, might be 
 spoken for her sister's good, or a movement of some kind 
 made to beguile her into occupation or pleasure for a little 
 
612 Janet's love and service. 
 
 while. But, through all her watching, and waiting, and 
 anxiety, Graeme spoke no word that might betray to her 
 siHter her knowledge that something was amiss with her. 
 
 For, indeed, what could she say? Even in her secret 
 *^hi/jghts she had shrunk from looking too closely on the 
 cloud of trouble that had fallen on the life of her young 
 sister. "Was it misunderstanding, or wounded pride, or dis- 
 appointment ? Or was it something which time and change 
 might not so easily or so surely dispel ? There were no 
 words to be spoken, however it might be. That was plain 
 enough, Graeme said to herself, remembering some years of 
 her own experience, and the silent life she had lived unsus- 
 pected among them all. 
 
 Not that any such trouble as had befallen her, had come 
 upon Kose. That was never for a moment to be believed. 
 Nothing that had happened to Rose, or was like to happen, 
 could so change life to her as hers had been changed. Eose 
 was wiser and stronger than she had been, and she was 
 younger, too, and, perhaps, as Janet had said, " of a Ughter 
 nature." Graeme comforted herself thus, saying to herself 
 that the cloud would pass away ; and she waited and watch- 
 ed, and cared for her, and soothed or chided, or sbielded her 
 still. She did all this sorrowfully enough at times, yet hope- 
 fully, too, for she knew that whatever the trouble might be 
 that, for the present, made the summer days a weariness to 
 the desponding girl, it would pass away ; and so she waited, 
 and had patience, and prayed that, out of it all, she might 
 come wiser and stronger, and more fitted for the work that 
 was awaiting her somewhere in the world. 
 
 " Graeme," said her sister, one day when they had been 
 sitting for a long time silent together, " suppose we wore to 
 go and see Norman and Hilda this fall, instead of in the 
 spring, as they propose." 
 
 " Would you hke it ? " asked Graeme, a little surprised. 
 
 " Yes. For some things I would like it ;" and Graeme fencied 
 there was suppressed eagerness in her manner. " It is a 
 better season to go, for one thing — a better season for health. 
 
janet'b love and seeviob. 513 
 
 I mean. One bears the change of climate better, they say.** 
 
 "But you have been here so short a time. What would 
 Arthur say,, and Fanny? It would look as if you only 
 thought yourself a visitor here — as if your home was with 
 Norman." i 
 
 Bose shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "Well! neither Arthur nor Fanny would be inconsolable. 
 The chances are it may be my home. It is worth taking into 
 consideration. Indeed, I have been considering the matter 
 for some time pasi" 
 
 "Nonsense! Don't talk foolishly, Bose. It is not long 
 ainoe you wished me to promise that we should always re- 
 main together, and I have no thought of going West to stay 
 Tery long.** 
 
 "And why not? I am sure Norman has a right to 
 grumble at our being here so long." 
 
 "Not at you, Bosie." 
 
 "No. Not at me. And, besides, I was not thiTiTring of 
 Norman, altogether. I was thinking of making a home for 
 myself out there. Why not ? *' 
 
 Graeme looked up, a Uttle startled. 
 
 "I don't understand you, Bose." 
 
 Bose laughed. 
 
 " No, you don't. But you think you do. Of course, there 
 is only one way in which a woman can have a home according 
 to the generally received opinion. It must be made for her. 
 But one might fancy you should be beyond that by this 
 time, Graeme," added Bose, a httle scornfully. 
 
 Graeme said nothing, and Bose went on. 
 
 "It would not be easy here, I know ; but out there you 
 and I could make a home to ourselves, and be independent, 
 and have a life of our own. It is so different there. You 
 ought to go there just to understand how very different it 
 is.'* ..:^ :'.■-.-.■ 
 
 "If we needed a home," said Graeme. " But, Bose, I am 
 content with the home we have." i^^-^ . 
 
 " Content 1 " repeated Bose, impatiently. " There is surely 
 32 
 
■j'-:« .■!;:■»■, 
 
 614: JANET'S LOVE AND BEJiVICE. 
 
 something better than content to be looked for in the ■vrorld;* 
 and she rose and walked about the room. 
 
 "Content is a very good thing to have," said Graeme, 
 quietly. 
 
 " Yes, if one could have it. But now, Graeme, do tell me 
 what is the good of such a life as we are hving now? — as I 
 am living, I ought to say. Your life and work are worth a 
 great deal to the rest of us ; though you must let me say I 
 often wonder it contents you. Think of it, Graeme ! What 
 does it all amount to, as far as I am concerned, I mean? A 
 Kttle working, and reading, and music ; a htUe visiting and 
 housekeeping, if Fanny be propitious — coming, and going, 
 and smiling, and making believe enjoy it, when one feels 
 ready to fly. I am sick of the thought of it all." 
 
 Graeme did not answer her. She was thinking of the time 
 wheu she had been as impatient of her daily life as this, and 
 of how powerless words, better than she could hope to speak, 
 had been to help her ; and though she smiled and shook her 
 head at the young girFs impetuous protest against the use- 
 lessness of her life, her eyes, quite unconsciously, met her 
 sister's with a look of wistful pity, that Rose, in her youthful 
 impatience and jealousy, was quick to resent. 
 
 "Of course, the rest would make an outcry and raise 
 obstacles — that is, if they were to be consulted at all," she 
 went on. But you ought to know better, Graeme," added 
 she, in a voice that she made sharp, so that her sister need 
 not know that it was very near being tearful 
 
 " But, Rose, you have not told me yet what it is you would 
 do, if you could have your own way. And what do you 
 mean by having a life of your own, and being independent ? 
 Have you any plan ?" 
 
 Rose sat down, with a little sigh of impatience. 
 
 " There is surely something that we could do, you and I 
 together. I can have no plan, you know quite well ; but you 
 
 might help me, instead of " Instead of laughing at me, 
 
 she was going to say, but she stopped, for though Graeme's 
 lips were smiling, her eyes had a shadow in them that looked 
 
Janet's love and service. 515 
 
 like coming tears ; and the gaze, that seemed resting on the 
 picture on the wall, went further, Rose knew ; but whether 
 into the past or the future, or whether it was searching into 
 the reason of this new eagerness of hers to be away and at 
 work, she could not tell. However it might be, it vexed and 
 fretted her, and she showed it by sudden impatient move- 
 ments, which recalled her sister's thoughts. 
 
 "What is it. Rose? I am afraid I was thinking about 
 something else. I don't think I quite understand what you 
 were saying last," said Graeme, taking up her work as a safe 
 thing on which to fix her eyes. 
 
 «* For I must not let her see that I know there must be a 
 cause for this sudden wish for a new life," said she to her- 
 self. If she had done what she longed to do, she would 
 have taken the impatient, troubled child in her arms, and 
 whispered, as Janet had whispered to her that night, so long 
 ago, that the restless fever of her heart would pass away ; 
 she would have soothed and comforted her, with tender 
 words, as Janet had not dared to do. She would have 
 bidden her wait, and have patience with herself and her life, 
 till this cloud passed by — this light cloud of her summer 
 morning, that was only mist to make the rising day more 
 beautiful, and not the sign of storm and loss, as it looked to 
 her young, afirighted eyes. 
 
 But this she could not do. Even with certain knowledge 
 of the troubles which she only guessed, she knew it would 
 be vain to come to her with tender, pitying words, and worse 
 than vain to try to prove that nothing had happened to her, 
 or was like to happen, that could make the breaking up of 
 her old life, and the beginning of a new one, a thing to be 
 thought of by herself or those who loved her. So, after a few 
 stitches carefully taken, for all her sister could see, she said, 
 
 "And, then, there are so few things that a woman can do." 
 
 The words brought back so vividly that night in the dark, 
 when she had said them out of a sore heart to her friend, 
 that her work fell on her lap again, and she met her sister's 
 eye with a look that Rose could not understand. 
 
"■ ,^- 
 
 r JANET'S LOVE AND 6ERVICE. 
 
 not fihinlriTig of what I have been saying. "Wliy 
 ju. lo to me in that strange way?" said she, pettishly. 
 
 ''I am tii. nking of it, indeed. And I did not know that I 
 was looking any other than my usual way. I was saying to 
 myself, * Has the poor child got to go through all tibat for 
 herself, as I have done ?' Oh I Bosie, dear I if I could only 
 give you the benefit of all my vexed thoughts on that veiy 
 subject 1" 
 
 ** Well, why not ? That is just what I want. Only, don't 
 begin in that discouraging way, about there being so few 
 things a woman can do. I know all that, already." 
 
 " We might go to Norman for a while together, at any rate," 
 said Graeme, feeling how impossible it would be to satisfy one 
 another by what might be said, since aU could not be spoken 
 between them. 
 
 " Yes. That is just what I said, at firsi And we could 
 see about it there. We could much more easily make our 
 plans, and carry them out there, than here. And, in the 
 meantime, we could find plenty to do in Hilda's house with 
 the children and all the rest. I wish we could go soon." 
 
 And then she went over what she had often gone over be- 
 fore, the way of life in their brother Norman's house — Hilda's 
 housekeeping, and her way with her children, and in society, 
 and so on, Graeme asking questions, and making remarks, 
 in the hope that the conversation might not, for this time, 
 come back to the vexed question, of what women may do in 
 the world. It grew dark in the meantime, but they were 
 waiting for Harry and letters, and made no movement ; and, 
 by and by, Bose said, suddenly: 
 
 " I am sure you used to think about all this, Graeme— 
 about woman's work, and how stupid it is to Hve on in this 
 way, ' waiting at the pool,* as Hannah Lovejoy used to say. 
 I declare, it is undignified, and puts thoughts into people's 
 
 heads, as though . It would be different, if we were living 
 
 in our father's house, or, even, if we had money of our own. 
 You used to think so, yourself Graeme. Why should Arthur 
 and Harry do everything for us ?" 
 
Janet's love and sebviob. * 617 
 
 ** Yes, I remember. TOien Fajmy first come, I think I had 
 as many thoughts about all this as you have now. I was 
 very restless, and discontented, and determined to go away. 
 I talked to Janet about it one night." 
 
 " And she convinced you that you were all wrong, I sup- 
 pose," said Eose. " And you were content ever after." 
 
 "No. I don't think she helped me much, at the time. 
 Bat her ^eat doctrine of patience and quiet waiting, and cir* 
 cnmstances together, convinced me, afterward, that I did not 
 need to go in search of my work, as seemed to me then the 
 thing to do. I found it ready at my hand, though I could 
 not see it then. Her wisdom was higher than mine. She 
 said that out of it all would come content, and so it has." 
 
 " That was not saying much 1" said Bose. 
 
 "No. It did not seem to me much, when she said ii But 
 she was right, all the same, and I was wrong. And it has 
 all happened much better than if I had got my own way." 
 
 " But, Graeme, all that would not apply in the case of 
 women, generally. That is begging the question, as Harry 
 would say." 
 
 "But I am not speaking of women in general ; I am speak- 
 ing about myself, and my own work ; and I say Janet was wise, 
 though I was far from thinking it that night, as I mind welL'* 
 
 There was a pause, and then Bose said, in a low voice. 
 
 "It may have been right for you to stay at home then, and 
 care for the rest cA us, but it would be quite different now, with 
 me, and I think with you, too. And how many women have 
 to go and make a way of life for themselves. And it is right 
 that it should be so ; and Graeme, we might try." 
 
 Instead of answering her directly, Graeme said, after a lit- 
 tle while, 
 
 " Did I ever tell you Bose, dear, about that night, and all 
 that Janet said to me ? I told her how I wished to get out of 
 nay useless, unsatisfactory life, just as you have been telling 
 me. Did I ever tell you all she said to me ? I don't think I 
 ever did. I felt then, just as you do now. I think I can un- 
 derstand your feeling, better than you suppose ; and I open- 
 
518 jaitet'8 love and servioe. 
 
 ed my heart to Janet — I mean, I told her how sick I was of 
 it all, and how good-for-nothing I felt myself to be, and how 
 it all might be changed, if only I could find real work to 
 do " 
 
 And Graeme went on to tell much that had been said be- 
 tween them that night, about woman's work, and about old 
 maids, and a Uttle about the propriety of not setting one's 
 face against the manifest lot of woman ; and when she came 
 to this part of it, she spoke with an attempt at playfulness, 
 meant to cover, a little, the earnestness of all that went be- 
 fore. But neither in this nor in the rest, did she speak as 
 though she meant Bose to take the lesson to herself, or as 
 though it meant very much to either of them now; but 
 rather implied by her words and manner, and by many a 
 pathetic touch here and there, that she was dwelUng on it 
 as a pleasant reminiscence of the dear old friend, whose 
 quaint sayings were household words among them, because 
 of their wisdom, and because of the honor and the love they 
 gave her. Her earnestness increased, as, by and by, she saw 
 the impatience pass out of her sister's face and manner ; 
 and it never came into her mind that she was turning back 
 a page in her own experience, over which Rose had long ago 
 pondered with wonder and sadness. 
 
 " I could not make Janet see the necessity that seemed so 
 clear to me," she went on. " I could not make her under- 
 Btand, or, at least, I thought she could not understand, for 
 she spoke as though she thought that Fanny's comiu^^, and 
 those old vexations, made me wish to get away, and it was 
 not easy to answer her when she said that my impatience and 
 restlessness would all pass away, and that I must fulfill papa's 
 last wish, and stay with the rest I thought the time had come 
 when the necessity for that was over, and that another way 
 would be better for me, certainly ; and I thought for Arthur 
 and Fanny, too, and for you, Rosie. But, Oh ! how much wiser 
 Janet was than I, that night. But I did not think so at the 
 time. I was wild to be set free from the present, and to have 
 my own will and go away. It was well that circumstances 
 
Janet's love and bervioe. 519 
 
 ^rer© too strong for me It has come true, as Janet said. I 
 think it is better for us all that I have been at home all these 
 years. Fanny and I have done each other good. It has 
 been better for us all." 
 
 She paused a moment, and then added, 
 
 " Of course, if it had been necessary that I should go out 
 into the world, and make my own way, I might have done as 
 others have done, and won, at least, a measure of success. 
 And so we might still, you and I together, Kose, if it were 
 necessary, but that makes all the diflference. There is no quee- 
 tion of necessity for us, dear, at present, and as for God's 
 work, and work for our fellow creatures, we can find that at 
 home. Without separating from the others, I mean." 
 
 But Rose's face clouded again. 
 
 "There need be no question of separating from the others, 
 Graeme. Norman is out there, and there are hundreds of 
 women who have their own place and work in the world, who 
 have not been driven by necessity to look for them — the 
 necessity of making a living, I mean. There are other neces- 
 sities that a woman must feel — some more than others, I 
 snppose. It is an idle, foolish, vain life that I am hving. I 
 know that I have not enough to fill my life, Graeme. I know 
 it, though I don't suppose I can make you understand it. I 
 am past the age now to care for being petted, and amused, 
 and made much of by the rest of yoiL I mean, I am too old 
 now to feel that enough for my satisfaction. It is different 
 with you, who really are good for something, and who have 
 done so much for Arthur and Fanny, and us all And, be- 
 sides, as you say, you are content ; but as for me— oh I I 
 know there is no use talking. I could never make you under- 
 stand. ^There, I don't want to be naughty, and vex you— 
 
 and we will say no more to-night. Shall I get a light ? '* 
 
 She stooped over her sister, and kissed her, and Graeme, 
 putting her arms round her, said softly, 
 
 " Only one word more, Rosie. I think I can understand 
 you better than you beheve, as Janet understood me that 
 nighty though I did not see it then, and you must just let me 
 
'620 ' Janet's love and sebvios. 
 
 Bay one thing. My darling, I believe all that ia troubling 
 you, now, will pass away ; but, if I am wrong, and if it be 
 best that you have your own way about this work of yours— 
 I mean, if it is right— circumstances wiU arrange themselves 
 to that end, and it will all come easy for you, and me, too. 
 We shall keep together, at any rate, and I am not afraid. 
 And, love, a year or two does make a difference in people's 
 feelings about things, though there is no good in my saying it 
 to you, now, I know. But we will wait till Will, comes home. 
 We must be here to welcome him, even if his coming should 
 be delayed longer than we hope now. I don't like to think 
 of any plan for you and me, out of which Will must be left 
 And so many things may happen before a year is over. I 
 remember how restless and troubled I was at that time. I 
 don't like to think of it even now — and it is all past— quite 
 past. And we will stay together, whatever happens, if we 
 can, and, darling, you must have patience." 
 
 All this was said with many a caressing pause between, 
 and then Bose said, 
 
 "Well — ^yes — ^I suppose we must wait for WilL"- 
 
 But she did not say it cheerfuUy, and Graeme went on, 
 after a little : 
 
 '* And, dear, I have noticed more than once in my life that 
 when a quiet time like this has come, it has come as a time 
 of preparation for work of some sort ; for the doing, or the 
 bearing of God's will in some peculiar way ; and we must not 
 lose the good of these quiet days by being anxious about the 
 futiure, or regretful over the past It will all come right, love, 
 you may be sure of that.'* 
 
 The last words were spoken hastily, for Harry's voice was 
 heard, and Bose went softly out at one door, as he came in at 
 the other ; and when, in a little, he called from the foot of 
 the stairs, as he always did, when he did not find her in the 
 parlor, she came down, affecting surprise. 
 
 "So you axe here at last, Harry? Are there any letteors 
 tonight?" 
 
 Yos, there wore letters. Harry had read his, and gave 
 
Janet's love and service. 621 
 
 them the news with a little grumbling, while the gas was being 
 lighted. His friend and partner seemed intent on making 
 the most of his long delayed holiday, and was going to 
 lengthen it a little, by taking a run to Paris, perhaps even 
 to Bome. 
 
 "With whom do you think, Graeme?" added he, his 
 face clearing up suddenly. " With his brother Allan, and our 
 Will. Won't they help one another to have a good time ? 
 Charlie takes it quite coolly, however, I must say. It 
 was an even chance, at one time, whether he would go at all, 
 and now there is no telling when he will be back again. That 
 is always the way. I wonder when I shall have my holi- 
 day ? * The willing horse,' you know, Rosie." 
 
 " It is very hard on you, Harry dear. But I fancied you 
 had a little trip yourself lately, and enjoyed it too. Was 
 that in the interest of your friend ? " 
 
 " Hem I Yes — indirectly. I did enjoy it. Fanny says 
 she has had a very pleasant summer ; and, if you are going 
 down at all, Bosie, it is time you were going. They seem to 
 have a very nice set of people there. I think if you were 
 to go at once, I would take a run down with you — next week, 
 perhaps. I think you would enjoy it." 
 
 " I thank you, Harry dear. But you, know, Fanny's taste 
 and mine are different. I don't always fancy her pleasant 
 people. And I should not think of taking you away on my 
 account." 
 
 " Not at all. I shall go, at any rate. But I want you to 
 go, Bosie, for a reason I have. And I promise you won't 
 regret it. I wish Graeme would go, too." 
 
 " It would be charming if we could all go together," said 
 Rose. " But it would be hardly worth while, we could make 
 BO short a stay, now." 
 
 "I enjoyed it very much," said Harry. "One gets to 
 know people so much better in such a place, and I am sure 
 you would like the Roxburys, Bosie, if you would only take 
 pains to know them." 
 
 "My dear Harry! think what you are saying! Would 
 
522 janbt'b lovb and servicb. 
 
 they take pains to know me? They are Fanny's nice people, 
 are they? Yes, I suppose so. However, I don't believe 
 Graeme will care to go." 
 
 Graeme uttered an exclamation over her letter. 
 
 " It is from Mr. Snow," said she, with a pale face. 
 
 "Bad news ? " asked Harry. 
 
 It was bad news, indeed. It told, in Mr. Snow's brief way, 
 that, within a few days, the illness, from which his wife had 
 been suffering for some time, had taken a dangerous turn, 
 rendering an operation necessary ; and the letter was sent to 
 prepare them for a possible fatal result 
 
 •' It gives her a chance, and that is all the doctors will say. 
 She says it wiU be all right whichever way it turns. God 
 bless you all. Emily will tell you more." 
 
 *' Harry," said Graeme, as he laid down the letter. "I 
 must go to Janet." 
 
 " It would be a comfort to her if you could," said Harry, 
 gravely. 
 
 " And to me," said Graeme. " I shall go early to-morrow." 
 
 There was not much more said about it. There was a little 
 discussion about the trains, and the best way to take, and 
 then Harry went away. Eose had not spoken a word while 
 he was there, but the moment the door closed after him, she 
 said, softly, * • 
 
 " Harry does not think that I am going ; but, dear, you 
 promised that, whatever happened, we should keep together. 
 And, Graeme, the quiet time has been to prepare you for 
 this ; and we are sure it will all be right, as Janet says. Tou 
 will let me go with you, Graeme ?' she pleader' ; " you will 
 never go and leave me here ?" 
 
 So whatever Harry thought, Graeme could do nothing but 
 yield, and the next morning the sisters were speeding south* 
 ward, with fear in their hearts, but with peace and hope in 
 them, also ; for they knew, and they said to one another 
 many times that day, that tlie words of their dear old friend 
 would come true, and that in whatever way the trouble that 
 had fallen on her might end, it would be for her all well. 
 
CHAPTER XLl. 
 
 SEPTEMBER was nearly over ; there were tokens of the 
 coming Autumn on the hills and valleys of Merleville, 
 but the day was like a day in the prime of summer, and the 
 air that came in through the open windows of the south room 
 fell on Mrs Snow's pale cheeks as mild andbahny as a breeze 
 of June. The wood-covered hills were unfaded still, and 
 beautiful, though here and there a crimson banner waved, or 
 a pillar of gold rose up amid the greenness. Over among 
 the valleys, were sudden, shifting sparkles from half-hidden 
 brooks, and the pond gleamed in the sunshine without a cloud 
 to dim its brightness. In the broken fields that sloped to- 
 wards it, and in the narrow meadows that skirted that part of 
 the Merle river which could be seen, there were tokens of life 
 and busy labor — dark stretches of newly-turned mould alter- 
 nating with the green of the pastures, or the bleached stubble 
 of the recent harvest. There were glimpses of the white 
 houses of the village through the trees, and, now and then, a 
 traveller passed slowly along the winding road, but there was 
 nothing far or near to disturb the sweet quiet of the scene 
 ; now so famihar and so dear, and Mrs. Snow gazed out upon it 
 i with a sense of peace and rest at her heart which showed in 
 her quiet face and in her folded hands. 
 , It showed in Mr. Snow's face, too, as he glanced now and 
 then over the edge of the newspaper he was holding in his 
 hand. He was reading, and she was supposed to be listening, 
 to one of the excellent articles which weekly enriched the 
 columns of The Puritan, but the look that was coming and 
 going on his wife's face was not just the look with which she 
 was wont to listen to the doings of the County Association of 
 
 (523) 
 
624 Janet's love and service. 
 
 ministers, Mr. Snow thought, and, in a little, he let the paper 
 drop from his hand. 
 
 " Well, and how did they come on with their discussions ?" 
 paid Mrs. Snow, her attention recalled by the silence. 
 
 Mr. Snow smiled. 
 
 '' Oh I pretty much so. Their discussions will keep a spell, 
 I guess," said he, taking off his spectacles, and changing hid 
 seat so as to look out of the window. 
 
 *'It is a bonny day,** said Mrs. Snow, softly. 
 
 ** Tes, it is kind of pleasant." 
 
 There was nothing more said for a long time. Many 
 words were not needed between these two by this time. They 
 had been passing through weeks of sore trial ; the shadow 
 of death had seemed to be darkening over them, and, worse 
 to bear even than the prospect of death, had been the suffer- 
 ing which had brought it near. Worse for her, for she had 
 drawn very near to the unseen world — so near that the glory 
 had been visible, and it had cost her a struggle to be willing 
 to come back again ; and worse for him, too, whose heart 
 had grown sick at the sight of the slow, wearing pain, grow- 
 ing sharper every day. 
 
 But that was past now. Very slowly, but stiU surely, 
 health was coming back to the invalid, and the rest from 
 long pain, and the consciousness of retnndng strength, were 
 making the bright day and the fair scene more beautiftil 
 to her. As for him, he could only look at her with thankful 
 
 joy- 
 
 " I never saw this bonny place bonnier than it is toniay, 
 and so sweet, and quiet, and homelike. We Uve in a fair 
 world, and, on a day like this, one is ready to forget that there 
 is sin or trouUe in it" 
 
 "It is good to see you sitting there,** said Mr. Snow, for 
 answer. 
 
 " Well, I am content to be sitting here. I doubt I shall do 
 little else for the rest of my life. I must be a useless body, 
 Tm afraid," added she, with a sigh. 
 
 Mr. Snow smiled. 
 
Janet's love and servioe. 525 
 
 ** Ton know better than that,** said he. " I don*t sappoee 
 it seems much to you to get back again ; but it is a great 
 deal for the rest of us to have you, it it is only to look 
 at" 
 
 "I am content to bide my time, useless or useful, as God 
 wills,*' said his wife, gravely. 
 
 «I was willing you should go — ^yes, I do think I was will- 
 ing you should go. It was the seeing you suffer that seemed 
 to take the strength out of me," said he, with a shudder. ** It 
 makes me kind of sick to think about it," added he, rising 
 and moving about. "I believe I was willing, but I am 
 dreadfol glad to see you sitting there." .; i?-^ 
 
 " I am glad to be here, since it is God's will It is a won- 
 derful thing to stand on the very brink of the river of death, 
 and then to turn back again. I think the world can never 
 look quite the same to eyes that have looked beyond it to the 
 other sida But I am content to be here, and to serve TTirn, 
 whether it be by working or by waiting." 
 
 "On the very brink," repeated Mr. Snow, musingly. 
 " Well, it did look like that) one while. I wonder if I was 
 really willing to have you go. It don't seem now as if I 
 could have been— 'being so glad as I am that you did not go, 
 and so thankful." 
 
 *' I don't think the gladness contradicts the willingness; 
 and knowing you as I do, and myself as well, I wonder less 
 at the willingness than at the gladness." 
 
 This needed further consideration, it seemed, for Mr. 
 Snow did not answer, but sat musing, with his eyes fixed on 
 the distant hills, till Mrs. Snow spoke again. r :' 
 
 " 1 thought at first, when the worst was over, it was only a 
 respite from pain before the end ; but, to^y, I feel as if 
 my life was really coming back to me, and I am more glad to 
 live than I have been any day yet." 
 
 Mr. Snow cleared his t^oat and nodded his head a 
 great many times. It was not easy for him to speak at the 
 moment. .. ^ .-* 
 
 "If it were only May, now, instead of Septomberl Ton 
 
526 Janet's love and sebvioe. 
 
 always did find our winters hard ; and it is pretty tongh 
 being hiyed up so many months of the year. I do dread 
 the winter for you." 
 
 " Maybe it winna be so hard on me. We must make the 
 best of it anyway. I am thankful for ease from pain. That 
 is much." - 
 
 " Yes," said Mr. Snow, with the shudder that always came 
 with the remembrance of his wife's sufferings, " thank God 
 for thai I ain't a going to fret nor worry about the winter, 
 if I can help it. I am going to hve, if I can, from hour to 
 hour, and &om day to day, by the grace thtti lo given me ; 
 but if I could fix it so that Graeme would see it best to stop 
 here a spell longer, I should find it considerable easier, I 
 expect" 
 
 " But she has said nothing about going away yet," said 
 Mrs. Sno'K', smiling at his way of putting it. " You must 
 uu'ie the grace of her presence, day by day, as you do the 
 rest, at least till she shows signs of departure." 
 
 " We never can tell how things are going to turn," said 
 Mr. Snow, musingly. " There is that good come out of your 
 sickness. They are both here, and, as far as I see, they are 
 content to be here. If we could prevail on Will, to see it his 
 duty to look toward this field <d labor, now, I don't doubt 
 but we could fix it so that they should make their home here 
 always — aright here in this house, I mean — only it would be 
 'most too good a thing to have in this world, I 'm afraid." 
 
 " We must wait for the leadings of Providence," said his 
 wife. " This field, as you call it, is no' at Will's taking yet 
 What would your friend, Mr. Perry, think if he heard you? 
 And as for the others, we must not be over anxious to keep 
 them beyond what their brothers would like. But, as you 
 say, they seem content ; and it is a pleasure to have them 
 here, gretiter than I can put in words ; and I know you are 
 as pleased as I am, and that doubles the pleasure to me," 
 added Mrs. Snow, looking gratefully toward her husband. 
 ** It might have been so different" 
 
 Oh I come, now. It ain't worth while to put it in that 
 
 ««i 
 
JANEt'b love and SEETICT. " ***'' 527 
 
 way at this time of day. I don't know as you 'd allow it 
 exactly ; but I do think they are about as nigh to me as they 
 are to you. I really do." 
 
 " That 's saying much, but 1 11 no' gainsay it/' said Mrs. 
 Snow, smiling. "They are good bairns, and a blessing 
 wherever they may go. But I doubt we canna hope to keep 
 them very long with us." 
 
 " It is amazing to me. I can't seem to understand it, or 
 reconcile it to ." / - >v > 
 
 Mr. Snow paused and looked at his vnfe in the deprecating 
 manner he was wont to assume when he was not quite sure 
 whether or not she would like what he was going to say, and 
 then added : ^ ^ aii Af i 
 
 " However, she don't worry about ii She is just as con- 
 tented as can be, and no mistake ; and I rather seem to 
 remember that you used to worry a Httle about her when 
 they were here last" 
 
 **Aix)ut Miss Graeme, was it?" said Mrs. Snow, with a smile; 
 "maybe I did. I was as good at that as at most things. 
 Yes, she is content with life, now. God's peace is in her 
 heart, and in her hfe, too. I need not have been afraid." 
 
 " Eosie 's sobered down some, don't you think ?" said Mr. 
 Snow, with some hesitation. " She used to be as hvely as a 
 caidset Maybe it is only my notion, but she seems different" 
 
 " She 's older and wiser, and she Tl be none the worse to 
 take a soberer view of life than she used to do," said 
 Mrs. Snow. " I have seen nothing beyond what was to be 
 looked for in the circumstances. But I have been so full of 
 myself, and my own troubles of late, I may not have taken 
 notice. Her sister is not anxious about her ; I would have 
 leen that The bairn is gathering sense — that is all, I 
 vbink." : 
 
 " Well ! yes. It will be all right I don't suppose it will 
 be more than a passing cloud, and I might have known bet- 
 ter than to vex you with it" 
 
 " Indeed, you have not vexed me, and I am not going to 
 vex myself with any such thought It will all come right, as 
 
628 Janet's love and sebyioe. 
 
 yon say. I have seen her sister in deeper water than any 
 that can be about her, and she is on dry land now. 'And 
 hath set my feet upon a rock, and established my goings,' " 
 added Mrs. Snow, softly. " That is the way with my balni, I 
 believe. Thank God. And they 11 both be the better for 
 this quiet time, and we 11 take the good of it without wish-' 
 ing for more than is wise, or setting our hearts on what may 
 &iL See, they are coming down the brae together. It is 
 good to see them/' : 
 
 The first weeks of their stay in Merleville had been weeks 
 of great anxiety. Long after a very difficult and painfal 
 operation had been successfaUy performed, Mrs. Snow re* 
 maiaed in great danger, and the two girls gave themselves 
 up to the duty of nursing and caring for her, to the exdn- 
 sion of all other thoughts and interests. To Mr. Snow it 
 seemed that his wife had been won back to life by their de* 
 votion, and Janet herself when her long swoon of exhans' 
 tion and weakness was over, remembered that, even at the 
 worst time of all, a dim consciousness of the presence of her 
 darlings had been with her, and a wish to stay, for their 
 Bakes, had held her here, when her soul seemed floating away 
 to unseen worlds. 
 
 By a change, so gradual as scarcely to be perceptible, from 
 day to day, she came back to a knowledge of their loving 
 care, and took up the burden of her Hfe again. Not joyfaUy, 
 perhaps, having been so near to the attaining of heavenly 
 joy, but still with patience and content, willing to abide 
 Grod's time. „ .;. . .; j. i^.> .1;^ ... ;, j^i j^l 
 
 After that the days followed one another quietly and 
 happily, with little to break the pleasant monotony beyond 
 the occasional visits of the neighbors from the village, or the 
 coming of letters from home. To Graeme it was a very 
 peaceful time. Watching her from day to day, her old friend 
 could not but see that she was content with her life and its 
 work, now ; that whatever the shadow had been which had 
 fallen on her earlier days, it had passed away, leaving around 
 her, not the brightness of her youth, but a milder and more 
 
Janet's loyb abd bebyiob. 529 
 
 enduring radiance. Graeme was, in Janet* s eyes, just what 
 the daughter of her ftiiher and mother ought to be. If she 
 could have wished anything dianged, it would have b^ in 
 her circumstances, not in herself. She was not satisfied that 
 to her should be denied the higher happiness of being in a 
 home of her own — ^the first and dearest to some one worthy 
 of her love. 
 
 " And yet who knows ? " said she to herself. " One can 
 never tell in which road true happiness lies ; and it is not for 
 me, who can see only a httle way, to wish for anything that 
 God has not given her. * A contented mind is a continual 
 feast,' says the Book. She has that. And ' Blessed are the 
 meek, and the merciful, and the pure in heart.' What would 
 I have ? I '11 make no plans, and 111 make no wishes. It is 
 all in good hands, and there is nothing to fear for her, I am 
 
 sure of that. As for her sister . Well, I suppose there 
 
 will aye be something in the lot of those we love to make us 
 mindful that they need better help than ours. And it is too 
 far on in the day for me to doubt that good guidance will 
 come to her as to the rest.'* - 
 
 Still, after her husband's words, Mrs. Snow regarded 
 Bose's movements v^ith an earnestness that she was not quite 
 willing to acknowledge even to herself. It was rather unrea- 
 sonable of him, she thought at first, to be otherwise than 
 content with the young girl in her new sedateness. She was 
 not quite so merry and idle as during her lasi; visit ; but that 
 was not surprising, seeing she was older and vdser, and more 
 sensible of the responsibilities that life brings to alL It was 
 natural that it should be so, and well that it should be so. 
 It was matter for thankfulness that the years were bringing 
 her vdsdom, and that, looking on life with serious eyes, she 
 would not e:q)ect too much from it, nor be so bitterly disap- 
 pointed at its inevitable failures. She was quieter and 
 graver, but surely no feult was to be found v^dth that, seeing 
 there had been sickness and anidety in the house. 
 
 She was cheerful and busy too, Mrs. Snow saw, accomplish- 
 ing wonderful things in the way of learning to do housework^ 
 
 m 
 
530 Janet's love and sebyiob. 
 
 and dairy work, under the direction of Hannah, and oompori' 
 ing herself generally in a way that was winning the good 
 opinion of that experienced and rather exacting housekeeper. 
 She took great interest in out-of-door affairs, going daily with 
 the deacon to the high sheep pasture, or to the clearing he* 
 yond the swamp, or wherever else his oversight of farming 
 matters led him, which ought to have contented Mr. Snow, 
 his wife thought, and which might have done so if he had 
 been quite sure that her heart was in it alL 
 
 By and by Mrs. Snow wearied a Uttle for the mirthfalness 
 and laughter that had sometimes needed to be gently checked 
 daring her former visit. More than once, too, she &tncied 
 she saw a wistfal look in Graeme's eyes as they followed her 
 sister's movements, and she had much ado to keep from troiih- 
 ling herself about them both. .ft 
 
 They were sitting one day together in the south room 
 which looked out over the garden and the orchard and the 
 pond beyond. Bose was in the garden, walking listlessly up 
 and down the long paths between the flower-beds, and Mrs. 
 Snow, as she watched her, wondered within herself whether 
 this would be a good time to speak to Graeme about her 
 sister. Before she had time to decide, however, they were 
 startled by Hannah's voice coming round the comer — 
 
 " Rose," it said, " hadn't you just as leives do your walking 
 light straight ahead? 'Cause, if you had, you might take a 
 pitcher and go, over to Emily's and borrow some yeast. I 
 don't calculate, as a general thing, to get out of yeast, or any 
 thing else, but the cat 's been and keeled the jug right down, 
 and spilled the last drop, and I want a little to set some more 
 to rising." 
 
 " Hannah," said Bose, with a penitent face, " I am afraid 
 it was my fault. I left the jug on the comer of the shelf, in- 
 stead of putting it away as I ought. I am very sorry." 
 
 "Well, I thought pretty likely it might be you, seeing it 
 wasn't me," said Hannah, grimly. " That jug has held the 
 yeast in this house since Grandma Snow's time, and now it 's 
 broke to forty pieces." -^ kj ^j 
 
Janet's love abtd servioe. * 681 
 
 *»0h, I am so sorry 1" said Kose. 
 
 "Well, I guess it don't matter a great sight Nobody will 
 worry about it, if / don't, and it's no use crying over spilt 
 milk. But I guess you'd better tell Emily how it happened. 
 I'd a little rather what borrowing there is between the two 
 houses should be on t'other side. I wouldn't have asked you, 
 only I thought you'd rather go than not. That walking up 
 and down is about as shiftless a business as ever you under- 
 t'^ok. But don't you go if you don't want to." 
 
 Rose shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "Oh I 111 go, and 111 tell Mrs. Nasmyth how it happened, 
 and that it was my fault and the cat's. Mrs. Snow," said she, 
 presenting herself at the window, " did you hear what Han- 
 nah has been saying? I have broken Grandma Snow's yeast 
 jug into forty pieces, and I am to go and confess to Emily, 
 and get some yeast." 
 
 "I thought it was the cat that did it ; though, doubtless, it 
 was your fault not putting it in its place. However, there is 
 no great harm done, so that you get more yeast to Hannah." 
 
 " And let Emily know that it is my fault and not Hannah's 
 that more yeast is needed. Graeme, wiU you come and have 
 a walk this bonny day ?" 
 
 " You can go and do Hannah's errand, now, and I will 
 stay with Mrs. Snow, and we will walk together later," said 
 Graeme. 
 
 " And you might bring wee Rosie home with you, if her 
 mother will spare her, and if she wants to come. But there 
 is no doubt of her wishing to come with you." 
 
 "Is anything the matter with your sister, that you follow 
 her with such troubled e'en?" asked Mrs. Snow, after a mo- 
 ment's silence. :. r .1 • • . 
 
 "Troubled e'en!" repeated Graeme. "No, I don't think 
 there is anything the matter with her. Do you? "Why should 
 you think there is anything the matter with her, Janet?" 
 
 "My dear, I was only asking you ; and it was because of 
 the look that you sent after her — a look that contradicts your 
 words— a thing that doesna often happen with you, be it said." 
 
682 ' ' * jijrEi's LOTE Ain> sebyiob. 
 
 "Did I look troubled? I don't think there is any reason 
 for it on Boede's account — any that can be told. I mean I 
 can only guess at any cause of trouble she may have. Just 
 for a minute, now and then, I have felt a little anxious, pe^ 
 haps ; but it is not at all because I think there is anything 
 seriously wrong with Bosie, or indeed anything that will not 
 do her good rather than harm. But oh, Janet I it is sad that 
 we cannot keep all trouble away from those we love." 
 
 " I canna agree with you, my dear. It would be ill done 
 to keep anything from her that will do her good and not; evil, 
 as you say yourself. But well or ill, you canna do it, and it 
 is foolish and wrong of you to vex yourself more than is 
 needfoL" 
 
 "But I do not, indeed. Just now it was her restless, aim- 
 less walking up and down that vexed me. I am foohsh, I 
 suppose, but it always does." 
 
 ** I daresay it may tell of an uneasy mind, whiles," said 
 Mrs. Snow, gravely. "I mind you used to be given to it your- 
 self in the old times, when you werena at ease with yourself. 
 But if you don't like it in your sister, you should encourage 
 her to employ herself in a purpose-like manner." i ^^ 
 
 " Hannah has done it for me this time — I am not sore^ 
 however." For Bosie was standing still at the gate looking 
 away down the hill towards the village, "thinking her o)im 
 thoughts, doubtless," Graeme said to herseli 
 
 " She 's waiting for some one, maybe. I daresay Sandy 
 has sent some one down to the village for the papers, as this 
 is the day they mostly come." 
 
 " Miss Graeme, my dear," continued Mrs. Snow, in a little, 
 "it is time you were thinking of overtaking all the visiting 
 you'll be espected to do, now that I am better. It will be a 
 while before youll get over all the places where they will 
 expect to see you, for nobody will like to be overlooked." 
 
 "Oh, I don't know I" said Graeme. "It is not just like 
 last time, when we were strangers and new to the people. 
 And we have seen almost everybody already. And I like this 
 quiet time much best" 
 
jAman^d loye and servigb. 683 
 
 "But, my dear, it is too laie to begin to think first of your 
 own likes and dislikes now. And it will be good for Bosie, 
 and you mustna tell me that you are losing interest in your 
 Merleville friends, dear ! That would be ungrateful, when 
 they aU have so warm an interest in you." 
 
 "No, indeed I I have not lost interest in my Merleville 
 friends. There will never be any place just like Merleville to 
 me. Our old life here always comes back to me like a happy, 
 happy dreauL I can hardly remember any troubles that 
 came to us all those seven years, Janet — till the very end." 
 
 " My dear, you had your troubles, plenty of them, or you 
 thought you had ; but the golden gleam of youth lies on your 
 thoughts of that time, now. There was the going away of the 
 lads, for one thing. I mind weU you thought those partings 
 hard to bear." 
 
 "Yes, I remember," said Graeme, gravely, "but even then 
 we hoped to meet again, and hfe lay before us all ; and noth- 
 ing had happened to make us afraid." 
 
 " My dear, nothing has happened yet that need make you 
 afraid. If you mean for Bosie, she must have her share of 
 the small tribulations that fall to the lot of most women, at 
 one time or other of their lives ; but she is of a cheerful 
 nature, and not easily daunted ; and dear, you have come 
 safely over rougher bits of road than any that are like to He 
 before her, and she aye will have you to guide her. And 
 looking at you, love, and knowing that the ' great peace,' the 
 Book speaks about, is in your heart and in your life, I have 
 no fear for your sister, after all that has come and gone to 
 
 you." . ^^ ^ ^,:.^. i:\ . 
 
 Graeme leaned back in her chair, silent for a moment, then 
 she said, gently, >.,- ; 
 
 " I am not afraid. I cannot think what I have said, Janet, 
 to make you think I am afraid for Bosie." 
 
 " My dear, you have said nothing. It was the wistfol look 
 in your e'en that made me speak to you about her. And be- 
 sides, I have notioed Bosie myself. She is not so light of 
 heart as she used to be. It may be the anxious time you 
 
584 Janet's love and seryicb. 
 
 have had wiiih me, or it may be the added years, or it maybe 
 something that it may be wiser for you and me not to seem 
 to see. But whatever it is, I am not afraid for Bose. I am 
 only afraid that you may vex yoursell aoout her, when there 
 is no need. There can be no good in that, you know well." 
 
 "But I am not vexing myself, Janet, indeed. I will tell 
 you what I know about it. Do you mind that restless fit 
 tJiat was on me long ago, when you came to see us, and how 
 it seemed to me that I must go away ? Well, Kose has come 
 to the same place in her life, and she would hke to have work, 
 real work to do in the world, and she has got impatient of 
 her useless life, as she calls it. It has come on her sooner 
 than it came on me, but that is because the circumstances are 
 different, I suppose, and I hope it may pass away. For, ohl 
 Janet, I shrink from the struggle, and the going away from 
 them all ; and I have got to that time when one grows con- 
 tent with just the little things that come to one's hand to do, 
 seeing they are sent by God, as weU as nobler work. But it 
 is not so with Bose, and oven if this wears over, as it did with 
 mo, there are weary days before her ; and no wonder, Janet, 
 that I follow her with anxious eyes." 
 
 There was no more said for a moment. They were both 
 watching Bose, who stiU stood at the gate, shading her eyes, 
 and looking down the hill. 
 
 " She doesna look like one that has much the matter with 
 her," said Mrs. Snow. "Miss Graeme, my dear, do you 
 ken what ails your sister? Why has this feverish wish to 
 bo away and at work come upon her so suddenly, if it is a 
 question that I ought to ask ? " 
 
 "Janet, I cannot tell you. I do not know. I can but 
 guess at it myself, and I may be aU wrong. And I think, 
 perhaps, the best help we can give her, is not to seem to 
 see, as you said a Uttle ago. Sometimes I have thought 
 it might aU be set right, if Bose would only speak ; but one 
 can never be sure, and I think, Janet, we can only wait 
 and see. I do n't believe there is much cause for fear, if 
 only Bose will have patience." " « ^w^^ ssi** *#r>. 
 
Janet's lovb and sebvioe. 686 
 
 "Then, wherefore should you look so troubled ? Nothing 
 but wrong-doing on your sister's* part should make you look 
 like thai" For there were tears in Graeme's eyes as she 
 watched her sister, and she looked both anxious and afraid. 
 
 " Wrong-doing," repeated she, with a start. Then she rose 
 impatiently, but sat down again in a moment Was it " wrong- 
 doing" in a woman to let her heart slip unawares und unasked 
 from her own keeping ? If this was indeed the thing that had 
 happened to Bose? Or was it " wrong-doing" io come to the 
 knowledge of one's heart too late, as Harry had once hinted 
 might be the end of Eosie's foolish love of admiration ? 
 
 "Wrong-doing," she repeated again, with a sudden stir of 
 indignation at her heart. " No, that must never be said of Rose. 
 It must be one of the small tribulations that sooner or later 
 fall to the lot of most women, as you said yourself, Janet, a 
 little ago. And it won't do to discuss it^ anyway. See, Bose 
 has opened the gate for some one. Who is coming in ? " 
 
 "My dear," said Mrs. Snow, gravely, "it was fex from my 
 thought to wish to know about anything that I should not 
 It is Sandy she is opening the gate for, and wee Bosie. He 
 has been down for the papers, it seems, qpd he may have 
 gotten letters as welL" 
 
 "But, Janet," said Graeme, eagerly, "you know I could 
 not mean that. I could not tell you if I were ever so will- 
 ing. I do not know. I can only guess ; but as for "wrong- 
 doing — " V = ' 
 
 " My dear, you needna tell me thai Sandy, man, it must 
 seem a strange like thing to the folk in the village to see you 
 carrying the child that way on your horse before you — ^you 
 that have wagons of one kind or another, and plenty of them, 
 at your disposal Is it safe for the bairn, think you? Do 
 you like that way of riding, my wee Bosie ? " 
 
 "Yes, gamma, I 'ike it," lisped the two years old Bosie, 
 smiling brightly. 
 
 " It is safe enough, mother, you may be sure of thai And 
 as for what the village folk may think, that 's a new thing for 
 you to ask. It is the best and pleasantest way in the world 
 
586 Janet's love and sebtiob. 
 
 for both Boede and me." And looking at the proud, young 
 father and the happy ohild sitting before him, it was not to 
 be for a moment doubted. 
 
 " It must be delightful," said Bose, laughing. " I should 
 like a ride myself wee Bosie." 
 
 " And why not ? '* said Mrs. Snow. " Sandy, man, it is a 
 wonder to me that you havena thought about it before. 
 Have you your habit here, my dear? Why should you no' 
 bring young Major or Dandy over, saddled for Miss Bose ? It 
 would do her all the good in the world t<o get a gallop in a 
 day like this." 
 
 " There is no reason in the world why I should not, if Miss 
 Bose would like it." 
 
 "I would like it very mucL Not that I need the good of 
 it especially, but I shall enjoy the pleasure of ii And will yon 
 let wee Bosie come with me." 
 
 "If grandma has no objections," said Sandy, laughing. 
 '*But it must be old Major, if you take her." 
 
 "Did ever any body hear such nonsense? " said Mrs. Snow, 
 impatiently. " But you 11 need to haste, Sandy, man, or we 
 shall be having visitors, and then she winna get away." 
 
 "Yes, I should not wonder. I saw Mr. Periy coming up 
 the way with a book in his hand. But I could bring young 
 Major and Dandy too, and Miss Bose needn 't be kept at home 
 then." v/il i.:i -VfA : ; '. .,-> ^ '- .- ■■ . .,• ^ ..,...;^- ,..a n.,; „ ., / 
 
 Bose laughed merrily. 
 • •* "Who ? The minister ? Oh I fie, Sandy man, you shouldna 
 speak such nonsense. Wee Bosie, are you no' going to stay 
 the day with Miss Graeme and me ? " said Mrs. Snow. 
 
 Graeme held up her arms for the httle girl, but she did not 
 offer to move. 
 
 " Will you bide with grannie, wee Bosie ? " asked her father, 
 pulling back her sun-bonnet, and letting a mass of tangled, 
 yellow curls fell over her rosy face. 
 
 "Turn adain Grannie," said the Uttle girl, gravely. She 
 was too well pleased with her place to wish to leave it. Her 
 father laughed. . 
 
janet'b love and bertiob. 687 
 
 «*She ahall come when I bring over Dandy for Miss Rose. 
 Xq the meantime, I have something for some one here." 
 
 " Letters," said Graeme and Rose, in a breath. 
 
 ** One a piece. Good news, I hope. I shall soon be back 
 again, Miss Bose, with Dandy." 
 
 Graeme's letter was from Will, written after having heard 
 of his sisters' being in Merleville, before he had heard of Mrs. 
 Snow's recovery. He had thought once of coming home with 
 Mr. Millar, he said, but had changed his plans, partly because 
 he wished to accept an invitation he had received from his 
 imcle in the north, and partly for other reasons. He was 
 staying at present with Mrs Millar, who was *'one of a 
 thousand," wrote Will., with enthusiasm, " and, indeed, so is 
 her son, Mr. Buthven, but you know Allan, of old. And then 
 he went on to other things. 
 
 Graeme read the letter first herself, and then to Mrs. Snow 
 and Bose. In the midst of it Mr. Snow came in. Bose had 
 read her's, but held it in her hand still, even after they had 
 ceased to discuss WiU.'s. 
 
 " It is from Fanny" said she, at last. " You can read it to 
 Mrs. Snow, if you like, Graeme. It is all about baby and his 
 perfections, or nearly all. I will go and put on my habit for 
 my ride. Uncle Sampson come with me, won't you ? Have 
 you anything particular to do to-day ? " 
 
 " To ride ? " said Mr Snow. " I 'd as Hove go as not, and 
 a Utde rather — ^if you'll promise to take it moderate. I 
 should like the chaise full better than the saddle, I gnesE^ 
 
 Bose laughed. 
 
 " I will promise to let you iake it moderate. I am not 
 afraid to go alone, if you do n't want to ride. But I should n't 
 fancy the chaise to-day. A good gallop is just what I want> 
 I think." ' '"• .-^.„.. *- V, ...... z^-^- 
 
 She went to prepare for her ride, and Graeme read Fanny's 
 letter. It was, as Bose had said, a record of her darling's 
 pretty sayings and doings, and gentle regrets that his aunts 
 ooold not have the happiness of being at home to watch his 
 
538 Janet's love and sebyioe. 
 
 daily growth in wisdom and beauty. Then there were a few 
 words at the end. 
 
 " Harry is properly indignant, ajs we all are, at your hint 
 that you may see Norman and Hildp^, before you see home 
 again. Harry says it is quite absurd to speak of such a thing, 
 but we have seen very little of him of late. I hope we may 
 see more of him now that " his friend and partner" has re- 
 turned. He has been quite too much taken up with his 
 little Amy, to think of us. However, I promised Mr. Millar 
 I would say nothing of that, bit of news. He must tell yon 
 about it himselt He has a great deal of Scottish news, but I 
 should only spoil it by trying to tell it ; and I think it is quite 
 possible that Harry may fulfill his threat, and come for yon 
 himself. But I suppose he will give you fajr warning," and 
 so on. 
 
 Graeme closed the letter, saying nothing. 
 
 "It is not just very clear, I think," said Mrs. Snow. 
 
 *' Is it not ? " said Graeme. *' I did not notice. Of course, 
 it is all nonsense about Harry coming to take us home." 
 
 " And who is httle Miss Amy, that she speaks of? Is she a 
 friend of your brother Harry ? Or is she Mr. Millar's friend ? 
 Mra Arthur doesna seem to make it clear ? " 
 
 "Miss Amy Boxbury," said Graeme, openiug her letter 
 again. "Does she not make it plain? Oh, well! we shall 
 hear more about it, she says. I suppose Harry has got back 
 his old &tncy, that we are to go and live with him if Mr. 
 Millar goes elsewhere. Indeed, I don't understand it myself; 
 ,but we shall hear more soon I daresay. .Ahl here is 
 Kosie." 
 
 "And here is Dandy," said Bose, Qoming in with her 
 habit on. " And here is wee Bosie come to keep you oonh 
 pany while I am away. And \ere is Mr. Snow, on old 
 Major. Don't expect us home till nighi We shall have a 
 day of it, shaU we not? " 
 
 They had a very quiet day at home. Wee Bosie came and 
 went, and told her little tales to the content of her grand- 
 mother and Graeme, who madp ii^uch of the little girl, as 
 
janet's love and sebyioe. 539 
 
 maj well be supposed. She was a bonny little creature ; 
 with her father's blue eyes and fair curls, and showing alresuly 
 some of the quaint, grave ways that Graeme remembered in 
 her mother as a child. 
 
 In the afternoon, EmUy came with her baby, and they 
 were all happy and busy, and had no time for anxious or 
 troubled thoughts. At least, they never spoke a word that 
 had reference to anything sad. But, when Graeme read the 
 letters again to Enuly, Mrs. Snow noticed that she did not 
 read the part about their going West, or about little Amy, 
 or about Harry's coming to take them home. But her eye 
 lingered on the words, and her thoughts went back to some 
 old trouble, she saw by her grave look, and by the silence 
 that fell upon her, even in the midst of her pretty child's 
 play with the Httle ones. But never a word w{& spoken 
 about anything sad. And, by and by, visitors came, and Mrs. 
 Snow, being tired, went to lie down to rest for a while. But 
 when Bose and Mr. Snow came home, they found her stand- 
 ing at the gate, ready to receive them. 
 
 ' .- .f- '^ 
 
■*'.'■ ■C'i'ff*' ■ 
 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 * * T" WANT to know I Now do tell ; if there ain't mother 
 I standing at the gate, and opening it for us, too," ex- 
 claimed Mr. Snow, in astonishment and delight. That is 
 the ^trthest she 's been yet, and it begins to look a little like 
 getting well, now, don't it ? " 
 
 "I hope nothing has happened," said Bose, a litUe 
 anxiously. 
 
 "I guess not — ^nothing to fret over. Her face don't look 
 Kke it Well, mother, you feel pretty smart to-night, don't 
 you ? You look first-rate." 
 
 " I am just as usual," said Mrs. Snow, quietly. " But what 
 has kept you so long? We were beginning to wonder about 
 you." 
 
 **Has anything happened?" said Eose, looking over Mrs. 
 Snow's head, at a little crowd of people coming out at the 
 door. 
 
 " We have visitors, that is alL The minister is here, and 
 a friend of your's — ^your brother Harry's partner. He has 
 brought news — ^not bad news, at least he doesna seem tr 
 think so, nor Miss Graeme. I have hardly heard it myself 
 yet, or seen the young man, for I was tired and had to lie 
 down. But you Tl hear it yourself in due time." 
 
 Bose reined her horse aside. 
 
 "Take care, dear," said Mrs. Snow, as she sprung to the 
 ground without assistance. "There is no need for such 
 haste. You might have waited for Sandy or some one to 
 help you, I think." 
 
 " What is it, Graeme ? " said Bose, for her sister looked 
 flushed and excited, and there were traces of tears on her 
 (540) ' 
 
jIlNet's love and sebyice. 541 
 
 cheeks she was sure. But she did not look azudous— oeii> 
 tainly not unhappy. 
 
 " Bosie, dear, Charlie has come." 
 
 " Oh I Charlie has come, has he ? That is it, is it f *' said 
 Bose, with a long breath. 
 
 Yes, there was Mr. Millar, ofifering his hand and smiling — 
 "exactly like himself," Bose thought, but she could not tell 
 very well, for her eyes were dazzled with the red light of the 
 setting sun. But she was very glad to see him, she told 
 him; and she told the minister she was veiy glai to see hiniy too, 
 in the very same tone, the next minute. Theve was not much 
 time to say anything, however, for Hannah — whose patience 
 had been tried by the delay — announced that tea was on the 
 table, in a tone quite too peremptory to be trifled with. 
 
 " Bose, yon are tired I am sure. Never mind taking off 
 your habit till after tea.'' r mi > n 
 
 Bose confessed herself tired after her long and rapid ride. 
 
 " For I left Mr. Snow at Major Spring's, and went on a 
 long way by myself and it is just possible, that, after all, you 
 are right, and I have gone too far for the first ride ; for see, 
 I am a Uttle shaky," added she, as the teacup she passed to 
 Mr. Snow trembled in her hand. 
 
 Then she asked Mr. Millar about the news he had brought 
 them, and whether aU were well, and a question or two be- 
 sides ; and then she gave herself up to the pleasure of listen- 
 ing to the conversation of the minister, and it came into 
 Graeme's mind that if Harry had been there he would have 
 said she was amusing herself with a little serious flirtation. 
 Graeme did not think so, or, if she did, it did not make her 
 angry as it would have made Harry ; for though she said 
 little, except to the grave wee Bosie Nasmyth, whom she had 
 taken under her care, she looked very bright and glad. Bose 
 looked at her once or twice, a little startled, and after a 
 while, in watching her, evidently lost the thread of the 
 minister's entertaming discourse, and answered him at 
 random. 
 
 'I have a note from Harry," said Graeme, as they left the 
 
 (( 
 
542 jaket's loye aitd sebvioe. 
 
 tea>table. " Here it is. Go and take off your habit Toa 
 look hot and tired." 
 
 Li a little while the visitors were gone, and Mr. Millar was 
 being put throngh a course of questions bv Mr. Snow. 
 Grspeme sat and hstened to them, and thought of Bosc, who, 
 all the time, was sitting up stairs with Harry's letter in her 
 hand. 
 
 It was not a long letter. Bose had time to read it a dozen 
 times over, Graeme knew, but still she lingered, for a reason 
 she could not have told to any one, which she did not even care 
 to make very plain to hersell Mr. Snow was asking, and Mr. 
 Millar was answering questions about Scotland, and WilL, 
 and Mr. Buthven, and every word that was said was intensely 
 interesting to her ; and yet, while she listened eagerly, and 
 put in a word now and then that showed how much she 
 cared, she was conscious all the time, that she was listening 
 for the sound of a movement overhead, or for her sister's 
 footstep on the stair. By and by, as Charlie went on, in 
 answer to Mr. SnoVs questions, to tell about the state of 
 agriculture in his native shire, her attention wandered alto* 
 gether, and she listened only for the footsteps. 
 
 ''She may perhaps think it strange that I do not go up at 
 once. I daresay it is foolish in me. Very likely this news 
 wiU be no more to her than to me." 
 
 " Where is your sister ? " said Mrs. Snow, who, as well as 
 Graeme, had been attending to two things at once. " I doubt 
 the fooHsh lassie has tired herself with riding too far." 
 
 "" I will go and see/' said Graeme^ 
 
 Before she entered her sister's room Bose called to her. 
 
 "Is it you, Graeme? What do you think of Harry's 
 news? He has not lost much time, has he ? " . ^ 
 
 " T was surprised," said Graeme. , .r 
 
 Bose was busy brushing her hair. 
 
 " Surprised I 1 should think so. Did you ever think such 
 a thing mig^t happen, Gramme? " * v 
 
 This was Harry's letter. 
 
 " Mt Deab Sistebs, — I have won my Amy I Tou cannot 
 
r 
 
 ^ jaitet's love and sebyioe. 648 
 
 be more astonished than I am. I know I am not good 
 enough for her, but I love her dearly, and it will go hard 
 mih me if I don't make her happy. I only want to be 
 assured that you are both dehghted, to make my happiness 
 complete/' 
 
 Throwing her hair back a little, Eose read it again. This 
 was not quite aH. There was a postscript over the page, 
 which Bose had at first overlooked, and she was not sure 
 that Graeme had seen it. Besides, it had nothing to do 
 with the subject matter of the note, . ; ,,;x i^r^^iii 
 
 *' Did the thought of such a thing ever come into your 
 mind?" asked she again, as she laid tlie letter down. 
 
 "Yes," said Graeme, slowly. "It cid come into my mind 
 more than once. And, on lookiog h<ick, I rather wonder that 
 I did not see it alL I can remember now a good many 
 things that looked hke it, but I never was good at seeing such 
 affiurs approaching, you know." .,. . , 
 
 " Are you glad, Graeme ?" 
 
 ** Yes, I am glad. I believe I shall be very glad when I 
 have had time to think about it." 
 
 " Because Harry's happiness won't be complete unless you 
 are, you know," said Bose> laughing. 
 
 " I am sure Harry is quite sincere in what he says about 
 it," said Graeme. • ■■■■- 
 
 "It is not to be doubted. I daresay she is a nice little 
 thing ; and, after all, it won't make the same difference to us 
 that Fanny's coming did." 
 
 *'No, if wc are to consider it with reference to ourselves. 
 But I think I am very glad for Harry's sake." 
 
 " And that is more than we could have said for Arthur. 
 However, there is no good in going back to that now. It has 
 all turned out very weL '* 
 
 "Things mostly do, if people will have patience," said 
 Graeme, " and I am sure this will, for Harry, I mean. I was 
 always inclined to like little Amy, only— only, we saw very 
 httle of her you know — and — ^yes, I am sure I shall love her 
 dearly." 
 
 ..^■■i!. 
 
544 Janet's love and bebvioe. f 
 
 "Well, you must make haste to tell Harry so, to complete 
 his happiness. And he is very much astonished at his good 
 fortune," said Hose, taking up the letter again. *' ' Not good 
 enough for her/ he says. That is the humility of true love, I 
 suppose ; and, really, if he is pleased, we may be. I daresay 
 she is a nice little thing." 
 
 " She is more than just a nice little thing. You should hear 
 what Mr. Millar says of her." 
 
 " He ought to know I ' Poor Charlie,* as Harry calls him in 
 the pride of his success. Go down stairs, Graeme, and I will 
 follow in a minute ; I am nearly ready." 
 
 The postscript which Eose was not sure whether Graeme 
 had seen, said, "poor Charlie," and intimated that Harry's 
 sisters owed him much kindness for the trouble he was taking 
 in going so far to carry them the news in person. Not Harry's 
 own particular news, Hose supposed, but tidings of Will., and 
 of all that was likely to interest them from both sides of the sea. 
 
 "I would like to know why he calls him 'poor Charlie,'" 
 said Bose, with a shrug. " I suppose, however, we must all 
 seem like objects of compassion to Harry, at the moment of 
 his triumph, as none of us have what has fallen to him." 
 
 Graeme went down without a word, smiling to he^ 
 self as she went She had seen the postscript, and she 
 thought she knew why Harry had written "poor Charlie," 
 but she said nothing to Bose. The subject of conversation 
 had changed during her absence, it seemed. 
 
 "I want to know ! Do tell 1'* Mr. Snow was saying. "I 
 call that first-rate news, if it is as you say, Mr. Millar. Do 
 the girls know it? Graeme, do you know that Harry is going 
 to be married?" 
 
 "Yes, so Harry tells me." 
 
 "And who is the lady? Is it anyone we know about? 
 Roxbury," repeated Mr. Snow, with a puzzled look. " But it 
 seems to me I thought I heard different. I don't seem to 
 imderstand" 
 
 He looked anxiously into the face of his wife as though she 
 could help him. 
 
janet'b loyb and bbbyxoe. 545 
 
 "That's not to be wondered ai," said she, smiling. "It 
 seems Miss Graeme herself has been taken by surprise. But 
 she is well pleased for all thai Harry has been in no great 
 hurry, I thinL" 
 
 "But that ain't just as I understood it," persisted Mr. 
 Snow. " What does Rose say ? She told me this aftemo(3n, 
 when we were riding, something or other, butitsartain wa'n't 
 that" 
 
 " It could hardly be that, since the letter came when you 
 were away, and even Miss Graeme knew nothing of it till she 
 got the letter,"' said Mr& Snow, with some impatience. 
 
 " Rosie told me," went on Mr. Snow. " Here she is. What 
 was it you were telling me this afternoon about — about our 
 friend here — ?" 4^» 
 
 " Oh ! I told you a great many things that it would not do 
 to repeat," and though Hose laughed, she reddened, too, and 
 looked appealingly at Graeme. 
 
 " Was n't Boxbury the name of the lady, that you told me 
 was—" i ^^f - 
 
 " Oh I Uncle Sampson ! Never mind." 
 
 " Dear me," said Mrs. Snow, " what need you make a 
 mystery out of such plain reading. Miss Graeme has gotten 
 a letter telling her that her brother Harry is going to be mar* 
 ried ; and what is there so wonderful about that?" 
 
 "Just so," said Mr. Snow. He did not understand it the 
 least in the world, but he understood that, for some reason or 
 other, Mrs. Snow wanted nothing more said about it, so he 
 meant to say no more ; and, after a minute, he made Bose 
 start and laugh nervously by the energy with which he re- 
 peated, " Just so ;" and still he looked from Graeme to Mr. 
 Millar, as though he expected them to tell him something. 
 
 "Harry's letter gives the news, and that is all," said 
 Grraeme. ' "^ • '^'^r /: ; 
 
 " But I cannot understand your surprise," said Mr. Millar, 
 not to Mr. Snow, but to Graeme. " I thought you must have 
 seen it all along." ' ( • { ? 
 
 " Did you see it all along ?" asked Mr. Snow, looking queen 
 84 
 
546 janet's loye and sebyioe. 
 
 " I was in Hany's confidence ; bat even if I had not been, 
 I am sure I must have seen it. I almost think I knew what 
 was coming before he knew it himself, at the very first" 
 
 "The very first?*' repeated Graeme. "When was that? 
 In the spring? Before the time we went to Mrs. Boxbiuy's, 
 on the evening of the Convocation ?" 
 
 " Oh I yes I long before that— before Miss Hose came home 
 from the West. Indeed, I think it was love at first sights as 
 iax as Harry was concerned," added Mr. Millar, with an em- 
 barrassed laugh, coming suddenly to the knowledge of the 
 fact that Mr. Snow was regarding him with carious eyes. But 
 Mr. Snow tamed his attention to Bose. 
 
 " What do you say to that?" asked ha / < 
 
 ' I have nothing to say," said Bose, pettishly. "I was not 
 in Harry's confidence." 
 
 " So it seems," said Mr. Snow, meditatively. 
 
 " I am sure you wiU like her when you know her better," 
 said Mr. Millar. 
 
 " Oh ! if Harry likes her that is the chief thing," said Bose, 
 with a shrug. " It won't matter miuch to the rest of us — ^I 
 mean to Graeme and me." 
 
 "It will matter very much to us," said Graeme, " and I 
 know I shall love her dearly, and so will you, Bosie, when she 
 is our sister, and I mean to write to Harfy to-morrow — and 
 to her, too, perhaps." 
 
 " She wants very much to know you, and I am sure yon 
 wUl like each other," said Mr. Millar looking deprecatingly at 
 Bose, who was not easy or comfortable m her mind any one 
 could see. ' : .. . • 
 
 *' Just tell me one thing, Bose," said Mr. Snow. "How 
 came you to suppose that — " . 
 
 But the question was not destined to be answered by Bose, 
 at least not then. A matter of greater importance was to be 
 laid before her, for the door opened suddenly, and Hannah 
 put in her head. .vj^i-^.^TMy^ „/ .x.:^; 
 
 " Where on earth did you put the yeast-jug, Bose ? I have 
 taken as many steps as I want to after it ; if you had put it 
 
JANET*8 LOTE AND SEBVIOE. • 647 
 
 back in its place it would have paid, I gaess. It woiQd hays 
 suited me better, and I guess it would have suited better all 
 round." 
 
 Her voice betrayed a struggle between offended dignity and 
 decided crossness. Rose was a little hysterical, Graeme 
 thought, or she never would have laughed about such an 
 important matter in Hannah's face. For Hannah knew her 
 own value, which was not smaU in the household, and she 
 was not easily propitiated when a slight was given or im- 
 agmed, as no one knew better than Bose. And before com- 
 pany, too! — company with whom Hannah had not been 
 " made acquainted," as Hanr* ah, and the sisterhood generally 
 in Merleville, as a rule, claimed to be. It was dreadful te- 
 merity on Rose's part. i >'. ; .. < » 
 
 "Oh I Hannah, I forgot all about it." 
 
 But the door was suddenly closed. Eose hastened after her 
 in haste and confusion. 
 
 Mr. Snow had been deeply meditating, and he was evidently 
 not aware that anything particular had been happening, for 
 he turned suddenly to Mr. Millar, and said, 
 
 " I understood that it was you who was — eh — who 
 was — keeping company with Miss Roxbury?'* 
 
 " Did you think so, Miss Elliott," said Charlie, in some as- 
 tonishment. 
 
 " Mr. Snow," said his wife, in a voice that brought him to 
 her side in an instant. " You may have read in the Book, 
 how there is a time to keep silence, as well as a time to speak, 
 and the bairn had no thought of having her words repeated 
 again, though she might have said that to you." 
 
 She spoke very softly, so that the others did not hear, and 
 Mr. Snow would have looked penitent, if he had not looked 
 so bewildered. Raising her voice a Uttle, she added, 
 
 " You might just go out, and tell Hannah to s^id Jabez 
 over to Emily's about the yeast, if she has taken too many 
 steps to go herself ; for Miss Rose is tired, and it is growing 
 dark; — and besides, there is no call for her to go Hannah's mes* 
 sages — ^though you may as well no' say that to her, either." 
 
548 * jaitet'b lots and bebyios. 
 
 But the door opened, and Bose came in again. ' 
 
 " I can't even find the jug/' she said, pretending great con- 
 sternation. " And this is the second one I have been the 
 death ol Oh I here it is. I must have left it here in the 
 morning, and wee Bosie's flowers are in it ! Oh 1 yes, dear, I 
 must go. Hannah is going, and I must go with her. She is 
 just a little bit cross, you know. And, besides, I want to tell 
 her the news," and she went away. 
 
 Mr. Snow, feeling that he had, in some way, been compro- 
 mising himself^ went and sat down beside his wife, to be out 
 of the temptation to do it again, and Mr. Millar said again, 
 to Graeme, very softly this time, 
 
 « Did you think so. Miss EUiott ?" 
 ' Graeme hesitated. <.{ 
 
 *' Yes, Charlie. I must confess, there did, more than once, 
 oome into my mind the possibility that Harry and his friend 
 and partner might find themselves rivals for the favor of the 
 sweet little Amy. But you must remember, that " 
 
 But Charlie interrupted her, eagerly. 
 
 " And did — did your sister think so, too ? No, don't an- 
 swer me " added he, suddenly rising, and going first to 
 
 the window to look out, and then, out at the door. In a little 
 Graeme rose, and went out too, and followed him down the 
 path, to the gate, over which he was leaning. There was no 
 time to speak, however, before they heard the voices of Bose 
 and Hannah, coming toward them. Hannah was propitiated, 
 Graeme knew by the sound of her voice. Mr. Millar opened 
 the gate for them to pass, and Graeme said, 
 
 ** You have not been long, Bosie." ' ?^ 
 
 ■ " Are you here, Graeme," said Bose, for it was quite dark, 
 by this time. ''Hannah, this is Mr. MiUar, my brother 
 Harry's friend and partner." And then she added, with 
 great gravity, according to the most approved Merleville for- 
 mula of introduction, " Mr. Millar, I make you acquainted 
 with Miss Lovejoy." v- -.^ 
 
 " I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Millar. 
 I h(^ I see you well," said Miss Lovejoy, with benignitjr. If 
 
janet'b love and sebvioe. 540 
 
 llir. Millar was not quite equal to the occasion, Miss Lovejoy 
 was, and she said exactly what was proper to be said in the 
 circumstances, and neither Graeme nor Rose needed to say 
 anything tiU they got into the house again. 
 
 *< There ! that is over," said Hose, with a sigh of relief. 
 
 "The getting of the yeast?" said Graeme, laughing. 
 
 " Yes, and the pacification of Miss Lovejoy." ,, , f.. 
 
 It was not quite over, however, Graeme thought in the 
 morning. For Bose seemed to think it necessary to give a 
 a good deal of her time to household matters, whether it 
 was still with a view to the good humor of Hannah or not, 
 was not easy to say. But she could only give a divided at- 
 tention to their visitor, and to the account of all that he 
 and Will had done and enjoyed together. Graeme and 
 he walked up and down the garden for awhile, and when 
 Mrs. Snow had risen, and was in the sitting-room, they came 
 and sat down beside her, and, after a time, Bose came toa 
 But it was Graeme who asked questions, and who drew Mr. 
 Millar out, to tell about their adventures, and misadventures, 
 and how WiL had improved in all respects, and how Hke his 
 father all the old people thought him. Even Mrs. Snow 
 had more to say than Rose, especially when he went on to 
 tell about Clayton, and the changes that had taken plaoe 
 there, i ',:.J>': .:■ ..^".- -:,.'•: 
 
 " Will fancied, before he went, that he remembered all the 
 places distinctly, and was very loth to confess that he had 
 been mistaken. I suppose, that his imagination had had as 
 much to do with his idea of his native place, as his memorji 
 and when, at last, we went down the glen where your mother 
 used to Hve, and where he distinctiy remembered going to 
 see her with you, not long before you all came away, he ac- 
 knowledged as much. He stepped across the bum at the 
 widest part, and then he told me, laughing, that he had al- 
 ways thought of the bum at that place, as being about as, 
 wide as the Merle river, just below the mill bridge, however 
 wide that may be. It was quite a shock to him, I assure 
 vou. And then the kirk, and the manse, and all the village, 
 
650 jaket'b love aiw bebyiob. 
 
 looked old, and small, and queer, when he came to compare 
 them with the pictures of them he had kept in his mind, all 
 these years. The garden he remembered, and the lane be- 
 yond it, but I think the only things he found quite as he ex- 
 pected to find them, were the laburnum trees, in that lane," 
 and on CharUe went, from one thing to another, drawn on 
 by a question, put now and then by Graeme, or Mrs. Snow, 
 whenever he made a pause. ' * 
 
 But all that was said need not be told here. By and by, 
 he rose and went out, and when he came back, he held an 
 open book on his hand, and on one of its open pages lay a 
 Gpray of withered ivy, gathered, he said, from the kirkyard 
 wall, from a great branch that hung down over the spot 
 where their mother lay. And when he had laid it down on 
 Graeme's lap, he turned and went out again. 
 
 "I mind the spot well," said Mrs. Snow, sofUy. 'i 
 
 '*I mind it, too," said Graeme. 
 
 Hose did not " mind" it, nor any other spot of her native 
 land, nor the young mother who had lain so many years be- 
 neath the drooping ivy. But she stooped to touch vnth her 
 lips, the faded leaves that spoke of her, and then she laid her 
 cheek down on Graen^'s knee, and did not speak a word, 
 except to say that she had quite forgotten alL ' ^ 
 
 By and by, Mr. Snow came in, and something was said 
 about showing Merleville to their visitor, and so arranging 
 matters that time should be made to pass pleasantly to him. 
 \ ** Oh ! as to that, he seems no' ill to please," said Mrs. Snow. 
 '* Miss Graeme might take him down to the viUage to Mr. 
 Greeneaf s and young Mx. Merle's, if she likes ; but, as to 
 letting him see Merleville, I think the thing that is of most 
 importance is, that all Merleville should see him." 
 
 ** There is something in thai I don't suppose Merleville 
 is any more to him than any other place, except that Harry 
 and the rest had their home here, for a spell. But all the 
 Merleville folks will virant to see him, I expect" 
 
 Bose laughingly suggested that a town meeting should be 
 called for the purpose. , , ,,^,^,. ..^^_^,.-....-..-.,-:-.._^,:.'. 
 
Janet's love and sbbviob. 551 
 
 « Well, I calculate that won't be necessary. If ha stays 
 over Sunday, it wiU do as welL The folks will have a chance 
 to see him at meeting, though, I suppose it wont be best to 
 tell him so, before he goes. Do yon suppose he means to 
 stay over Sunday, Bosie T .r: 
 
 " I have n't asked him,*' said Bose. - v 
 
 " It will likely depend on how he is entertained, how long 
 he stays," said Mrs. Snow. " I daresay he will be in no 
 hurry to get home, for a day or two. And Bosie, my dear, 
 you must help your sister to mpike it pleasant for your broth* 
 er's friend." 
 
 " Oh I he 's no' iU to please, as you said yourself," answer- 
 ed Bose. 
 
 It was well that he was not, or her failure to do her part 
 in the way o| amusing him, inight have sooner &llen under 
 general notice.. Th^y walked down to the village in the after- 
 noon, first to Ifix. Merle's, onid then to Mr. Greenleaf 's. 
 Here, Master Elliott at once tgpk possession of Bose, and 
 they went away tpgether, and nothing more was seen of them, 
 till tea had been waiting for some time. Then they came in, 
 and Mr. Perry came with tjiem. He stayed to tea, of course, 
 and made himself agreeable, as he always did, and when they 
 went home, he said he would walk with them part of the 
 way. He had most of the talk to. himself till they came to 
 the foot of the hill, when he bade them, reluctantly, good- 
 night. They were very quiet the rest of the way, and when 
 they reached home, the sisters went up stairs at once to- 
 gether, and though it was quite dark, neither of them seem- 
 ed in a great hurry to go down again. 
 
 **Bose," said Graeme, in a little, "where ever did you 
 meet Mr. Perry this afternoon ? And why did you bring him 
 to Mr. Greenleaf 's with you ? " 
 
 " I did not bring him to Mr. Greenleaf 's. He came of his 
 own free vdlL And I did not meet him anywhere. He fol* 
 lowed us down past the mill We were going for oak leaves. 
 Elliott had seen some very pretty ones there, and I suppose Mr. 
 Pony had seen them, too. Are you ooming down, Graeme V 
 
(CI 
 
 ((' 
 
 552 jaitet's love and sebvioe. 
 
 " Li a little. Don't wait for me, if you wish to go." 
 
 " Oh I I am in no haste/' said Rose, sitting down by the 
 window. " What are you going to say to me, Graeme ? " 
 
 But if Graeme had anything to say, she decided not to say 
 it then. 
 
 "I suppose we ought to go down." 
 
 Bose followed her in silence. They found Mr. and Mrs. 
 Snow alone. 
 
 " Mr. Millar has just stepped out," said Mr. Snow. " So 
 you had the minister to-nighi^ again, eh, Bosie ? It seems to 
 me, he is getting pretty fond of yisiting, ain't he ? " 
 
 Bose laughed. 
 
 " I am sure that is a good thing. The people will like 
 that, won't they?" 
 
 ' The people he goes to see will, I don't doubt" 
 Well, we have no reason to complain. He has given us 
 our share of his visits, always," said Mrs. Snow, in a tone, 
 that her husband knew was meant to put an end to the dis- 
 cussion of the subject. Graeme was not so observant, how- 
 ever. 
 
 " It was hardly a visit he made at Mr. Greenleaf 's to-nighi 
 He came in just before tea, and left when we left, immediately 
 after. He walked with us to the foot of the hilL" 
 
 ** He was explaining to Elliott and me the chemical change 
 that takes place in the leaves, that makes the beautiful 
 autumn colors, we were admiring so mudi," said Bose. " He 
 is great in botany and chemistry, Elliott says." ' ' 
 
 And then it came out how he had crossed the bridge, 
 and found them under the oak trees behind the mill, and 
 what talk there had been about the sunset and the leaves, 
 and a good deal more. Mr. Snow turned an amused yet 
 doubtful look from her to his wife ; but Mrs. Snow's closely 
 shut lips said so plainly, " least said soonest mended," that 
 he shut his lips, too. 
 
 It would have been as well if Graeme had done so, also, she 
 thought afterwards ; but she had made up her mind to say 
 something to her sister ihskt night, whether she liked it or not, 
 
Janet's love and sbbyiox. 558 
 
 and so standing behind her, as she was broshing ont her hair, 
 she said, 
 
 "I think it was rather foolish in Mr. Ferry to come to Mr. 
 Qreenleaf' s to-night, and to come away with ns afterwards." 
 
 "Do you think so ? " said Rose. 
 
 <'Yes. And I fancied Mr. and Mrs. Greenleaf thought so, 
 too. I saw them exchanging glances more than once." 
 
 ''Did you? It is to be hoped the minister did not see 
 them." 
 
 " Merleville people are all on the watch — and they are so 
 fond of talking. It is not at all nice, I think." 
 
 " Oh, well, I don't know. It depends a httle on what they 
 say," said Rose, knotting up her hah:. " And I don't suppose 
 Mr. Perry will hear it." 
 
 " I have commenced wrong," said Graeme to herself. " But 
 I must just say a word to her, now I have began. It was of 
 ourselves I was thinking, Bose — of you, rather. And it is 
 not nice to be talked about Rosie, tell me just how much 
 you care about Mr. Perry." 
 
 " Tell me just how much you care about him, dear," said 
 Bose. 
 
 "I care quite enough for him, to hope that he will not bo 
 annoyed or made unhappy. Do you reaUy care for him, 
 Bosie?" 
 i "Do you, Graeme?" 
 
 " Rose, I am quite in earnest see— I am afraid the good 
 foolish man wonts you. to care for i. n, and if vou don't ** 
 
 •^WeU, dear— if I don't?" 
 
 *' If you don't, you must not act so that he may fancy yon 
 do, Bose. I think there is some danger in his caring for 
 you." 
 
 "He cares quite as much for you as he cares for me, 
 Graeme, and with better reason," 
 
 " Dear, I have not thought about his oaring for either of 
 us till lately. Indeed, I never let the thought trouble me till 
 last night, after Sit. Millar came, and again, to-night Bosie, 
 you must not be angry with what I say." 
 
554 janet'b love Aim sebviof. 
 
 "Of course not. But I think you must dispose of Mr. 
 Perry, before you bring another name into your accusation; 
 Graeme, dear, I don't care a pin for Mr. Ferry, nor he for 
 me, if that mil please you. But you are not half so clever at 
 this sort of thing as Harry. You should have begun at once 
 by accusing me of daiming admiration, and flirting, and all 
 thai It is best to come to the point at once." 
 
 " You said you would not be angry, Bosie." 
 
 "Did I? Well, I am not so sure about it as I was a min- 
 ate ago. And what is the use of vexing one another. Don't 
 say any more to-night" 
 
 Indeed, what could be said to Rose in that mood. So 
 Graeme shut her lips, too. 
 
 In the mean time Mr. Snow had opei^ed his, in the privacy 
 of their chamber. 
 
 *< It begins to look a little like it, don^'t it ? " said he. r 
 
 He got no answer. 
 
 ** I 'd a little rather it had been Graeme, but Bosie would 
 be a sight better than neither of them." 
 
 "I 'm by no means sure of that," sai4 Mra Snow, sharply. 
 " Bosie's no' a good bairn just now, and I 'm no' wcbl pleased 
 with her." • ^ 
 
 " Don't be hard on Bosie," said Mr^ 3iiow, gently. 
 
 " Hard on her I You ought to have more sense by this 
 time. Bosie's no' thanking about the minister, and he hasna 
 been think^g o' her till lately — only men are such fools. 
 Forgive me for saying it about the minister." 
 
 " Well, I thought, myself, it was Graeme for a spell, and 
 I 'd a UtUe rather it would be. She's older, and she's just 
 right in every way. It would be a blesa^g to more than the 
 minister. It seems as though it was just the right thing. 
 Now, don't it?" 
 
 "1 canna say. It is none the more likely to come to pass 
 because of that, as you might ken yourself by this time," said 
 his wife, gravely. 
 
 " Oh^ well, I don't know &\^ti^ IM^ There 'b Aleok and 
 Emily." .; 
 
janet'b lots and sebyioe. 555 
 
 ** Hoot, fie, man I They cared for one another, and neiUier 
 Miss Graeme, nor her sister, care a penny piece for yon man 
 —for the minister, I mean." 
 
 "You don't think him good enough," said Mr. Snow, di£»> 
 contentedly. 
 
 " Nonsense ! I think him good enough for anybody that 
 will take him. He is a very good man — what there is o' him," 
 added she, under her breath. "But it will be time enough 
 to speak about it, when there is a chance of its happening. - 
 I 'm no weel pleased with Bosie. If it werena that, as a rule, 
 I dinna like to meddle with such matters, I would have a 
 word with her mysell The bairn doesna ken her ain mind, 
 I 'm thinking." 
 
 The next day was rainy, but not so rainy as to prevent Mr, 
 Snow from fulfilling his promise to take Mr. Millar to see 
 some wonderful cattle, which bade fair to make Mr. Nasmy th's 
 a celebrated name in the county, and before they came home 
 again, Mrs. Snow took the opportunity to say a word, not to 
 Bose, but to Graeme, with regard to her. . , ».. 
 
 " What ails Eosie at your brother's partner, young Mr. 
 Millar?" asked she. "I thought they would have been 
 friends, having known one another so long." ., • , fi 
 
 "Friends I" repeated Graeme. "Are they not friends? 
 What makes you speak in that way, Janet? " 
 
 " Friends they are not," repeated Mrs. Snow, emphatically. 
 *' But whether they are lest than friends, or more, I canna 
 weel make oui. Maybe you casx help me, dear." 
 
 "I cannot, indeed," said Graeme, laughing a little uneasily. 
 ** I am afraid Charlie's visit is not to give any of us unmingled 
 pleasure." 
 
 *' It is easy seen what she is to him, poor lad, and I canna 
 but think — my dear, you should speak to your sister." 
 
 " But, Janet, Eosie is not an easy person to speak to about 
 some things. And, besides, it is not easy to know whether 
 one may not do i^^jnoa, rather than good, by speaking. I did 
 speak to her last night about— about Mr. Perry." 
 
 "About the minister I And what did sheangwer? She 
 
566 Janet's love and sebviob. 
 
 cares little about him, I *m thinldng. It 's no' pretty in her 
 to amuse herself so openly at his expense, poor man, though 
 there 's some excuse, too — when he shows so little discretion." 
 
 "But, amusing herself, Janet I That is rather hard on 
 Bosie. It is not that, I think." 
 
 "Is it not? What is it, then? The bairn is notinea^ 
 nest. I hope it may all come to a good ending." 
 
 " Oh I Janet ! I hope it may. But I don't like to think of 
 endings. Bosie must belong to some one else some day, I 
 suppose. The best thing I can wish for her is that I may 
 lose her — ^for her sake, but it is not a happy thing to think 
 of for mine." 
 
 " Miss Graeme, my dear, that is not Uke you." 
 
 " Indeed, Janet, it is just like me. I can't bear to think 
 
 about it. As for the minister ." Graeme shrugged her 
 
 shoulders. 
 
 "You needna trouble yourself about the minister, my dear. 
 It will no* be him. If your friend yonder would but take 
 heart of grace— I have my own thoughts." 
 
 " Oh ! I don't know. We need not be in a hurry." 
 
 "But, dear, think what you were telling me the other day 
 about your sister going out by herself to seek her fortune. 
 Surely, that would be far worse." 
 
 " But she would not have to go by herself. I should go 
 with her ; and Janet, I have sometimes the old dread of 
 change upon me, as I used to have long ago." 
 
 " But^ my dear, why should you ? All the changes in our 
 lot are in good hands. I dinna need to tell you that after 
 all these years. And as for the minister, you needna be afraid 
 for him." 
 
 Graeme laughed ; and though the entrance of Rose pro- 
 vented anymore being said, she laughed again to herself in a 
 way to excite her sisVsr's astonishment. 
 
 *^I do believe Janet is pityii g me a little, because of the 
 minister's inconstancy," she said to herself. "Why am I 
 laughing at it, Rosie ? You must ask Mrs. Snow." 
 
 " My dear, how can I tell your sister's thoughts ? It is at 
 
janbt's love and sebyiob. , 657 
 
 them, she is laughing, and I think the minieter has something 
 to do with it, though it is not Hke her, either, to laugh at 
 folk in an unkindly way." 
 
 " It is more hke me, you think," said Eose, pouting. " And 
 as for the minister, she is very welcome to him, I am sure." 
 
 '* Nonsense, Rose I Let him rest I am sure Deacon 
 Snow would think us very irreverent to speak about the 
 minister in that way. Tell me what you are going to do to* 
 day?" 
 
 Bosie had plenty^ to do, and by and by she became absorb- 
 ed in the elaborate pattern which she was working on a frock 
 for wee Bosie, and was rather more remiss than before, as to 
 doing her part for the entertainment ^f their guest She had 
 not done that from the beginning, but her quietness and pre* 
 occupation were more apparent, because the rain kept them 
 within doors. Graeme saw it, and tried to break through it 
 or cover it as best she might. Mrs. Snow saw it, and some- 
 times looked grave, and sometimes amused, but she made 
 no remarks about ii As for Mr. Millar, if he noticed 
 her silence and preoccupation, he certainly did not resent 
 them, but gave to the tew words she now and then put in, 
 an eager attention that went far beyond their worth ; and 
 had she been a princess, and he but a hmnble vas&il, he 
 could not have addressed her with more respectful deference. 
 
 And so the days passed on, till one morning something 
 was said by Mr. Millar, about its being time to draw his visit 
 to a dose. It was only a word, and might have fallen to the 
 ground without remark, as he very possibly intended it should 
 do ; but Mr. Snow set himself to combat the idea of his 
 goiug away so soon, with an energy and determination that 
 brought them all into the discussion in a little while. 
 
 "Unless there is something particular taking you home, 
 you may as well stay for a while longer. At anyrate, it ain't 
 worth while to go before Sunday. You ought to st&y and 
 hear our minister preach, now you 've got acquainted with 
 him. Ought n't he, Graeme?" 
 
 Graeme smiled. 
 
■<r<,;ff f^l^'f 9-\' "Vf 
 
 558 Janet's love and sebyioe. 
 
 ''Oh 1 yes, he ought to stay for so good a reason as thatia" 
 
 " There are worse preachers than Mr. Ferry/' said Mrs. 
 Snow, gravely. 
 
 " Oh I come now, mother. That ain't saying much. There 
 ain't a great many better preachers in our part of the world, 
 whatever they may be where you Uve. To be sure, if you 
 leave to-night after tea, you can catch the night cars for Bos- 
 ton, and stay there over Sunday, and have your pick of some 
 pretty smart men. But you 'd better stay. Not but what I 
 could have you over to Bixford in time, as well as not, if it 
 is an object to you. But you better stay, had n't he, girls? 
 What do you say, Eose ? " 
 
 " And hear Mr. Perry preach ? Oh I certainly," said Rose, 
 gravely. 
 
 " Oh I he will stay," said Graeme, laughing, with a little 
 vexation. " It is my belief he never meant to go, only he 
 likes to be entreated. Now confess, Charlia" 
 
 
.'"m u' nZL ijv>! 
 
 '*J-uvk2m^ 
 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 '^ "TjlH, bairns 1 is it no' a bonny day I" said Mrs. Snow, 
 fij breaking into Scotch, as she was rather apt to do 
 when she was speaking to the sisters, or when a httle moved. 
 "I aye mind the first look I got o' the hills ower yonder, and 
 the kirl^ and the gleam of the gravestones, through the trees. 
 We all came round the water on a Saturday afternoon like 
 this ; and Norman and Harry took turns in carrying wee 
 Bosie, and we sat down here and rested ourselves, and looked 
 ower yon bonny water. Eh, bairns I if I could have but had 
 a glimpse of all the years that have been since then, of all 
 the ' goodness and mercy ' that has passed before us, how 
 my thankless murmurs, and my unbelieving fears would have 
 been rebuked I " 
 
 They were on their way up the hill to spend the afternoon 
 at Mr. Nasmyth's, and Mr. Millar was with them. Nothing 
 more had been said about his going away, and if he was not 
 quite content to stay, " his looks belied him," as Miss Love- 
 joy remarked to herself, as she watched them all going up 
 the hill together. They were going very slowly, because of 
 Mrs. Snow's lingering weakness. One of the few of the 
 " Scotch prejudices" that remained with her after all these 
 years, was the prejudice in favor of her own two feet, as a 
 means of locomotion, when the distance was not too great ; 
 and rather to the discontent of Mr. Snow, she had insisted 
 on walking up to the other house, this afternoon. 
 
 '* It is but a step, and it will do me no harm, but good, to 
 go with the bairns," said she, and she got her own way. 
 
 It was a "bonny day ;" mild, bright, and still. Theautum- 
 (559) 
 
560 JANEl's LOVE AND SERVICE. 
 
 Hal beauty of the forests had passed, but the trees were not 
 bare, yet, though October was nearly over ; and, now and 
 then, a brown leaf fell noiselessly through the air, and the faint 
 rustle it made as it touched the many which had gone before 
 it, seemed to deepen the quiet of the time. They had stopped 
 to rest a little at the turn of the road, and were gazdng over 
 the pond to the hills beyond, as Mrs. Snow spoke. 
 
 " Yes, I mind," said Graeme. 
 
 '* And I mind, too," said Eose, softly. 
 
 "It's a bonny place," said Mrs. Snow, in a little, "and it 
 has changed but Uttle in aU those years. The woods have 
 gone back a UtUe on some of the lulls ; and the trees about 
 the village and the kirkyard have grown larger and closer, 
 and that is mostly all the changes." 
 
 '* The old meeting-house has a dreary look, now that it is 
 never used," said Bose, regretfully. 
 
 "Ay, it has thai I mind thinking it a grand and stately 
 object, when I first saw it from this side of the water. That 
 was before I had been in it, or very near it. But I learned 
 to love it for better things than statehness, before very long. 
 I was ill pleased when they first spoke of pulling it down, 
 but, as you say, it is a dreary object, now that it is no longer 
 used, and the sooner it goes the better." 
 
 " Yes, a ruin to be an object of interest, should be of grey 
 stone, v^th wallflowers and ivy growing over it," said Graeme. 
 
 " Yes, but this is not a country for ruins, and such like 
 sorrowful things. Tlie old kirk was good enough to worship 
 in, to my thinking, for many a year to come ; and the new 
 one will aye lack something that the old one had, to you and 
 me, and many a one besides ; but the sooner the fdrsaken old 
 place is taken quite away, the better, now." 
 
 " Yes, there is nothing venerable in broken sashes, and 
 fluttering shingles. But I wish they had repaired it for a 
 while, or at anyrate, built the new one on the same site. We 
 shall never have any pleasant associations with the new red 
 brick a£Eair that the Merleville people are so proud ol" 
 
 And so they lingered and talked about many a thing be- 
 
JANET'b love and 8BBVICE. 661 
 
 sides the nnsightly old meetmg-honse — things that had hap- 
 pened in the old time, when the bairns were young, and the 
 world was to them a world in which each had a kingdom to 
 conquer, a crown to win. Those happy, happy days 1 
 
 " Oh I well," said Mrs. Snow, as they rose to go up the hill 
 again, " it's a bonny place, and I have learned to love it welL 
 But if any one had told me in those days, that the time 
 would come, when this and no other place in the world would 
 seem like home to me, it would have been a foolishness in 
 my ears." 
 
 " Ah ! what a sad dreary winter that first one was to yon, 
 Janet, though it was so merry to the boys and me," said 
 Graema '* It would have comforted you then, if you could 
 have known how it would be with you now, and with Sandy." 
 
 " I am not so sure of that, my dear. We are untoward 
 creatures, at the best, and the brightness of to-day, would 
 not have looked like brightness then. No love, the changes 
 that seem so good and right to look back upon, would have 
 dismayed me, could I have seen them before me. It is well 
 that we must just hve on from one day to another, content 
 with what eadi one brings." <..* 
 
 " Ah ! if we could always do that ! " said Graeme, sighing. 
 
 "My bairn, we can. Though I mind, even in those old 
 happy days, you had a sorrowful fashion of adding the mor- 
 row's burden to the burden of to-day. But that is past with 
 you now, surely, after all that you have seen of the Lord's 
 goodness, to you and yours. What would you wish changed 
 of all that has come and gone, since that first time when we 
 looked on the bonny hills and valleys of Merleville? " 
 
 "Janet," said Graeme, speaking low, " death has come to 
 us since that day." 
 
 "Ay, my bairns 1 the death of the righteous, and, surely, 
 thf.t is to be grieved for least of all. Think of them all 
 these years, among the hills of Heaven, vdth your mother 
 and the baby she got home with her. And think of the won- 
 derful things your father has seen, and of his having speech 
 
 with David, and Paul, and with our Lord himself " 
 
 36 
 
562 janet's love Am) bebvioe. 
 
 Janet's Toice faltered, and Graeme clasped softly the 
 withered hand that lay upon her arm, and neither of them 
 spoke again, till they answered Sandy and Emily's joyful 
 greeting at the door. 
 
 Rose lingered behind, and walked up and down over the 
 fallen leaves beneath the elma Graeme came down again, 
 there, and Mr. Nasmyth came to ^eak to them, and so did 
 Emily, but they did not stay long ; and by and by Eose was 
 left alone with Mr. Millar, for the very first time during his 
 visit. Not that she w^b really aJone with him, for all the 
 rest were still in the porch enjoying the mild air, and the 
 bright October sunshine. She could join them in a moment, 
 she thought, not that there was the least reason in the world 
 for her wishing to do so, however. All this passed through 
 her mind, as she came over the &llen leaves toward the gate 
 on which Mr. Millar was leaning ; and then she saw that she 
 could not so easily join the rest, at least, without asking him 
 to let her pass. But, of course, there could be no occasion 
 for thai 
 
 " How clearly we can see the shadows in the water," said 
 she, for the sake of saying something. " Look over yonder, 
 at the point where the cedar trees grow low. Do you see ? " 
 
 " Yes, I see," said he, but he was not looking the way of 
 the cedars. " Rose, do you know why I came here ? " 
 
 Bose gave a startled glance toward the porch where they 
 were all sitting so quietly. 
 
 "It was to bring us news of Will., wasn't it ? And to see 
 Merleville ?" said she. 
 
 Did she say it ? Or had she only thou^^ht of it ? She was 
 not sure, a minute after, for Mr. Millar went on as if he had 
 heard nothing: 
 •^^*1 came to ask you to be my wife." 
 
 Did this take her by surprise? or had she betn expecting 
 it aU the time ? She did not know. She was not sure ; but 
 she stood before him with downcast eyes, without a word. 
 
 ** You know I have loved you always — since the night that 
 Harry took me home with him. My fancy has never wan- 
 
Janet's love and sebviob. 563 
 
 dered from yon, aU these years. Bose, yon mnst Imow IIoto 
 yon, dearly. I have only that to plead. I know I am not 
 worthy of you, except for the love I bear yon.** 
 
 He had begnn qnietly, as one begins a work which needs 
 preparation, and strength, and courage, but his last words 
 came between pauses, broken and hurriedly, and he repeated, 
 
 *• I know I am not worthy.** 
 
 " Oh 1 Charlie, don't «?ay such foolish words to me.** And 
 Bose gave him a single glimpse of her face. It was only a 
 glimpse, but his heart gave a great leap in his breast, and 
 the hand that lay on the gate wHch separated them trembled, 
 though Bose did not look up to see it. 
 
 *'Bosie,'* he whispered, "come down to the brook and 
 show me Harry*s waterfall*' - «^ 
 
 Bose laughed, a little, uncertain laugh, that had the sound 
 of tears in it ; and when GharUe took her hand and put it 
 within his arm, she did not virithdraw it, and they went over 
 the field together. • ; v^y 
 
 Graeme had been watching them from the porch, and as 
 they passed out of sight, she turned her eyes toward Mrs. 
 Snow, with a long breatL v-.tr. 
 
 ''It has come at last, Janet,** said she. 
 
 "I shouldna wonder, dear. But it is no* a thing to grieve 
 over, if it has come.** 
 
 "No. And I am not going to grieve. I am glad, even 
 though I have to seek my fortune, all alone. But I have Will., 
 yet," added she, in a littie. *' There is no word of a stranger 
 guest in his heart as yet I am sure of Will., at least** 
 
 Mrs. Snow smiled and shook her head. 
 
 " Will.'s time vnll come, doubtless. Yon are not to build 
 a castle for yourself and Will, unless you make room for more 
 than just you two in it, dear.*' 
 
 Emily listened, smiling. 
 
 " It would be as well to leave the building of WiL's oastle 
 to himseli^ " said she. 
 
 " Ah 1 yes, I suppose so,** said Graeme, with a sigh. "One 
 must build for one's sell But, Emily, dear, I built Bosie'a 
 
6(i^ janet'b love and service. 
 
 castle. I have wished for just what is happening over yonder 
 among the pine trees, for a long, long time. I have been 
 afraid, now and then, of late, that my castle was to tumble 
 down about my ears, but CharUe has put his hand to the work, 
 now, in right good earnest, and I think my castle will stand." 
 
 " See here, Emily," said Mr. Snow, coming in an hour or 
 two later, '* if Mr. Millar thinks of catching the cars for Bos- 
 ton, this evening, you'll have to hurry up your tea." 
 
 " But he has no thought of doing any such fooKsh thing," 
 said Mrs. Snow. " Dear me, a body would think you were 
 in haste to get quit of the young man, with your hurry for 
 the tea, and the cars for Boston." 
 
 " Why no, mother, I ain't He spoke about it this morn- 
 ing, himself, or I'm pretty sure I should n't I'U be glad to 
 have him stay, and more than glad." 
 
 " He is going to stay and hear the minister preach," said 
 Graeme. " You know you asked him, and I'm sure he will 
 enjoy it," 
 
 " He is a good preacher," said Mr. Snow, gravely. 
 
 " And he's a good practiser, which is far better," said his 
 wife. " But I doubt, deacon, you'll need to put biTn out of 
 your head now. Look down ycnder, and tell me if you think 
 Bode is likely to bide in Merleville." 
 
 And the deacon, looking, saw Mr. Millar and Bose coming 
 slowly up the path together, and a duller man than Mr. Snow 
 could hardly ha^e failed to see how matters stood between 
 them ; Mr. Millar was looking down on the blushing face of 
 his companion with an air alike happy and triumphant, and, 
 as for Bose, Mr. Snow had never seen her look at all as she 
 was looking at that moment. 
 
 " Well," said his wife, softly. 
 
 "Well, it is as pretty a sight as one need wish to see," said 
 Mr. Snow. He nodded his head a great many times, and 
 then, without a. word, turned his eyes on Graeme. 
 
 His wife smiled. 
 
 " No., I am afraid not Every one must build his own 
 castle, as I heard her saying — or was it Emily ? this very 
 
Janet's love and service. 665 
 
 afternoon. But we needna trouble ourselves about what may 
 come to pass, or about what mayna. It is all in good 
 hands." 
 
 " And, Eosie dear, all this might have happened at Nor- 
 man's last year, if only Charlie had been bolder, and Harry 
 not so wise.*' 
 
 The sisters were in their own room together. A good deal 
 had been said before this time that need not be repeated. 
 Graeme had made her sister understand how glad she was 
 for her sake, and had spoken kind, sisterly words about 
 Charlie, and how she would have chosen him for a brother 
 out of aU the world, and more of the same kind ; and, of 
 course, Rose was as happy, as happy could be. But when 
 Graeme said this, she turned round with a very grave face. 
 
 " I don't know, Graeme. Perhaps it might ; but I am not 
 sure. I did not know my own mind then, and, on the whole, 
 it is better as it is." 
 
 " Harry will be glad," said Graeme. Indeed, she had said 
 that before. 
 
 Bose laughed. 
 
 "Dear, wise Harry I He always said Charlie was pure 
 gold." 
 
 " And so he is," said Graeme. 
 
 "I know it, Graeme ; and he says he is not good enough 
 for ma" And Rose laid down her cheek upon her sister's lap, 
 with a Httle sob. "Ah I if he only knew, I am afraid — " 
 
 " Dear, it is the humility of true love, as you said about 
 Harry. You love one another, and you need not be afraid." 
 
 They were silent for a long time after that, and then Rose 
 said, flushing a little, 
 
 "And, Graeme, dear, Charhe says — ^but I promised not to 
 tell—" 
 
 "Well, you must not, then," said Graeme, smiling, with 
 just a little throb of pain at her heart, as it came home to her 
 that now, Rose, and her hopes and fears, and Httle secrets be- 
 longed more to another than to her. 
 
 "Not that it is a secret, Graeme," said her sister, eagerly. 
 
566 jaitet's love ajstd service. 
 
 " It is something that CharKe has very much at heart, but I 
 am not so sure myself. But it is nothing that can be spoken 
 about yet. Graeme, CharHe thinks there is nobody in the 
 world quite so good as you." 
 
 Graeme laughed. 
 
 "Except you, Rosie.** 
 
 " I am not good, Graeme, but very foolish and naughty, 
 often, as you know. But I will try and be good, now, indeed 
 I will." 
 
 " My darling," murmured Graeme, " I am so glad for you 
 — so glad and thankful. We ought to be good. God has 
 been very good to us alL" 
 
 Of course all this was not permitted to shorten the visit of 
 the sisters to their old friend. Mr. Millar went away rather 
 reluctantly, alone, but the winter had quite set in before they 
 went home. Mrs. Snow was well by that time, as well as she 
 ever expected to be in this world, and she bade them farewell 
 with a good hope that she might see them again. 
 
 "But, whether or not," said she, cheerfully, " I shall aye be 
 glad and thankful for the qniet time we have had together. 
 There are few who can say of those they love, that they wish 
 nothing changed in their life or their lot ; but I do say that of 
 all your father's bairns. No' but that there may be some 
 crook in the lot of one or other of you, that I canna see, and 
 maybe some that I can see ; but when the face is set in the 
 right airt (direction) all winds waft onward, and that, I trust, 
 is true of you all And, Rosie, my dear, it takes a steady 
 hand to carry a full cup, as I have told you, many a time ; 
 and mind, my bairn, ' Except the Lord build the house, they 
 labor in vain that build it,' and, * the foundation of God 
 standeth sure.' Miss Graeme, my dear, * They that wait on 
 the Lord shall renew their strength,' as you have learned your- 
 self long syne. God bless you both, and farewell" 
 
 They had a very quiet and happy winter. They had to 
 make the acquaintance of their new sister, and a very pleasant 
 duty it proved. Harry had at one time indulged some insane 
 hopes of having his little Amy safe in his own keeping before 
 
Janet's love ahd ssaavicE, 667 
 
 the enow came, but it was soon made plain to him 1 y Mrs. 
 Roxbury, that this was not for a single moment to be thought 
 of. Her daughter was very young, and she must be per- 
 mitted at least one season to see something of society before 
 her marriage. She was satisfied with the prospect of having 
 the young merchant for a son-in-law ; he had established a re- 
 putation of the most desirable kind among the rehable men 
 of ihe city, and he was, besides, a gerUleman, and she had 
 other daughters growing up. Still it was right that Amy 
 should have time and opportunity to be quite sure of herself, 
 before the irrevocable step was taken. If Mrs. Eoxbury 
 could have had her way about it, she should have had this 
 opportimity before her engagement had been made, or, at least, 
 before it had been openly acknowledged, but, as that could 
 not be, there must be no haste about the wedding. 
 
 And so the pretty Amy was hurried from one gay scene to 
 another, And v;as an acknowledged beauty and belle in both 
 civic and military circles, and seemed to enjoy it all very 
 welL As for Harry, he sometimes went with her, and some- 
 times stayed at home, and fretted .and chafed at the state of 
 affairs in a way that even his sisters considered unreasonable, 
 though they by no means approved of the trial to which 
 Amy's constancy was exposed. But they were not afraid for 
 her. Every visit she made them — and many quiet mornings 
 she passed with them — they became more assured of her sweet- 
 ness and goodness, and of her affection for their brother, 
 and so they thought Harry unreasonable in his impatience, 
 and told him so, sometimes. 
 
 '* A little vexation and suspense will do Harry no harm," 
 said Arthur. " Events were following one another quite too 
 smoothly in his experience. In he walks among us one day, 
 and announces bis engagement to Miss Boxbury, as trium- 
 phantly aa you please, without a word of warning, and ,now 
 he frets and fumes because he cannot have his own way i^ 
 every particular, A little suspense will do him good." 
 
 Which was very hard-hearted on Arthur's part, as his wife 
 told him. 
 
668 JANET'S LOVE AND BERVICE. ** 
 
 (( 
 
 And, besides, it is not suspense that is troubling Hany," 
 said Rose. " He knows quite well how it is to end. It is only 
 a momentary vexation. Ai».d I don't say, myself, it will do 
 Harry any harm to have his masculine self-complacency dis- 
 turbed a Httle, by just the bare possibility of disappointment. 
 One values what it costs one some trouble to have and to 
 hold." 
 
 "Rose, you are as bad as Arthur," said Fanny. 
 
 "Ami? Oh! I do not mean that Harry does n't value 
 little Amy enough ; but he is unreasonable and foolish, and 
 it looks as if he were afraid to trust her among all those fine 
 people who admire her so much." 
 
 "It is you who are foolish, now, Rose," said her sister. 
 " Harry may be unreasonable, but it is not on that accoxmt ; 
 and Amy is a jewel too precious not to be guarded. No 
 wonder that he grudges so much of her time, and so many of 
 her thoughts to indifferent people. But it will soon be over 
 
 now." 
 
 '* Who knows ? * There's many a sHp 'twixt the cup and 
 tlie lip,' you know," said Arthur. " Who knows but Harry 
 may be the victim among us ? Our matrimonial adventures 
 have been monotonously prosperous, hitherto. Witness 
 Rosie's success. It would make a httle variety to have an in- 
 terruption." 
 
 But Harry was not destined to be a victim. As the winter 
 wore over, Mrs. Roxbury relented, and " listened to reason 
 on the subject," Harry said ; and by and by there begun to be 
 fflgns of more than usual occupation in the Roxbury mansion, 
 and preparations that were likely to throw Rosie's modest ef- 
 forts in the direction of housekeeping altogether in the shade. 
 But Rode was not of an envious disposition, and enjoyed her 
 pretty things none the less, because of the magnificence of 
 Harry's bride. As for little Amy, she took the matter of the 
 trousseau very coolly. Mamma was quite equal to all that, 
 and took trouble enough, and enjoyment enough out of it 
 all for both, and she was sure that all would be done in a 
 right and proper manner, without anxiety or over-exertion 
 
Janet's love and servioe. 569 
 
 on her part, and there was never a happier or more light 
 hearted Uttle bride than she. 
 
 ' At first it was proposed that the two weddings should take 
 place on the same day, but, afterwards, it was decided other- 
 wise. It would be inconvenient for business reasons, should 
 both the partners be away at the same time, and in those circum- 
 stances the wedding trip would be shortened. And besides, the 
 magnificence of the Eoxbury plans, would involve more trouble 
 as to preparations, than would be agreeable or convenient ; 
 and Eose proposed to go quietly from her own home to the 
 home Charlie was making ready for her ; and it was decided 
 that Harry's marriage should take place in the latter part of 
 April, and the other early in the summer. 
 
 But before April, bad news came from Will. They heard 
 &om himself first, that he had not been sometimes as well as 
 usual, and then a letter came from Mr. Ruthven to Graeme, 
 telling her that her brother was ill with fever, quite unable 
 to write himself ; and though he did not say in so many 
 words, that there was danger for him, this was only too 
 easily inferred from his manner of writing. 
 
 The next letter, and the next, brought no better news. It 
 was a time of great anxiety. To Graeme it was worst of aE 
 As the days went on, and nothing more hopeful came from 
 him, she blamed herself that she had not at once gone to him 
 when the tidings of his illness first reached them. It was 
 terrible to think of him, dying alone so far from them all ; 
 and she said to herself ** she might, at least, have been with 
 him at thelasi" ■ 
 
 He would have been at home by tb's time, if he had been 
 well, and this made their grief and anxiety all the harder to 
 bear. If she could have done anything for him, or if she could 
 have knovm from day to day how it was with him, even 
 though she could not see him, or care for him, it would not 
 have been so dreadful, Graeme thought Her heart faQed her, 
 and though she tried to interest herself still in the prepara- 
 tions and arrangements that had before given her so much 
 pleasure, it was all that she could do, to go qviietiy and 
 
670 janet'8 love and seevioe. 
 
 calmly about her duties, during some of these very anxious 
 days. 
 
 She did not know how utterly despondent she was becom* 
 ing, or how greatly in danger «he was of forgetting for the 
 time the lessons of hope and trust which her experience in 
 life had taught her, till there came from Mrs. Snow one of her 
 rare, brief letters, written by her own hand, which only times 
 of great trial had ever called forth from her- 
 
 " My bairn," «he said, "are you not among those whom 
 nothing can harm? Absolutely nothing ! Whether it be life 
 or death that is before your brother, you have surely nothing 
 to fear for him, and nothing for yoursel£ I think he will be 
 spared to do God's work for ^ while yet. But dear, after all 
 that has come ^nd gone, neith^ you nor I would like to take 
 it upon ourselves to say what would be wise and kind on our 
 Father's part ; and what is wise and kind will surely come to 
 pass.** 
 
 Their suspense did not last very long .after this. Mr. Buth* 
 ven's weekly letters b^ame more hopeful after the third one, 
 and soon Will, wrote himself, a few feeble, irregular lines, tell- 
 ing how his friend had watched over him, and cared for him 
 like a brother^ during all those weeks in his dreary, city lodg- ] 
 ing ; and how, at the first possible moment, he had taken him 
 home to his own house, where Mrs. Millar, his mother, was I 
 caring for him now ; and when) he was slowly, but surely, j 
 coming back to life and health fegain. There was no hope i 
 of his being able to be home to HMrr/s marriage, but unless j 
 something should happen to pull him sadly back again, he I 
 hoped to see the last of Bosie EUiott, and the first of his new 
 brother Charlie. 
 
 There were a few words meant for Graeme alone, over 
 which she shed happy, thankful tears, and wrote them down 
 for the reading of their oldfriend, "Brought face to face vdth 
 death, one learns the true meaning and value of life. I am 
 glad to come back again, for your sake Graeme, and for the 
 sake of the work that I trust I may be permitted to do.** 
 
 After this they looked forward to the wedding with lightened 
 
Janet's love and service. 671 
 
 hearts. It was a very grand and successful affair, altogether. 
 Amy and her brides-maids were worthy of all the admiration 
 which they excited, and that is saying a great deal There 
 were many invited guests, and somehow, it had got about 
 that this was to be a more than usually pretty wedding, and 
 St. Andrew's was crowded with lookers-on, who had only the 
 right of kind and admiring sympathy to plead for being there. 
 The breakfast was all that it ought to be, of course, and the 
 bride's travelling-dress was pronounced by all to be as great 
 a marvel of taste and skill, as the bridal robe itself. 
 
 Harry behaved very well through it all, as Arthur amused 
 them not a Httle by gravely asserting. But Harry was, as an 
 object of interest, a very secondary person on the occasion, as 
 it is the usual fate of bridegrooms to be. As for the bride, she 
 was as sweet and gentle, and unaffected, amid the guests, and 
 grandeur, and glittering wedding gilts, as she had always 
 been in the eyes of her new sisters, and when Graeme kissed 
 her for good bye, she said to herself, that this dear Httle sis- 
 ter had come to them without a single drawback, and she 
 thanked God in her heart, for the happiness of her brother 
 Harry. Yes, and for the happiness of her brother Arthur, 
 too, she added in her heart, smd «ihe greatly surprised Fanny 
 by putting her arms round her and kissing her softly many 
 times. They were in one of the bay windows of the great 
 drawing-room, a little withdrawn from the company generally, 
 so that they were unobserved by all but Arthur. 
 
 " Graeme's heart is overflowing with peace and good will 
 to all on this auspicious occasion," said he, laughing, but he 
 was greatly pleased. 
 
 After this they had a few happy weeks. Eosie's preparations 
 were by this time, too far advanced to give any cause for anxi- 
 ety or care, and ihey all enjoyed the quiet. Letters came weekly 
 from Will, or his friend, sometimes from both, which set them 
 quite lit rest about the invalid. They were no longer mere 
 reports of his health, but long, merry, rambling letters, filled 
 with accounts of their daily life, bits of gossip, conversation, 
 even joke;? at one another's expense, generally given by Will., 
 
672 Janet's love and service. 
 
 but sometimes, also, by the grave and dignified Mr. Ruthven, 
 whom, till lately, all but Charlie had come to consider almost 
 a stranger. Still the end of May was come, and nothing was 
 said as to the day when they expected to set saiL 
 
 But before that time, great news had come from another 
 quarter. Norman and his family were coming East A 
 succession of childish illnesses had visited his Httle ones, and 
 had left both mother and children in need of more bracing 
 air than their home could boast of in the summer time, and 
 they were aU coming to take up their abode for a month or 
 two, on the Gulf, up which health-bearing breezes from the 
 ocean never cease to blow. Graeme was to go with them. 
 As many more as could be persuaded were to go, too, but 
 Graeme certainly ; and then she was to go home with them, 
 to the West, when their summer hoUday should be over. 
 
 This was Norman's view of the matter. Graeme's plans 
 were not sufficiently arranged as yet for her to say either yes 
 or no, with regard to it. In the meantime, there were many 
 preparations to be made for their coming, and Graeme wrote 
 to hasten these arrangements, so that they might be in time 
 for the wedding. 
 
 " And if only Will, comes, we shall all be together again 
 once more," said she, with a long breath. 
 
 "To say nothing of Norman's boys, and his wonderful 
 daughter, and Fanny's young gentleman, who will compare 
 with any of them now, I think, " said Rose. 
 
 " We will have a hbuse fuU and a merry wedding," said 
 Arthur. "Though it won't be as grand as the other one, 
 Rosie, I'm afraid. If we only could have Mrs. Snow hero, 
 Graeme?'* 
 
 Graeme shook her head. 
 
 " I am afraid that can hardly be in the present state of her 
 health. Not that she is ill, but Mr. Snow thinks the jour- 
 ney would be too much for her. I am afraid it is not to be 
 thought of?" 
 
 " Never mind — CharHe and Rosie can go round that way 
 and get her blessing. That will be the next best thing to 
 
jANEl's LOVE AND SERVICE. 573 
 
 having her here. And by the time you are ready for the altar, 
 Graeme, Janet will come, you may bo sure of thai" 
 
 June had come, warm and beautiful. Harry and his bride 
 had returned, and the important but exliausting ceremony of 
 receiving bridal visits was nearly over. Graeme, at least, had 
 found them rather exhausting, when she had taken her turn 
 of sitting with the bride ; and so, on one occasion, leaving 
 Rose and some c ther gay young people to pass the evening 
 at Harry's house, she set out on her way home, with the feel- 
 ing of relief that all was over in which she was expected to 
 assist, uppermost in her mind. It would all have to be gone 
 over again in Rosie's case, she knew, but she put that out of 
 her mind for the present, and turned her thoughts to the 
 pleasant things that were sure to happen before that time — 
 Norman's coming, and WilL's. They might come any day 
 now. She had indulged in a little impatient murmuring that 
 WilL's last letter had not named the day and the steamer by 
 which ho was to sail, but it could not be long now at the 
 longest, and her heart gave a sudden throb as she thought 
 that possibly he might not write as to the day, but might 
 mean to take them by surprise. She quickened her footsteps 
 unconsciously as the thought came into her mind ; he might 
 have arrived already. But in a minute she laughed at her 
 foolishness and impatience, and then she sighed. 
 
 " There will be no more letters after Will, comes home, at 
 least there will be none for me/' she said to herseli^ but added, 
 impatiently, "What would I have? Surely that will be a 
 small matter when I have him ssife and well at home again." 
 
 But she was a httle startled at the pain which the thought 
 had given her ; and then she denied to herself that the pain 
 had been there. She laughed at the idea, and was a little 
 scornful over it, and then she took herself to task for the 
 scorn as she had done for the pain. And then, frightened at 
 herself and her discomfort, she turned her thoughts, with an 
 effort, to a pleasanter theme — the coming of Norman and 
 Hilda and their boys. 
 
 "I hope they will be in time. It would be quite too bad 
 
674: Janet's love and sebvioe. 
 
 if they were to lose the wedding by only a day or two. And 
 yet we could hardly blame Charlie were he to refuse to wait 
 after Will, cornea Oh, if he were only safe here ! I should* 
 like a few quiet days with "Will, before the house is fuU. My 
 boy 1 — who is really more mine than any of the others — all 
 that I have for my very own, now that Rosie is going from 
 me. How happy we shall be when all the bustle and confu- 
 sion are over 1 And as to my going home with Norman and 
 Hilda — that must be decided later, as Will, shall make his 
 plans. My boy I — ^how can I ever wait for his coming ?'* 
 
 It was growing dark as she drew near the house. Although 
 the lights were not yet in the drawing-room, she 'mew by the 
 sound of voices coming through the open window that Arthur 
 and Fanny were not alone. 
 
 " I hope I am not cross to-night, but I really don't feel as 
 though I could make myself agreeable to visitors for another 
 hour or two. I wish Sarah may let me quietly in, and I will 
 go up-stairs at once. I wonder who they are 1" 
 
 Sarah's face was illuminated. 
 
 *'You have come at last, Miss Elliott," said she. 
 
 "Yes ; was I expected sooner? Who is here ? Is it you, 
 Oharlie ? You are expected elsewhere/' 
 
 It was not Charlie, however. A voice not unlike his spoke 
 in answer, and said, 
 
 " Graeme, I have brought your brother home to you ;** and 
 her hand was clasped in that of Allan Buthven. 
 
CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 THli pleaBanfc autumn dayp had come round again, and 
 Mv. and Mrs. Snow were sitting, as they often sat, now, 
 alone in the south room together. Mr. Snow was hale and 
 strong still, but he was growing old, and needed to rest, and 
 partly because the afifairs of the farm were safe in the hands 
 of his " son," as he never failed to designate Sandy, and 
 partly because those affairs were less to him than they used 
 to be, he was able to enjoy the rest he took. 
 
 For that was happening to him which does not always 
 happen, even to good people, as they grow old, his hold was 
 loosening from the things which for more than half a lifetime 
 he had sought so eagerly and held so firmly. With hici eyes 
 fixed on " the things which are before," other things were 
 falling behind and out of sight, and from the leisure thus fall- 
 ing to him in these days, came the quiet hours in the south 
 room so pleasant to them both. 
 
 But the deacon's face did not wear its usual placid look on 
 this particular morning ; and the doubt and anxiety showed 
 all the more plainly, contrasting as they did with the bright- 
 ness on the face of his wife. She was moved, too, but with 
 no painful feeling, her husband coulu see, as he watched her, 
 taough there were tears in the eyes that rested on the scene 
 without But she was seeing other things, he knew, Pud not 
 sorrowful things either, he said to himself with a Utde sur- 
 prise, as he fingered uneasily an open letter that lay on the 
 table beside him. 
 
 '■-■-■ ''It ain't haxd to see how all that will end," said he, in a 
 Httle. 
 
 f " But," said his wife, turning toward him with a snule, " you 
 say it as if it were an ending not to be desired." 
 
 c (575) 
 
 |: 
 
576 Janet's love and seevicb. 
 
 " Ah, well ! — in a general way, I suppose it is, or most folks 
 would say so. What do you think ?" 
 
 "If they are pleased, we needna be otherwise." 
 
 " Well ! — ^no — ^but ain't it a Uttle sudden ? It don't seem 
 but the other day since Mr. Buthven crossed the ocean.!" 
 
 "But that wasna the first time he crossed the ocean. The| 
 first time, they crossed it together. Allan Buthven is an old 
 friend, and Miss Graeme is no' the one to give her faith lightly 
 to any man." 
 
 " Well I no, she ain't. But, somehow, I had come to think 
 that she never would change her state ; and — " 
 
 " It 's no' very long, then," said his wife, laughing. " Youll 
 mind that it 's no' long since you thought the minister hkely 
 to persuade her to it." 
 
 " And does it please you that Mr. Buthven has had better 
 luck?" 
 
 " The minister never could have persuaded her. He never 
 tried very much, I think. And if Allan Buthven has pe^ 
 Emaded her, it is because she cares for him as she never cared 
 for any other man. And from all that Will, says, we may 
 believe that he is a good man, and true, and I am glad for 
 her sake, glad and thankful. God bless her." ' *^ 
 
 "Why, yes, if she must marry," said Mr. Snow, discon- 
 tentedly ;" but somehow it don't seem as though she could, 
 fit in anywhere better than just the spot she is in now. I 
 know it don't sound well to talk about old maids, because of 
 the foolish notions folks have got to have ; but Graeme did 
 seem one that would * adorn the doctrine' as an old maid, 
 and redeem the name." 
 
 " That has been done by many a one already, in your sight ^ 
 and mine ; and Miss Graeme will ' adorn the doctrine ' any- 
 where. She has aye had a useful life, and this while she has 
 had a happy one. But oh, man I" added Mrs. Snow, growing 
 earnest and Scotch, as old memories came over her with a 
 sudden rush, " when I mind the life her father and her mother 
 lived together — a life of very nearly perfect blessedness — ^I 
 canna but be glad that Miss Graeme is to have a chance of 
 
Janet's love and sebyioe. 6Y7 
 
 the higher happiness that comes with a home of one's o\m, 
 where true love bides and rules. I aye mind her father and 
 her mother. They had their troubles. They were whiles 
 poor enough, and whiles had thraward folk to deal with ; but 
 trouble never seemed to trouble them when they bore it to- 
 gether. And God's blessing was upon them through all. But 
 I have told you all this many a time before, only it seems to 
 come fresh and new to me to-day, thinking, as I am, of Miss 
 Graeme" 
 
 Yes, Mr. Snow had heard it all many a time, and doubtless 
 would hear it many a time again, but he only smiled, and 
 said, 
 
 "And Graeme is like her mother ^ ' 
 
 "Yes, she's like her, and she's not like her. She is qui- 
 eter and no' so cheery, and she is no' near so bonny as her 
 mother was. Bose is more hke her mother in looks, but she 
 doesna 'mind me of her mother in her ways as her sister doei^ 
 because, I suppose, of the difference that the age and the 
 country make on all that are brought up in them. There is 
 something wanting in all the young people of the present day, 
 that well brought up bairns used to have in mine. Miss 
 Graeme has it, and her sister hasna. Youll ken what I 
 mean by the difference between them." 
 
 Mr. Snow could not. The difference that he saw between 
 the sisters was suf&ciently accounted for to him by the ten 
 year's difference in their ages. He never could be persuaded, 
 that, in any undesirable sense, Rose was more like the modem 
 young lady than her sister. Graeme was perfect, in his 
 wife's eyes, and Rose was not quite perfect. That was alL 
 However, he did not wish to discuss the question just now. 
 
 " Well ! Graeme is about as good as we can hope to see 
 in this world, and if he 's good enough for her that is a great 
 deal to say, even if he is not what her fcither was." 
 
 " There are few like him. But Allan is a good man, WiU. 
 says, and he is not one to be content with a false standard of 
 goodness, or a low one. He was a manly, pleasant lad, in 
 the days when I kenned him. I daresay his long warstle 
 25 
 
678 Janet's love and service. 
 
 -with the world didna leave him altogether scatheless ; but 
 he *s out of the world's grip now, I believe. God bless my 
 bairn, and the man of her choice." 
 
 There was a moment's silence. Mrs. Snow turned to the 
 window, and her husband sat watching her, his brow a little 
 clearer, but not quite clear yet 
 
 " She is pleased. She ain't making beheve a mite. She 's 
 like most women folks in that" said Mr. Snow, emphasizing 
 to himself the word, as though, in a good mauy thiags, she 
 differed from "women folk" in general. "They reaUy do 
 think in their hearts, though they don't always say so, that it 
 is the right thing for girls to get married, and she's glad 
 Graeme's going to do so welL But, when she comes to 
 think of it, and how few chances there are of her ever seeing 
 much of her again, I am afraid she 'U worry about it — ^though 
 she sartain don't look like it now." 
 
 Certainly she did not The grave face looked more than 
 peaceful, it looked bright The news which both Eose and 
 Will, had intimated, rather than announced, had stirred cnly 
 pleasant thoughts as yet, that was clear. Mr. Snow put on 
 his spectacles and looked at the letters again, then putting 
 them down, said, gravely, 
 
 " She '11 have her home a great way off from here. And 
 maybe it 's foolish, but it does seem to me as though it was 
 a land of a come down to go back to the old country to Hve 
 after all these years." 
 
 Mrs. Snow laughed heartily. 
 
 " But then, it is no' to be supposed that she will think so, 
 or he either, you ken." 
 
 "No, it ain't If they did, they 'd stay here, I suppose." 
 
 "Well, it's no' beyond the bounds of possibiUty but they 
 may bide here or come back again. But, whether they bide 
 here or bide there, God bless them both," said Mrs. Snow, 
 with moistening eyes. 
 
 "God bless them both!" echoed her husband. "And, 
 which ever way it is, you ain *t going to worry the least mite 
 about it Be you?" 
 
janet'b love and sebyioe. 579 
 
 The question was asked after a pause of seyeral seconds, 
 and Mr. Snow looked so wistfully- and entreatingly into his 
 wife's face, that she could not help laughing, though there 
 were tears in her eyes. 
 
 "No, I am no thinking of worrying, as you call it. It is 
 borne in upon me that this change is to be for the real happi* 
 ness of my bairn, and it would be pitiful in me to grudge 
 her a day of it. And, to tell you the truth, I have seen it 
 coming, and have been preparing myself for it this while 
 back, and so I have taken it more reasonably than you have 
 done yourself, which is a thing that wasna to be expected, I 
 must confess." 
 
 " Seen it coming I Preparing for it I '* repeated. Mr. 
 Snow ; but he inquired no farther, only looked meditatively 
 out of the window, and nodded his head a great many timea 
 By and by he said, heartily, 
 
 " Well, if you are pleased, I am. God bless them." 
 
 " God bless all the bairns," said his wife, softly. " Oh, man 1 
 when I think of all that has come and gone, I am ready to 
 say that * the Lord has given me the desire of my heart.' I 
 sought His guidance about coming with them. I had 
 a sore swither ere I could think of leaving my mother 
 and Sandy for their sakes, but He guided me and strengthened 
 me, though whiles I used to doubt afterwards, with my sore 
 heart wearying for my own land, and my own kin." . - 
 
 Mr. Snow nodded gravely, but did not speak; and in a 
 little she went on again : 
 
 " I sought guidance, too, when I left them, and now, looking 
 back, I think I see that I got it ; but, for a while, when 
 death came, and they went from me, it seemed as though 
 the Lord had removed the desire of my eyes with a stroke, 
 because of my self-seeking and un&dthfulness. Oh, man ! 
 yon was a rough bit of road for my stumbling, weary feet. 
 But He didna let me fall altogether — praise be to His 
 name I " 
 
 Her voice shook, and there was a moment's silence, and 
 then she added. 
 
 .1-. .,*,.. 
 
680 janet's love and servioe. 
 
 "But, as for grieTing, because Miss Graeme is going 
 farther away, than is perhaps pleasant to think about, when 
 she is going of her own free will, and with a good hope of a 
 measure of happiness, that would be unreasonable indeed." 
 
 ** Now, if she were to hold up her hands, and say, * Now, 
 lettest thou thy servant depart in peace,' it would seem about 
 the right thing to do," said Mr. Snow, to himself, with a 
 sigh. "When it comes to giving the bairns up, v^dUing never 
 to see them again, it looks a Httle as if she was done with 
 most things, and ready to go — and I ain't no ways ready to 
 have her, I 'm afraid." 
 
 The next words gave him a httle start of surprise and 
 rehef. 
 
 "And well need to bethink ourselves, what bonny thing 
 we can give her, to keep her in mind of us when she wiU be 
 fax away." 
 
 "Sartain I " said Mr. Snow, eagerly. 
 
 "Not that I think she'll be Hkely to forget us," added 
 his wife, with a catch in her breath. " She 's no of that 
 nature. I shouldna wonder if she might have some home- 
 sick thoughts, then, even in the midst of her happiness, for 
 she has a tender heart. But, if they love one another, 
 there is little doubt but it will be well with them, seeing 
 they have the fear of God before their eyes. And, she 
 may come back and end her days on this side of the sea> 
 yet, who knows ? " 
 
 "I shouldn't wonder a mite," said Mr. Snow. 
 
 "But, whether or not, if she be well, and happy, and 
 good, that is the main thing. And whiles I think it suits 
 my weakness and my old age better to sit here and hear 
 about the bairns, and think about them, and speak to yon 
 about them and all that concerns them, than it would to 
 be among them with their youth and strength, and their 
 new interests in life. And then, they dinna need me, and 
 you do," added Mrs. Snow, with a smile. 
 
 "That's so/' said he, with an emphasis that made her 
 laugh. 
 
Janet's love and seetioe. 681 
 
 "Well then, let us hear no more about my worrying about 
 Miss Graeme and tbiB bairns. That is the last thing I am 
 thinking of. Sitting here, and looking over all the road we 
 have travelled, sometimes together, sometimes apart, I can 
 see plainly that we were never left to choose, or to lose our 
 way, but that, at every crook and turn, stood the Angel of 
 the Covenant, unseen then, and, God forgive us, maybe un- 
 thought of, but ever there, watching over us, and having 
 patience vdth us, and holding us up when we stumbled with 
 weary feci And knowing that their faces arc turned in the 
 right way, as I hope your's is, and mine, it is no' for me to 
 doubt but that He is guiding them still, and us as well, and 
 that we shall all come safe to the same place at last." 
 
 She paused a moment, because of a little break and quiver 
 in her voice, and then she added, 
 
 " Yes. * The Lord hath given me the desire of my heart * 
 for the baJma Praise be to His name." 
 
 -V <»»,*.' 
 
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