^>. a^. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) i^'., 1.0 ;i:iK iiM I.I t 1^ 2.2 12.0 1.8 1.25 1.4 J4 ^ 6" — ► V] ..» "■ BO.STC» n LOTIIROr ' ^M FA NY ■n I -■)/■. . MARJORIE'S CANADIAN WINTER A STORY OF THE NORTHERN LIGHTS AGNES MAULE MACHAR Author of ^^ ''Stories o^ New Kkanck," etc A^ %^J y-^^iu^/^ '^ BOSTON D LOTHROP COMPANY OOPTBIQHT, 1892, BT D. LoTHROP CoMPAmr. TO MY KEVEUED FRIEND Jloljn (J^recnlcaf TObittiet THIS LITTLE KOOK IS GKATEFULLY INSCRIBED IN HEART-FELT RECOGNITION OF THE INSPIRA- TION OF HIS WRITINGS AND HIS LIFE " Our Friend, our Brotlier and our Lord, What may Tliy scj-vicc be ? — Not name, not form, not ritual word, But simply following Thee." CONTENTS. CHAI^TEU I. A NOVEMHEIl EVKXlNc; CIIAITKK II. SOME DARK DAYS • • • CHAPTER III. A NEW DEPARTURE CIIAPTEU IV. NORTHWARD .... CHAPTER V. IN MONTREAL .... CHAPTER VI. NEW FRIENDS .... CHAPTER VII. THE professor's STORV CHAPTER VIII. A SNOW-SHOE TRAMP . 9 29 48 62 78 93 115 145 CONTENTS. CHAPTER IX. HKVEN SCENES FHOM CHRISTMAS PAST CIIAPTEIl X. CHRISTMAS PRESENT . . . CHAPTER XI. FERE LE JEUNE's CHRISTMAS CHAPTER XII. A NEW year's party CHAPTER XIII. treasures op the snow and ice . CHAPTER XIV. carnival (JLORIES .... CHAPTER XV. PERE DE NOUE CHAPTER XVI. A NEW ACQUAINTANCE CHAPTER XVII. ANXIOUS DAYS CHAPTER XVIII. OPENING BLOSSOMS .... CHAPTER XIX. EASTWARD, IlO ! CHAPTER XX. AMONG THE HILLS .... lOG 194 207 228 242 256 285 300 317 334 353 368 MARJORIE'S CANADIAN WINTER, CHAPTER I. A NOVEMBER EVENING. Marjorie Fleming sat curled up in a large chair by the window of the dim fire-lighted room, looking out into the misty grayness of the rainy November evening, with wistful, watchful eyes that yet seemed scarcely to see what was before them. The train that generally brought her father from the city was not quite due, but on this dull rainy day the dusk had fallen very early, and Marjorie, always a dreamer, loved to sit quiet in the " gloaming," as her father used to call the twilight, and give full sway to the fancies and air-castles that haunted her brain. The fitful light of tlic low fire in the grate scarcely interfered with the view of the outer world, such as it was : of the 'evergreens, heavy with crystal rain- drops, the bare boughs of the other trees, and, beyond that, the street-lights, faintly outlining the houses and 9 "T 10 A NOVEMBER EVENING. gardens on the other side. Marjorie, as she sat there, with one hand on the head of her little terrier Robin, scarcely looked her age, which was thirteen — a delightful age for a little girl ; full of opening possi- bilities of life, and thoughts, of which, only a year or two ago, she had scarcely dreamed ; an age not yet shorn of the privileges of childhood, and yet beginning to taste of the privileges of " grown-up people ; '' for now her father and his friends would not mind occa- sionally taking her into their thoughtful talks, which, to her, seemed so delightful and so profound. As Marjorie waited, absorbed iii a reverie, her mind had been roaming amid the fair scenes of last summer's holiday among the hills, with her father and her dear Aunt Millie ; and latterly with the stranger who had appeared on the scene so unexpectedly to her, and had eventually carried off her beloved auntie to a Southern land of whose " orange and myrtle " Marjorie had been dreaming ever since. The bustle and novelty of a wedding in the house were very fresh in her mind, and she still felt the great blank left by the departure of the bride, whose loss to her father Mar- jorie had made such strong resolves to supply by her own devotion to his care and comfort. These resolves had been fulfilled as well, perhaps, as could be ex- pected from a girl of thirteen, whose natural affinities were more with books and study than with housewifely cares ; but their faithful maid Rebecca, trained so A NOVEMBER EVENING. 11 carefully by " Miss Millie," regarded the somewhat superfluous efforts of her young mistress with some- thing of the same good-humored disapprobation with which the experienced beaver is said to view the crude attempts of the young beginners at dam-building. So household cares had not weighed heavily on Marjorie yet, and the quiet life alone with her father had been much pleasanter and less lonely than she could have believed. For, though he was all day absent at the oftice in the city, Marjorie had her school and her books, and the walks in the bright October days with school friends. And then there were the long cosey evenings with her father, when Marjorie learned her lessons at his writing-table, while he sat over his books and papers ; yet not too much absorbed for an occasional talk with Marjorie, over a difficult passage in her French or German, or an allusion in a book which she did not understand. Sometimes, too, he would read to her a manuscript poem or sketch, to see how she liked it ; for Mr. Fleming was engaged in editorial work in connection with a New York periodical, and often brought manuscripts home from the office to examine at leisure. These were great treats to Mar- jorie. It seemed to her charming to hear a story or a poem fresh from the author's hand, before it had even gone to the printer ; and she looked with a curious feeling of reverence at the sheets covered with written characters, that seemed about to fly on invisible wings 12 A NOVEMBER EVENING. to all parts of the land. As for her father, Marjorie tliouirht that there was no one in all the world so clever and so good ; and his verdict she took as a finality on every possible subject. Only one person stood yet hiuher in her thonuht: and that was the dear mother who now seemed to her like a lovely angel vision, as she imagined her in fragile delicacy and gentle sweetness, and knew, too, how her father had mourned her, and how he revered her memory as that of one far better than liimself. All that that memory had been to him Marjorie could as yet only very faintly appreciate, but she knew or divined enough to give a loving but profound veneration to the feeling with which she looked at the picture over the mantel-piece, or the still sweeter smaller one that stood on her father's dressing-table. Marjorie had learned by heart Cowper's beautiful lines to his mother's picture, and she sometimes said them over softly to herself as she sat alone, looking at the picture by the firelight. She was recalled now from the mazy labyrinth of rambling thoughts by Robin's sharp little bark and whine, as an umbrella with a waterproof coat under it swiftly approached the gate and turned in. It was a race between the dog and Marjorie, which • of them should be at the door first. Robin was, but had to wait till Marjorie opened the door for his wild rush upon his master, while she threw her arms about him, wet as he was, for the greeting kiss. A NOVEMHEK EVENING. 13 "Oh ! how wet you are, father dear," she exclaimed. " Such an evening ! " " Yes ; it makes me glad to be back to home and you, Pet Marjorie," he said, looking down at her with bright dark eyes very like her own, while she tugged away at the wet coat, in her eagerness to relieve him of it. He shivered slightly as he sat down in the easy-chair which Marjorie pulled in front of the fire, while she broke up the coal till the bright glow of the firelight filled the cosey apartment — half-study, half- sitting-room — where a small table was laid for a tete-a-tete dinner. Marjorie looked at him a little anxiously. " Ah ! now you've taken cold again," she said. " I've taken a slight chill," he said, a little wearily. " It's scarcely possible to help it in this weather — but we shall be all right when we've had our dinner, eh, Robin ? " as the little dog, not meaning to be overlooked, jumped up and licked his hands. " But you look so tired, papa," said Marjorie again, using the pet name by which she did not usually call him. " I've been out a good deal in the rain, and among saddening scenes, dear," he said. " Oh ! why did you go out so nmch lo-day ? " " I had made an appointment with an English friend to show him how some of our poor people live, and, Marjorie dear, it made me heart-sick to see the 14 A NOVEMBEK EVENING. I I f misery and wretchedness, the dingy, squalid, crowded rooms — the half -starved women and children. It makes me feel as if it were wrong to be so comfort- able," he added, looking round the room with its books and pictures. " And then, to pass those great luxuri- ous mansions, where they don't know what to do with their overflowing wealth, and where they waste on utter superfluities enough to feed all those poor starv- ing babies. Ah! it's pitiful. It makes me wonder whether this is a Christian country." Marjorie looked perplexed. "But don't those rich people go to church ? " she asked. " And, surely, if they knew people were starving, they would give them bread? " " It's a queer world. Pet Marjorie," he said. " I suspect a good many of us are half-heathen yet." Marjorie said nothing, but looked more puzzled still. She had heard a great deal about the heathen in foreign countries, but how there should be heathen, or even half-heathen people in a city like New York, and especially among the rich and educated portion of it, was not so clear. No doubt they v^ere not all as charitable as they should be — but how did that make them " half -heath en " ? But she was accustomed to hear her father say a good many things that did not seem very clear at first, and she liked to try and think out their meaning for herself. " I saw an angel to-day," Mr. Fleming went on A NOVEMBER EVENING. 15 half-musingly, then, smiling at Marjorie's surprised look, he added: "But I mustn't begin to talk about it now, or we'U keep dinner waiting, and I see Kebecca is bringing it in. I'll tell you about it in our ' holiday half-hour,' by and by. It'll be a conundrum till then." It was rather a " way " Mr. Fleming had, to mys- tify a little his " Pet Marjorie," as he liked to call her, after the wonderful little girl who was such a pet of Sir Walter Scott, as Dr. John Brown has so prettily told us. And it had the effect of making her wonder- fully interested in the explanation, when it was not possible for her to think this out for herself. And the " holiday half-hour " was the last half-hour before Marjorie's bedtime, when Mr. Fleming was wont to make a break in his busy evening, and give himself up to a rambling talk with Marjorie on matters great or small, as the case might be. For this half-hour Marjorie used to save up all the problems and dilficid- ties that came into her busy mind during the day ; and then, too, he would read to her little things that he thought she would like — generally from his office papers. It was no wonder that she looked forward to it as the pleasantest bit of the day, and that it left happy and peaceful thoughts to go to sleep with. They had their quiet dinner together, while the rather dignified and matronly Rebecca waited on both, with a kind of maternal care. Then the table was cleared and drawn nearer the fire, while Mr. Fleming 16 A NOVEMBER EVENING. sorted out on it his books and papers. Among them were two or three new books for review. Marjorie looked at the titles, and dipped into the contents a lit- tle, but finally decided that they " were not as nice as they looked." Then, instead of producing granmiars and exercise books as usual, she opened her little work- box, and unfolded, with an air of some importance, a large bundle of flannel. " Nettie Lane and I were at the Dorcas Meeting to- day," she explained, in reply to her father's surprised and inquiring glance. " Nettie said I ought to take more interest in doing good to poor people, as Miss Chauncey always tells us we should. So she took me, because her mother is president, and she wants to 'en- list the interest of all the little girls,' " quoted Marjorie with satisfaction to herself. " And I took this home to make up before Christmas Day." " All right, my child," said her father, smiling. " Only try to do whatever yoii undertake. If it should turn out as my Christmas slippers did last Christmas, I'm afraid the poor people will have to wait a while, unless Rebecca takes pity on you." " O, papa ! But then there was so much work on them, and you didn't need them then — just exactly. And I'm sure they look very nice now," she added, surveying with pride the slippered feet, adorned with two brown dogs' heads, which rested on the fender, while her father looked through the evening papers. A NOVEMBER EVENING. 17 " Yes, dear, they do, and I'm very proud of them," he said, leaning over to stroke her soft dark hair with a loving hand ; " all the more that I know you are no Penelope." ''Oh! poor Penelope had nothing better to do," said Marjorie. " I don't suppose she had French or Ger- man to learn, or any new books to read." "Happy woman!" sighed Mr. Fleming. '*0f making many books there is no end." And he looked a.t the pile of books and MSS. he had just laid on the table. " O, father ! have you any stories to read to me to- night ? " asked Marjorie. " I'll see by and by. I noticed one that I thought looked as if you would like it. It's called ' The Story of the Northern Lights.' But now I'm going to work till our half-hour comes, and then I'll give my- self a rest — and you a reading." " Well, then, father dear, I think I'll put my sew- ing away, and do my lessons for to-morrow. When you are ready to read I can work while I listen." Mr. Fleming smiled a little, but said nothing. The flannel was folded up with a rather suspicious alacrity, grammars and exercises were brought out, and perfect silence reigned, broken only by the turning of leaves or the scratching of pens ; for Marjorie knew that when her father said he was going to work, he did not wish to be disturbed by any desultory remarks, aud 18 A NOVEMBER EVENING. thus she had learned a lesson often difficult for women to learn — that there is " a time to keep silence." " Is your exercise very difficult to-night, Marjorie ? " asked Mr. Fleming, after a long interval, during which he had occasionally noticed long pauses of Marjorie's pen, with what seemed to be periods of deep abstrac- tion in her task. Marjorie colored deeply. "Oh I T haven't begun my exercise yet. This is my translation," she said. " And do you find it so difficult to make out ? " " O, no ! not difficult to translate ; only I thought I W( lid like to do it, you see it's poetry, and so " — " You wanted to translate it into verse ? " he continued. " Yes ; I've got the first verse done." " Well, let me see how you're getting on." He took the sheet of paper which Marjorie handed him with a mingling of pride and nervousness, and read aloud : — " Know'st thou the land where the citron-trees grow, Through the dark leaves the bright oranges glow ; A gentle breeze blows from the soft blue sky, The mild myrtle is there, and the laurel high; Say, dost thou know it? There, oh there — Let me go with thee, Oh, my beloved, there." " Well, it's not a bad translation for a little girl to make, Pet Marjorie," he said, kissing the Hushed A NOVEMBER EVENING. 19 cheek. "But you know ' there's a time for everything.' Your work just now is to learn German, not to play at translatinj; it — half by guess. You should keep such things for your playtime — not waste your lesson time on them. I don't in the least object to your trying what you can do in this way at proper times and seasons, but you know I don't wafit you to get into a desultory way of working. It is a besetting sin of temi)craments like yours — and mine," he added with a sigh. "•Yours, father?" said Marjorie, in astonishment. "• Yes, dear ; it has been very much in my way, and I want you to get the mastery of it earlier in life than I did. And it is what makes half our women so superficial." Marjorie did not clearly understand what this word " superficial " meant ; but she knew it had a good deal of connection with grammatical accuracy and mistakes in her sums and exercises. '■'■ Well, father dear," she said resolutely, " I'll try not to be ' superficial ' and ' desultory.' And so I'll just write it out in prose, and do my exercises." " Yes, only try to finish your poetical one another time, since you have begun it. Though you are rather young yet to try to translate Goethe. But I don't wonder that Mignon's song attracted you." The exercises were finished and put away, and the bundle of flannel ostentatiously taken out, before Mr, rr" 20 A NOVEMBER EVENING. Fleming at last pushed away his papers, with a wearier look than was often to be seen on his expressive face. "There ! I won't work any more to-niglit," he said. " I don't feel up to it. That cold damp air seems in my throat still — and those wretched places — I can't call them homes " — " But the angel ? " asked Marjorie expectantly, set- tling herself on her favoi'ite low chair, close to her father, with her work on her lap. " Oh I the angel ? well, perhaps most people wouldn't have seen the angel, as I did. They might only have seen a pajc young woman, in a rather worn gray gown, soothing a cross baby and two or three restless children, while the poor sick mother, to whom she was acting as sick nurse, was trying to get some rest and sleep. There wasn't any golden hair, and I didn't see any wings, so my angel wouldn't have made much show in a picture. And she does coarse, plain sewing for a living — so she would hardly do for a poem either. Yes, Hood could put her into one. But if ever I saw the face of an angel on any mortal creature — and I have seen it before," he said reverently, with a momen- tary pause, which Marjorie understood — " it was there, so calm, so sweet, so pure, so happy — in such contrast to the wretched surroundings. It put me in mind of words I learned long ago " — The light shiueth iu darkness.'" A NOVKIVIHKK KVKNIN(i. 21 " Is the angel very poor, then ? " asked Marjorie. " Poor ? Yes, 1 .suppose most i)eople woiikl call her poor. To nie she seemed rich in things no gold could buy — the ' peace that passeth understanding,' the love tiiat 'seeketh not her own,' the 'faith that vvorketh by love.' " " Was she taking care of the poor woman who was ill, then ? " asked Marjorie. " Yes. She earns her living by making coarse gar- ments for a mere pittance, lint she was giving up her time, and her money too, I suspect, to acting as an angel of mercy to this poor suffering woman and her family. O, Marjorie ! hov» much more real heroines there often are in the poorest, humblest life, than any of your love-lorn heroines of romance. Some one says so truly : " ' Few save the poor feel for the poor; They little know how hard It is to be of needful food And needful rest debarred.'" Marjorie' s eyes were wet with tears as the picture rose before her mind. Presently she said softly, put- ting her hand in her father's : " I wish I could send the angel something, father dear. Couldn't I put my gold half-eagle into an envelope, and you could address it to her, and she would never know where it came from?" fT 22 A NOVKMUKU KVKNINO. I: r^ " But yoii, were saviii<:^ it up for " — ''Oh ! never luintl, papa dear. I'd so luuch rather give it to her." " I'm afraid it's ou(? of your romantic fancies, Pet Marjorie," he replied, smilinji;' down at her. " You must think it well over. It is best not to follow an impulse too hastily, lest you have to repent at leisure. Wait a little, and count the cost, and then, if you still wish it, you shall put it up and address it yourself." "And we'll write inside the envelope, 'The light shineth in darkness.' Won't that be nice?" Mr. Fleming smiled as he bent down to kiss his little girl's eager face. lie thought it was like what her mother would have done, and the thought brought a suspicious moisture to his eye. "But my angel won't have the least idea of your meaning in making the quotation," he said. " She hasn't the least idea that she is doing anytliing angelic. She will think that it is the kindness of an unknown friend that is the ' light shining in darkness.' " And then he commented inwardly : " Why don't such kindnesses oftener occur to people who could do them so easily '^ " " I don't know that I should have thought of those words myself just then, if I had not been reading this little story before I went out. It is by a young author, I think, as I don't know the name at all, and it sounds like a young writer. And it bears the motto : ' Lux I A NOVKMliER EVENIMU. 28 Lvcet in Tenehris. You know enough Latin to trans- late that, don't you ? " " Why, it's on your little match-box, father dear. I learned it there long ago." " Well, now for the story," he said, as he took up the manuscript. THE STORY OF THE NORTHERN LIGHTS. The great King of Light sat in his palace, radiant with an intensity intolerable to any mortal eye. About him were gathered the various Light spirits who were to proceed on their life-giving mission, each one to her allotted task. There were the rich, warm sunbeams, who were to proceed in ordered files of myriads, each at her post, making the wintry air soft and balmy, sending the quickened sap through the budding boughs, waking the tiny lilossoms from tlieir winter sleep, drawing up the young blades of grain, swelling the ears day by day till they reached autumn ripeness, molding and coloring flowers and fruit, to gladden man's heart, and make earth seem for the time a para- dise. To them was given the glad task of sparkling in the crystal drops of dew, gleaming on the shining green leaves, sending showers of golden arrows into the shady recesses of the solemn pines, and glowing in the rich hues of dawn and sunset. Next in beauty and brightness came the spirits of IT" \i 24 A NOVEMBER EVENING. I I 1!! the silvery moonbeams, and they too received their appointed task. To them it was given to replace the departed j^lory of the sunbeams, by a softer and more restful luster, spreading a solenm and ethereal beauty over woodland and lea — shedding a broad, quivering- stream of silver across the restless waves, guiding the navigator to his desired haven, and the belated traveler to home and rest. They too went to discharge their mission in ordered ranks, and made for the night a second glory, as beautiful, though not as bright, as the glory of the day. At last there was left only one spirit who had not received her charge. She was the most subtle and ethereal of all the Light spirits, and unlike those of the sunbeams and moonbeams, her immediate parentage was veiled in mystery. Her light was not golden, like that of the sunbeams, nor silvery like that of the moon- light spirits, but of a pure, white, intense radiance, so pure that even its intensity was scarcely dazzling, but only luminous. But she was a shy and sensitive spirit, fond of sheltering herself in obscurity, and becoming invisible. She stood in the background, nearly hidden by a dark cloudy veil, till all the rest had received their commission, and departed to fulfill it. Then the king called her and said : " For thee, too, my child, there is a mission, and the most precious mission of all. Thou art to be a light to shine in the darkness." A NOVEMBER EVENING. 25 Then he told her that she was to be sent to a remote region, dark and cold, where, for weeks and months the sun shines not, and where Stern winter's reign is almost unchecked. And there she was to carry her pure white radiance, to gleam brightly out from the blackness of the wintry sky, to lighten with her soft brilliancy the long, dark, moonless nights, to show to the traveler in his sledge the way over the trackless snow, and cheer the icy desolation with the hope of re- turning sunshine and warmth which should at last dis- perse the darkness, and cheer the dreary waste with light and life. The timid spirit trembled at the task before her, and begged that she might have an easier, less solitary mission. But the king said : "For thee, my purest and strongest child, I have reserved this noblest task — to go where light is most needed. Fear not, but depend on me for the power to fulfill thy mission. When thou feelest thyself weakest and most afraid, I will strengthen thee and make thee brightest. Not in thyself shall be thy light, but in constant communication with me." The spirit bowed her head and departed to the cold and dreary northern regions, where for months the sun never rises. And there she spread out her luminous banners and streamers of light, till the black- ness of the winter night seemed to throb with pulsa- tions of quivering brightness, seen amidst the darkness 26 A NOVEMBER EVENING. iii >HI and the brighter for the contrast with it. And when the loneliness, and the power of the surrounding dark- ness which she could not entirely overcome threatened to overpower her, and her light trembled and grew faint, the promised power from the great king came to her aid. In the hour of weakness came her strength, and at such times her brilliancy fairly flashed and coruscated across the sky ; and golden and rosy tints, that seemed borrowed from the dawn itself, flushed through the pure, pearly radiance of her unwearied light. And grateful 'nen, watching the glory and beauty of this " light shining in darkness " have called her the Aurora Borealis — the rosy-fingered dawn of the Northern sky. As Mr. Fleming laid down the paper, he looked at Marjorie, who sat lost in thought, her work lying neglected in her lap. " Well, Marjorie," he said, " what do you think of the story ? " "It's very pretty," she replied. " But I don't think I quite understand it. I suppose it's a parable." " Yes ; it has a very deep meaning, to my mind ; but I could scarcely expect you to see all its meaning yet : or until you have thought and felt a great deal more than you have had time to do yet." " You said it made you think of the angel you saw to-day ; or that she made you think of it, as she did of the ' light that shineth in darkness.' " A NOVEMBER EVENING. 27 *' Yes ; it's a type of the Light that is always at present ' shining in darkness ' ; of the light as it shines in our own hearts amid so much of surrounding darkness. It made me think of brave Gordon, shut up there in Khartoum, like a man holding up a soli- tary torch in that great gloomy desert ; and of many a missionary light-bearer, at home and abroad, each carrying a lonely ray of light into the darkness about him ; and, most of all, of Him who is still the ' Light that shineth in darkness,' and the darkness, even yet, comprehendeth it not. You don't know yet half of what that means, Pet Marjorie, but you'll know more of it by and by — especially if you should be a light- bearer yourself." Marjorie looked very grave. "I'm afraid, father dear, I would rather be one of the sunbeams. It must be so much nicer to shine where everytliing else is warm and bright and simny too." " Yes, ever so much ' nicer,' " he replied with a smile ; " and there are a great many good people of your way of thinking. But it is hardly so useful or so noble, or so Christlike as it is to shine in the dark- ness, even though you may be uncomprehended or mis- understood. But now it is getting late, and I don't intend to sit up much longer myself to-night, for I still feel that chill hanging about me. So we'll read about that Light shining in darkness, and then say good-night." 28 A NOVEMBER EVENING. / Mr. Fleming usually read aloud a few verses from the Bible before Marjorie and he parted for the night. This evening he read the first half of the first chapter of St John's Gospel. Marjorie had often read it be- fore, and knew it almost by heart. But she had never before attached any definite meaning to the words : " The Light shineth in darkness, and the darkness comprehendeth it not." But to-night the image of the bright Aurora, shining amidst the dprkness which still remained darkness, opposed and cmcomprehending, seemed to throw a new light on the old familiar words. When she fell asleep, the same vision seemed to be floacing through her brain. She dreamed that she was walking alone over a wide trackless waste of ice and snow, through a dark moonless night, not knowing whither she was going, or how to choose her path, when suddenly a shaft of pure white light shot up amidst the darkness. It grew and grew, until it seemed to wear the semblance of a great shining angel beckoning her onward. And presently, more lights appeared in the sky, till all the night about her seemed •*-o be filled with an angelic host, and she heard sweet strains of music, such as she had often heard in church, bearing to her ear the old familiar words of the Clirist- mas song: "Glory to God in the highest; on earth peace and goodwill to men." J CHAPTER II. SOME DARK DAYS. That was the last talk that Marjorie and her father had for a good while. The chill that Mr. Fleming had taken that evening produced serious results. He felt so ill next morning that the doctor had to be summoned, and, in spite of all he could do, the attack developed into inflammation of the lungs, accompanied by a touch of bronchitis, to which he was constitution- ally liable. For days he had to be kept perfectly quiet, while the doctor came every few hours and watched his patient's progress with great anxiety. Marjorie was distressed and anxious, though she scarcely realized the danger, being accustomed to her father's severe colds and attacks of bronchitis. By his express desire she went to school as usual and tried to study her lessons, though not by any means with her usual success. But when she hurried home from school, with an anxious heart, eager to know how her father felt now, and how Rebecca thought he was getting on, she was much more inclined to hover about the sick w 11 SOME DARK DAYS. room, attempting the superfluous task of assisting the capable and experienced Rebecca in attending to tlie patient's comfort, than to set to work at the lessons which had never seemed so dry and difficult before. But she knew it worried her father when she neglected her studies, and the aoctor had said that much depended on keeping him perfectly quiet, so Marjorie toiled away over French verbs and Gernum adjectives and still more tiresome sums, with a very half-hearted attention, glad when they were done and she was free to sit by her father, or carry him the nourishment that Rebecca prepared. The short November days had never seemed so dreary, and the solitary meals seemed so uninviting that, but for Rebecca's energetic remon- strances, Marjorie would have half-starved herself. " It's just too ridicklous," that sensible handmaid would declare, " for you to be frettin' yourself sick, when you ought to be savin' up yourself to cheer up the master ; an' then, when he's gettin' well, you'll be taken down sick next, worry in' him to death almost ! " This consideration never failed to have its effect on Marjorie, when nothing else would make her feel like swallowing the food that seemed as if it would choke her. But at last the doctor announced that he thought his patient out of danger, and that, with care, he might soon be restored to his usual state of health. Mar- jorie's relief and delight were so great, and the reac- SOME DAllK DAYS. 31 tioii to overflowing^ spirits so strong, that Rebecca had to be constantly warning her not to excite or fatigue her father by too frequent expressions of her satisfac- tion at his slowly returning strength. One cold, bleak November afternoon, two or three days after the turning-point, she was walking home from school with her friend Nettie Lane. Marjorie was in her brightest mood, as she talked of her father's recent improvement. During the time when she had been feeling oppressed by anxiety, she had shyly avoided speaking of his illness, as far as it was possible for her to do so ; had answered inquiries as briefly as possible, and had even avoided Nettie herself, from an instinctive dread of Nettie's too ready and often thoughtless tongue. But now, with a natural desire for sympathy, she talked freely and hopefully of her father's daily increasing improvement. But Nettie was not so sympathetic as might have been expected. At home she had heard it confidently predicted that Mr. Fleming " would not get over it," and people are often unwilling to admit their judgments to be wrong, even in such matters. So Nettie looked rather important, and remarked that her mother had said that appearances were often deceitful, and, any way, Mr. Fleming was in a very "• critical condition." '' And I guess ' critical ' means something pretty bad," added Nettie, "• for that was what the doctor said before our baby died." 32 SOME DARK DAYS. \\\ 11 lbut only of fearing. And then as I grew older, and met with other young men, and read more, I was very easily persuaded that religion was all a superstition — because some things 40 SOME DARK DAYS. I had been taught could not be true — and that it was impossible, even if there was a God, that we could ever understand him, or could even know whether he existed or not." " That's what you call an Agnostic, isn't it, papa ? Mrs. Lane thinks they are dreadful peojjle, but they can't be, if you were ever one," said Marjorie, im- pulsively. " They are very much to be pitied, at any rate," he said, " for wandering in darkness when there is light. And often it is not so much their fault as that of the Christians who pervert or misrepresent Christianity. 1 was unfortunate, too, in some friends of whom, at one time, I saw a good deal — people who were very earnest and devoted Christians, but seemed to care for nothing in life that was not distinctly religious. Art, science, even philanthropic reforms, they seemed to think unworthy of a Cliristian's attention. There was for them only one interest — that which they call ' salvation,' and they seemed to care little even for other people, vniless they thought as they did. Now I thought, and truly enough, that if there was a God, he was the God of nature as well as of religion, and that he must have created all man's faculties and intended him to use them ; and so th(j narrowness of these really good people only confirmed me in my idea that religion is only a superstition. And I took these stunted, dwarfed specimens — stunted and dwarfed by SOME DARK DAYS. the perversity and narrowness of human nature — for the natural fruits of the tree of Christianity, and thought that I was thus judging the tree by its fruits. " Well, as I said, I came to America just after my university course, when your Uncle Kamsay married my eldest sister, and came out to settle in Montreal. I had very exalted ideas on the subject of human free- dom, and I thought that republican institutions and the growth of humanity would right every evil uruier the sun. But I soon found that even these were by no means perfect ; that abuses and selfish oppression and many other evils seemed to spring up, like weeds from the soil. As a young writer, trying to make my way, I had a hard time of it, and many experiences tliat gradually led me into very pessimistic, that is hojieless, views of humanity, and I was feeling very, very miserable and dejected, when — I met your dear mother." Marjorie's eyes followed the direction of her father's — to the sweet face in the picture. Both were silent for a few moments. Then Mr. Fleming continued : " To me, in my de- ]n'essed state of mind, she seemed a very angel of consolation. And when 1 found that she loved me, and was willing to share my not very brilliant pros- pects, life seemed to blossom anew for me. It seemed as if now I had found the true light of life, and for a time it was all I wanted. 'Ti 42 SOME DARK DAYS. I'i i i " But it was not all she wanted. I had purposely avoided saying anything to her about the faith in which I knew she implicitly believed. I went to church — though not very regularly — and she knew I was serious and earnest in my ideas and in my life ; that I worked with all my heart for what seemed to me for the good of man, and I think that even while she had a misgiving that her faith was not mine, she still hoped that it was, and when she could no longer even hope this, she still hoped that it yet would be." Marjorie sat listening with intense interest. She had never heard much of her dead mother except from her Aunt Millie, and this opening of her father's heart and life to her, was a more precious gift than any other he could have bestowed on her. Mr. Flem- ing spoke slowly and thoughtfully — almost as if thinking aloud — now and then pausing, as if the time he was speaking about was present still. " As our happy marrii xi life went on," he continued, " and your mother's nature matured and deepened, her true, spiritual faith grew deeper and stronger also. She did what I had never done — studied the Bible daily and thoughtfully, with a loving and childlike heart, and remembei*, Marjorie darling, it is only love that ' comprehendeth love.' Without this, it is no wonder so many critics should miss the vei^y heart and. core of revelation. But as her love and faith grew stronger, she grew more sensitive to my lack of ) SOME DARK DAYS. 48 sympathy with either, and I well know it was a great and growing sorrow to her. I always put the subject aside as gently as I could when it came up, for by that time my will was set against believing ; but I felt the wistful pain in her face in spite of myself. Then our first baby died, and I knew that in that sorrow her one consolation was that which I could not and would not share ; and this seemed to make a separation be- tween us, just when sorrow should have drawn us closest. She was never very strong, and I think this double sorrow undermined her„health so much that, shortly after your birth I lost her, as I then thought, forever! " , Marjorie's tears were flowing now. Her father took her hand in his, while he gently stroked her hair with the other ; and, after a short pause, he went on. " What I went through at that time, Marjorie, I could never tell in words. It was the blackness of darkness. I knew then what it was to be ' without God and without hope in the world.' I would have longed for death, but even that gave me no hope of reunion with her who was my life — and what did I know of a ' beyond ' ? And healthy human nature shrinks from a vacuum ! So I lived on, trying to for- get my sorrow in my work. Your Aunt Millie came to live with me, and did all she could to cheer me. She was passionately fond of Tennyson's ' In Memo- riam,' and sometimes in the evenings, when I sat too ^1 Hi n ^ 44 SOME DAKK DAYS. i tired and sad to talk or read, she would read to me bits of that beautiful poem, which I had never cared to il u.^ . tlian glance at before. The beauty and music of the poetry attracted me at first, and by de- grees some of its teaching found its way into my heart. I began to fo'A that human knowledge is not all knowl- edge, 'u>.. ii'. there were other ways of getting at truth than bj •. > sf^uses and our short-sighted human reai'^ning. And o io w .ke a long story short, I be- gan to streicn ''-t )', wjh through the darkness, to the Light that can yiiJijii. o . jn in darkness, and that, as I found, shone even for me. Your Uncle Ramsay too helped me by telling me that if I wanted to get more light, I must honestly seek to follow the light I had, and that Christ had said, ' If any man will do his will, he shall know of the doctrine.' I began to study Christ's life and words, and was amazed to find there many things that I had never seen before — often as I had heard and read the words — things that transcended my own highest ideal of moral purity, and that, alas, far transcended my power of acting up to them. But I felt that in the very desire to follow Christ came the power of following. There were many things that I did not see for a long time — some that I cannot say I see clearly even yet ; but this I have long been sure of : that no light has ever come to this world's darkness to compare with the divine glory seen in Jesus Christ, and that in the loving following of him, is the life and ii SOME DARK DAYS. 45 light of men ! I could say for myself, from the heart, what was said by one who was also a long and anxious seeker for truth, whose life I read some years ago. ' Fully assured that when I am most a Christian, I am the best man, I am content to adhere to that as my guide in the absence of better light, and wait till God shall afford me more.' And as time has gone on, God has given me more light, so that some of the very things that once were difficulties to me, are now additional proofs of the divine origin of a religion which proud human nature could never, never have originated." The room was very still. The lire had burned low as the absorbing talk had gone on only the ticking of the clock and the distant sound of Rebecca's prepara- tions for tea broke the silence. Mr. Fleming's voice had grown tired and weak, but presently he roused himself to say a few words more. " I have told you all this, my child, because in this age of conflicting opinions few thoughtful minds can entirely escape the infection of prevailing doubt. And as changes are always liable to come, and some may soon come to our life together, I think it may be helpful to you hereafter to know what has been your father's experience, and what is his deliberate verdict after so many years of thought and of trial of the illusions of life without the true Light. I might not be able to satisfy Mrs. Lane yet on u cross-examination, and as 8^ m •!■' .: 46 SOME DARK DAYS. it does not come natural to me to express myself in her particular phraseology, I never try to do so. But ' God fulfils himself in many ways; ' and I am more and more satisfied that Christ's law of love is the law of light ; and that in those two words, loving and following, lies the essence of that which is variously called ' conversion,' or a ' new heart ' or practical Christianity. ' Rise up and follow me,' was Christ's summons to those who would be his disciples, and then '•If ye love me, keep my commandments,* and ' This is my commandment, that ye love one another!' And now, darling, ring for lights and tea ; for I have talked rather too much and I feel a little faint." Mr. Fleming talked no more that evening, but Mar- jorie never forgot that conversation, or rather her father's earnest words, which lingered in her mind for montlis and years to come. It made that mysterious something called " conversion " so much clearer and simpler than it had ever seemed before. Just to " fol- low " Christ ; to try to do his will in loving obedience • she could try to do that, and she would. And when she read in her Testament that evening about the man sick of palsy whom Christ told to " take up his bed and walk," it flashed upon her that perhaps it was just in trying to obey Christ that he received the power SOME DAKK DAYS. 47 to do it. And the light that had shone for her dear father and mother would, she was sure, shine for her also. But what could be the " change " her father had hinted at, as if something unknown to her were im- pending ? Her father, she was sure, was growing de- cidedly better. The doctor no longer came to see him daily, and when he did, he spoke so cheerfully, that Marjorie felt quite reassured. Nettie Lane and the other girls had often told her that she might have a step-mother some day — an idea which seemed to her as impossible as it was painful. But she felt sure that her father could not have spoken of her mother as he had done, if he had had the slightest thought of such a thing ; and she dismissed it from her mind as out of the question. Whatever the impending change might be, it was not that. And, as often happens, what it really was, was something which would in all proba- bility have never occurred, even to her dreaming imagination. I. CHAPTER III. u \m A NEW DEPARTURE. A FEW days after that Marjorie brought in her father's letters to the sitting-room, where he had be- gun to write again, though he was not as yet allowed to leave the house. One of the letters bore a Cana- dian postage stamp, and the postmark of Montreal, and was addressed in the well-known flowing hand- writing of her aunt, Mrs. Ramsay. Another was ad- dressed in her Aunt Millie's familiar hand, and Marjorie carried them in with eager expectation, for such letters were generally common property. But instead of reading them to her at once, as he usually did, Mr. Fleming merely opened them eagerly, and after a hasty glance over their contents, resumed his writing. " Well, father dear," said Marjorie, in a disap- pointed tone, " aren't you going to tell me what Aunt Millie says ? May I read her letter ? " " Not just now, dear^" he replied, and Marjorie no- ticed that his hand was trembling a little ; " you shall 48 A NEW DErAKTUKE. 49 read both letters in the evening, when I have time to talk to you about them. But I can't do that just now." Marjorie went off to school, feeling a little hurt, and wondering why her father couldn't at least have let her read her dear Aunt Millie's letter, when he knew how eager she always was to hear from her. However, she knew her father always had a good reason for anything that seemed strange to her, so she trusted him now. But the day seenu'd a long one, and after school she made haste to learn her lessons before tea, so that after tea she might be ready as soon as her father was at leisure. He did not write or study in the evenings yet, and when Marjorie sat down beside him, and told him that her lessons were over, he seemed quite ready for their talk. " I have a great deal to talk to you about, my child," he said, tlirowing his arm lovingly about her, " and the sooner I begin the better — now, I didn't want you to read those letters this morning, because I wanted to tell you first what they were about, and I didn't feel ready to do it then. Marjorie darling, your Aunt Mary most kindly invites you to come and spend the winter with her in Montreal." "But, father dear, I couldn't go away and leave you," exclaimed Marjorie in bewilderment. "My dear child, I am afraid that I must go and i'.\ 50 A NEW l)^:l^VUTUUE. leave you — for a whilo," he said sadly. "No, don't be frightened, dear ; the doctor thinks I am getting on nicely ; but I have had a severe shake, and he thinks it would not be prudent for me to risk staying here through the winter. He strongly recommends me to go South, and your Aunt Millie is most anxious that I should go to her, for part of the winter, at any rate. Mr. Fulton and I have been talking the matter over, and he too endorses the doctor's advice. I can still carry on some of my work in connection with the office, even there. And as I shall probably take a voyage among the West India Islands, I can write some articles that will be of use both to the office and to myself. I should have liked very much to take you with me, dear ; but there are several reasons against that, besides the additional expense. It would be a serious interruption to your studies just now, and you would find it very hard to settle down after it. Then your Aunt Mary has always been anxious to see more of you, and that you should get to know your cousins, and 1 know it will be much the best thing for you to be under her care for a while. It will be the next thing to having your own mother, dear." Marjorie had listened without a word, so far too much stunned by all these unexpected announcements to say a word. She could scarcely realize at first, all that such a plan involved. But as it gradually dawned upon her that a long separation from her father was si 1 A NEW DKPARTURE. 51 really inevitable, her head sank down on his shoulder and a burst of tears eanie to lier relief. " Don't suppose it isn't hard for me, too, darlinjy," said Mr. Fleming, tenderly stroking' her liair. " But I am older than you, and have had more ex})erienee in submitting to what must be ; and then a few months don't seem so long to me to look forward, as when I was your age. But I am quite sure you'll have a very happy winter and that you'll soon learn to love your aunt and eousins, and my dear old friend \amsay." And then he went on to tell her stories of things that had happened when they were at college together, showing his friend's goodness and kindness of heart, and also his love of fun, and l)efoic long Marjorie had almost forgotten her first bi-oken-hearted feeling, and was smiling over her father's narrative of his own bewilderment when he first woke uj) to the fact that Ramsay actually preferred his sister Mary's society to his own I " I can tell you, Marjorie," he said, '" it was one of the severest snubs I ever got in my life, and how old Ramsay did enjoy it ; and Mary, too, after she got rid of her first shyness." Mr. Fleming and Marjorie talked a long time over all the arrangements that had to be considered. He had a good opportunity for letting his house furnished for a year, and as he and Marjorie always spent part of the summer in some quiet country quarters, he ;i m i^ ■H 1 52 A NEW DEPARTURE. thought it best to avail himself of the chance. Re- becca would remain in the house to look after things, and could get on very well with the old gentleman and his wife who were to take the house. And Mr. Ful- ton had a friend who was going to Montreal, and who could be Marjorie's escort, so that her aunt need not take the long journey, as she had offered to do, in order to take Marjorie North. " But Robin, father ! " said Marjorie, suddenly look- ing down at the shaggy little terrier. " We can't leave poor Robin in the house. He would break his heart." " Oh ! that reminds me that you haven't read your Aunt Mary's letter yet. I told her about Robin, and how unwilling I knew you would be to leave him be- hind — as she would have been herself indeed. And she says : * By all means let Marjorie bring '' Robin Adair." He will find a warm welcome from all tne family, including our big, good-natured Nero, who will patronize him with the greatest satisfaction.' Now read the letter for yourself, and see if you don't think you will love your Aunt Mary just as much as your Aunt Millie, when you come to know her as well." So Marjorie sat down to read her ainit's letter in which, after expressing the pleasure with which she would receive her niece, she went on to predict how much Marjorie would enjoy the novel experience of a Canadian winter, tlie sleighing, tobogganing, snow- A NEW DEPARTURE. 63 shoeing, and last, not least, the wonderful sights of the winter carnival. " The children are wild about outdoor sports," she said, "and T am sure the exercise and fun will be very good for Marjorie, for when I saw her I thouglit that, like yourself, she read and studied too much, and lived too dreamy and solitary a life." Mrs. Ramsay had paid her brother a short visit, on the occasion of their youngest sister's marriage, and Marjorie could not but be attracted by her motherly manner and genuine kindliness. She was her father's " common-sense sister," as he used to call her, and he had frequently told her how her hapi)y tranquillity of disposition had often been a true solace in his youthful troubles. He knew that the influence of her calm, bright Christianity and active, practical life would be very good for his impulsive and rather dreamy Mar- iorie, and this more than half reconciled him to the parting which he dreaded almost as much as she did. And it was pleasant, also, to think that his friend Ramsay should know and love his little girl, of whom he was secretly very proud, and whom he knew his old classmate would appreciate. The next few days were very busy ones. Dr. Stone was anxious to get his patient off just as soon as possible, and there were many preparations to be made. Rebecca, who at first almost cried her eyes out at losing "the master and Miss Marjorie, not to w m 54 A NEW DEPARTURE. mention poor little Robin," yet was glad to stay by the old house, was almost buried in the boxes she was packing, and the garments she was sorting and putting to rights. Marjorie and she made a careful inventory of the contents of the house, a task which made Mar- jorie feel herself of much use, as she carefully wrote down her list in a neat memorandum book. Mr. Fleming went into the city when the weather was fine enough, and made his arrangements at the office and elsewhere. One of his pleasantest errands was to leave Marjorie's half-eagle — neatly put up as it had been planned — in the hands of the " angel " he had met on that November day, when his illness had be- gun. She looked ill, herself, and Mr. Fleming felt sure that the little gift of money would be a real boon to her, if she would only use it in procuring comforts for herself. But he could not charge her to do this, for he merely performed the part of a messenger, only saying to her that he had been asked to hand her the package, and then at once coming away without wait- ing for questions. Mr. Fleming's own papers had all to be arranged and put away, and very soon the house began to wear the strange and comfortless look characteristic of a transition period, and the disappearance of the things that most mark the individuality of the inhabitants. At length, the last evening had come, and Rebecca with very red eyes, had carried away the tea-tray for •"T-PTEWTI . ' jr.r fMEl^if t ' l ' J^ A NEW DEPARTURE. 55 the last time. The fire burning brightly, alone seemed unchanged, but the room otherwise looked very bare and formal. Even Robin seemed to feel the difference, and watched Marjorie and her father with a wistful expression, as if he wanted very much to know what could be the matter. All the preparations were made and the boxes packed, for both travelers were to start on the morrow, within an hour or two of each other. Marjorie sat down on her low chair by the fire with some sewing, glad to have something to do as an out- let for her restlessness. She was trying to finish — before leaving — one of the flannel garments she had undertaken to make for the Dorcas Society. " You've been sadly interrupted in your good in- tentions, dear," said her father, smiling at her deter- mination to finish her work at the last moment. " Yes, papa. 01 ! doesn't it seem a long time since that evening you read me the ' Northern Lights ' ! " she exclaimed. " But Rebecca says she'll do the rest, and it'll be all the same to the Dorcas. If I'd only known we were going away, I might have worked more when you were ill, but somehow I couldn't settle down then." " No, dear ; you have hardly learned that amount of self-control yet. But you are going to be a brave girl to-morrow, are you not ? You won't make it harder to part with you ? " Marjorie shook her head, but her lips quivered, and her father hastened to less dangerous ground. 66 A NEW DEPARTURE. (( (( " I hope, my child, you will try to feel as if your cousins were brothers and sisters. I am sure they will want to be good to you." Yes, father, but I hope they don't hate Americans." Why, Marjorie, what put that into your head ? " " Well, you know, father," said Marjorie, " that little girl we met at the Glen House last summer? She came from Montreal, and her name was -Ada West." " A pretty, fair-haired little damsel, very vain and silly ? Yes, I remember her ; rather a spoilt child, I imagine," replied Mr. Fleming. " Well, she always used to say she hated Americans, and their ways ; and that she never wanted to have anything to do witli them." " Why ! she seemed to have quite a fancy for you, notwithstanding." " Oh ! she insisted that I wasn't really an American — she called it ' Yankee.' But I told her I was a real American, and that my mother's great, great, great-grandfather came over in the Mayfiower^ and that my grandfather died fighting in the war, and that I was proud of being an American, and never wanted to be anything else." " Well, dear, I want you to love your native country and believe in it. And you know I am a naturalized American and love your mother's country as much as my own Scotland. But where did we all come from A NEW DEPARTURE. in the first place? — your great, great, great-grand- father as well as your father? But there is no reason why the children of the same mother should hate each* other, because they live on different sides of a river, or because some have been longer in America than others. I don't suppose Miss Ada knew what the Mayflower was." " No, she said she didn't know, and didn't care." " Yes, I thought so. These violent dislikes and prejudices are generally signs of thoughtless ignor- ance. And the rich, self-indulgent people one is apt to meet at such places are not the best people to take as specimens of any country. People often make this mistake about Americans. But your cousins are not like that, I know very well. Your Uncle Ramsay has too big and noble a heart to allow such prejudices in his family. How well I remember how he and I used to hurry down Princes Street in the mornings, to get the latest news of the American War, when we were Edinburgh students, and the battles he helped me to fight with the fellows who were so down on the North then ; and the beautiful letter he wrote me when he heard that I was going to marry the daughter of a true, brave patriot who had fallen in that terrible yet heroic war — heroic on both sides, as every one can afford to admit now." Marjorie's eyes glistened, for she had always been proud of this unknown soldier-grandfather ; indeed it 3 ! ii 58 A NEW DEPARTURE. i iijii she was, perhaps, privately guilty of a little ancestor worship. " But remember, Marjorie, no one can truly love his country, who hates any other." Marjorie looked surprised, and inclined to question this strange proposition. " I know some people call it loving their country, when they abuse and attack others," continued Mr. Fleming, " but it is really only loving themselves. They love their country just because it is something that belongs to them, and when they lose their selfish inter- est in it, they soon show how deep is their love. You have read Coriolanus, Do you remember how when his pride and self-love were wounded, he turned against the country he had been so proud to serve — i! " ' No more infected with m}' country's love ' — and was only prevented by the entreaties of his wife and mother from destroying it ? So Americans used to boast of their country ; but when opposition of in- terest and opinion arose, they split into two parts, each for a time hating the other more than they could a foreign enemy. No, Marjorie I true love never hates, any more than heat can suddenly turn to cold. It must go on loving, though human love must grow less intense as it goes farther from home. And true patriotism, in seeking the real good of its country, A NEW DEPARTURE, 59 must seek the good of all others, too. Even an old heathen poet could write the noble line : " ' I am a man, and I hold nothing human as foreign to me.' "And still : my country's poet has sung, more sweetly " ' Then let us pray that come it may, As come it will, for a' that, That man to man, the world o'er. Shall brothers be an' a' that.' That is true patriotism and true cosmopolitanism or, rather — for that is a very long word — true brother- hood." " Why, I never thought of that before," said Mar- jorie, thoughtfully. " No, dear, you could hardly be expected to have thought yet, of all the things we older folks have had time to think about. But don't forget it, dear. It may save you from getting into silly and vulgar and unchristian disputes. And, Marjorie, one thing more let me say. The root of true brotherhood is, to know and love our Heavenly Father. If we do that, we can't hate any of his children. One of the things that has taught me to know him, was my growing, deepening love for you 1 I came to feel that that love could only come from the source of all love, as of all 60 A NEW DEPARTURE. life. Marjorie, whatever you do, let no one make you believe anything but that God is Love ; and, just because he is liove, seeking to save us from sin, our worst enemy, but always loving us with a tender, faith- ful, untiring love, infinitely more tender than any human love, which can only faintly reflect his." " Yes, father dear," said Marjorie. " I'll always remember that when I think of you." " And remember too, darling, that no part of your life should be lived apart from God. People divide life far too much into ' religious ' and ' secular ' things. But our life touches God at all points, and must do so save in wrong. In your lessons and daily interests, yes, even in your amusements, you come in contact with things that are God's, and can live always in the sense of his presence, if you seek to do so. When you have not me to come to, take all your troubles and difficulties to your Heavenly Father. If you can't do that, be sure there is something wrong, and go to him to set it right. This will save you from many mis- takes and much unhappiness, and will show you that the true nobility and beauty of life lies in living it as seeing him who is invisible. I don't want your path to him to be so long and thorny as mine has been. And remember too, that we know him best in the tenderness and truth — the ever present love of him who was ' bone v.f our bone, and flesh of our flesh ' ; our Elder Brother. A NEW DEPARTURE. 61 " You know those lines from my dear old Whittier, that I have read to you sometimes : •' ' That all our weakness, pain and doubt A great compassion clasps about.' And these others, from his ' Miriam,' that I have learned to say from my own heart : " ' We search the world for t.'uth ; we cull The good, the true, the beautiful. From graven stone and written scroll, From all old ttowertields of the soul ; And, weary seekers of the best, We come back laden from our quest, To find that all the sages said Is in the Book our mothers read, And all our treasures of old thought In his harmonious fullness wrought Who gathers iu one sheaf complete The scattered blades of God's sown wheat, The common growth that maketh good His all-embracing Fatherhood.' " As you grow older you'll understand that better, and love the lines, as I do, for their own sake. And now, my dear child, it's getting late, and we have to be up early. So now we won't say another word but good-night." There was a long, fervent embrace, and then they parted, trying not to think how long it would be be- fore they could say " good-night " again. . ^>i... ' .i:" ' s ' "j f - -^ CHAPTER IV. NORTHWARD. It'' i; li Mr. Fleming had arranged to depart on the same day witli Marjorie, by a train leaving only an hour or two after that b)^ which she and her escort were to start. They went into the city by the earliest morn- ing train, after a hurried breakfast before daylight of the gray December morning. The parting words were said to the tearful Rebecca, and they were whirling to- wards New York before Marjorie could realize that the journey was begun. Robin seemed overpowered by surprise at the strange proceeding, and cowered down in a corner beside Marjorie's satchel, to see what would happen next. The conductor talked to Mr. Fleming about his journey and his intended ab- sence, while Marjorie wiped away some tears that she could not quite keep back, notwithstanding her deter- mination to be " brave." , In New York there was a hurried transfer from one station to another ; the arrangements about luggage, the bustle and noise of the drive through the long New 62 NOKTHWAKD. 63 York streets, the crowded station, the brief talks with Mr. Field, her escort, the few bright parting words said by her father, when she and liobin — the latter by special permission — were comfortably settled in the Montreal train, and then, before she could realize what was happening, the locomotive whistled, her father gave her the last kiss and jumped off the train, and, as he took off his hat and waved it toward her, they glided off and the parting was over. Mr. Field kindly left Marjorie to herself for a little while, till the tears that had been kept back with such an effort, had had their way, not a few of them falling on the shaggy coat of the still astonished Kobin, whom Marjorie hugged close to her as if she was in danger of losing this last link with her home life. For the first hour or two she felt thoroughly and utterly homesick. It seemed to her that she could never be happy till she should see her father again. Then her mind went back to his earnest words of the evening before, and she found the soothing solace that comes to each one of us in remembering that those who are separated from us are not separated from our Heavenly Father, and from commending them, simply but earnestly in our hearts to that ever loving care. Nor did she for- get Rebecca, left lonely in the house to prepare for the arrival of strangers, and just then "fretting" a good deal, as she would herself have called it. By degrees Marjorie's impressible nature began to 64 NOUTllWAKD. assert itself, and she began to look out with some in- terest at the country through whicli she was passing : the villas and villages, the glimpses of river and mountain, beautiful even in the cold grayness of De- cember. Mr. Field, in his desire to entertain her, brought her two or three morning papers, at which Marjorie tried to glance, out of courtesy ; he also bought for her — to her secret annoyance — a packet of candy from the ubiquitous "newsboy" and ottered her her choice from the parcel of gaily bound volumes laid down by her side, when the boy again made his inevitable round. But Marjorie could truthfully say that she did not want to read just then, and in watch- ing the ever changing panorama without, and mentally trying to follow her father's movements as he set out on his southward journey, the hours crept on, not so slowly after all. Dinner made a break not unwel- come to either herself or Robin. Then there were changes of cars, and cities and towns to rush through, and by and by the short December day began to draw to a close as they were nearing the Canadian frontier. It was some little time after Mr. Field's announce- ment that they were in Canada now, that a lady entered the train accompanied by a very young girl, and took vacant seats quite near Marjorie's, on the other side of the car. Marjorie was looking with ad- miration at their rich sealskin jackets and fur muff- lings, when, as they laid aside some of their wraps she NOKTHWAKD. 65 gave a little start of recognition. She could not be mistaken, the fair hair and lively chatter were certainly those of Ada West, and the handsome and handsomely dressed matron with her must be her mother, so much did Ada resemble her. She was too shy, however, to make any advances, and sat jn-rfectly still, watching the two with some eagerness, till Ada, whose quick eyes were not likely to leave anything or any one about her unnoticed, glanced at Marjorie with a scrutinizing glance, which speedily changed into one of surprise. *' Why, I do believe it's Marjorie Fleming," she ex- claimed, darting from her seat to Marjorie, and over- whelming her with questions, while her mother looked on with an inquiring and critical air. Mr. Field had just then gone into the smoking-car for a chat with a friend, so that Marjorie was left alone. *' Mamma," said Ada, as soon as she had extracted from Marjorie some information as to what she was doing there, " this is Marjorie Fleming, that I told you about — you know I met her when I was traveling last summer with auntie — and how clever she was, and how her father wrote poetry, and all sorts of things." " Ada ! Ada, how you do talk ! " exclaimed her mother. *' How do you do. Miss Fleming ? " she continued, somewhat stiffly ; " are you going to Mo real?" ^ .irjorie explained as briefly as she could, and then G6 NORTHWARD. Mrs. West having done all she thought necessary, re- clined comfortably in her corner, leaving Ada to chatter away to her heart's content. "Mamma and I have been pa;yiig a little visit to my aunt. I was awfully sorry to come away, for I always have lots of fun there. But mamma said if I didn't come home now, it wouldn't be worth while to go back to school before Christmas. Well, I'm aw- fully glad you're going to stay in Montreal all winter ; we can have such a nice time ; and there'll be the carnival, you know — that's such fun. Did you ever see an ice palace? We've had two before this, and they say this one will be the best yet. And so you're going to the Ramsays'V I know Marion and Alan Ramsay quite well. Marion's ever so much older than me, so of course she's not in my set at all ; but Gerald knows Alan very well, so I see him pretty often, and he's ever so nice and jolly. Mamma," she ran on^ scarcely leaving Marjorie room for the briefest replies, " Marjorie's going to stay at Dr. Ramsay's — Mrs. Ramsay's her aunt. She told me that last summer, and I tjld her you knew Mrs. Ramsay quite well." " Yes, of course I know Mrs. Ramsay, and every one knows Dr. Ramsay's a very clever doctor," replied Mrs. West, whose indifferent and somewhat patroniz- ing manner impressed Marjorie somewhat unpleasantly, she scarcely knew why. "Yes," continued Ada, in a lower tone, "Gerald NORTHWARD. 67 says Dr. Ramsay's awfully clever. He once came to our house for a consultation wlieu my eldest brother was dreadfully ill. Gerald and Alan go to school together. T daresay you and I will go to school to- gether. What school are you going to ? " Marjorie replied that her father had left that alto- gether with her aunt to decide. '* Well, then, I'm almost sure she'll let you go to my school, for every one says it's the best in Montreal. And that'll be ever so nice, for then I can get you to help me with my lessons. It's an awful bore to learn lessons, but I know you don't mind it, you're so clever. It must be nice to be so clever as you are." Notwithstanding the liveliness and cordiality of this unexpected traveling companion, Marjorie, whose heart was still rather heavy and preoccupied, had had time to grow somewhat tired of the ceaseless flow of ques- tions and remarks, by the time Mr. Field returned to tell her that, in a short time, now, they would be in Montreal. He seemed much pleased to find that Mar- jorie had found a friend of her own age who could talk to her so much better than he could, so he took his seat at a little distance to look over a Montreal paper he had just bought in the train. As he did so he remarked : " It's a pretty sharp night outside. The Northern Lights are very bright, too. I expect you'll know you've got a good way North when you get out of the train." mm J- •11 f -11 68 NORTHWARD. Poor Marjorie ! the mere mention of the Northern Lights almost upset her, so vividly did it bring back the thought of her father, now so far away. But it brought memories, too, that helped to console her. Meantime, Ada and her mother had begun to gather up their wrappings, and Marjorie was counseled to muffle up well. "• You don't know how cold it is in Montreal iu winter I You'll have to get some furs ; you never can get on in our winters with a hat like that. Why! is that your dog ? " added Ada, as Marjorie, in rising, woke up Robin, who had been sound asleep in a corner. Marjorie explained that Robin, as well as herself, had been invited to Montreal. " Well, isn't that funny ! Look, mamma ! Mar- jorie has brought her dog with her, too. Her aunt said she might. Isn't he sweet? He's almost like Cousin Ethel's little Skye. Where did you get him ? " Marjorie replied that he had been given to her father by a great friend of his who had brought him from Scotland. " Well, you'll have to take awfully good care of him, or he'll be stolen. Gerald had such a lovely dog stolen once. Who do you suppose will come to meet you ? Most likely they'll send Alan. And Gerald's sure to come to meet us. So I can tell him you're here, and Alan won't miss you — for how could he NORTHWARD. 69 know you when he has never seen you ? There now, look out if you can ; we're just across the Victoria Bridge." Marjorie tried to catch a glimpse of what was with- out. She could see very little, however — only a dim, white expanse around, with a long stretch of twinkling- lights to the right, which Ada told her was Montreal. Then they glided into the great terminus of Point St. Charles, and a few minutes after the train drew up beside the long platform of the Bonaventure station. . Mr. Field assisted Mrs. West and Ada, as well as Marjorie, to alight, and then they stood watching the bustling scene and the people who were looking for their friends along the line of cars. " Oh ! there's Gerald," exclaimed Ada, as a tall, slight lad in a fur-trimmed overcoat came swiftly toward them, scrutinizing the various groups as he passed. " And there's Dr. Ramsay looking for you — look ! that tall man in the beaver coat and cap. Now, isn't it well I'm here to point him out to you? O, Gerald ! " she went on, as the lad greeted his mother and sister, " Dr. Ramsay's looking for his niece. You'd better tell him she's here with us ; Miss Fleming, Gerald." Gerald bowed, and went off at once, and returned directly with Dr. Ramsay, who gave Marjorie a warm welcome, in a kind, cheery Scotch voice, and heartily thanked her escort for the care he had taken of her. I ll' f Kt 70 NORTHWARD. u " I was looking for a little girl all alone," he said, smiling, " so I was led astray by seeing you with Miss West. I had no idea you had acquaintances here already." Mrs. West explained that her daughter had met Marjorie while traveling the previous summer, and then, after many promises from Ada to come and see Marjorie soon, they parted, to look after thei? luggage and see it taken off to the waiting sleighs. " Your aunt would have come to meet you herself, Marjorie," said Dr. Ramsay, after they had said a cordial adieu to Mr. Field, who promised to look them up before leaving town, " but she has a slight cold, and I thought she had better stay at home ; so I undertook to find you. Luckily, I was disengaged, and able to drive down for you myself. Alan is hold- ing my horse, so we'll go out at once and I'll give him your check and get him to look after your trunk ; it makes so much delay. You've got your dog safe, I see. They soon reached the doctor's snug little cutter, where Marjorie was duly introduced to her cousin Alan, who looked a very big boy in the blanket coat and blue tuque that so many Moi "eal boys delight to wear in winter. " All right, father," he said briskly, as he took the check, and went off whistling merrily, to look after the trunk, while Dr. Ramsay stowed Marjorie and Imi NORTHWARD. 71 Robin, whom she had been holding tight in her arms, down among the soft fur robes of the low cutter. " Poor little fellow ! " he said, as he patted Robin's soft head, " so you've lost your master for a while. Your father was always a lover of dogs, Marjorie," he said, as they drove off. " I remember him of old, with two or three trotting at his heels. He was so proud of knowing the original *■ Rab.' Of course you've read ' Rab,' Marjorie ? Your father and I used to devour everything that my dear old professor, John Brown, wrote, and I wasn't a bit surprised when I heard he called you ' Pet Marjorie.' " The tears started to Marjorie's eyes as she heard her father's pet name for her quoted, but it made her feel as if Dr. Ramsay was an old friend ; and he kept her busy looking at the various objects of interest clearly visible in the bright glare of the electric light, which almost totally eclipsed the soft glow of a bril- liant Aurora that threw into bold relief the dark hill before them, rising boldly against the northei'u sky. " There's the Windsor," he said, as they passed the great hotel block with its shining windows. " And there's the site of the ice palace ; they're just begin- ning the foundations. And that's what we Montrealers call our 'mountain,'" he added, laughing, "though when your father and I were boys, we would only have called it a brae." It was impossible to resist the influence of Dr. Ram- •1,1! ; iiiui li: "^ 72 NORTHWARD. say's cheery spirit, as indeed many of his patients had found out, for his brightness and kindliness cheered many a sick room, like a veritable '•' light shining in darkness." His repeated references to her father had the effect he desired ; of making her feel at home with him at once. Then it was inspiriting in itself to glide so swiftly over the white snow-clad streets to the merry jingle of sleigh-bells in all directions, through the keen frosty air in which the stars seemed to glitter like diamonds of rarest luster. " Here we are, then," said the doctor, reining up his spirited little horse at a door in a long row or " ter- race " of stone-fronted houses, on one of the streets running up toward the mountain. " Here, give me Robin, now ; that's right." And by the time Marjorie reached the door it was thrown open, revealing the warm, lighted hall within, and a lady who stood wait- ing to give Marjorie a motherly welcome. " Now, Marion will take you upstairs," said Mrs. Ramsay, whose tranquil manner and peculiarly sweet voice strongly attracted Marjorie. " And you will come down as soon as you get your wraps off, and have some supper." Marion was a blooming girl of eighteen, tall like her father, but with her mother's brown hair and soft dark eyes, with something, too, of the matronly and protecting air which is often noticeable in a helpful elder sister. She put her arm kindly around Marjorie NOKTHWARb. 73 as she showed her the way to the neat little room which had been prepared for her, and helped to re- move her outdoor wrappings, with a quiet cousinly frankness that made Marjorie feel at once as if she were no stranger. " My room's just next to yours," she said, " and we can talk through the wall when we choose. But mother thought you would like best to have a room to yourself, as you had always been accustomed to it." It looked a little strange to Marjorie, who had had one room for her own ever since she could remember, and this one seemed rather small at first. But she thanked her cousin, saying that she was sure she should be very comfortable, and the two girls went downstairs arm in arm. Dr. Ramsay met her at the dining-room door, and courteously led her into the cheerful room with a bright fire burning, and a light supper laid for the traveler. " You and I are going to have supper to- gether," he said, smiling, " for I have been out all the evening, and am as hungry as a hawk. The rest don't indulge in suppers, for I think people are better with- out them, as a general rule. But you know doctors are privileged people, who are quite superior to their own rules." There was something very infectious in Dr. Kam- say's clear, almost boyish laugh, and Marjorie laughed too, and began to feel some appetite, which a few > . .(3 74 NORTHWARD. minutes before, she would have disclaimed. He was a tall, athletic man, with wavy auburn hair falling across a broad, white forehead, and sea-blue eyes which seemed to have a gl«^am in them of the old Danish sea-kings, some of whose blood was in his veins. Kindly eyes they were, which, however, could be very keen or even stern when occasion required. Just now they were bent with affectionate scrutiny on Marjorie, to see how much he could trace in her of the linea- ments or expression of his old friend, Jolm Fleming. Marjorie was thinking what a contrast he was to her own father, with his slight nervous figure and earnest face, so expressive of study and thought, and rather sad when in repose, though often so bright in conver- sation. Mrs. Ramsay had been thoughtfully attend- ing to Robin's comfort, and giving liim his supper. Tt was a pleasure to her to care for her brother's little favorite, and the creature seemed to recognize her as a friend, and took to her with a readiness which aston- ished Marjorie. She and Marion helped Marjorie and her uncle to the delicious ham and bread and but- ter and coffee — made very weak by the doctor's order, so that it might not keej) the child awake ; and presently Alan came in, looking not quite so big when his blan.^et overcoat was off, but much more like his father than his mother, with his blue eyes and fair complexion brightened with a rich color from the keen, frosty air. NORTHWARD. 75 " And how did you happen to get acquainted with Ada West?" asked Mrs. Ramsay, when they had talked over Marjorie's journey and arrival. Marjorie explained how she had met her at a favo- rite summer resort near which her father and she had spent some time the previous summer. " And were you great friends ? " Mrs. Eamsay asked. " Well, we saw each other very often," replied Mar- jorie, a little doubtfully ; " but she iised to say she hated Americans." Dr. Ramsay laughed heartily, as did Alan also, who exclaimed : " Isn't that just like Ada ! She always says whatever comes into her head, no matter what. And then sha's so pretty, people don't seem to mind." " Well, she doesn't seem to hate you," said Dr. Ramsay ; " and she really is a good-hearted little girl, only rather spoilt by getting everything she wants, poor child I She's developing fast into a society belle, like her mother." " They're awfully rich people," said Alan, for Mar- jorie's benefit ; " and they have a fine house on Sher- brooke Street, just below the ' mountain.' Gerald's in my class at school, and he has a pony of his own, and as much pocket-money as he wants to spend." " Yes, and it's a great wonder that he's as nice and steady a boy as he is, considering how he has been i !i I 76 NORTHWARD. I !i4 ' brought up," said his father. " When you've got to my age, Alan, my boy, you'll understand better that it's anything but a good thing for a boy to get all he wants so easily. It's a good thing for a man, as well as a horse, to ' bear the yoke in his youth,' and be well broken in, too, as he has got to be sooner or later. So don't be envious of poor Gerald. If he doesn't fol- low in his elder brother's footsteps it'll be a wonder." " Oh ! I don't want to change with Gerald," said Alan, as he drank off the cup of hot coffee his mother had handed him ; " though he is a good fellow, and I wouldn't mind having his pony." " Be thankful you have old Chester to drive some- times, and your toboggan to ride," said his mother, smiling. "You never went down a toboggan-slide, did you, Marjorie ? " inquired Alan. " Well, wait till we get a little more snow, and then you'll see what speed is." " Well, Marjorie has finished her supper now, and it's time she went to rest after her long journey. I sent the younger ones to bed before you arrived, dear," she added to Marjorie. "They wanted very much to wait till you came, but I thought you would have enough new faces for one evening, so they will be all impatience to see Cousin Marjorie in the morning." " »Tust bring the Bible to me, Alan," said Dr. Ramsay. "You know I was out at prayer-time, and so were Alan and Marjorie." NORTHWARD. 77 So the Bible was brought ; the doctor read his favo- rite evening psalm, " The Lord is my Shepherd," and then, in a few simple, earnest words of prayer, com- mended all present, and all dear ones distant, to the care of that good Shepherd whose vigilance never sleeps. As Marjorie laid her tired head down on soft pillows, she could not feel herself so far away from home. She could scarcely realize, indeed, that that very morning she had awoke in her old familiar room, and had break- fasted with her father, between whom and herself there were now so many miles of distance and darkness. But she felt as if the consciousness of a Father's lov- ing care were around her still, and with this restful feeling in her heart she quickly fell into a sound, al- most dreamless slumber. a lit 'I ■f'l *^1 1'^ y CHAPTER V. I N M () X T REAL, ^i;.; Marjorie was awakened next morning by the s«;ratehing of Robin's little paws, he having come to look for his young mistress in this strange house. Then she became conscious of the sharp patter of fine snowflakes against the window glass, and looking out between her curtains, saw a pale misty grayness with white puffs of drifting snow whirling through it. At first she could not remember where she was. Then she heard children's merry voices in the distance, and began to realize the new circumstances of her life. Just at first the tears rushed to her eyes as the thought came of her father, and how long it would be before she should see him again. But the interest of novelty counteracted the touch of i)ain ; and before Marion's gentle tap sounded on her door, she was half-dressed. Marion was watching to go down with her, and not far off was Millie — her Aunt Millie's namesake — waiting for an introduction. She was a year or two younger than Marjorie, with a strong likeness to her 78 IN MONTllEAL. 79 father, and a good deal of cleverness and ambition in her eager face. From the hull downstairs came ringing shonts of langhter, which, Marjorie soon found, came from Jack and the two youngest children, who were watching with great anmsement the introduction of Hobin to Nero. The staid, dignified, but good-natured New- foundland looked at the little intruder with evident surprise, but with a tolerant, patronizing air, while Kobin, who was more than half-disposed to snarl and quarrel, after the manner of small terriers, seemed gradually to take in the situation, and reconciled liim- self to be patronized, though evidently much relieved when Marjorie ai)peait'd and gave him an opportunity/ to retire gracefully. Jack was nearly as old as Marjorie, but somehow seemed much younger, despite his greater height. lie was much plainer than Alan, and rather awkward, if not shy. He and his sister Millie always " hunted in couples," as their father expressed it. They were al- ways together when it was possible for them to be so. Millie went to the grammar school with her brother and kept up with him in his classes, notwithstanding his seniority. Jack had long made up his mind to be a doctor, and it was Millie's secret ambition to be one too ; aiid then she and Jack could go into partnership together " to kill people," as Alan unfeelingly put it when this secret had incautiously leaked out. ii 80 IN MONTREAL. nn The two youngest were Norman, a sturdy eight-year- old in knickerbockers, and little Ettie, the household pet, who WIS only six, and, as everybody declared, a little image of her mother. Mrs. Kamsay wa^ already in the dining-room, and called them all in to prayers. " Your uncle is not up yet," she said to Marjorie, when she had given !ier a warm kiss of greeting. " He was called out late last night, and was out most of the night- Such things often happen in doctors' families, and we have to breakfast without him when they do.'' Marjorie felt disappointed. She could not have believed that the absence of the doctor's genial pres- ence could have made such a difference. Mrs. Kamsay indicated an appropriate hymn, which all sang together very sweetly ; even Effie's childish voice accompanied her mother's ; and then followed the reading and the simple prayer, the whole lasting only a very few minutes, for, in the opinion of both Doctor and Mrs. Ramsay, brevity is one of the essentials of devotion where children are concerned. The simple little ser- vice closed with the reverent repetition of the Lord's Prayer by the servants as well as children. To Mar- jorie, accustomed to so small a family, in which such had not been the practice, this hearty little household service was a very pleasant and impressive novelty. Then followed breakfast, while the clatter of so many lively tongues was rather bewildering. Marjorie IN MONTREAL. 81 was kept busy answering questions : whether she liked snow ; whether they had sleighs in New York, or to- boggan slides ; whether she could skate or snow-shoe ; or had ever been in a toboggan ? Norman generously offered to take her down in the small toboggan which was the joint property of himself and Effie, and which they expected to use in a day or two, on a children's slide in a neighboring field ; while Alan and Jack dis- cussed the merits of the various slides then ready, and tlie new ones about to be prepared for the approaching carnival. ••'There will be plenty of snow for them soon," said Mrs. Ramsay, " if this snowstorm lasts all day. But you won't get out much to-day if it does, Marjorie. You will have to amuse yourself in doors, I fear. And now, children, it's time to be off to school." None of the little Ramsays minded a snowstorm unless it was very bad indeed. Even little Effie got on her striped blanket suit and blue tuque, in which she looked a charming little picture, and trotted merrily off with Norman to the school, not very far away, which they attended. When they were all fairly off, Mrs. Ramsay went to attend to her housekeeping, and Marion who did not go to school now, but only to one or two special classes, conducted Marjorie on a tour of inspection of the house und the things in it which she thought would specially interest her cousin. One of these was a tiu'ti large photograph of her father when U ?■.' h ,,1 im "'M 82 IN MONTREAL. a young man, which Marjorie had never seen before, and at which she could scarcely stop gazing. They finally found their way into " the study," a cosey room 1 a,lf-f ull of books, where the children learned their lessons, and practiced on the old piano, and followed the various pursuits that interested them out of school hours ; and where they could make " a litter " without detriment to the order of the rest of the house ; being always expected, however, to put away tiieir books and toys when not using them. Here Marion and Marjorie established themselves with some mending, in which the latter offered to help, and here Mrs. Ramsay by and by joined them. Dr. Kamsay looking in also for a few minutes when he had had his breakfast. This room had a window look- ing toward the " mountain," which, however, in the snov/storm appeared only as a somewhat dim jketch in black and white, the dark pines above weirdly con- trasting with the white clouds of snow-drift. The wintry world without made the indoor comfort all the pleasanter, and Marion and Marjorie had a long talk over their work till the latter felt as if she knew her Cousin Marion almost as well as her Aunt Millie. Mrs. Ramsay held a sort of family council with the two girls as to the best plan for Marjorie's studies. It was too near the Christmas holidays now, to be worth while to begin attendance anywhere till they were over. Dr. Ramsay believed in a thorough grammar school ir I IN MONTREAL. 88 education for girls, from the beginning, but his wife could not quite reconcile herself to what she called his " advanced " ideas, and had a great })reference for placing a girl ^rowing into womanhood under the care of cultivated women, with companions of their own sex. She had had her own way with Marion, who was not particularly intellectual, and had no am- bition in the way of higher educat'on ; but Millie was totally different, and Mrs. Ramsay had the good sense to see that it was best to let her follow her bent. "After all," Dr. Ramsay would say, '"since Nature has made our girls so different, why should we want to trim them all off on one pattern — like a box hedge ? Variety is the very spice of life, and I like both my Marion and my Millie, each in h.jr own way.*' So Marion had been educated mainly on the old-fash- ioned plan, while Millie already, at eleven, planned for herself a professional education and a professional career, though, fearing to be " chaffed,'' she was not given to talk freely on the subject. Mrs. Ramsay knew that her brother rdiared, to a great extent, her "old-fashioned prejudices," tliough he had always taken a personal supervision of Marjorie's education ; and as she herself had no desire for the novel experi- ence of a high school, it was decided, to her satisfac- tion, that after Christmas she should enter the same school that Ada West attended, and where Marion still continued to take lessons in music and painting. 4ii II H' ' 84 IN MONTREAL. The snowstorm continued unabated during the day. Norman and Effie came home with cheeks glowing with exercise and fun, and wanted to begin a snow '• fort '■ and " robbers' cave " in the yard at once. "Jack and Jill," as Jack and Millie were often called, brought home jubilant reports of the depth of the snow, anci declared that there would be enough for snow-shoeing and tobogganing to-morrow. Marjorie found the afternoon pass quickly enough, between reading the " Adventures of Amyas Leigh " — in which she had become profoundly interested — watching her Cousin Marion paint a china cup, intended for a Christ- mas present, and making acquai: stance with the little ones. They soon found out she could tell stories ; and she had to ransack her brain for all tlie old i IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) /. {■/ ^ parison and consideration, Marjorie finally decided on a warm squirrel cape, cap and muff, for ordinary we.ir, and a tobogganing costume, consisting of a white blanket ulster with a striped border of sky-blue, and blue sash and tuque hleue to match ; colors which Alan had especially commended, because he belonged to a club bearing the name of Tuque Bleue. They were just coming out of the last shop when a large family sleigh with handsome fur triii)pings, drew up in front of it. Marjorie was just admiring the beauty of the horses and the appointments of the equipage, when a light figure sprang out and she heard a lively voice exclaim : " O, Marjorie ! I'm so glad we've met you. I was just going to drive up as soon as mamma was done shopping, to see if you would come and take lunch at our house to-day. May she, Mrs. Ramsay ? It was too stormy yesterday to go to see you, you know, but 96 NEW FRIENDS. I ' I I :ii!i' mamma always lets me have any one I like to luncheon on Saturdays." Mrs. West who followed her daughter more leisurely, endorsed Ada's invitation, and as Mrs. Ramsay seemed quite willing that Marjorie should accept it, the matter was quickly settled, Ada saying that they could leave Marjorie at her uncle's house when they drove out in the afternoon. Marjorie prefei'red to sit with Ada in the sleigh while Mrs. West went in to make her purchases. She thought she should never tire of watching the stream of people and sleighs of such variety of aspects, that » poured along Notre Dame Street — the great shopping street of Montreal — and Ada's brisk accompaniment of remarks and explanations made the scene still more entertaining, for she could tell Marjorie something about a good many of the people who passed. When Mrs. West came out the horses' heads were turned homewards, and they were soon again across Victoria Square and ascending the slope of Beaver Hall. Then they drove a little way along Dorchester Street, and Ada pointed out the beautiful churches and mansions there, and the fine English cathedral with its rectory close by ; and then they crossed the wide St. Catherine Street and soon were gliding along Sherbrooke Street where the stately mansions that line it on either hand, stood out to view all the more plainly, because of the leaflessness of the environing NEW FRIENDS. 97 trees. Behind the line of handsome houses and snow- clad grounds, rose the white slopes of the stately " mountain " — in dazzling purity against the vivid blue of the elear wintry sky. They soon stopped in front of a fine mansion of gray cut stone, with an ornamental portico and some- what extensive grounds. Ada, as usual, was out first, and waited impatiently for Marjorie to follow Mrs. West, for whom she politely waited to descend first. The door was quickly thrown open, and Ada eagerly led her friend into the softly carpeted hall. Marjorie had never been in so fine a house in her life. The spacious hall and rooms,, all so richly carpeted and luxuriously furnished, the gleam of gilding and white statuary here and there, of gorgeously framed pictures and rich tinted curtains, and a glimpse of a French window opening into a conservatory glowing with lovely flowers — all seemed to give her the sensation of entering a fairy palace. It seemed a sort of charming dream which would dissolve again directly. Poor Ada's accustomed eyes had never seen her own homo as the beautiful vision that it seemed to Marjorie's just then. To her it was very matter-of-fact reality, though she could have told just how much some of the pictures cost, and was proud in her heart of her luxurious home which she knew was so much admired. But to Marjorie, as she followed her friend up the wide stair- case to Ada's own room with its costly furnishings, Il 98 NEW FRIENDS. it all seemed too beautiful aud grand for homely e very-day use. "There's my canary," said Ada, pointing to the gilt cage that hung between the pretty pink-lined cur- tains. " He sings beautifully, and hasn't he a pretty cage? Tliat was my last birthday present, but I'm awfully afraid of forgetting him. Now if you're ready come down, and I'll show you the drawing-room and conservatory before lunch." Marjorie was divided in her admiration between the large handsome room with its artistic decorations and charming pictures, and the pretty little conservatory gay with geraniums and chrysanthemums, white and golden, and its ferns and hanging baskets with their clustering tendrils of drooping phmts and flowers. She was still lingering in delighted admiration of these when a gong sounded, and Ada said they must go to luncheon. They passed on through the spacious hall, its light mellowed by the rich tones of the stained glass win- dow, into the large dining-room with its heavy carved furniture, where an oval table was n beautifully set out for luncheon, with flowers and silver and gleaming ojystal. Mrs. West came in with her somewhat slow and languid air, and Gerald followed a few minutes later, and after a courteous salutation to Marjorie took his seat opposite her. He was not like Ada, being pale rather than fair, with brown hair and rather large NEW FHIENDS. 99 gray eyes like those of his mother. He was much slighter than Alan in figure, and Marjorie thought he looked like a clever lad and would be rather handsome if his expression had not something dissatisfied in it. She thought he did not look so bright and happy as Alan, notwithstanding the pony and the abundance of pocket-money. The luncheon was quite good enough for any one's dinner, Marjorie thought. There were three courses, with fruit besides, and biscuits and macaroons to finish with. Ada just tasted a little at each course in turn, but evidently did not relish her lunch as Marjorie did. Mrs. West had a better appetite, and talked very little ; satisfying herself with asking a few questions as to how Marjorie liked Montreal, whether it did not seem very small after New York, whether New York was very gay this winter, and so on. She seemed surprised to find that Marjorie did not live in New York at all, but 'only in one of the suburban towns, and that she had lived very quietly, not going much into the city. " And'how is your little dog ? What is his name ? " said Ada, asking, as usual, two questions in one breath. Marjorie explained that her father had wanted to call him Rab, after a dog in a book, but that she liked Robin best, and so he had got the name of Robin Adair, which, Ada declared, was a very funny name for a dog. ■ '3 T^ 100 NEW FRIENDS. Gerald looked up with more animation than he had yet shown. " Oh ! " he exclaimed, as if an idea had just struck him, '' I suppose llab was the dog in a pretty little story that Alan lent me about ' Kab and his Friends,' " " Yes," said Marjorie ; " and my father knew that Rab when he was at college in Edinburgh." " And," pursued Gerald, " there was another story in the book about Marjorie Fleming, I remember. Are you the wonderful little girl that used to talk to Sir Walter Scott and make all those verses about the hen ? ' And she was more than usual calm,'" he quoted. " I suppose I mustn't give the rest." Marjorie caught the little gleam of humor that underlay his grave manner; but she only replied with equal gravity : " That little girl died, I believe," at which Gerald's face relaxed a very little into a faint smile. " Gerald, what nonsense you do talk ! " exclaimed Ada. "How could Marjorie have talked to Sir Walter Scott when he died ages ago ? " " Did he really ? " replied Gerald satirically, and Marjorie, who detested satirical remarks, hastened to say that her mother's name had been Margaret, and that her father could not bear that she should have the very same name, and so had bethought himself of NEW KKIKNDS. 101 calling her Marjorie, an oltl Scotch name in Imh own family, and whicli was connected with that of the historical Marjorie Fleming. " Gerald's going to Oxford in a year or so," said Ada. " And we're all going abroad as soon as I have done with school here. Perhaps I'm to go to school somewhere abroad for a while, too. Wouldn't it be nice for you to come with me, Marjorie? I'm sure you could learn to speak French and German a good deal quicker than I could." Marjorie's eyes sparkled. The vision of going abroad some day with her father, was one of her cas- tles in the air, but she could not talk about her father here. Just then the door opened, and a young man, rather handsome and very fashionably dressed, strolled in with a listless air, very like his mother's. He threw down a small packet l)eside Ada's plate. " Why, Dick," said his mother, looking up at him with a look brighter than any Marjorie had yet seen her wear, " I had given you up. I thought you must be taking lunch down town with your father." " Oh ! the governor's over head and ears in work, so he couldn't spare time to go out to lunch — just sent out for some biscuits ; and I thought I had had enough of the office for one week and might as well give myself a half-holiday as not, so I came home. Father ought to take a half-holiday himself on Satur- ^'^ 11 fl' i I i ,f i! 102 NEW FRIENDS. (lays, and give every one else one, ull round. How do, Miss Fleming I ' he responded to Ada's introduction, and then went on. " I had to* call in at Notman's on my way up, Ada, so I brought home the photos you wanted." " See, Marjorie," said Ada, undoing the package, "this is the last photo I have had taken. It was taken in my fancy dress costume tor a masquerade at the rink last winter." It was a good likeness and a very pretty picture, representing Ada as Titania, with a coronet and a pair of Psyche wings, and all the other accessories. " Have you had your photograph taken ? " asked Ada ; " because if you have, we'll exchange and I'll give you one of these." Marjorie had not had one taken for a long time, she said ; her father regretted very much at the last mo- ment that he had not been able to get a good one taken in New York. " Then I'll tell you what," exclaimed Ada, in great glee, "" you must go and have a good photograph taken at Notman's and send it to your father for Christmas. And then you can give me one, too. Now go the very first thing next week." " You'll have to go. Miss Fleming, I assure you," said the eldest brother, who made it a point to make him- self agreeable to young ladies. " My sister has a way of makino' her friends do what she wants them to do." NEW FRIENDS. 103 " And I'll go with you to help to pose you," said Ada. "'' Tui a very good hand at posing people, am I not, Gerald ? " Ada was much more given to appealing for appro- bation to her younger than to her elder brother, not- withstanding his propensity to '••make fun" of her; perhaps because this very practice had inspired her with greater respect for his opinion. Luncheon seemed to Marjorie to last a very long time. Nobody was in any hurry to rise, for nobody had anything very particular to do ; and Dick and his mother discussed at leisure the various bits of gos- sip he had picked u\) in the course of the morning ; the latest news about the arrangements for the coming carnival, and the Christmas parties and receptions that were being talked of. It was very evident that Dick was Mrs. West's favorite child. Poor fellow, he was a "• spoiled child." As he had always got every thing he wanted for the asking, and had never had to do anything he did not like, he seldom now did any thing but what he "• liked " to do ; and the things he did like to do were very often things that it would have shocked his mother a good deal to know. At last Mrs. West rose and she and the two girls adjourned to the library, another luxurious apartment containing a bookcase well filled with books in hand- some bindings — seldom opened — an elegant writing- table fitted up with all sorts of ornamental paraphernalia i ■.^lii Its ^f 104 NEW FRIENDS. 'a anct any number of comfortable easy-chairs, one of which Mrs. West drew up before the bright coal fire and took up a magazine that lay on the table, to while away an hour in glancing over its pages. Ada opened a large photograph album to show Marjorie the por- traits of her friends. Presently the door-bell rang, and shortly after a visitor was shown into the library ; a bright-eyed, sunny-faced little lady with silver- gray curls, and a brisk, animated voice and manner, who put Marjorie at once in mind of some of the people she knew at home. Mrs. West greeted her as Miss Mostyn, and having expressed great pleasure at finding Mrs. West at home, the visitor iurned to Ada with a pleasant salutation, and then looked inquiringly at Marjorie. " This is Miss Fleming — Dr. Ramsay's niece from New York ; she only arrived the day before yester- day," said Ada. "I'm delighted to meet any one belonging to Dr. Ramsay," said Miss Mostyn, grasping Marjorie's hand most cordially. " I'm sure I don't know how we should get on without Dr. Ramsay. He's so good to the poor and suffering ! And so you're from New York, my dear ? I've got some very dear friends there — noble Christian women. I hope you're going to be like them." Marjorie's heart was quite won by the pleasant face and cordial words. Miss Mostyn had business on NEW FRIENDS. 105 hand and she turned to a seat beside Mrs. West, but MarjoT-ie was so much attracted towards this stranger that slie couhl not help following her with eye and ear, and giving a very half-hearted attention to Ada's chatter. Miss Mostyn explained that she had just come from a poor family in great destitution and suffering, in whose case she wanted to interest Mrs. West. The father had recently met with a dreadful accident in the "Works " in which Mr. West was a partner. He had had one of his legs amputated and had been in a very critical condition ever since. And now his wife had a young baby and was much prostrated by her watching and anxiety, and the family had nothing coming in, and were in absolute want of food, clothes, fuel — everything, with no money to buy anything. Dr. Ramsay liad been attending them and had been mo'st kind, as indeed Mrs. Ramsay had been also. But they needed so many things, and Miss Mostyn was trying to raise a subsori])tion to procure necessaries for them during their present helpless condition. She had come to Mrs. West, she said, hoping that she would head the subscription with a generous donation, as the poor man had mot with the accident in the " Works " with which Mr. West was connected. Marjorie felt intensely interested in Miss Mostyn's narrative and graphic picture of the suffering helpless familv. Now she felt how deliirhtful it must be to be m l\ Ill : ■1 !« I 106 NEW FRIENDS. rich and able to reach a helping hand to people in such distress. But Mrs. West did not seem at all eager to respond to the appeal. She " thought," she said, " the firm had done all that was necessary for the man at the time the accident occurred, though it really was no fault of theirs in any way." " They did make him a donation at the time," said Miss Mostyn, "but he has been two or three weeks ill nov/, and that money is gone. You know, with rent and fuel and food to pay for, how fast money runs away." " Well, I know Mr. West thought they did all that was necessary," replied Mrs. West, chillingly. "And I really have so many claims constantly. You could have no idea what it is, unless you lived in a liouse like this," with a complacent glance at the luxurious appointments about her. Miss Mostyn smiled slightly, but made no reply. ' • " However, of course it's a very sad case, and 1 really must give you a little toward it." And she took out of an elegant pocket-book a dollar in silver, which she handed to Miss Mostyn. " It's really all I can spare just now ; it's just one thing to give to after another, and then there is Christmas coming, too, and I always have so many presents to give. But if you get a dollar from every one you ask you'll do very well. But I think," she added, "that you should head your subscription with the amount that tlie firm NEW FRIENDS. 107 gave at first, because they ought to have credit for that, you know." Miss Mostyn thanked the donor rather formally, and suggested at parting that Mrs. West might drive round that way and see the family for herself. " My dear Miss Mostyn ! " exclaimed that lady pathetically, "you've no idea how many things I have on my mind. It's all very well for you, with plenty of time on your hands, to go and visit such people; and I'm sure it's very good of you, and you'll have your reward. But with my establishment to look after, and my visiting list, I assure you it's quite out of the question. And then it always makes me so miserable to see how such people live ; it would quite upset me, I assure you. Some people are more sensi- tive to such things than others." Miss Mostyn's sunny countenance was just a little clouded, and there were bright red spots on her cheeks as she took her leave with the same gentle kindliness as that with which she had entered. Marjorie felt shocked, indignant. It was the first time she had ever seen the hard, cool, callous selfishness, naturally en- gendered by a life of luxurious self-indulgence, come out and display itself with unblushing insensibility to the suffering of others ; and the moral ugliness of it seemed all the greater in contrast with the beauty of the material surroundings, and the grace and fairness of the woman who had spoken such heartless words. ii :im 1 r 108 NEW FRIENDS. I f III She felt as strongly repelled from Mrs. West as she had been attracted to Miss Mostyn, who had kindly invited her to come to see her, as she took her depar- ture. To her great relief, Mrs. West remarked that the sleigh would soon be at the door for their after- noon drive, and Ada carried her off to get ready. " Miss Mostyn's awfully good, you know," Ada replied, to a question of Marjorie's ; " but she's just ' got poor people on the brain,' Dick says. She's always got some awful case of destitution on hand, and mamma says it just makes her nervous to see her now." "But, Ada, don't you think that people who are rich ought to be always helping tlie poor? T think that must be the greatest pleasure of being rich — to be able to help other people." " Well, Marjorie, you do have such funny ideas ! I never heard any one say before that it was a pleas- ure to give money to poor people. I know it's good to be charitable, but that's because it isn't nearly so nice as buying what you want for yourself." " Well, my father always says that ' it's more blessed to give than to receive,' and you know Who said that." "Yes, I know it's in the Bible somewhere," said Ada, " for we had a sermon about it lately. But I didn't think that meant it was a pleasure, you know ; for the Bible says: 'Blessed are they that mourn,' and I'm sure that can't be a pleasure." NEW FRIENDS. 109 Marjorie felt a little perplexed at this view of the subject, but there was no time to continue the discus- sion then, for Mrs. West called to them to make haste. They were soon in the sleigh once more, and Mrs. West directed the coachman to drive to the western extremity of Sherbrooke Street, where she had to pay two or three visits, and while she was so engaged Ada could give Marjorie a little drive, and then leave her at Dr. Ramsay's house. As they glided swiftly along Sherbrooke Street, Ada pointed out the various objects of interest ; the College grounds and buildings, the palace-like residences on the street and on the slope of the snow-clad hill. Every moment some beauti- fully appointed equipage glided past them, and ladies, wrapped in rich furs, and with color brightened by the sharp, frosty air, exchanged bows and smiles with her companions. "Ada," remarked Mrs. West discontentedly, after a critical scrutiny of her appearance, as she sat oppo- site to her, " that cap of yours is really beginning to look a little shabby already ; I shall have to get you another soon. You really ought to take more care of your things." To Marjorie's eyes Ada's sealskin cap seemed all that could be desired ; but Mrs. West had a very fas- tidious eye for dress, and liked all belonging to her to be irreproachable. Marjorie's thoughts went back to Miss Mostyn's tale of misery imd Mrs. West's doto' I Ml r 110 NEW FRIENDS. i subscription ; and it was a relief to her mind when that lady reached her destination and bade her a civil good-by, expressing the hope that she would soon come to see Ada again. She was, indeed, genuinely fond of her daughter, and glad to gratify the great fancy she had taken to this new friend, who seemed a nice little girl, too, "for an American," as Mrs. West would have put it. After another swift, enjoyable drive along the whole length of Sherbrooke Street — Ada pointing out the long toboggan slides, with their wooden platforms and inclined planes, on the mountain sloi)e at either ex- tremity of the long, broad street — they turned down the street on which Dr. Ramsay's house stood and drew up in front of it, to the great delight of Norman and Effie, who were drawing a little toboggan up and down in front of their own door. "O, Cousin Marjorie! we've been trying our tobog- gan slide in the field, and it's lovely. We'll give you a slide if you'll come," they exclaimed, in chorus. Marjorie bade Ada good-by, and as the door was opened Robin rushed out in wild delight at her return. Millie stood by enjoying his transports, and declared that he had been such a good little dog, and had gone for a walk with her and Jack, and that he knew them all quite well now, and was " great friends with Nero already." "And here's something you'll be glad to get, my NEW FRIENDS. Ill dear," said Mrs. Ramsay, with a smile, holding up a letter, on which Marjorie recognized, with delight, the dear, familiar handwriting of her father. " Yon must come back and tell me all your news when you have read it, dear," said her aunt, as Mar- jorie rushed off to devour her letter all by herself in her own room. She sat down with liobin in her lap, and felt as if she were transported back to the dear old home in whi(;h her father and she had had so many talks together, and as if she could hear the very tones of his voice and feel his hand on her hair. The letter was a pretty long one, and as she opened it, there dropped out of it a folded printed paper, at which she did not look until she had read the letter. It was written by snatches ; telling her, in his own characteristic way, what he had been seeing, and a little, too, of what he had been thinking on his journey. It contained many kind messages to the Ramsays, and ended with a few grave words, which, as Marjorie well knew, came from his heart : " And now, my Marjorie, I have told you sometimes that I believe life is a long education for us, by which our Heavenly Father is seeking to lit us for higher things by and by. Your school has been changed just now. in more senses than one; but if you are only 'trusting and following,' you will be learning day by day from the Great Teacher. I inclose to you — what I think you will like to have — the story of the Northern Lights in print. It is being published now, and I asked them to let me have a proof on purpose for you — which reached me yesterday. 112 NEW FRIENDS. if So liere it is. You mif^htkeop it in your Bible, and then it will remind you often of our tall\s tibout it. And ronieini)er, dear, who it was said : ' I am tlie lii^lit of tlu; world ; he that followeth me shall not waliv in darl^ness, l)ut sliall have the light of life.' That is tlie secret of getting true light, and of a true and happy life." Marjorie wanted to sit clown and answer her letter " right off," but she felt she must first go down and read most of the letter to her aunt, and give all the kind messages. And before slie had finished, Mr. Field called, according to promise, and they had a little talk about New York and her father's journey, and the attractions of Montreal ; so that she only got part of her letter written before tea. She luid begun it the day before, giving a very detailed history of her own journey and arrival, and now she had a great deal more to tell. In fact, Alan, who came into the '' study " where she was writing, inquired if she were writing a book, and said he was thankful boys were never ex- pected to write letters like that. But Marjorie knew it would not be too long for her father. At teatinie, when her uncle came in, late and tired, as he often did, Marjorie's thoughts suddenly reverted to his poor patients, in whom she had felt so much interested, and she surprised him by asking how they were getting on and if they were really so very poor. Dr. Ramsay seldom spoke, in his own family, of the sad sights he was constantly seeing. For one thing, he himself wanted change of thought and feeling when NEW FRIENDS. 113 he got home, and for another, he did not think it right to depress the natural joyousness of youth by burden- ing it too soon with the weight of the soriow and suffering of life. But when, at any time, he felt that his ehildren's sympathy could be awakened with useful result, he did not hesitate to appeal to it. "As sad a case as I ever met with," he replied. " But how did you hear of it, my dear ? " Marjorie briefly told of Miss Mostyn's visit of appeal to Mrs. West. " Ah ! well, I'm glad she went to her. And I hope she will give something handsome, as she could well afford to do." " She said the firm had done something for him already, but she gave Miss Mostyn something — a dollar — I think," replied Marjorie, hesitating in her reply between the desire to give her uncle information, and an instinctive fear of violating the obligations of hospitality. Dr. Ramsay said nothing, but made a slight though expressive grimace, as he looked at his wife. Mrs. Ramsay remarked gently, " Well, probably she may feel interest enough to go to see them, and if she does that, she will feel that she must do more." "No, I'm sure she won't," exclaimed Marjorie, her indignation now thoroughly revived ; " for she said she hadn't time, and that such things always upset her I so. >5 1 1 ll 114 NEW FRIENDS. 'llli, m iii''! h Dr. Ramsay laughed outright this time. " Poor woman!" he exclaimed; 'it's well that we doctors don't have such superfine feelings ! No, Alan, no re- marks, if you please. We have no right to judge others for not setiing their privileges. But you can tell Gerald about tiie case. It would be a useful way for hiin to spend some of his superfluous pocket-money. And I have taken care that they sha'n't starve for the present. And your aunt is going to see them to- morrow, so you can go with her if you like, Marjorie, to see for yourself. Jietween her and the charitable dispensary the poor sick ones have been kept sup- plied with nourishing food. And as usual, the poor neighbors have been very kind." Marjorie's thoughts went swiftly back to the " angel " her father had seen, and what he had said about her. That evening, as she finished her jcurnal-letter, she concluded her narrative with the following reflection : " You said once that tlicre were a jyreat many ' half-lieathens' in New York. I didn't know wliat you meant tlien, l)ut I tliink there must l)e a ^ood many in Montreal, too. Ada's mother, who is so rich and has sucli a beautiful house and everything she wants, seemed to grudge to give a dollar to a starving family, though the father had got hurt in Mr. West's business ! So I think the light must be 'shining in darkness' here, too, I'm so glad you sent me the Northern Lights in print, for I'm sure they'll all like it here. I'm sure Uncle and Aunt Kamsay have the ' light of life,' and I'm going to try to ' trust and follow,' so as to have it too ! " CHAPTER VII. THE PROFESSOR 8 STORY. ^» lis ink ho she o I I'm Bure ave ' so Sunday was anothor bright clear day, decidedly milder, so that there was nothing* to interfere with the pleasure of being out of doors in the pure, bracing air. Marjorie, in her warm squirrel furs, with her dark gray eyes sparkling and her rather pale cheeks brightly tinted by the frosty air, looked, her aunt thought, much improved already, as they took their way to church on Sunday morning. The long anxiety and watching during her father's illness, and the depression and dread of the impending separation, had told a good deal on her alwaj^s sensitive organization ; but a re- action had just set in, and her natural shy reserve was beginning to wear off already under the influence oi her brighter spirits and the liveliness of her cousins. Marion and she seemed like old friends as they walked together to the Presbyterian Church which Dr. Kam- say attended. Her father and she had been wont to go to the Congregational Church at home, but she knew her father had little respect for the ''isms" 115 IIG THE PROFESSORS STORY. which separate Christians, and Dr. Ramsay, though attached to the church in which his forefathers had lived and died, had just as little respect for church- ism as had Mr. Fleming. " If you don't love other churches, you can't really love your own ; for you haven't got your Master's spirit in you," he would say to his " churchy " friends, both in his own communion and others. And Dr. Ramsay had friends in every denomina- tion of faith. He met them at sick beds and in hos- pitals, where they learned to know each other, and to know, ♦^^oo, that there are times when all human hearts must respond to the same touch — the gentlest yet strongest touch of all. It was pleasant to walk to church through the throngs of church-going people that crossed one an- other's path in every direction — people of all classes and positions. Sometimes they met a little group of long-robed ecclesiastics, and Marjorie would explain which particular confraternity they belonged to ; or some gray Sisters of Charity would be seen at the head of a little band of children. The service was very like the one she was accus- tomed to, but the prayer for " Her Majesty the Queen " reminded her that she was no longer under her own country's flag. And yet she did not feel like "a stranger and a foreigner," worshiping there with those who spoke the same tongue, prayed to the same THE PROFESSOR S STORY. 117 le God, loved the same Saviour and sang almost the same dear old hymns that they used to sing at home. Nor did the people look very different, except in their warmer dress ; at least not the female portion of the congregation. She thought the men did not look quite so keen and anxious, and she noticed more stout and comfortable-looking elderly gentlemen than she was accustomed to see in church. And she thought there were a great many pretty children. Her observations rather distracted her attention from the sermon, for Marjorie's tlioughts were very apt to go off roaming in the direction of some passing fancy, which was one reason why her father liked her to bring him reports of the sermons she heard. But she thought that her father would have liked this one, which was her usual way of estimating things which she did not feel herself competent to criticise, and her father had never encouraged her in the slightest attempt at criticising a sermon since he said, " if you listen in such a spirit, you will lose all the good of it." One thought slie carried away for her next letter to her father — because it was so like his own words : that the patient learner in Christ's school would find, like the learner in every other school, tliat every lesson well learned from the Master's teaching, is only a stepping-stone to the next step of progress in the upward line. After dinner Marjorie went with Marion to her iu m ^li :|y r 118 THE PROFESSOR S STORY. room, and they had a nice quiet talk over their favorite Sunday books. Marjorie was much older in mind for her years than was her cousin, so that they could talk without any sense of inequality. Marion was not specially poetical, but she loved Frances Havergal's poems for their devotional sweetness, and she enjoyed reading her favorites to Marjorie, to whom they were new. And Marjorie in turn read to Marion some of the poems from the Christian Year and her precious copy of Whittier, which her father had taught her to know and love by reading them to her on Sunday evenings, in his expressive and musical voice. Marion, however, went off at tlie usual hour to teach her Sunday-school class, and Marjorie went with her aunt to see the poor family. They lived in one of the old, narrow, dingy streets that abound in the St. Antoine suburb; and it was sad enough to see them, the sick parents and the four little children, pent up in one room not bigger than her uncle's dining-room. Marjorie thought of the spacious magnificence of the Wests' luxurious home, and wondered, as many a young soul has wondered, how such differences can be. But she noticed with surprise how brightly the man spoke ; how gratefully he referred to Dj-. Ramsay as the means, under God, of saving his life, and his poor wife's life too ; and how they could never thank Mrs. Ramsay and Miss Mostyn enough for all their kindness ; and how they hoped, please God, to see THE PROFESSOR S STORY. 119 better days, for when lie got the wooden leg the doctor had sent for, he should be able to work as well as ever. And it made the tears come to Marjorie's eyes to see the loving tenderness with which he looked at the poor little baby when Mrs. Ramsay took it into her arms, and with which he remarked that " the little thing was welcome, though it did come in hard times." " Well, Marjorie," said her aunt, as they left the house, " you see there's always some light in the dark- ness, after all, if people only open their eyes to see it." The expression sent Marjorie's thoughts off to her father and their talk. So when she had come in, and had carried down her books to read by the drawing- room fire, she re-read the story of the Northern Lights which she had put into her Bible. And when the four younger children came in from Sunday school, and Norman and Efifie rushed to her demand- ing a story, and Jack and Millie endorsed the request, she thought she could not do better than tell them, in the simplest rendering she could improvise, the story of the Northern Lights. They all listened attentivel}^ though Jack and Millie appreciated the allegory more than the two little ones. The wintry dusk was closing in and the firelight only lighted up the room, so Marjorie did not notice that Alan and Gerald had stolen quietly in just before she had concluded. "Where did you get that story, Marjorie? " asked I uM- I! fl; 120 THE PROFESSORS STORY. |i ]■■ I Alan ; " you'll have to tell it over again to us." Then Gerald explained that he had come to ask if Marjorie would go to the English Cathedral that evening with Ada, and Mrs. Ramsay had said he might stay for tea and take Marjorie to meet Ada at church, if she wished to go. Marjorie was very willing to agree to this ar- rangement, for she liked the Episcopal service very much, and Alan told her she would hear both good music and a good sermon. " There's Professor Duncan I " exclaimed Millie, as her ear caught his voice talking to her father in the hall, and she and Jack ran to meet their favorite. He came in with Dr. Ramsay, one of his arms resting on the shoulder of each of the two children. His strong face was lighted up with a most benignant smile in which he included Marjorie, when she was formally introduced by the eager Millie. " Ah ! so this is the young lady I met in the book- store yesterday. And so you are Mrs. Ramsay's niece, my dear? Do you know, I was looking at you and trying to think what the likeness was that was puzzling me? I see it now, though. I once traveled to New York with your father, and that is a face, and a man, too, that one doesn't easily forget." Marjorie colored deeply with pleasure at this men- tion of her father. And then Millie exclaimed : " O, Professor Duncan ! you must make her tell you the story she has just been telling us. It's such a THE PROFESSOR S STORY. 121 rou a pretty one, and then it's a parable, and you like para- bles. It's about the Northern Lights." " I'll be delighted to hear it," said the professor, settling himself comfortably in one easy-chair, while Dr. Ramsay threw himself into another. " I'm just as fond of stories as these folks here — and much fonder of parables, I know, than I was at their age." Marjorie had often been exhorted by her father to do a thing — when she was asked to do it — as well as she could, and without making any fuss about it, as some girls were apt to do. So she overcame her shy- ness of strangers, and only said that she would rather read the story as her fatlier had sent it to her in print. So a lamp was lighted, and Marjorie read it in a very clear and expressive voice, trying to reproduce it just as her father had first read it to her. IVIrs. Ram- say and Marion had come in too. and all listened at- tentively, but Professor Duncan never took his deep- set eyes off the young reader till the last word had been read. " Do you know, I like that very much ? " he said, "capital idea! It's just what I'm always telling these children about in some form or other. We've had just such solitary Northern Lights here in Camada, shining in the darkness. And by the way, Ramsay, what do you think about brave Gordon all alone there ? Do you think Stewart will be able to manage to reach him ? " J: 4; ill s; .}, A 122 THE PROFESSOR S STORY. *' I wish they coukl do it a little quicker," said Dr. Ramsay. " And I wish jioor Gordon could know how many hearts are throbbing with eager desire to hear of his relief. It would cheer him up a bit in that terrible isolation." "Not alone; his Father is with him," said Pro- fessor Duncan solemnly. " We may be sure of that ! If ever a man lived as ' seeing the invisible,' you may be sure he does." " Kiglit, Duncan, right ! " exclaimed Dr. Ramsay ; " would we were all like him in that." But Millie was eager to make her request of Pro- fessor Duncan. It was that he would tell them, for Marjorie's benefit, her favorite story of Isaac Jogues. " Well, I've told it so often that I should think you would know it by heart. But I don't mind telling it again if it won't bore your mother and father." " Your stories never bore me, Duncan, you know very well," said Dr. Ramsay. " Do you know, Ramsay," said the professor, fixing his deep, thoughtful eyes on the flame that was leap- ing up from a lump of black coal, " it's pleasant to set such a story as that of Isaac eTogues beside the ■prefvnt interest in our living, struggling Gordon - - liv- lu - runner, and, as you shall see in the end, his spirit was simply unconquerable ! He was one of two men — the other as delicately constituted as he — brave (iarnier, who were sent on one of the most perilous missions among these (ireat Lakes, that to a fierce tribe called the Tobacco Nation. Starved, hooted, dreaded as con- jurors, their lives ('onstantly menaced, they wandered through the snow-blocked forest, from one miserable cluster of bark cabins to another, seeking to gain a hearing for their message of love. But as yet, all hearts and homes were sullenly closed against them, and they only escaped with their lives under cover of darkness, from a band of young men who pursued them with their tomahawks, intent on their destruction. Another perilous pilgrimage he had, soon after that, with another brother, Kaymbault, along the shore of Lake Superior, preaching on one occasion to an assembly of some two thousand Ojibways, a branch of the Algonquins. "But there was a still more perilous mission to be undertaken, and Jogues was the man chosen for it. This was to go down to Quebec, by the Iroquois- infested St. Lawrence, with the canoes of some Huron traders, to get the various supplies needed for the mission, which were quite exhausted. The long voyage du»»n the Ottawa and the St. Lawrence was accom- plished safely ; and Jogues set out on his return, with tlie prayers and blessings of his brethren at Quebec, Iri % THE PROFESSOR 8 STORY. 129 taking b;iek with him two young hiy brothers, who were euger to take part in tlie Huron mission. They had a convoy of twelve canoes, most of tliese being filled with Huron traders, still heathen, while there were also a few Christian Indians, one of them a noted chief. "The little fleet was quietly gliding through a long stretch of bulrushes on Lake St. Peter, on their way up here, when the Iroquois war-whoop, and the whistling of bullets, announced the dreaded enemy, whose war canoes bore down on them from their ambuscade. The Hurons were panic-stricken. Tiie heathen Indians leaped ashore and made for the woods. The Christian Hurons rallied to the support of the French at first, but the sight of another ajjproaching fleet of canoes put them all to flight. Goupil, one of the young lay brothers, was captured, and Jogues, who might have escaped, would not desert his friend, and surrendered himself to the astonished savages who were guarding the prisoners. "Forgetting himself, Jogues began to baptize the poor captives. The other lay brother, a fine fellow named Couture, also escaped at first, and also returned to share the fate of his friends. Unhappily, in a moment of excitement. Couture fired his gun and shot an Indian who had presented his own weapon at him. The Iroquois sprang upon him like savage beasi^}, and Jogues ran to try to shield Couture. But the 11 «i • ! * W IH ■ -t-M 130 THE riiOFESSOIt S STORY. h J enraged Iroquois beat and mutilated the three unfortu- nate missionaries, even gnawing their hands like savage dogs, as was their brutal custom with their prisoners. Then they and the other captives were carried off in the canoes of the marauders, up the winding Richelieu and across the beautiful Lake Champlain, to the charming solitudes of Lake George, of which Jogues was thus the tirst discoverer, and which should have borne his name. But he was thinking little of discovery then ; indeed, it was a wonder he was alive ! For on the way they reached a large camp of the Irocpiois, and there they were again brutally beaten, lacerated and tortured, till Jogues, who, as chief man, fared the worst, was half- dead. " It would be too painful for me to tell, or for you to hear, about all the sufferings of the blood-tracked pilgrimage, across the primeval wilderness, through which one now travels so swiftly, to the palisaded Iroquois town on the Mohawk, where the same horrible scenes of torture were rejieatcul with redoubled fury. The Iroquois must have seemed like demons of hell to the maimed and suffering missionaries. Yet even when enduring the full force of their savage fury, Jogues was thinking of the perishing souls about him, and as, you know, these Jesuits esteemed baptism of supreme importance, poor Jogues managed to bap- tize two of the dying Huron captives with the rain- i: Ill THE PROFESSOR S STORY. 131 m 1 drops he found on an ear of Indian corn given to him for food ! " Couture, whose bohhiess had gained the admiration of the Indians, though he had made them so angry by killing one of their braves, was saved from further tortures by being adopted into an Iroquois family. Goupil, to whom Jogues had sacrificed his liberty, was murdered by his side, and so he also had his release ; and flogues was left alone. lie was anxious to give to Goupil's remains a Christian burial, but the Iroquois hid the body from him, and he had to read the service of the dead over the spot where it had lain. When the snows were melting he found some pitiful relics of the corpse, and gave them the only inte^'uient he could, in a hollow tree. " It seemed like a living death that poor Jogues had to endure that winter among his pitiless foes. They would not kill him outright, but made him their slave, and dragged him with them through the wintry forest on their hunting expeditions, when he almost starved be(^ause he would not touch the food they caught, devoted by them to their divinity of tliC chase, or, as Jogues put it, to a demon. As he had no quiet in their wigwams for meditation and j)rayer, he arranged an oratory for himself in a lonely s])ot in the forest. He cut out in the bark of a great tree a cross — the symbol of his faith and of his present martyr- dom — and there, amid snowdrifts and icicles, he would It lil } ' •bH ^r •1- . , ii :•( 132 THE PROFESSOR S STORY. kneel in his shaggy garment of furs, and pray to Him who was as near to his suffering servant there as to the exiled apostle in Patmos. If He had not been, how could Jogues ever have lived through those days ? " At last, however, his masters growing tired of their patient slave, sent him back to the village, and there he remained till spring, trying to teach the savages about Him ; telling them something of the glories of the sun and moon and stars, and something, too, of Him who had made them. But there they would not follow him, any more than the heathen Greeks at the opposite pole of civilization would follow St. Paul. " At last, after more adventures tnan I can tell you now, he went about midsummer with a party of Iro- quois to a fishing place on the Hudson, below Fort Orange ; that is where Albany now stands." Marjorie remembered the busy city and bustling terminus she had so lately passed, and tried, with a new interest, to recall the features of the surrounding scenery. " Fort Orange was just a little rude fort of logs and palisades, after the fashion of those times, with a few scattered homes of settlers about it, and close to it a little Dutch church. I suppose this was the first Protestant church that Jogues had ever seen. Its pastor was a certain Dominie Megapolensis, who wrote a little history of the Mohawks. It is pleasant to know that these two good men met each other ; and I THE PROFESSOR 8 STORY. 133 am sure, after his year's exile among heathen savages, that Jogues was glad to find that the Protestants — whom he had been taught to call ' heretics ' — were fellow-Christians, after all. " While Jogues was near Fort Orange, he heard news that made him both desire and dread to return to the Mohawk town. He heard first, that one of the Iroquois war parties had come in from Canada with prisoners, doomed to the usual fate, and he felt that he ought to be there to baptize and absolve the sufferers. But then, too, he heard that a party which had gone to Three Rivers, carrying a letter from him to the French commandant — which was really a warn- ing letter, though they didn't know it — had been repulsed by the French with heavy loss, and that his death was certain from the enraged Iroquois if he ventured back. Van Curler, a leading Dutch settler, who, to his honor, had already tried to ransom Jogues, now urged him to escape from this imminent peril, and offered him a passage in a little Dutch vessel about to sail for France. We can imagine how poor Jogues' heart must have throbbed at the thought of seeing his native land and his friends once more, after all his un- speakable sufferings. But he was not sure whether he ought to save his own life, or go back to try to save the souls of the unhappy captives ; so to Van Curler's amazement he asked to have a night for consideration and prayer. I ¥ II : ! I I i 4 ■%': ^ llll a, e h. SAfS '9 I 134 THE PROFESSOR S STORY. " I am sure you will be glad to hear that he decided that ' mercy was better than sacrifice,' even where he himself was to be the sacrifice, and that it was his duty to save his own life when so good an opportunity was providentially offered, rather than expose himself to certain tortures and death for the sake of trying to do for others what he might never be permitted to do. So he accepted Van Curler's offer with grateful thanks, and a boat was left on the shore, to enable him to reach the vessel. He had to steal away at night from the large, barn-like house in which he and his Indian companions slept, along with the settler's family. He got away at last, but not without being severely bitten in the leg by the settler's dog, and with much difficulty succeeded in pushing off the heavy boat, left high and dry by the tide, and in reaching the vessel. Even then, however, his troubles were not over. The Indians, furious at his escape, searched for him every- where, and even came to look tor him in the vessel where the sailors had hidden him as securely as they could. Fearing lest he might be found there, the captain of the vessel had him taken to the fort, where he was lodged in the garret of a miserly old Dutch- man, who kept goods for selling to th« Indians close to Jogues' hiding-place, and separated from it by a partition so thin that they could have seen him if he had not hidden himself behind a pile of boards. He was a prisoner here for six weeks, and the old Dutch- THE PROFESSOR S STORY. 135 man ate most of the food that was sent him, so he was nearly starved, and his wounded leg was very painful, too. The Dutch minister visited him, and did all he could to cheer him in his solitude. They must have talked a good deal together, for the good pastor writes of him in his history, as a ' very learned scholar.' If you stop in Albany on your way home, and pass the Phoenix Hotel, remember that it stands on the very site of this first ' Evangelical Alliance ' meeting in Amer- ica, between a Dutch pastor and a Jesuit missionary. " At last the settlers, who, of course, did not want to quarrel with the Indians, succeeded in pacifying them with a large ransom for their captive ; and the Director-General of Manhattan — as you know New York was called then — sent for Jogues to be brought to him on a small vessel going down the Hudson. So the poor fugitive missionary sailed down that beautiful river, then in all its native wildness, and reached the straggling village, clustered round a dila})idated fort, where now stretches over so many miles, your great city of New York. Yet even then, with its four or five hundred colonists, it was almost as cosmopolitan as now ; for thirteen languages were spoken there at the time of Jogues' visit. A bloody Indian war was raging just then, and he must have felt pursued by the demon of carnage, for many of tlie settlers v/ere killed during his visit. The Dutch Director-General received him very kindly, and gave him a suit of fine I "T 11 U s P ■1 iJl i ,] 136 THE PROFESSOR S STORY. cloth to replace his tattered, savage garments. They paid him the honor, too, of giving his name to Jogu?s Island in thv \ - -^'jr. Finally lie was taken on board a small sailing vessel, which would at least carry him across the sea to England. " There was but little comfort even here for the refined and cv ' • ' Frencli scholar. He had for a bed a coil of ro}ic anada was waiting to see him, and the rector, eager for news of the mission, came at once to the vestibule, where stood this poorly- dressed and weather-beaten stranger. The rector had many questions to ask, but erelong came this : 'And what of Jogues ? Is he dead ? Have the Indians killed him ? ' " ' He is alive and well, and I am he I ' was the reply. It is easier to imagine than to describe the effect it produced. That must have been a joyful Christmas Day in the Jesuit community, and their morning mass must have been one of heartfelt gratitude and praise." There was a little pause. Marjorie drew a long breath, and exclaimed : " Oh ! I am so glad he got safely back," and Ger- ald, who had also been listening with fascinated attention, muttered to Alan : " Well, he was a plucky fellow ! " " Oh ! but that's not the end of it," explained Millie eagerly. " No," said Professor Duncan ; " I sometimes wish it were I It would be pleasant to leave him to rest and meditate in the quiet cloister for the remainder of his life, feted and lionized as he could have been, had 138 THE PROFESSOR 8 STORY. { I ii 4, _ he chosen, and telling wonderful stories of his adven- tures to admiring- votaries. The French Queen sent for him, and she and her ladies felt it an honor to kneel and kiss the hands so mutilated by the Indians. The Pope sent him a special dispensation to enable him to say mass, which you know a priest who is maimed in any way is debarred from doing. If any man might have been justified for preferring to remain at home in safety, and not again risking exposure to those savage tormentors, Jogues was that man. But when the spirit of self-sacrificing love has once taken possession of a heart, it must go on in its divine mis- sion. Jogues was a young man yet, and his indomi- table spirit had not been vanquished by suffering. He shrank from lionizing homage, and cared only to follow his Master. So in the following spring he returned to the Canadian mission, and surely it was the nobler course. " For the next two years he lived here in Montreal, where he found plenty of work to do, and dangers enough, too. At the end of that time a wonderful event happened. His old enemies, the Mohawks, sent a deputation to make a treaty of peace with the French, and with them came the long lost C*^ uture, the young Frenchman whose life had been saved by being adopted by the Indians, and who now looked like an Indian himself. This embassy of peace was partly owing to his influence, and partly to the humanity THE PROFESSOR S STORY. 139 which had been shown by the French to two Iroquois prisoners, brought to them by their Huron friends. *' The French were anxious to make this treaty more secure, and also to establish among the Iroquois a new mission, to be called The Mission of the Martyrs. Father Jogues was asked to be the leader of the French embassy. Just at first he shrank from return- ing to those scenes of suffering, and the dangers he knew so well. But if the 'flesh was weak,' the spirit was willing, and the hesitation was but momentary. But he felt a strong presentiment of ill. He wrote to a friend in Latin : ' Iho et non rediho ; ' ' I shall go, and shall not return.' *' But he took the precaution of following the advice of an Algonquin convert, and wore a layman's doublet and hose, instead of the long black cassock, a silent preacher of a faith which, to the Indians, seemed, at first, to destroy all that they cared for in life. "Jogues had for his companions a French engineer, two Algonquins, carrying gifts, and four Mohawk guides. The little party followed the route that Jogues had such reason to remember, and in re-cross- ing Lake George he gave it its first name of Lac St. Sacrament. On his way he visited Fort George, and met again the Dutch friends who had so kindly be- friended him. Then he went on to the Mohawk town, which had been the scene of his torture and servitude, and appeared before his former persecutors in his new f m r 140 THE PROFESSOR S STORY. character, as the plenipotentiary of the great French power they were seeking to propitiate. " The meeting passed off most harmoniously, though it was clear that the Mohawks still hated the Algon- quins ; but Jogues and his companions were advised to hasten home lest they should meet any of the four still hostile ' nations ' of the Iroquois. Jogues, true to his unselfish and devoted spirit, would not depart until he had visited all the Indian homes, confessed and instructed the still surviving Christian prisoners, and baptized dying Mohawks. Then they crossed the country to Lake George, where they made bark canoes and descended the Richelieu in safety. " One more journey lay before brave Father Jogues, and then he was to enter into his rest. The Mission of the Martyrs was still to be established ; and though it was at first decided that Jogues should remain all winter in Montreal, he was finally sent back to the Mohawks, with a young French lay brother and some Hurons. On the way they met some Indians, who gave them information of a growing hostility among the Mohawks, which frightened their Mohawks into going back. But Jogues and his young brother pushed on in faith and hope, on their labor of love. " Brt alas ! what seemingly slight and trivial things often seem to be the means of thwarting our noblest designs. A harmless little bag which poor Jogues had left in the care of the Mohawks till his return, and THE PROFESSOR 8 STORY. 141 which contained, as he took care to show them, only a few personal necessaries, excited the suspicions of sorcery, never far from their superstitious minds. These suspicions were basely fostered for selfish ends by the cowardly Huron prisoners, and the prevalence of sickness and of caterpillars increased their supersti- tious dread. The Bear clan, one of the great Mo- hawk clans, broke out violently against the French, and took the war path in defiance of the treaty, to which the clans of the Wolf and the Tortoise still adhered. " Unhappily, as we say, Jogues and his companions fell in with one of their warrior-bands, and were seized and carried off in triumph to the town of the savages, where the old indignities and tortures began again. And notwithstanding all the protests of the Indians of the other clans, the death of the missionaries was loudly demanded. " The end was not long delayed. It was the middle of October, when the forest was all glowing with the rich autumn hues. The evening after the prisoners had been brought into the Mohawk town, a •• brave ' entered the lodge where the bruised and lacerated mis- sionaries were awaiting their fate, and invited Jogues to a feast. The father rose and followed the Indian to the lodge of the chief of the Bear clan. As he stooped to enter, a blow from the tomahawk of a savage concealed in the entrance pierced his brain and m 142 THE riiOFESSOUS STORY. I gave him the martyr's death he had so often looked for. A friendly Iroquois, one of the prisoners whose humane treatment by the French had led to the propo- sals for a treaty, Iield out his arm to shield the missionary's head, but the tomahawk cleft its way through it in its descent. Jogues' companion in a few hours shared his fate, and the barbarians set up the heads of the martyrs as trophies on their wall of palisades. " So you see. Miss Marjorie, that the story of Isaac Jogues belongs equally to our country and to yours. It was New York soil that was stained, and I think hallowed by the brave martyr's blood, as it was also the scene of his year of captivity among the savages. And now, do you think there could be a braver man or a truer hero and martyr than this simple, humble, unpretending Isaac Jogues ? " " No, indeed ! I had no idea there were such Jesuits as that ! " exclaimed Marjorie, who, like the others, had been absorbed in the long and pathetic tale, told in Professor Duncan's low, earnest tones, as if he were telling the story of an intimate friend to a single auditor. " I think he was the bravest man I ever heard of. Just as brave as Regulus or any of those old fellows in our Roman history," said Gerald, sotto voce^ to Alan. "I think he was braver, even," said Alan, "for he THE PROFESSOR S STORY. 143 did it for love to those wi'iftched savages, and Kegulus did it for the sake of liis conn try." "*The love of Cin-ist eonstraineth ns,' " said the professor. " That was the secret of Jognes' conrage, as it was of St. PanFs, a braver man even than Jognes, for the Master he served was * despised and reje(;ted ' by the whole cultured world, when he staked all to fol- low him. But it was the same sj)irit, and one hardly eares to make comparisons when the faith and love are the same." Marjorie felt as if she had got a good deal to think about, and she was not sorry wIilu Dr. Ramsay pro- posed some music by way of relieving the dei)ressing effect of the professor's story. Marion o})ened the piano, and they all sang together some of their favorite hymns, with great spirit and sweetness. It was a new Sunday pleasure to Marjorie. As they sang, by Dr. Ramsay's request, the beautiful hymn, '• When 1 sur- vey the wondrous Cross," the tears came to Marjorie's eyes as she thought how truly the story they had just heard had illustrated its spirit. She wished she herself could only feel it as fully. After tea she went with Gerald to the Cathedral. As they walked, they talked a little about the story of Jogues, and Gerald seemed quite to drop the cynical and sarcastic manner he wore at home. She could not help thinking vaguely that he had aspirations for something better than the low ideal of life that was 144 THE PROFESSOR S STORY. presented to him there, and that he was dissatisfied with that, without having as yet grasped anything better. He seemed honestly puzzled to account for the tenacity with which the heroic missionary had pur- sued his mission to " such a wretched lot of savages." Marjorie referred to the allegory of the Northern Lights, but he said, "That was only poetry, and did not explain it at all ! " To Marjorie's surprise and delight, the evening ser- mon was on the text her father had quoted in his letter : "I am the light of the world ; he that folio w- eth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life." It was an earnest appeal to walk by that true and only Light, and it was followed by her father's favorite hymn, exquisitely rendered : " Lead, kindly light, amid tb' encircling gloom, Lead then me on ; The night is Jark, and I am far from home, Lead thou me ou ! " The tears rushed irrepressibly to her eyes as the soft, sweet, pleading music carried her thoughts back to her father's story of the experience of his own life ; and her prayer went up to the Light that "• shineth in darkness," to lead both of them — far from each other and the earthly home — as only that Light can lead any of us through the wilderness of this world. CHAPTER VIII. A SNOW-SHOE TRAMP. The next few clays seemed full of the stir of Christ- mas preparations, both indoors and out. The coming Christmas holidays were eagerly expected by the chil- dren as times of unlimited out-door fun, and nearly every member of the family had some important secret of his or her own ; some urgent business to be trans- acted in private, or at most with a single confidant. Marjorie, as being a sort of neutral party, was in everybody's confidence, and was appealed to half a dozen times a day by Millie, Jack and Norman, as to which of half a dozen possible gifts would be nicest for each member of the family, from Dr. Ramsay down to Effie. Mrs. Ramsay, too, had a number of Christmas gifts and Christmas surprises on hand for several of the poor families in which she took a motherly interest, and Marion and Marjorie had plenty of occui)ation for their mornings, ni making up various warm garments, dressing some cheap dolls, and prei)aring candy-bags to be ready before the more immediate Christmas preparations claimed their attention. 145 1 • -vn m 146 A SNOW-SHOE TRAMP. H I in Mrs. Ramsay greatly approved of Ada's suggestion about the photograph of Marjorie to be taken for her father. She knew that no gift coukl possibly please him as much, and as thex'e was no time to be lost, she arranged for an early appointment for the sitting. Marion went with Marjorie to the beautiful studio of the photographer, where Ada met them by arrangement, so that she might exercise her taste in suggesting posi- tions which she considered effective. They amused themselves while waiting for their turn, by inspecting the winter photographs of all kinds and sizes ; tobog- gan parties, snow-shoe clubs and skaters in masquerade. Ada showed Marjorie a photograph of the last ice palace, and the plan of the one in progress, which they could now see beginning to rise like a fairy palace from its foundations on Dominion Square. At last the photographer was ready, and the import- ant process began. Robin was to be in the picture — Marjorie had quite decided on that — for the photo- graph was to be to her father a real bit of home, and Robin was part of that. This complicated matters a little, for several of tlie fanciful positions Ada had suggested would not suit Robin's presence at all. At last Marjorie, tired of trying various positions, sub- sided into her old favorite one, half-curled up in a large easy-chair, where Robin sprang to his place at her side, and the photographer, catching the happy effect and the right moment, took the photograph iig<.a/;iM.:^ttat^^ A SNOW-SHOE TRAMP. 147 before either of the sitters realized that it was being- tried. The result was so good that he declared there was no use in trying again, as he was not likely to get a better picture. Robin had not stirred, and Mar- jorie's position was excellent, and the picture would be all that could be desired. Ada was rather disappointed, but consoled herself by persuading Marjorie to try a sitting once more along with herself, both in their out-door dress, and as Marjorie had worn her new blanket ulster and tiiqiie^ which was very becoming to her clear, pale com})lex- ion, gray eyes and dark curling locks, the two girls made a pi-etty contrast. This picture was to be Ada's property, but she generously offered Marjorie some copies of it for Christmas presents. And Marjorie thought it would be lovely to send a copy of it to Nettie Lane and Rebecca — and to Aunt Millie, too, and then her father would see both. As they walked up Bleury Street, Ada proposed that they sliould go in to look at the Jesuits" Church, which Marjorie, remembering the story which had so interested her, was very willing to do. This church possesses no external beauty, being heavy and clumsy in appearance ; but its interior is gorgeous with rich tones of color, and its ceiling is charmingly painted in frescoes of a soft tint of brown. Each compartm.it, into which the ceiling is divided, contains a separate subject, most of them being from the life of Christ. ! Ill III 148 A SNOW-SHOE TRAMP. Marjorie was attracted at once by the pathetic picture of the Good Shepherd ; but by and by Marion, who had a very appreciative eye for art, drew her attention to a quaint, realistic representation of Jesus as a boy, employed in Joseph's workshop, while his mother with her distaff, was close by. It was a very unconven- tional " Holy Family," and it touched Marjorie witli its simple sweetness ; the humble surroundings, the un- conscious purity and earnestness of the face of the boy, occupied with the work he had then to do, yet with the presage in his eyes of other work beyond. It brought back to her mind the " loving obedience," of which her father had spoken. As she was standing absorbed in contemplating it, she was startled by hearing Ada's laugh, and tones, only very slightly subdued, of gay chatter near the door. She looked round, rather startled at this sudden intrusion on the solemn quiet that had reigned in the church, where a few silent worshipers were kneeling in prayer, and where the stillness seemed to breathe the spirit of worship. She saw that Ada's eldest brother had just come in, and with him a young man somewhat older than himself, whose appearance and expression distinctly repelled her at first sight. They were talking to Ada, and Dick was evidently anxious to talk to Marion, too, but she distinctly let him see that she would not talk ^ there. The spell of the beautiful quiet church was broken A SNOW-SHOE TRAMP. 149 for Marjorie, and she was quite ready to go, and as her companions had been waiting for her, they all left the church. " I didn't know you were so ' high church,' Miss Ramsay," said Dick, who kept his place beside Marion and Marjorie, while his friend walked on with Ada, who seemed to find him most entertaining, to judge by the frequency of her merry laugh. " I thought you were a, good Presbyterian, and didn't believe in paying respect to Roman Catholic churches." " I was brought up to respect all churches, Mr. West," responded Marion, " not for the sake of the church itself, but of its associations. And as for Presbyterians, if you had ever learned the 'Shorter Catechism,' you would know that we are well taught to respect everything connected with the worship of God." " Well, I stand corrected," said Dick. "But you see I didn't think you would allow that that was worship." " I'm sure I saw true worshipers in there," Marion replied. " And I think it's a great shame for Protestants to disturb people who are worshiping in their own way, and to think they may behave just as they like, because it doesn't hajipen to be their church ! " "That's just what I've heard my father say so often," exclaimed Marjorie. " He says he used often 150 A SNOW-SHOE TRAMP. !■ 9W to feel ashamed of the way tourists behave in churches abroad." " Well, when I'm a tourist, as I hope to be soon, I'll try to be on my good behavior," responded Dick, good-naturedly. " But you know it was really Hay- ward there who was the worst of us, and you see he doesn't believe in anything, except " — and he laughed — " well, yes, I do think he believes in himself." " Is he an agnostic, then ? " asked Marjorie; with great interest. Dick stared, then laughed a little. " I beg your pardon," he said. "But I don't think Hay ward's anything so deep as that ! He just thinks it's no use bothering about things that nobody can ever under- stand, and he likes to have a jolly good time wherever he is. That's why he's here this winter. He's Eng- lish, you know, and he's just traveling about to amuse himself. He's a first-rate fellow, though, awfully entertaining." That Ada found him so, there could be no doubt. They were evidently on most friendly terms, and the coquetry of Ada's manner was not lost on Marjorie, to whom it was a new development in her friend. She instinctively disliked the idea of Ada's intimacy with a man of Mr. Hayward's too evident type, and Marion strongly shared her feeling. Dick suggested that they should all continue their walk along Sher- brooke Street, to see how the new Lansdowne Slide A SNOW-SHOE TRAxMP. 151 was progressing; but Marion decidedly declined, as she had a great deal to do at home. So Ada walked on with the two young men, while Marion and Mar- jorie hastened home, agreeing as they did so, that it was a great pity that Ada should see so much of her brother's fast friends. "And I know that young man is a very bad com- panion for poor Dick," added Marion. " He used to be quite a nice fellow — though he was always very fond of pleasure — till he got so intimate with young men who drink and gamble and all that. Because his father's so rich, they do all they can to get round him and make him like themselves. I fancy his mother would be shocked if she could have seen him as my father has seen him — and brought him home, too, at night when he couldn't walk ! " " O, Marion, how dreadful ! " exclaimed Marjorie. " But doesn't she know at all, then ?" " I fancy she must know something about it ; but she has the idea that all young men of spirit are so, some time or other, and she thinks he'll settle down by and by. I believe his father is very much put out about his extravagance and idleness, for I fancy he doesn't do much in the office. But he is so en- grossed with business himself, that he has hardly time to see much of his family, or even think much about them." " Well, I'm glad my father's not like that, if it was 152 A SNOW-SHOE TRAMP. 11 ! to get all the money In America I " exclaimed Mar- jorie, and Marion warmly re-echoed the sentiment. Wlien they reached the house, an unexpected mis- fortune awaited them. From the study came sounds of pitiful sobbing, and when the girls entered it they found little Effie sitting on the floor in a tempest of sobs and tears, and beside her the fragments of the china cup which Marion had been so carefully paint- ing for her mother, while Norman was trying to con- sole the mourner, and endeavoring to fit together the broken bits. " O, Effie! how did you do it?" exclaimed Marlon; but poor Effie could not speak for the sobs that shook her little frame, and Norman had the magnanimity to confess that it was partly his fault ; that they wanted tj get a plaything that had been ])ut up on the same high shelf, and he had been trying to hold Effie up to get it, when, just as she was taking it down, it dis- lodged the cup, and then Effie herself had fallen and bruised her forehead. It was a great vexation for Marion, but she con- quered it bravely, and taking Effie up in her arms, began to examine the bump on her brow, while Alan, who had just come in too, went to get something to bathe it with. But Effie only sobbed out : " I don't mind the bump, Marion ; it's the cup. Will it mend ? " "No, dear," said Marion; "I must just try to get A SNOW-SHOE TRAMP. 153 another done yet. But you know you and Norman have often been tokl not to try to get things down for yourselves. And if you had been good, obedient chihlren, the cup woukln't have been broken." " O, Marion ! I won't ever, ever try again ! " she exehiimed, and Norman, standing by silent and rueful, looked as penitent as she did. Marjorie thought she loved Marion twice as much when she saw the motherly sweetness with which she soothed the still sobbing child, telling her and Norman that nothing was to be said about the cup to Mrs. Ramsay, who was out, as of course she was to know nothing about it till Christmas Day. And she prom- ised to take five cents from Effie's and Norman's little hoard of savings, towards the purchase of a new cup, while Marjorie heroically offered — confidentially — to take Marion's place in helping Millie to dress a doll intended for a Christmas gift to Efiie, so that Marion should have more time for her painting. And finally, in order to cheer up the two downcast children, Marjorie offered to do what they had been daily teasing her to do ; go and take a ride on their little toboggan, down the very moderate-sized slide the chil- dren used, in a field close by. So she had her first expei'ience there, under Alan's supervision, Norman steering, while she, only a light weight, sat tucked into the front, making herself as small as she could. As we all know, it is generally, as the French say, If ti f " ?,|! 154 A SNOW-SHOE TRAMP. " le premier pas qui coute ; " and now that she had — not " broken the ice," but — tried the snow-slide, she felt as if she could venture another on a larger scale, with less nervousness and more pleasure than she had felt before, when looking at the sharp inclined planes erected for the slippery descent. " It looks a little dreadful at first," Millie admitted ; " but every time you go down you like it better. And when you know just what the toboggan's going to do, you're no more afraid of it than of skating." Marjorie had learned to skate a little at home by her father's desire, and her cousins were going to take her to the rink by and by ; but just at present there were too many other things to do, and the skating was not so much of a novelty as these. When they got home, just as the tints of a soft winter sunset were fading out of the pink and amber sky, Norman ran to tell his mother, as usual, what they had been doing. " And Effie had a fall and got a bump," he added incautiously. " What ! not off the toboggan ? " exclaimed Mrs. Ramsay, who was always a little nervous about this sport, though she knew her husband liked the children to do, within reasonably safe limits, whatever developed courage and muscle. " O, no ! it was when the cup — oh, dear, I forgot ! That's a secret, you know, mamma, so you mustn't ask about it." A SNOW-SnOK TRAMP. 155 Mrs. Ramsay was quite accustomed to the little ones' blundering attempts to keep their Christmas secrets, and she was very careful always to respect their innocent mysteries, and to avoid tempting them to untruth by unnecessary questions ; jind indeed deceit was a thing almost unknown in that household ; for all knew that it was considered the gravest of all offenses. So she only smiled a little as Norman went on : " It's only a secret, you know, because it's to be a surprise for you " — But Millie cut Norman short : " You stupid boy ! can't you be quiet ? It's nothing at all, mother, only Effie and Norman were playing in the study, and Effie fell and bumped her forehead." " Well, never mind, dear, let me see the bump ; and don't scold Norman. Little boys can only learn by experience when 'silence is golden.' And I'd rather have him make ever so many blunders by frankness, than see him in the least sly." Effie soon recovered from her fall, the new cup was bought, and everybody tried to help Marion to get time to finish it. Marjorie detested dressing dolls as much as Marion liked it, but she would not let her cousin touch the one that she and Millie wrestled over for three whole evenings, after Effie was gone to bed, till " their baby " became a joke with everybody. For it was not a task that could be " cobbled up " in a 'II k \l W, 156 A SNOW-SHOK Tit A Ml'. 9 t {y K» l\ ) Iff) I IV I hurry. Elitie liad very decided views on the subject of dolls, and would scarcely have felt jijrateful, even at Christmas time, for the most beautiful doll whose clothes were sewed on, since the duty of dressing- and undressing her doll was one of its «^reatest pleasures to her motherly little heart. Happily Marjorie had not any Christmas work of her own to do ; for her father, who had, even in the hurry of his own departure, pro- cured appropriate gifts for each member of his sister's family, had considerately counseled Marjorie to re- serve them till Christmas, knowing that she would naturally like to have her share in the general inter- change of gifts, and that she might be puzzled as to the selection. So she had these safely stowed away in her trunk, each in its neat paper packet, inscribed with the name of its owner, all ready for the Christmas- tree. For they were to have a Christmas-tree. Dr. Ram- say, though he often objected to what he would humor- ously style "the monstrous regimen of children," declaring that everything nowadays was being made subservient to them and their enjoyment, always felt that Christmas was more especially the " childrenV festival," and endeavored to make it a time of real happiness to his own family. And as he knew that one of the truest means of happiness is to help to make others happy, he tried to make this an especial element of the Christmas pleasures. A SNOW-SHOE TUAMr. 157 On Christmas Eve, for two or three Christmases past, he liad given up his surgery for the evening, to the celebration of the festival and of the Christmas tree. The boys made a pilgrimage to a place on the Laehine road, where they had permission to select a suitable young spruce, which was tastefully decorated with tapers, bright-tinted ornaments and bonbons. The childi'en were allowed to invite some of their young friends, and the doctor invited his young friends — the children of a number of poor patients, who had little chance of Christmas presents otherwise, and for whom small inexpensive, but welcome gifts were pro- vided by Mrs. Kamsay and Marion. In this way the little assemblage soon grew to some thirty or forty children. And besides the Christmas-tree itself, Dr. Ramsay, with the invaluable assistance of Professor Duncan, always prepared a little exhibition for their entertainment. The professor had a large magic lan- tern or stereopticon for which he had, each year, some new and original dissolving views prepared. This he always exhibited for the first time at the Christmas- tree, interpreting them as he went along, with what were as good as stories to the children. The year be- fore he had given them a series of views from Dickens' Christmas Carol, which had been exceedingly popular, but ♦^he subject was always a secret from every one but Dr liamsay, till the evening arrived. The little ex- fa tion was frequently repeated during the winter for xvt ■*!':' (> I ■i • ■ 158 A SNOW-SHOE TRAMP. %i !■ fti't: il 5 11 1 larger audiences at Sunday-school festivals and simi- lar celebrations ; but it never came off with more zest and enjoyment — both to entertainers and entertained — than it did at the Kamsay's Ci ristmas-tree. As soon as the growing moonlight made it practi- cable to enjoy going out after tea, Alan and Jack insisted on giving Marjorie her first lesson in snow- shoeing, when there would be no spectators — to speak of — to laugh at her first attempts. They had to walk some distance to reach a suitable open space at the eastern base of the mountain, and then Marion's snow- shoes, borrowed for the time, were carefully strapped to Marjorie's moccasined feet by the long thongs of buckskin that tied the network to the fiont part of the sole, by being interlaced across the instep. Marjorie was shown how her toes were to rest on the snow itself through the opening in the snow-shoe, so as to have the necessary spring for walking, while she was to take as long steps as possible, putting the foremost foot well in advance of the other and keeping the snow- shoes exactly parallel with each other so as not to overlap, or "interfere," as Alan preferred to call it. As the snow-shoes she wore were very narrow ones, she did not find this very difficult after a little practice, though just at first she got the long narrow points be- hind interlocked two or three times, the result being a plunge into the snow, out of which she was pulled by her cousins, amid much merriment. After two or i I A SNOW-SHOE TRAMP. 159 . I three lessons, however, she could walk quite easily and lightly over the surface of the deep snow, and Alan declared that before long she would be able to run as he did, on her snow-shoes, a feat which appeared to her almost an impossible one. Both the boys were quite eager that Marjorie and Millie should accompany them on their moonlight tramp in search of the Christmas spruce, an expedition in which Gerald was to join them. But Mrs. Ramsay thought an eight mile tramp quite too much for Mar- jorie in her present state of " training." The boys were very unwilling to give up the plan, however, and Professor Duncan, hearing the discussion, declared that he should like tremenilously to accompany them part of the way at least, and suggested that the girls should go just as far as they felt able to manage, and he would escort them back. And so it was accordingly arranged. Professor Duncan came to tea, and shortly after seven the little party set out, carrying their snow- shoes till they had got into somewhat open ground, where the snow afforded them a convenient surface on which to use them. It was a gloiious night. The moon, more than half- full, had the biilliancy which only a winter moon can have — shining from an unclouded sky over a landscape of dazzling white. Yet the brighter stars, at any rate, were not obscured, but shone with diamond-like clear- ness against the deep gray-blue sky. The shadows of ', ft J i , I u: m ! 160 A SNOW-SHOE TRAMP. I 1^1 ill: m J It: i':i ! the leafless boughs were defined on the pure white snow as clearly as if penciled on its surface, and the feathery points of the pines and spruces were more distinct in the silhouette than in the reality. The air was keenly cold, but to the snow-shoers it was only bracing and ex- hilarating. Marjorie felt its subtle influence, and did not wonder at the high spirits of the boys, as they sometimes ran races or made little detours across fences into fields, and sometimes dropped into line and made little jokes with Professor Duncan. He was in his most genial mood, too, and entered with spirit into the " quips and cranks " of the boys, occasionally giv- ing them an original conundrum suggested by the im- pressions of the moment, and creating much amusement when the answer was either guessed or revealed — generally the latter. By degrees, however, no one knew how, the solemn beauty of the moonlight land- scape sobered them into a quieter mood. And in a similar way, as it often hai)])ened, without any par- ticular intention, Professor Duncan had got on his favorite subject : the old days of the French pioneers, and incidents of the guerilla warfare of those days which had taken place in that vicinity. " Well," said Gerald, "I shouldn't have objected to some of those adventures. The excitement must have been something to make up for the hardship." " And what grand times they must have had," said Alan, ••' when they had the country all to themselves, A SNOW-SHOE TRAMP. 161 and could go on their snow-shoes all over the woods, with lots of game everywhere, and nothing to do in winter but shoot it and keep themselves warm I " " Yes," said the professor ; " but it wasn't such a fine thing to come across an ambuscade of Indians with their guns or tomahawks, and know that at any moment you might be scalped or carried off to a fate a thousand times worse." " No," replied Gerald. " That was the other side." " Yes, my boy," the proiessor went on, *' it's very nice for us to be enjoying ourselves here tramping on light- heartedly, with a fine clear landscape all about us, and nothing and no one to make us afraid. But it was quite another matter to have to stumble along among the shadows of the great trees and fallen logs, never knowing when you might hear the crack of an arque- buse or the heart-chilling war-whoop, or be picked off without warning by an invisible foe ! Why, do you know, the colonists at Ville Marie were often practi- cally prisoners within their palisades, not daring to go out to shoot game or cut firewood, except in armed parties as though in an enemy's country, and then pur- sued back often with heavy loss. And the men got sick of staying mewed up in their fortifications, and no wonder, though they got a good lesson when Mais- ■ 1 'i m I T"^- 164 A SNOW-SHOE TRAMP. m m- 11 !1,M ■; .:;( is 'i Sill /' the life of those old times is almost as real to me when I am walking about here, as is the life I see about me with my bodily eyes. " But now I think you two girls have walked about half as far as you are fit for. Suppose we turn back." This was of course equivalent to a military order to turn "right about," for the professor always had his way when he made up his mind ; so the party divided ; the three boys proceeding along the quiet country road, and the professor and the girls taking their way back to town. " He's a thoughtful boy, that Gerald," said Pro- fessor Duncan, as if thinking aloud. " I hope he won't be spoiled by the temptations of riches, like his eldest brother and too many of our Montreal boys ! I'm thankful many a time that 1 hadn't a rich father. It's something sad to see a father toiling away at mak- ing money, wearing out heart and life in heaping up a fortune, just to throw his family into the embrace of the demon of self-indulgence, that I often seem to see, like a great boa-constrictor, strangling out all that is noble and manly and self-denying, and making limp, soft pleasure-seekers, instead of men strong with the bone and sinew of noble manhood. But I don't de- spair of Gerald, especially since he has made Alan his special friend, and sees something better at Dr. Ram- say's in the way of an ideal of life, than he sees at home." A SNOW-SHOE TRAMP. 165 hi This was so much like her father's way of talking, that Marjorie felt quite at home and was glad to let Professor Duncan run on in what was evidently half a soliloquy, without any attempt to interpose any re- marks of her own. Millie, too. was unusually silent, and perhaps both were getting a little tired, when the sound of sleigh jells was heard approaching them. As this was of course a common occurrence on that frequented road, they did not remark it particularly, till a familiar voice liailed them. Dr. Kamsay had thoughtfully driven to meet tlieni on coming in from his evening rounds, suspecting that the girls would not be sorry to take off their snow-shoes and squeeze them- selves into his cutter. Marjorie was by no means unwilling to avail herself of the comfortable sleigh, and both were soon tucked in among the warm robes. " Sorry I can't get you in too, Duncan," said Dr. Ramsay, laughing. "You know that next to good company, there's nothing I enjoy more than a solitary tramp, especially on a glorious night like this. So good-night ! " And leaving the professor to his own meditations and the boys to bring home their tree in trium})h, the girls were soon safely at home, and both so sleepy after their long walk in the frosty air, that they were quite ready to follow Mrs. Ramsay's suggestion, and go off to bed, to sleep soundly till morning. r -it ■i: I iai; Mi CHAPTER IX. SEVEN SCENES FROM CHRISTMAS PAST. Christmas Eve came in apace, and every one grew busier still as it drew nearer. By dint of great in- dustry Marion managed to get the second cup finished, along with all the other things she had on hand, before the final preparations of cake and pudding making came on. Marjorie's photograph turned out a very good likeness indeed, both of herself and Robin ; and she was in danger of feeling a little more vanity than she had ever done before when she saw the artistic and carefully touched picture that had a decided re- semblance to the portrait of her mother which she had always admired so much. Robin's photograph, too, was considered a " speaking likeness," and the packet was at once put up and addressed to Mr. Fleming, just in time to reach him, if all went well, by Christmas Day. The tree was duly set up, and the children found a day's pleasant occupation in decorating it with all the resources at their command. 16G SEVEN SCENES FROM CUKISTAIAS TAST. 167 Meantime Dr. Ramsay's poor patients — the Browns — had not been forgotten. Marion and Marjorie, as well as Mrs. Ramsay, visited them frequently, taking little comforts as they were needed. They met Miss Mostyn there one day, and by her request walked home with her, and were introduced to her orderly little house, and to the invalid sister, even sweeter and sunnier than herself, Marjorie thought, as she reclined in her invalid chair, her Bible on a little table by her side, and beside it a basket full of knitted socks, mit- tens and other warm things that were her own handi- work. She always sent Mrs. Ramsay a donation for her tree, and many little hands and feet were warmly clothed every winter by her busy knitting needles. She was a kind, quiet counselor, too, for many troubled hearts ; and Marjorie was so taken captive by her sweet, tranquil face, full of the peace that " passeth understanding," that she gladly promised to go to spend an afternoon with the sisters as soon as the Christmas hurry should be over. Gerald was told about the needs of the poor Browns, and not only gave a liberal donation out of his pocket- money, but talked to his father about them, till he got from him a crisp, new ten-dollar bill, which he brought in triumph to Mrs. Ramsay. "My father was quite shocked when I told him the state they were in. He isn't really stingy at all ; but he's so busy all the time that he hasn't time ; 1 lA ! !'■ m I r 1 1G8 SEVEN SCENES FROM ClllUSTMAS I'AST. IV '^: i |i to think mueli about suuli things," said Gerald apolo- getically. " Oh ! I know that very well," Mrs. Kamsay said kindly. " And it's only when we see what misery is that we feel as if we must do something to relieve it. That's why doctors learn to be so charitable," she added, smiling. Christmas Eve arrived at last. Gerald and Ada, who were to be among the guests, came early to lielp in the lighting up, after the boys liad seen that all the tapers were securely fixed in their places. They helped Professor Duncan, too, to get his apparatus in place ; and Alan told Marjorie and Millie that he knew what the pictures were to be about this time, as he had seen some of the slides ; but he wouldn't tell them beforeliand ; and indeed they were too busy to mind. For a small regiment of poor children, includ- ing two of the little Browns, came very early, and the girls had enough to do in removing the wrappings with which the mothers had done their best to send them out warm and decent to " the Doctor's tree." Then thev had to be amused in the ante- room till the arrangements were complete, and a little bell rang to announce that all might enter. It was a very pretty sight, with its lighted tapers and brightly gleaming fruits. The children were seated on little benches, to contemplate it at leisure, while Marion played and sang some Christmas carols, SEVEN SCENES FROM CHRISTMAS PAST. 109 and all joined who conld. Then Alan and Gerald handed down the little gifts to Mrs. Ramsay and the girls to distribute, Professor Duncan looking approv- ingly on, with a kind word or two to each of the chil- dren. The family gifts were all laid on a little table in a corner, covered with a cloth, and were not to be looked at till afterward ; but there was a bag or pack- age of bonbons for each of the guests, rich or poor, not forgetting Professor Duncan, who received his chocolate creams with much gratitude. There was a little interval for the enjoyment of these, and the in- spection of the mittens and comforters and dolls, which last afforded special satisfaction to some little girls who had never had a new doll before. There was more music, and then some of the younger ones were sent home in the doctor's sieigli, made still happier by buns and cake. And then the more formal enter- tainment of the evening began. The lights were all put out except those which illuminated the large white screen on which the pictures were to be thrown. When all was ready. Professor Duncan took his stand in front with his long wand, while Alan acted as his assistant, and Dr. Ramsay sat down in front with the rest, to enjoy the exhibition. " Now," said Professor Duncan, '*• we are going to invoke the spirit of Christmas Past, our Canadian Christmas past, and see something of the heroism and I 8 .' III if u 1^ ift m '>] 170 SEVEN 8CENP:8 KKOM CHRISTMAS PAST. ';. !': endurance which nursed Canada into being. And first we have Christmas, 1535." The first scene looked like a view of the Arctic regions. A deep blue sky threw into bold relief a landsca})e of snow and ice. A bold, rocky, snow-clad blutf rose abruptly to the left, while in the distance ranges of snowy hills loomed as a background behind gloomy forests of pine. A winding white riband of ice showed a river channel in which lay three small antique-looking barks, witli masts, spars and cordage sheeted with ice and fringed with icicles. Out of great snow-drifts that half-concealed the barks, rose the top of a rude fortification of palisades on the shore ; and from the port-holes in the ice-encrusted hulls (rf the ships, came gleams of yellow light, the only token of human presence in all that frozen wilderness. It was a picture of Nature's desolation, yet relieved by the signs of human courage and energy and endurance, giving it a new and pathetic interest. " Now, who can tell what this scene is ? " inquired Professor Duncan. " I know," exclaimed Millie eagerly. " It's Jacques Cartier's ships at Quebec." " Right," said the professor. " This picture is in- tended to give you an idea of the first Christmas Eve ever spent by Europeans in Canada ; unless, in- deed, the Norsemen came here when they were in America in the tenth century, but that point is doubt- \% ■i; ■¥. T«. SEVEM »(JEME8 FUOM (JlliUbTMAS rA8T, 171 ful. But, as I hope you all know, Jacques Carticr reached Quebec on his second voyage up the St. Lawrence, on September, 1535, and after visiting Hochelaga, the Indian village here, he made his winter (juarters on the St. Charles at Quebec, close to the village of Stadacona. Well, most of you know what a miserable winter the poor fellows spent there, shut up in cheir ice-bound ships, and exposed to cold such as they had hardly dreamed of before. And then, you know, to add to their troubles, they were tortured by that horrible disease, the scurvy, which swelled their limbs till they became useless, and their throats and mouths till they nearly choked, and their teeth dropped out. During that dreary December it began, and made such havoc that twenty-six died before April, and only three or four healthy men were left to attend to the sick and bury the dead in the snow-drifts, the only way in which they could bury them at all. Dur- ing that December, too, even the Indians who had been before so friendly, ceased to visit them, and they were left in dread lest their friendship should have turned to hostility. We can fancy, then, how sadly the thoughts of home and Christmas gatherings must have haunted their minds and their homesick hearts. No doubt they made such sorry attempts at Christmas- keeping as they could, and toasted King Francis and ' La Belle France.^ After a while, however, things brightened a little. Cartier learned from an Indian that 172 SEVEN SCENES FROM CHRISTMAS TAST. T'ftM'i ;Ef' I'' ! !i;:-!Ji a certain kind of spruce contained a cure for scurvy, and by the time that spring came back to loosen the ice-h(,un(l streams and gladden the weary hearts, the survivors began to feel health and hope returning to their own veins. One thing only T am sorry for when I think of those brave men and their hard win- ter: that such a gallant leader as Cartier should have clouded his fair fame by treacherously carrying off with him the kind chief Donnacona and some of his braves, ti » tro])hies to France. That was the darkness that mingles with the light of his heroism, and it led the way to sub?^ci|uent failure and disaster. " And now for the second Christmas. This is Christmas, 1598." The rjecond scene represented a moonlight night ; the sky flecked with wintry clouds, through which the silver radiance of the moon showed a long, low, sandy island sprinkled with snow. On its flat and treeless shores rolled the long, foaming surge of the Atlantic. In the foreground was a gleam of frozen lake and a group of rounded sandhills, in the shelter of which stood an uncouth, clumsy cabin, built of strangely as- sorted timbers, and banked u}) with bastions of snow- covered turf. There was no cheerful gleam of fire or lampliglit in tiiis picture, but a few strange and shaggy figures, with long beards and furry garments, making them look very much like bears erect, were scattered about the foreground ; some watching the distance ■it!, u .1 SEVEN SCENES FROM CHRISTMAS PAST. 173 from a sand-hill, others strolHng- listless by the shore of the lake. It was a weird picture, oppressive in its wildness. " This is Sable Island in the Gulf of St. Lawrence," said the professor, " and these were, so far as we know, its first human inhabitants, certainly the first European ones. The aecontl Viceroy of Canada, and the third, including Cartier, who tried to colonize it, brought out, for this purpose, a shi})load of convicts ; and as a precautionary measure, he thought, as he passed this Sable Island, that he would land there his '' Forty Thieves," and come back for them when h? had estab- lished himself safely on the mainland. The forty con- victs were by no means sorry, at first, to be left for a time where they were, monarchs of all they surveyed, and could do just as they pleased. Ther* were cattle on the island, left there by a French ])aron years before, and there were seals and svalrus and otter besides, so that there was no lack of food. There were plenty of blueberries, too, and acres of cran- berries in the grassy valley th;it surrounded the shallow lake in the center. So, for a time, they enjoyed their freedom, and were very well content. "• But the months ])assed away one by one, and no jleam of a distant sail met their watching eyes. They did not know why, and began to think they were basely deserted. But the truth was, that when De la Roche, having chosen a site in Acadia — that i$ m m 174 SEVEN SCENES FKO.M CHRISTMAS PAST. m 'd i N? ^•■ I i I '$■ Nova Scotia — was on his way back to pick up his ' Forty Thieves,' a great storm blew him across the Atlantic to France instead, and there a duke., who was his enemy and a rebel against his king, shut him up in prison, and kept him in it for five years. So winter came on with its heavy gales and bitter cold, and the men had to provide themselves with the best shelter they could. They built a cabin out of the timbers of the wrecks on it, for this island is called •• the graveyard of the sea.' But soon they had no wood to light fires with, and they had to eat raw flesh, and after a time learned to like it. They replaced their worn-out clothing with the skins of the creatures they killed, and collected a great store of furs, which might be valuable some day. But there was no law and order among them, and every man did what was right in his own eyes. So (juarrels arose and murders followed, and by and by there were only twelve left out of the forty ; men clothed in fox and seal-skins, with beards grow.i to their waists, and hair that huag in a matted tangle down their backs. " At last De la Roche found means to let King Henry know of their desertion, and the king sent a ship to seek them. When tliey saw it outside their shoals, they shouted and danced like madmen or wild animals. They were taken back to France with their store of furs which the greedy sailors at first seized as plunder. But when they were brought before Henry, ' 'i U WSn4; SEVEN SCENES FROM CHRISTMAS PAST. 175 M m in their strange grotesque garb, he found out this robbery, and made the pKmderers restore their treas- ures. Some of them eventually went ba^.^k to their island to spend the rest of their lives as trappers in that wilderness. There is no heroism to speak of in this story ; but thei-e -is a lesson in it, and that is, that men, to be truly free, must be free from bondage to their own passions. " And now, the third scene is on the coast of — well, it is so close to the boundary between New Bruns- wick and Maine, that it is difficult to tell which to call it, but then it was Acadia. This takes us to a new century. Tt is Christmas, 1604." The wild moonlight scene faded off the canvas, and another, lighted by the last glow of thy j)ast sunset, took its place. It represented a rock-bound shore, just wheie a brojid river flowed quietly out into a wide, curving bay. A long, narrow, snow-clad island, which divided this river at its mouth, occupied the foreground of the picture. A thick fringe of cedars surrounded the island, and at its upper end was a rude fort and a little surrounding cluster of buildings, rudely fash- ioned of logs, and built in the foi-m of a square. One of these was a house of rather im])osing dimensions, surmounted by an enormous roof. There were other houses, storehouses, barracks, a long, low, covered gal- lery and a great baking oven, as also a small rude chapel, a little apart on a projecting point of rock. Jt'-i 7 >■ ''\- i" ill 176 SEVEN SCENES FROM CHRISTMAS PAST. I :t.f m hm ii. if Figures of men in French doublet and hose were scattered about the vicinity, some hauling up boats filled with driftwood, others carrying" casks of water from the boats to the settlement, which was surrounded with the usual wall of palisades. Here and there gleams o^ firelight came from the windows that the re- ceding daylight had left in dusky shadow ; and the gate of the palisaded fortification was wreathed with cedar boughs. Beside it stood a graceful athletic fig- ure, in doublet and hose, api)arently contemplating the scene, the naturally harsh outlines of which were soft- ened by the rich tones of the afterglow of the sunset. " This," said Professor Duncan, " is the ' Ilahitatlon de St. Crob\'' the first real settlement in Canada, and if we except the visit of the Norsemen, the first settle- ment in North America. The figure at the gate is the noble Samuel de Champlain, true knight and gallant soldier, who may truly be called the founder and father of Canada. He had come out in the preceding spring, with De Monts the new viceroy of what was as yet only a wilderness, and with the Baron de Poutrincourt, the first Acadian seigneur. Instead of following Car- tier and De la Roche up the gulf to Quebec, they coasted along the Bay of Fundy, and, proceeding southward, came upon this bay and the island which you see at the mouth of the river, called by them the St. Croix. On this bleak, isolated spot they finally resolved to begin their settlement, probably attracted ill V, SEVEN SCENES FROM CUKISTMAP PAST. 177 to it by its capabilities for defense in the face of un- known dangers. Here tliey built the houses you see, and Chaniplain, always passionately fond of garden- ing, tried to cultivate a garden in the sandy soil, but in vain, for nothing would grow. There was plenty of fish in the sea and river, and the islands in the bay were alive with' birds. So long as summer lasted they got on very we\l. Tliey built a mill on the mainland close by, and sowed there, late in the season as it was, crops of rye and barley. But when the summer had passed away, and the rich glow of autumn had faded out in the dreary gray of winter, and the biting winds made their way through the crev- ices of their rude walls, chilling their blood and benumbing their energies, the wilderness life became a very different thing. They were thankful for the fringe of cedars that helped to screen them from the full force of the eastern blasts, but they had to go to the mainland, even in the wildest weather, for fuel and water. Indians, too, came to camp on the island, and anxiety as to the dispositipn of these* uncanny neigh- bors compelled them to be always on the watch. Champlain was the life and mainstay of the exposed little colon3^ Nothing could daunt his courage or permanently depress his hopeful, cheerful spirit. " But a worse enemy than the Indians could have been stole in among them witjj unseen but fatal approach. The same terrible disease which had at- * i 3^\ t tW 178 SEVEN SCENES FJIUM CHRISTMAS PAST. til tacked Cartier's party now prostrated the colony at St. Croix. The little graveyard soon had nearly half of the band of about fourscore, for its silent tenants ; and those who recovered were sick with longing to leave this fatal shore. Chanij)lain alone was undismayed. But when the balmy aiis of spring returned, and the snow and ice melted in the warm sunshine, and the grass grew green at their feet, the weary colonists, while they sowed the island with grain they were never to reap, watched the horizon for the returning sail of Poutrincourt, who had gone to France in the autumn. At last, one June morning they caught sight of the welcome white wings in the distance, and hailed with delight the Breton merchant Pontgrave, with his jDarty of new colonists, with whom they might now go to seek a hapjjier settlement. " And now/' he continued, '* we are going to make a jump of two yeitrs, and show you a more cheerful Christ- mas Eve in that happier settlement, Christmas Eve, 160G. You are to suppose yourself in another rude fortification, of quadianoul^r form, very umch after the pattern, externally, of the one which is now disap- pearing ; rather larger, more complete, and fortified with four bastions, mounted with cannon. The scene you are to look at now, is the interior of the dining- hall of the Baron de Poutrincourt, Seigneur of Port Royal, as this new and flourishing settlement in Annapolis Basin, Nova Scotia, was then called." sill SEVEN SCENES FKOM CHRISTMAS PAST. 179 The outlines of the landscape faded away into a bright interior scene, where the mingled glow of blaz- ing firelight and torches fell on a merry company of Frenchmen assembled in a large, heavy-raftered dining- hall, with walls and ceiling of dark wood, throwing out into relief the faces and figures of the party. Conspicuous in the group was the noble bearing and expressive face of the figure they had seen at the gate- way in the preceding scene ; the figure of the daunt- less Champlain. He was here under a new aspect, however. With a gaily-decorated collar surrounding his shoulders, and a long white napkin hanging down the front of his doublet, he was advancing at the head of a procession of fifteen French gentlemen, each bearing a smoking dish. That carried by Champlain was a boar's head, profusely decorated with cedar sprigs. Below the fifteen empty places at the long dining-table sat an aged Indian chief, with strongly marked features and a long, snowy beard, Jind with him several minor chiefs, their heads adorned with eagles' feathers, who were watching with eager inter- est the bearers of the smoking and savory viands. Around the great wide-throated fireplace, in which huge logs of wood were blazing merrily, sat a motley group of dusky warriors, squaws and children, wntching, too, the advent of the feast, with hungry eagerness on their dark faces. A few dogs crouched beside them, all evidently deeply interested in the feast about to begin. il! ' (, tvl 180 SEVEN SCENES FROM CHUISTMAS PAST. It I. 1. '! i 3 ilil 111 i»!* tt ' «! ii^ I f 111 I ''Now," said the professor, "this is Poutrincourt's (lining-hall at Port Royal, in the days of the knightly order there instituted by Chaniplain, and called ' //' Ordre de Bon Temps' You know you children sometimes talk about having ' a good time ' ; perhaps this is where the expression came from. When the colonists were happily settled in the beautiful harbor of Port Royal, begirt with fair wooded hills and flash- ing waterfalls, Champlain, in order to beguile the tedium of the long winter, organized this Ordre de Bon Tempi^^ composed of fifteen knights. Each took in turn the place of Grand Master, or Steward, signi- fied by the decorated collar which he retained for one day, and resigned in the evening, with great pomp and ceremony, to his successor. His duty was to superin- tend and provide for the meals of the day, seeing not only to stocking the larder, but to cooking the viands. And a goodly supply of viands the}' managed to get, between their stored previsions and dried fruits from France, and the game and fish that abounded in the surrounding country, \enison, moose meat, the flesh of the beaver, otter, bear, wild cat, and hare, wild geese, ducks, grouse, and plover, trout and sturgeon and other fish, caught at sea, or through the ice of a neigh- boring river, made a variety from which tliey were expected to have a new bill of fare every day. They often invited to their table some of the Indian chiefs, in particular their trusty old friend, the famous SEVEN SCENES FROM CHRISTMAS PAST. 181 Micmac chief. Membertou, tlit' aged, bearded man yoii see heie ; and a beard, yon know, is as uneonnnon on an Indian as on a priest. Membertou became a pro- fessed Christian, nnder the teachings of the Jesnits, when they came later ; and was always a true and stanch friend to the French. The history of this settlement of Port Royal, with its vicissitudes of pros- perity and misfo't'jue, and its tragic ending, is one of the most fascin;jting episodes of colonial history; but T must not dwell longer on it now. In the next scene we follow the fortunes of Champlain, who soon after had to leave Port Royal, abandoned for a time, to the rock of Quebec, where, you know, under his an- spices, two years later began the permanent settlement of Canada. " And so we come to Christmas Eve, 1608."' This scene was again a moonlight one. In its clear luster, the great precipitous cliff of Cape Diamond stood out clearly against the dark blue sky, towering above the strip of beach below, along which ran a straggling row of wooden buildings. The most prom- inent was what looked like a cluster of three log- houses, two-storied, crowded close together with an added " block house," or rude fortress, surmounted bv a square tower with })oint('d roof — apparently a dove- cote, though available for more warlike purposes, the whole surrounded by a \\A\ of palisades, round which, again, ran a moat, while cannon were mounted on ' m :■ ■V.-h 182 SEVEN SCENES FROM CHRISTMAS PAST. U) if platforms commanding the river. Along the shore boats were drawn uj), some of them evidently Indian canoes. Through the narrow-paned casements glowed warm firelight contrasting with tlie cold luster of the moonli 'ht and the dead whiteness of the snow which was piled in drifts along the shore, and covered the frozen river and the distant hills that showed spectral in the distance. At the open doorway was visible again the figure of Champlain, who seemed to be en- gaged in conversation with a group of long-haired Indians in shaggy robes of fur. " I don't think this picture requires much explana- tion," said the professor. " You all know how Cham- plain, seized with admiration for the commanding aspect of Cape Diamond, founded Quebec there in 1608. He and his men felled the great trees that grew along the shore and built the ' iTahitatlon de Chainplain.,'' which you see there and of which we have the outlines preserved by his own pencil. And there he, too, with his men went through the stern experience of a Quebec winter, more bitter by far than that of St. Croix or Port Royal. Here, too, he was compara- tively alone ; for his mercantile companion, Pontgrave, had sailed for France in Sejitember, and Champlain was left with his axe-men and artisans. There was no Ordre de Bon Temps this winter, no gay and clever Marc Lescarbot, no courtly Poutrincourt with whom to while away in talk and pleasant reminiscence EJ^. SPA'LN SCENKS FROM CIIHIST.MA8 PAST. 183 the long winter evenings. If the Order of the Good Time hud existed, its steward woidd have been sorely put to it to produce any ereditahle dinners, for here there was little game at hand, and even the Indians, who depended on their hunting, were often almost famished. These poor wandering Montjignais laid in for their winter stores a large supply of smoked eels, which they left in the keeping of Champlain till they wanted them. When all else failed, they would come to the Habitation to reclaim them. One picture gives, you see, a group of these Indians who have come to Champlain i)robably to get some of their eels ; and I fancy that he, always benignant and devout, would sup- plement this with some more generous Christmas fare from his own stores. And though they, poor creatures, understood nothing about Christmas and its sacred meanings, yet the gospel of human kindness practically preached, was something they could understand. They were very much like children, and in Champlain they always found a fatherly friend. When panic- stricken by vivid dreams of the fierce Iroquois raids, they would come in a body and beg shelter within Champlain's fort ; and he would at least admit the squaws and the children, while the men kept watch through the darkness without. At one time, when the ice in the river was drifting loosely about, a band of starving Indians tried to cross in their canoes to beg for food. But the frail canoes were soon ground to t 1 ■m 1 IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-S) 1.0 I.I 1.25 IjIM lilM f^ 1^ 12.2 I4£ 2.0 U III 1.6 V] <^ /; 'ci^l 7 7 Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET ^ WEBSTER, NY. 14580 (716) 872-4503 ,.■^' *& 184 SEVEN SCENES FROM CHRISTMAS PAST. If bits by the floating cakes of ice, to which the Indians, squaws, chiltb'f^n arcl all, had to take at last and cross on this precarious raft, which was driven to shore be- fore the moving masses behind. The poor emaciated creatures, reduced almost to skeletons, excited Cham- plain's deepest compassion, especially when he saw them, after finishing all that the French could give them, seize and devour the carcass of a dog that had been lying for months on the snow. " Besides the visits of these Indians and his writing and drawing, Champlain had little to break the monotony of tiie dreary winter life. Trapping foxes and watching the attempts of the hungry martens to reach a dead 'log hanging from a tree, seem to have been the only amusements within his reach, and they were rather beneath the dignity of Champlain — and beneath his humanity, too, I think ! But even men like him are hardly ever quite beyond the spirit of their times." Professor Duncan stopped for a mo- ment. Then as if a thought had just struck him and demanded expression, he went on : " Only One of all the sons of men ever stood out in the bold relief of his own pure individuality from that web of surrounding influences which people now call ' Environment,' and that was He whose birth we are commemorating to-night. All other lights not only shine * in the darkness,' but have their light mingled with the surrounding darkness. n SEVEN SCENES FROM CHRISTMAS PAST. 185 " And now we are goings to make a leap of more than a quarter of a century, and visit Quebec again on Christmas Eve, 1G35. And this scene will be a sorrowful one." The picture faded out, but as it did so the outlines seemed to revive for a few moments, and a change came over the details. The old Ifahitation gave place to a straggling village of cabins and huts. Ships were anchored in the stream, and on the ascending ridge above the village where now is seen a spacious terrace, there stood a wooden fort and church with distinct guns and other fortifications, which Professor Duncan pointed out as the old Castle of St. Louis. Above, the stern old cliff still rose in the primitive simplicity of nature, uncrowned as yet with its martial tiara. But soon the outlines of this picture faded altogether and were replaced by another interior jiicture. It showed a bare and by no means s]>acious chand)er — a chamber in the fort of St. Louis. On the wall hung two or three pictures, one of them a portrait of the murdered King Ilenry the Fourth of Fi ance, the victim of Ravaillac. Another represented a fair and grace- ful young lady with much sweetness of expression, in an almost conventual dress. A tliird was a ])icture of the Madonna and Child, by an early French or Flem- ish artist ; while a large carved crucifix hung opposite the plain camp bedstead. On this lay the prostrate figure of a dying man surrounded by a group of figures IV m 186 8EVEN SCENES FROM CHRISTMAS PAST. with sorrow in tlieir faces and their attitudes. A tall, athletic man in the long black cassock, and with the looped-up hat of a Jesuit, stood close beside the head of the sufferer, evidently reading the service for the dying. Officers in the French uniform stood around the couch. It was obviously the moment of watching for the last breath of the ebbing life, or shall we not rather say, for the i)assing forevermore out of death into life. The effect of the picture, with the subdued light falling softly on the mournful figures and bowed heads and pale, unconscious form, was very solemniz- ing. Professor Duncan allowed his audience to look at it for a few moments before he began, in a low and earnest tone, his explanatory remarks : " Well, I don't think I need say very much about this picture. It dates just a century after the first scene. With Christmas Eve, 1635, closed the earthly life of brave Champlain, who for nearly thirty yearti had been successively the explorer, the colonizer, the father of New France, as Canada was then called, lie had begun by taking possession of it for his master, the brave King Henry, and he went on for the sake of old France and New France, too, and with the nobler desire, growing stronger and stronger, to win this vast country as the possession of a greater Master still. In the twenty-seven years that intervened be- tween this Christmas Eve and the last, he had crossed and recrossed the ocean many times, and had seen SEVEN SCENES FROM CHUISTMAS PAST. 187 many changes in the great wiklerness around him. New France had grown from one or two little settle- ments in the wilderness, into a colony. Quebec had grown into a village of nearly two hundred inhabitants, and its Fort St. Louis sheltered a garrison ; while there were tradiug-})osts at Tadousac, Three Rivers and the Lachine Rapids. Champlain had already pointed out the site of Montreal. He had laid great plans, in pursuance of which he had made long journeys, and had, unhappily, embarked in Indian wars. lie had stood a siege at Quebec with his little garrison, had been forced to capitulate to the English, but had eventually received back, for France, the post he had founded and cherished with so much care and toil. He had brought out his fair young wife, Hclene de Champlain, the original of that portrait ; but she, never probably having really loved the husband provided for her in childhood, soon grew tired of the exile, even with the adoration of the Indians, and finally went back to France to take up the life of a 7'cllr/lcusr, long her especial desire. But Champlain was devoted to his life work, and was faithful to it to the last. And now he was quietly passing away, watclied over by the com- rades and ecclesiastics with whom ho had worked, half- soldier, half-missionary, and lia])pily unconscious that the English colony already growing u]) on the eastern coast of the continent, re-enforced by the Dutch traders of Manhattan, was eventually to wrest from France the m II I m 188 SEVEN SCENES FRO>I CHRISTMAS PAST. rich possessions he had devoted his life to secure to her sway. And yet, tliough nominally the property of another power, French Canada, remaining French in character, in language, in traditions, is even to-day a monument to the dauntless courage and energy of the noble Champlain. "And now," added Professor Duncan, "ycu have all been very quiet through this long lecture, and I am getting tired as well as you. You know /hen I get started on this subject, I never know when to stop. But we have only one scene now to look at, and about that I must not stop to tell you much, or you will all be going to sleep. I will just show it to you and tell you what it is. And then those of you who want to hear the story that belongs to it, can ask me for it at another time. " Now for tlie seventh and last Christmas Eve from the Past." The sorrowful deathbed scene faded away, and in its stead rose the great trunks and branches of a wintry forest. Through the leafless boughs an orange sunset could be seen, the light of which still rested here and there on the trees and snow. A party of Indians, principally women and children, were busy setting up the poles of a wigwam, and covering them with sheets of birch bark. Some of the men were visible in the distance, with bows and arrows, and in tlie foreground, helping in the work of preparing the wigwam, stood SEVEN SCENES FROM CHRISTMAS PAST. 189 the same black-frocked figure who had stood in the last scene by tlie bed of the dying leader. He seemed to be carrying a large bundle of fagots for the fire to be lighted in the center of the wigwam. It was a strange, savage picture, the shaggy skins in which most of the Indians were attired, and their uncovered heads, giving a peculiarly wild aspect to the forest see.