reiser
 
 7.
 
 THE LONE FURROW
 
 THE 
 
 LONE FURROW 
 
 BY 
 
 W. A. FRASER 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 "THIRTEEN MEN," "THOROUGHBREDS," 
 "MOOSWA," ETC. 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 1907
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1907, BY 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
 
 Published February, 1901
 
 DEDICATED TO 
 "THE GREAT WHITE BEAR" 
 
 2228930
 
 FOREWORD 
 
 THE Lady-who-knows was telling me of the four great 
 men who had trailed their signatures up and down this con- 
 tinent in huge enduring letters of steel and masonry and 
 mental monuments ; and, after a time, I asked : " But who is 
 the one great man four are confusing? " 
 
 She smiled whimsically, and smoothed the folds of her 
 plain dress thoughtfully for a minute. Then she asked, 
 "Are you fond of child stories?" 
 
 " Yes," I answered ; " but what has that to do with the 
 great point at issue? " 
 
 With a prelude of the whimsical smile she related this 
 little narrative: 
 
 " Once upon a time I was visiting in the home of one of 
 these ' Big Four ' men. Another visitor was there with a 
 little baby. I think she did not know a great deal about 
 babies. 
 
 " One night I was wakened by the plaintive wailing of 
 the little one whom I knew had been left to be cared for 
 by the nurse. After a time it must have been nearly an 
 hour the shrill little voice was stilled, and I was just drop- 
 ping off to sleep when sister Barbara came to my room, 
 touched me on the arm, and beckoned me with forefinger, 
 and in silence, to rise and follow her. 
 
 " Very gently she opened the door a little ; and, peeping 
 vii
 
 Foreword 
 
 through the crack, I saw, prowling up and down the dim- 
 lighted corridor, a huge white bear. 
 
 " Presently the bear became metamorphosed, by the nearer 
 view, into our host, the one corner of the ' Big Four,' clad 
 in his white nightshirt, in his arms the little baby sucking in 
 happy content from a feeding bottle of warm milk. 
 
 " As we watched I think there was a tear of apprecia- 
 tion blurring my sight the little one fell asleep ; then it was 
 given back to the nurse, the white bear, grumbling as bears 
 do, lumbered back to his den, and Barbara, saying: ' Wasn't 
 it beautiful ! I wonder where in the world he got that milk 
 heated he must have gone all the way down to the kitchen 
 for it,' slipped through the door of her room, and I fell 
 asleep, glad that I had seen the generally hidden gentleness 
 of a great man." 
 
 " It was beautiful," I said to the Lady-who-knows. " I 
 have written a book with a baby and a strong man in it, and 
 I am going to dedicate it to the man of huge affairs who 
 had pity in his heart for a babe, and the wisdom to alleviate 
 the little one's needs." 
 
 " You don't know his name, so you can't get his permis- 
 sion," the Lady-who-knows objected. 
 
 " I will just dedicate it to the ' Great White Bear,' " 
 I answered insistently, " then nobody will know, only you 
 and I, and he can't object." 
 
 Vlll
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 [HIS chronicle of the simple life at Lilac Hedge 
 would be like offering in barter a web of 
 homespun if it were not for the story of a 
 woman's pathetic wait which runs through it 
 like a thread of burnt gold, and the mystery 
 that shrouded Minister Neil Munro's life. 
 
 For years the house had held its brick-red cheek de- 
 fiantly to the village street, with just a curious old picket 
 fence separating the two. 
 
 When the Memsahib planted the spindly withes of lilac, 
 they seemed so hopelessly attenuated for a possible barrier 
 that I viewed her efforts with silent ridicule; but now the 
 hedge rests its elbows on the picket fence in summer holding 
 aloft a purple curtain behind which we rehearse our simple 
 drama of life, shielded from the critical audience of the 
 village. 
 
 Our tent is pitched in the land beautiful a sentient 
 beauty that is not alone optical; a kindly fate is the real 
 architect of our happy environment. The purple-red blos- 
 som clusters of the hedge, like feathered plumes, nod con- 
 tentedly to the graystone church that cuts its sharp gable up 
 to the place of stars just across the earth road we call a
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 street. Sometimes the church is just a blur against the Rem- 
 brandt background of darkened night ; and sometimes, in the 
 enlarging moonlight, it looms cathedral-like. One night out 
 of seven its stained-glass window shows a sacred group bathed 
 in a flood of yellow light; star-led, sturdy shepherds gaze 
 upon the infant Christ that nestles in the Madonna's arms. 
 Just glass, blue and red, and figures born of faltering art, 
 and yet it stood a beacon light to a storm-tossed soul striving 
 in the waters of bitterness, wandering blindly through the 
 Valley of Achor. 
 
 From within the thick stone walls a many-throated organ, 
 leisurely, sonorous, making little of our pin pricks, thrusts 
 its rich melody across our hedge, and then we forget. 
 
 On our right hand dwells " Grandma Murdoch " 
 " Grandma " in the consanguinity of our friendship, and the 
 altitude of years that pyramid upward from the young life 
 of our children to Grandma's three-score. In her eyes we 
 stand deified as the authors of the little ones she adores; a 
 curious reflex claim we have upon her fostering regard. The 
 children go to her lawn and prattle like the fussy second 
 hand on a dignified clock; and Grandma figuratively strikes 
 the hour a rich word of wisdom or of approval now and 
 then. 
 
 Some curious leagues of unexplored mental territory lie 
 between us elders, for we seldom take the long journey of 
 its traversing, to come together in one another's holding. 
 Once in a great while one of the children may fall ill ; then 
 indeed Grandma comes the many leagues of a dozen yards 
 to ask how the little one is faring, bearing gifts of flowers, 
 or a jelly, or a cooling black-currant drink. 
 
 On our left dwell people lovable in their content of dis- 
 2
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 tant friendship. And just beyond them lives the Agnostic, 
 ever ready to wander erratically up the walk to our lawn, 
 possessed of an insatiate desire to solve the Why and How 
 and When, and rearrange the This and That of the 
 universe. 
 
 This monochromatic life, frictionless, smooth gliding, 
 should have endured like a well-placed glacier; but it is 
 in just such placid fields that meteoric rocks fall; and one 
 day in June the beginning of a Something began. 
 
 In the deceitfully quiet prelude of it, I had my trout 
 rod in hand, waiting for Laddie, who, down by the stable, 
 was ruthlessly upturning to the disquieting light, pink-red 
 spirals of coral that were earthworms. 
 
 I heard a quick, nervous step on the board sidewalk 
 which I knew heralded the approach of Teacher Ruth 
 Harkett. She flustered through the hedge opening, clatter- 
 ing the gate with nervous indecision; on the smooth, quaint, 
 ivory-toned face, crested by bronze-gray hair, was acute 
 distress. 
 
 Something had gone wrong in the church, I noted men- 
 tally. It was not the hour for Doodoo's music; neither 
 was it the set time for French; and as the little woman 
 took interest in nothing but the church, outside of these 
 things, I knew the wrinkled brow was caused by the huge 
 graystone structure across the way. 
 
 " Such trouble ! " she panted. 
 
 " Is it the organ again?" I asked. 
 
 " No, not the organ." 
 
 She did not confide in me; and I felt that it was some- 
 thing not for the crude handicraft of man, so I said, "The 
 Memsahib is about somewhere."
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 Teacher slipped through the door like a frightened 
 mouse, all in nervous haste; and, just as Laddie and I 
 passed to the sidewalk, she and the Memsahib came out, the 
 latter's face mirroring the visitor's anxiety, as she said: 
 " Don't stay too late, please; we may need you." 
 
 Laddie and I swung down the country road, two chil- 
 dren I youthed to blitheness by the rejuvenating tingle of 
 the quivering rod in my fingers. The air was an atmos- 
 pheric blanket of vaporous warmth. I cried aloud in joy 
 when a raindrop spatted against my nose. 
 
 " The trout will be crazy to feed," I said to Laddie. 
 
 " I bet we'll catch a whole lot of fish, Father," he 
 answered. 
 
 We had just topped the long hill that curved away to a 
 gentle valley that cradled in its lap a brook loitering like 
 a laggard schoolboy after a mad scrambling race to escape 
 from the clutch of some Genii hidden in the pine wood that 
 was an emerald wedge driven between the hills away to 
 our right. 
 
 We ran down the clay road, too careless to quarrel with 
 claiming gravity. The loose-jointed wooden bridge drooped 
 its shoulders as if its thirty years of bearing countless loads 
 of golden grain had broken its spirit; but its rail, purple- 
 gray, shone like a necklace of pearls in the ripple of ame- 
 thyst waters beneath. Little singing brook voices came up 
 through the chinks of the planks as we clattered across 
 in restless haste; and where we climbed the rail fence to a 
 meadow that nursed millions of sapphire violets, was a jar- 
 ring note of man's inhumanity to man ; it read :
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 FISHING STRICTLY PROHIBITED. 
 TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED. 
 
 DONALD MACKAY. 
 
 With the point of my rod I tickled Donald MacKay in 
 the ribs; rubbed its brass nose across his notice in derision. 
 Little we stood in awe of the MacKay. Was he not our 
 postmaster, and a Tory, with the opposite party, the Lib- 
 erals, in power? Donald, holding his office by toleration, 
 might quarrel with no man. His writing on the wall was 
 a dead letter killed by the insistence of the village no- 
 mads that they would cast a fly wherever the speckled 
 beauties swam. 
 
 Then I headed for the Skipper's pool and flicked its 
 purple breast with flies of alluring garb ; my Brown Hackle, 
 my Silver Doctor all of the lying decoys I tried in vain. 
 
 Suddenly I saw a look of anxiety on Laddie's face; but 
 before I could ask the reason I was answered from behind 
 my back. 
 
 " Aye, friend, an' hoo do ye like my fishin'? " 
 
 It was MacKay 's voice. 
 
 " I don't think much of it," I answered, somewhat un- 
 graciously; "I've lost two flies and a good cast on a root 
 in the stream, and haven't had a rise." 
 
 " I'm feared the brook's fished oot. I think I'll just 
 tak' doon yon notice; it's too much o' an attraction tae 
 fishermen." 
 
 " I was going to ask you for leave, MacKay, as soon 
 as I got home," I said apologetically. " I thought perhaps 
 
 5
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 I'd enrich my request with a couple of trout for your supper, 
 then." 
 
 "Ah, ye needn't trouble. I dinna mind your fishing 
 I've told you that before. But I mortal dislike the way 
 Willie Angus has o' doin'. He gets the loan of my rod 
 to fish my own preserves, and half the time he doesn't bring 
 it back at all I have tae send for it. I'll just hae a pipe 
 an' go back." 
 
 We lighted up together, while Laddie, encouraged by 
 the Scot's peaceful tone, threaded one of the live coral things 
 to the curve of his hook. 
 
 " Ha'e they any news o' the Minister?" MacKay 
 asked, running a stalk of dry grass through the stem of 
 his pipe. 
 
 "What minister do you mean, MacKay?" 
 
 " I didna know there was more than one in the village," 
 he answered. 
 
 I understood. MacKay meant the guardian of the 
 Scotch Kirk ; the Methodist parson, and the Baptist, and all 
 the others were, according to the Calvinist, just not min- 
 isters at all. 
 
 "What's wrong with him?" I asked. 
 
 " He's away did you no' hear it? He disappeared yes- 
 terday vanished, like the spirits o' Tam O'Shanter." 
 
 Now I understood why Teacher had come for the Mem- 
 sahib with a world of trouble in her sweet, patient face. 
 
 " Perhaps he's just gone for a visit," I hazarded. 
 
 " Not at all. He just left the poor lady, his wee wifie, 
 expectin' him home tae breakfast, an' she's waitin' yet. They 
 saw him at the station, some say. It's altogether most ex- 
 traordinare. I'm thinkin' he was daffy of late." 
 
 6
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " He worked too hard," I said ; " the church at Kin- 
 tyre was too much. Two sermons in the kirk, and a drive 
 of eight miles to Kintyre, with another sermon, all in one 
 day, was too much for any man." 
 
 " He was a weakling. I'm no sure but there might 
 be something back o' it all something to smudge the good 
 name o' the Kirk." 
 
 " He was too enthusiastic," I contended " too consci- 
 entious. He was giving his life for a lot of pagans!" 
 MacKay's insinuation angered me; for more than once, 
 wearied beyond count by the seeming hopelessness of his 
 fight for tangible progression, the Minister had sat in my 
 study where there was the open grate, the kindness of pic- 
 tures, and the smell of books, and under this influence had 
 allowed his soul to leak out a little; therefore I knew that 
 what MacKay said, or hinted at, was a lie. 
 
 "Aye, he was a busy body; but I've seen many a clat- 
 terin' horse that wouldna' get over the ground fast. He 
 was revolutionary, if you ken what I mean." 
 
 "I don't." 
 
 " Well, he was new-fangled ; he was like a pea on a 
 hot griddle. I'm thinkin' he took more stock in the organ 
 an' the singin' than he did in profound theology. I dinna 
 care to see a minister o' the Gospel wearin' a mustache it's 
 no pleasant to my ears to hear the word o' God whistlin' 
 thro' hair. An' speakin' o' whistlin', once I walked home 
 from prayer meetin' with him, an' he just kept up a snivel 
 of whistle as though we'd been at a nigger show. I didn't 
 like it over-well it was no respectful to the solemnity of 
 the occasion." 
 
 MacKay was cut short in his harangue by a yell from 
 
 7
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 Laddie. I saw the boy spring to his feet; and something 
 of strength was bending his short birch rod almost double, 
 and the line was cutting through the water with a hissing 
 swish. 
 
 "God, man! he haes him he's hooked the Skipper!" 
 yelled MacKay, scrambling up. " Play him a little, Mannie 
 play him! Gie him the butt!" the Scot commanded, 
 forgetting the nature of the boy's tackle. 
 
 "Stick to him, Laddie!" I admonished. 
 
 My fingers tingled to handle the birch rod, but sport 
 forbade. Laddie had hooked the Skipper into the hands 
 of babes he had been delivered and all we could do was 
 advise. 
 
 " He'll break the line! Ease him doon, Laddie, ease him 
 doon. Dinna haul on him! " 
 
 MacKay's serenity was deeply ruffled he was inter- 
 ested. He raced up and down the bank of the pool like a 
 water spaniel ; he jumped into the air. 
 
 " Lord ! for a landin' net for a scoop ! " he ejaculated. 
 " Let him bide now, Laddie, let him bide dinna yank on 
 him." 
 
 Deep down under a big root the Skipper was sulking. 
 
 " Rest yoursel', Laddie dinna get excited, boy." And 
 the giver of this advice of calmness was prancing up and 
 down like a war horse. Then off came the MacKay's coat ; 
 he rolled up his sleeves and threw himself on his stomach, 
 saying: "Hold my legs, man! I'm goin' to run a hand 
 far doon to see if I can gill him wi* my fingers it's 
 fair enough. Dinna tickle him, Laddie; just soothe him, 
 like." 
 
 " Be careful, man," I said, for MacKay, stretching down 
 8
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 along the line till his chin was in the water, was hard to 
 hold on the slippery bank. 
 
 I think Laddie must have " tickled " the Skipper, for he 
 came from his purple lair with a rush. I hardly know just 
 how it happened, but the MacKay's legs slipped from my 
 grasp, and in he went. 
 
 Perhaps it was the appearance of the red-headed Scot 
 in his pool that disgusted the Skipper; at any rate he 
 whirled and came down stream, the line singing with his 
 speed. 
 
 " To the bar give him a lead down to the shallows, 
 Laddie ! " I yelled, excitement blinding my eyes to the pre- 
 dicament of the MacKay; in fact, the Scot had practically 
 disappeared from off the face of the earth. But now, even 
 as I clutched at the boy's arm, leading him down bank, the 
 birch rod quivered and bowed with a new pressure, the line 
 held rigid, the running water throwing a gray feather of 
 spray from its quivering cord. 
 
 Before he could check again, Laddie had him in the 
 shallow waters of the gravel bar below, where he was quite 
 helpless. 
 
 I confess that in my excitement I rushed to the salvage 
 of the trout, leaving the MacKay to his own devices. In 
 among the slippery stones I floundered, and, thrusting my 
 thumb in the speckled monarch's gills, lifted him from 
 the waters. 
 
 " Ha'e you got him, man ? " I heard ; and there was 
 the dripping red head of the Scot showing above the bank 
 of the pool. 
 
 "Are you all right, MacKay?" 
 
 " I had na thought of a bath to-day," said MacKay, 
 2 9
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 clambering out. " But I'm not mindin' it a bit, seein' as 
 we've landed, between us, yon trout." 
 
 He had the fish in his grasp now, caressing him like a 
 loved child. 
 
 " Three poun', if he's an ounce," MacKay judged, mak- 
 ing a scales of his hands. " I'm powerful wet, though," 
 and he whipped off his breeks and wrung them out. 
 
 " It's an odd turn this, MacKay," I said; "every man- 
 jack in the village has been after the Skipper for three 
 years, and now Laddie catches him with a schoolboy's 
 tackle." 
 
 " Aye ; Fate often throws the best cut to fools or chil- 
 dren. I hooked the Skipper once mysel', but he took my 
 cast, broke it as though it was a thread I'll swear this is 
 the hook in his maw now." 
 
 True enough, the old warrior of the pool wore three 
 fly-hooks in his upper lip, as a Rameses might have 
 sported scarabae, and his sides were scarred from combat 
 with bulls of his own kind. He was the finest brook trout 
 I had ever seen ; but, also, there was the bitter thought 
 that I, scientific angler, had failed in the taking of 
 this prize, and that ten-year-old Laddie had put shame 
 upon me. 
 
 Then we wrapped the king trout in a royal robe, purple 
 and fine linen, the clear cool grass of the meadow, entombed 
 him in my creel, and with pride in our hearts we swung 
 back to the village. 
 
 Just as we came to the roadway, MacKay wrote on the 
 prohibitory notice, with a pencil: 
 
 "The Skipper was caught this date, 27th of June, 1906." 
 10
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 "I'm thinkin' that'll do more for keepin' the meadow 
 from bein' tramped to death than the notice itself," he said. 
 
 As the Memsahib came to the wicket in the hedge I, 
 blinded by the triumph of having been in at the death, said : 
 " Laddie caught the Skipper; look isn't he a beauty! " 
 
 " Hush sh ! " she whispered, and motioned with her 
 hand toward my study. 
 
 MacKay must have seen the movement, for without a 
 word he departed. 
 
 "You've heard about the Minister?" the Memsahib 
 asked. 
 
 I nodded. 
 
 " I've brought the poor wifie home." 
 
 The Memsahib put her hand on my arm, and with 
 pleading in her gray eyes continued: " You won't mind? She 
 would have gone mad all alone there in the house." 
 
 That way was the coming of Jean Munro; as she said 
 herself, in a woman's faith, just for a few days until her 
 husband returned. 
 
 The Memsahib explained that there was nothing for 
 me to do in the matter, as the Reeve of the village and the 
 deacons of the Kirk had taken active measures for his find- 
 ing; just that the wife was to be with us as in a haven 
 of consolation and cheer. 
 
 " She has got to be with friends ; she's not fit to be left 
 alone," the Memsahib said. The full significance of her 
 words was lost upon me at the time, as I remembered, when 
 I came to know of Jean's baby a babe that was to prove 
 stronger than men and women. 
 
 That afternoon lona was divided, agitated by the two 
 new, great interests the disappearance of Minister, and the 
 
 II
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 taking of the Skipper. The feeling of accepted calamity in 
 regard to Minister Munro's disappearance had obtained 
 rapidly now; Minister had been gone but two days might 
 he not be away just for a rest? But then Jean must know 
 something of bad import over his going, for it was her ap- 
 prehension that permeated our nerves. 
 
 I thought of the weird address the Minister had given 
 his congregation the very last Sabbath preceding his dis- 
 appearance. He had been like one possessed of a haunting 
 memory of some black chapter in the past. It appealed 
 to me as if he were speaking out of his memory at times 
 his declamatory vehemence had caused me to study his face 
 for signs of mental disorder. He reviled the drink demon 
 as though it were an embodied ogre standing in front of 
 him. In fact, I saw MacKay and some of the stanch Pres- 
 byterians, sitting in front pews, squirming under his casti- 
 gation. 
 
 Full of this remembrance I went to the Memsahib and 
 spoke of it. It was a new light. Munro perhaps had be- 
 come deranged through overwork, and might have com- 
 mitted suicide. But she would not believe it likely that 
 Minister had done such a wicked thing, holding that he was 
 perhaps ill somewhere, and that we should hear from him 
 in a day or so. 
 
 The children crept about the house silently, like mice, 
 instinctively knowing that Dread had stolen in with the 
 shadows of evening, and would perch upon the pillow of 
 some sleeper in our household. When the subtle change 
 from gray to shadow had ceased, and it was dark, they 
 came to say good night. 
 
 Always this was an observance of unbridled liberty. I, 
 12
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 the stern parent of the daytime, becoming a stalking horse 
 for the unloading of remnants of frivolity. My ears nature 
 had set on at an angle that they might be the more easily 
 pinched or pulled, and the top of my pate, the smooth 
 patch, inviting childish criticism; the good-night kiss itself, 
 sometimes seven-limbed like Kali, or a prefunctory dab at 
 my mustache, followed by a grimace of distaste. 
 
 But this night subdued tenderness suggested that they 
 had aged to sympathetic wisdom. All but Laddie, who, 
 being a boy, whispered in my ear : " Wasn't he a whopper, 
 Father?" 
 
 There it was again Skipper claiming interest. But I 
 noticed that Laddie kissed the pale cheek of our guest as 
 tenderly as did his sisters. 
 
 The Memsahib came down from putting the children 
 to bed, and w r e went out to the lawn, where the sky was 
 brought close by myriad stars. The Memsahib and Jean 
 sat apart from me, and I knew their hands were clasped. 
 
 Perhaps these things had made me selfish. There was a 
 suggested change that hardened me. My side of the hedge 
 had held all this that was a catering to satisfaction, to 
 happiness; driving my pen had been sufficient to me. That 
 each dwelling, up and down the street, held its own trag- 
 edy of drink, or of poverty, or of death, or of worse, was 
 to me nebulous knowledge, concrete to those with whom it 
 had to do. Even the church across the way, majestic, 
 dominant, meant but a place of irregular entry, except to 
 the Memsahib and the children; now it had leaped the 
 hedge its heart throbbed on my lawn. 
 
 Soon I heard the nervous step of Teacher Ruth ; it irri- 
 tated me. 
 
 13
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 She turned in at the gate. 
 
 "There's no word of Minister yet, God guard him!" 
 she whispered to me; and then went over to the two who 
 were sitting in silence, waiting. And there I am sure she 
 told an optimistic lie of charitableness a weak invention, 
 a tale of hope; thinking to help Jean to a little sleep that 
 night. 
 
 My mental disquietude was strangely at variance with 
 the silence of the evening. The air was like an irritating 
 void, receptive, vibratory to the least friction of noise. 
 Down where the pond cradled in the valley's lap, the pip- 
 ing voices of young frogs rose upon the stillness and floated 
 up to us tiny trebles of complaint they seemed. 
 
 Suddenly the strum of a banjo picked by irresolute fin- 
 gers pushed waveringly down the street and over the hedge. 
 Then a sweet tenor voice so sweet, so familiar, that I 
 knew Jean would shiver in misery mingled with the drone 
 of the banjo. It was Jean's brother, Robert Craig, who 
 sang " Home they brought her warrior dead." And what 
 was the strange fatality that wedded his sweet tenor to 
 the words that were like the drip of blood from the fingers 
 of Mamselle Guillotine! 
 
 " Home they brought her warrior dead; 
 She nor swooned nor uttered cry; 
 All her maidens, watching, said, 
 She must weep or she will die.' ' 
 
 How clearly the knife thrust through the night air from 
 the open window of the tavern, just beyond Grandma's 
 house but a stone's throw from where we sat. 
 
 When the singer's voice hushed at the end of the sec-
 
 ond verse I almost welcomed the mad carnage of rabble 
 voices that followed. 
 
 "The Lacrosse boys!" Teacher said, in deprecation; 
 " they beat the team from Kintyre to-day, and are having 
 a little supper." 
 
 I knew what that meant I'm afraid Jean did. Rob- 
 ert's exquisite voice was a curse to him. Always in the 
 village it brought him within the lure of his inherited bond- 
 master drink. Like an echo of my thoughts came the 
 united bellow of many, inharmoniously declaring that: 
 
 "There'll be a hot time in the old town to-night!" 
 
 Their laughter mocked the silent misery that was over 
 our little group. Somebody had mercifully closed the win- 
 dow; perhaps the revelers had gone from that room, for 
 presently the hilarious noises ceased, and I could hear the 
 three women talking intermittently in low tones. Tacitly 
 we all had determined to sit late into the night; I think 
 we all dreaded the wakeful pillow I, even, feeling too 
 morbid for my work in the study. 
 
 It must have been close to midnight when I heard the 
 irregular tramp of erratic feet on the sidewalk. The 
 darkness held indistinctly the forms of two men coming 
 our way, with some jangling element of discord in their 
 speech. 
 
 The treacherous light of the open doorway betrayed me, 
 silhouetting my form against its bright background, and I 
 saw through the gate cleft in the hedge, the leering face 
 of Robert, as he called mockingly : " Hello, Professor Maun- 
 chausen ! You ought to be in bed hie ! 's no good burning 
 midnight oil, you know ! " 
 
 I darted to the gate, through it, and whispered : " Your 
 
 15
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 sister is in here, Robert for God's sake go home, boy; 
 Jean's in sore trouble ! " 
 
 My appeal shamed the boy sobered him. 
 
 "Sorry, Doctor awf'ly sorry!" he said, repentantly. 
 "Poor Jean! Munro's a sweep ! " 
 
 "Hush-h-h!" I admonished. "Go, Robert; come and 
 see your sister to-morrow do, please do." 
 
 The boy seemed to understand, for he said : " I wanted 
 to see Jean bad to-night I wanted to tell her something 
 'bout that sweep. I'll come to-morrow. Good night, Doc." 
 
 I walked home with Teacher and we talked about this 
 dominant, simple going away of one man that seemed des- 
 tined to enshadow our lives. It was really the absence of 
 known reason for Minister's going, the paucity of clew that, 
 to my mind, made it difficult to trace him, or to console 
 Jean. "What do they say?" I asked. 
 
 " Horrible insinuations chiefly they drag in Malcolm 
 Bain's name." 
 
 "Malcolm Bain! Good heavens!" 
 
 She nodded. " You see, Dr. Cameron, their hinting at 
 a thing like that proves that they don't know the real rea- 
 son, whatever it is. Perhaps it's just the mysterious ways 
 of Providence," she continued with pious introspection. " It 
 may be that Minister was called upon to sacrifice himself 
 to wake up the sleepers to rouse fresh interest in church 
 matters." 
 
 Here was a curious example of centralized thought. To 
 the little woman, her mind running in somewhat narrowed 
 grooves, it was more of a structural edifice, the shrine, God's 
 tabernacle wherein his worshipers foregathered, that ap- 
 pealed to her as a saving power, rather than the intense 
 
 16
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 earnestness of an individual like Neil Munro. Her tones 
 suggested that she would almost view with equanimity his 
 immolation if it tended to a betterment of church influence. 
 
 " I don't understand," I declared. 
 
 " Well, Minister was never the same after his years of 
 labor in the Indian field. I knew him before he went there. 
 At that time he was a theologian, and, think as we may, it's 
 theology, ponderous theology that holds the Presbyterians 
 together. Dullness may try them a bit, but they're a patient 
 stock, and dullness is never dangerous. If they have nothing 
 to quarrel about they can't split up into factions, and they're 
 prone to take sides. There never was a less gifted man 
 than George Douglas, and he shepherded this flock for fifteen 
 years, with never a lost sheep." 
 
 Again Teacher's point of view, which was an absolute 
 mirroring of Kirk philosophy, that so long as a man sat in 
 the shadow of the Church he was not a lost sheep, no matter 
 what dearth of Godliness was in him. 
 
 " But surely Minister Munro was all for the betterment 
 of his people," I expostulated. 
 
 " He meant to be in fact, he was overzealous. Some- 
 thing came over him in that pagan land, India. Haven't 
 you noticed his sermons? Perhaps you wouldn't have, 
 though " this was an unconscious reflection upon my sup- 
 posed lack of interest, I took it. " I mean," Teacher 
 continued, " that he appeared to be giving us his own con- 
 victions and interpretations of God's ordinations." 
 
 " But wasn't that what he was for a spiritual leader ? " 
 
 " No, not at all. He would have achieved more as a 
 spiritually inspired interpreter of the Law ; more of the Bible, 
 of God as pictured in God's Word, that is what a minister
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 should be. There was something wrong " she said this 
 with an insistent rising inflection in her voice " Minister's 
 sermon last Sabbath was horrible. Not to me, perhaps," she 
 added reflectively, " for I could see in his eyes that his soul 
 was in anguish, and I was full of sympathy, but it was 
 reactionary it widened the breach in the Church. I just 
 went home and prayed for the man." 
 
 " You should have prayed for the congregation," I said 
 crossly. " They want a sermon of incense, an unctuous 
 anointment, not the wrath of the righteous." 
 
 " But if he were in the right," she questioned, " why 
 did the Lord call upon him to depart like this? " 
 
 I was dumfounded. What an extraordinarily unchari- 
 table thing was this form of religion that should have been 
 all charitableness! And from Teacher, too, a woman I had 
 looked upon as the most gentle creature in the world ! Just 
 blind she was, seeing nothing but the material welfare of 
 formalism. 
 
 " I'm sorry you take this view of it," I said. " Min- 
 ister and Jean will need all their friends in this hour of 
 trial." 
 
 This appeal acted upon Teacher as though she had sud- 
 denly been transformed into another person. We were 
 standing at the gate of Teacher's little home; her head 
 drooped on one of the square-topped gate posts, and she 
 sobbed bitterly. 
 
 " You had better go in," I said, " you'll catch cold." 
 
 I walked back pondering over that curious thing char- 
 acter, that like a weather vane holds straight into the teeth 
 of the bitter gale, and sways and turns foolishly in an idle 
 summer breeze. 
 
 18
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 HAT day I belied my intent to hold aloof 
 from all that was not my business by stirring 
 up the Elders, and penning the personals that 
 were to go forth to the papers. I was wish- 
 ing that Malcolm Bain would come to the 
 Hedge for a talk over the mystery. 
 
 The Memsahib had said Malcolm would come, for he 
 was a gaunt Scottish Don Quixote, tilting at the windmills 
 of sorrow, and with a strong unbreakable spear always 
 couched in the battles of the weak. 
 
 Malcolm's father, old Hugh Bain, had tilled the strong 
 clay soil of four goodly farms with such thrifty vehemence 
 that when he died there was an ample sufficiency for 
 the son. 
 
 Among other antique flitches of the Highland senti- 
 ment Bain the elder had brought from Scotland was a desire 
 to have a son in the ministry. " Just a grand thought, 
 man ! " And so Malcolm had been sped along this high 
 trajectory which carried him to a fair altitude in a colle- 
 giate way, and then, all at once, and to the aspiring father's 
 intense chagrin, Malcolm just dropped back to earth into 
 a peculiar mundane rut of his own fashioning. 
 
 19
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 When the father died the son leased the farms, and 
 devoted his energies to the vocation that he thought suited 
 him best, and which the villagers declared was no vocation 
 at all, " Just a shilly-shallying wi' life." 
 
 Physically Malcolm was almost a giant in stature, and 
 absolutely so in strength. The physical strength was ap- 
 parent in the huge chest, the straight massive neck, and the 
 arms that corded muscle caused to hang in an ellipse at his 
 side as he walked ; they were like the curved sides of a paren- 
 thesis enclosing the story of his physical abundance. 
 
 These things of exterior predominance Bain could not 
 hide, but his diffident reserve was a wall that had preserved 
 his mental force, to me, as to the others, a terra incognita. 
 It was only later through our endeavor to find the miss- 
 ing minister that I found way through this barricade, to 
 revel in the abundant richness of Bain's beautiful mind. At 
 this time he was seemingly engrossed in an arduous super- 
 vision ot the church and the weather. Areas of low pressure, 
 and waves of heat and cold he held at the tips of his huge 
 fingers; and in the Kirk, burning questions, large and small, 
 followed the tortuous course upward from the congregation 
 and through the elders to the pinnacle of his wise arbi- 
 tration. 
 
 Once the Memsahib had maintained to me quietly that 
 Malcolm's life had been changed when Jean Craig became 
 the wife of Neil Munro. Malcolm was not a man to give 
 a sign either in the matter of hearts or estate; so I looked 
 upon the Memsahib's theory as being purely intuitive. 
 
 But this day, when Malcolm came down the walk and 
 topped the little gate with his huge bulk, and neglected 
 entirely the great signs there were in the sky, with its 
 
 2O
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 tangled clouds, for a dissertation upon the probabilities, I 
 knew that he was deeply wrought up over something. 
 
 He came in, and we took our pipes to the bench on the 
 lawn, with a Celtic slowness of beginning the real issue. 
 
 " Is there no word of Minister yet? " I asked presently. 
 
 Malcolm waved his pipe in the air, expressing the vacu- 
 ity of everything. 
 
 " What are they saying about it what do you think 
 yourself, Malcolm ? " He was a man requiring incentive 
 to speak. 
 
 " There's always been a split in the Kirk over Neil 
 Munro," Malcolm said thoughtfully. 
 
 From his manner he might have been addressing the bowl 
 of his pipe. 
 
 " I didn't know of that," I expressed. 
 
 " Aye, I believe you," Malcolm said dryly, curling his 
 lips inwardly with a smack of keen satisfaction. It was 
 a reproof to my derelict attendance. Then he added, 
 " Scotch bodies discuss these things among themselves, as a 
 rule." He was letting me down a little. 
 
 " I'm sorry over this queer doing of Minister's; it'll 
 give the other party a chance. They're mostly the stiff 
 Highlanders from the Scotch Block, and they'll grab the 
 opportunity as they grab everything else." 
 
 " But Munro was a good preacher," I objected ; " an 
 eloquent man." 
 
 " Aye, that was one of his faults." 
 
 " He tried to improve the village ; he was bitter against 
 the drinking." 
 
 " Yes, he made many a mistake." 
 
 " Surely that wasn't a fault? " 
 21
 
 " Not if he had just introduced it in his sermons; but you 
 see, Doctor, he tried to make them live up to it. Oh, he 
 made lots of enemies; he was too young to have the ser- 
 pent's wisdom. You see, in the Kirk we're for a lot of 
 religion, but broadly put, man, broadly put. Men are all 
 sinful ; we accept that as a matter of belief, but not in our 
 own households, if you understand. And Minister Munro 
 was for nailing sinners to the cross. Have you heard what 
 they're saying? " 
 
 " No, and I don't want to." 
 
 " Well, you'd best build a high wall round the Hedge 
 at once then." 
 
 " For God's sake, Bain, we must keep vicious rumors 
 from from " 
 
 " From Jean," Bain said, and the metallic cynicism had 
 gone from his voice. 
 
 " You'll stand by her, Bain, I know." 
 
 " Aye, I'll do that if I fall away from the Kirk. I'm 
 a busy man, I haven't much time to spare, but I'll take on 
 myself to find the Minister and bring him back if he's 
 alive." 
 
 "Why do you say that?" I asked petulantly. "Of 
 course he's alive why should he be dead? " 
 
 It was strange how I resented this implied conviction 
 on Bain's part, when I had held the same myself in speak- 
 ing to the Memsahib. 
 
 " Aye, you're right why should he be dead." 
 
 Bain repeated my words in a flat tone, almost devoid 
 of interest, and I knew that in his mind he was saying, 
 " He is dead." 
 
 There was no reason for this belief that was just an 
 22
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 impression; yet in reason there was only a very horrible 
 explanation for the Minister's complete disappearance. 
 
 " They say a man saw Minister at Dundee the day he 
 disappeared," Bain said presently. 
 
 " That's on the way to the States likely he's gone there 
 for a visit." 
 
 " It's on the way to Niagara, too," Bain croaked. 
 
 "What of that?" 
 
 " Yon cauldron is like a devil's magnet, it draws ill- 
 balanced men like the sun draws frost from a tree. Here 
 comes Donald MacKay," Bain continued. " I'm afraid 
 he's standing in with the meddlesome party that'll be 
 clamoring for a new minister before the pulpit is fair 
 cold." 
 
 Bain was scanning the heavens. " I must be going," 
 he said; "there's rain in that cloud. If it comes south of 
 the mountain we'll get a wetting sure." 
 
 "There's no word o' the Minister, is there?" com- 
 menced MacKay when he was well within earshot. 
 
 " There's a deal of talk if there isn't word," answered 
 Malcolm dryly. 
 
 " Have they dragged the pond? " asked MacKay. 
 
 " Drag your grandmother! Why should they drag the 
 pond ? " and Bain strode away, his boots hammering the 
 board sidewalk ominously. 
 
 " I've heerd o' old maids being cranky," grunted Mac- 
 Kay, " but Bain should ha'e been married on some good 
 woman to keep the milk o' human kindness warm in his 
 breast. He's just sociable as long as you'll talk aboot the 
 weather to him. My! but the town's lookin' lonesome this 
 mornin'. One could fire a cannon doon the main street and 
 
 23
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 no touch a soul. Time'll drag, I'm fearin'; now the Skip- 
 per's took, the fishing's not worth the trying; and if Min- 
 ister doesna come back there'll be no service the morrow, 
 eh?" 
 
 But I was in no mood for his garrulous tongue. So I 
 put on my hat, saying, " I'll jog to the office with you for 
 my mail, Postmaster," and drew him away from the Hedge, 
 launching him into lament over the worry that had come 
 to the Kirk through the vagaries of Munro. 
 
 MacKay jabbed vindictively with his big stick at every 
 third plank of the walk, as though he spitted a MacLean 
 or a MacDougall at each thrust. 
 
 " Minister's gone as he came," he said. " He was a 
 shaughlin body at best. I'm not sayin' this, mind you, like 
 some of they ithers, because the poor body's back is turned, 
 for from the first I maintained that his depth was no pro- 
 foondity. I twigged, mind you, man, that when we didna 
 understand him, he no understood himself. It was mostly 
 vaporings; his theology was as different from what the 
 Kirk was accustomed to as them newfangled, enamel pots 
 are from the solid iron that oor mithers used, and didna 
 blister an' crack at a bit o' heat." 
 
 " It was just Minister's way of trying to wake up the 
 church sleepers," I argued, somewhat crossly. " They were 
 just opiated with a sense of their holiness. Their own sins 
 were small " 
 
 " Aye, an' mean, too," MacKay interjected. 
 
 " Yes, mean ; but they fancied that by praying hard and 
 regular attendance they could show a balance on the right 
 side of the religious register, and were safe for a squeeze 
 into Heaven." 
 
 24
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " God forbid that such as the MacLaughlins should be 
 discovered yonder; an' there are ithers o' the same ilk." 
 
 " Well, Munro was all for the young. I believe he 
 thought the elders too firmly cast for him to do much one 
 way or the other with them. But he sought to wake them 
 to a sense of their responsibility for the sake of the sons 
 and the daughters." 
 
 " Aye, he was always harping on the idea that we are 
 the custodians o' ithers' morals every man a brother's 
 keeper. Fergus Black's sin in takin' a drop o' whisky was 
 responsible for Dan MacLaughlin's lickin' Sandy MacDou- 
 gall's John. It was all because of the evil example set by 
 Elder Black according to Minister. I'll tell you, Doctor, 
 at once, I dinna take stock in the missions; pagans are pa- 
 gans, and Neil Munro, I'm thinkin', did little in India in the 
 way o' salvation but come by these queer shaughlin' ideas 
 himself. And Jean Craig brought this all on herself by 
 marryin' him." 
 
 I was glad to see an excuse in my box a letter, so I 
 thumbed the glass front till MacKay went behind and 
 passed the missive through the wicket. Even though it 
 turned out to be but a bill that I opened, it did not dampen 
 my feeling of relief. I knew the Postmaster's animosity 
 was less of religious objection than because his own lout 
 of a son, Peter, had sought Jean in marriage, animated, I 
 firmly believed, by the father's knowledge that Jean had a 
 fair dower. 
 
 " What are they saying? " the Memsahib asked when I 
 reached home. 
 
 " The Christians are rowing among themselves already," 
 I answered. 
 
 3 25
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 A flush spread over her face; she was angry in defense 
 of the Church. 
 
 "Whom did you see?" she asked. 
 
 " Malcolm Bain." 
 
 " Well, he's a good Christian man, anyway, and he'll take 
 the Minister's part. He'd lay down his life for Jean, Mal- 
 colm would, I think." 
 
 " But that may only complicate matters; he'd be a dan- 
 gerous sort of knight perhaps." 
 
 " No, you hardly understand Bain's character. Honor 
 and nobility of spirit possess his very being. He wanted 
 to marry Jean years ago he worshiped the ground she 
 walked on." 
 
 " She should have wedded him." 
 
 " She would have done so, husband, had it been the 
 Lord's will." 
 
 " She wouldn't have come by this trouble Malcolm 
 would never have deserted her." 
 
 " You are speaking hastily, husband," the Memsahib 
 said, with gentle reproach. " We must just wait and see 
 what the Lord's will is. But I tell you this, that Jean 
 will stand her trial without complaint, and it's not for us 
 to quarrel with what is." 
 
 Somehow an answer did not come handily to my lips, not 
 a proper answer for a w r oman speaking in faith, at any rate, 
 so I was almost glad when I heard a voice hailing me from 
 the Hedge wicket. 
 
 There was the scuttle of a white something from 
 the hall, with a clamorous protest in staccato yaps of 
 defiance. 
 
 With my eyes shut I w r ould have known that Blitz's 
 26
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 one aversion in the whole village, Robert Craig, stood at the 
 threshold. 
 
 " Say, Doc, call off your dog," Robert said mockingly. 
 
 Blitz, having registered his protest, turned disdainfully, 
 and, at my request, came back to the verandah, snarling his 
 utter contempt for Jean's brother, who, swinging carelessly 
 through the gate, loafed to the lawn bench. 
 
 Instinctively I studied his walk; his legs always had 
 a barometrical bearing upon his mental condition. I knew, 
 as I took a seat at his side, from subtle manifestations, that 
 he was still somewhat in the over-night effects of his 
 drinking. 
 
 It was strange to be thinking of his actual degradation 
 while looking at the exquisite modeling of his face. He was 
 beautiful ; he had usurped much of the woman's beauty that 
 should have been Jean's. Their mother had been the most 
 beautiful woman in all the province. Aye, and here it was 
 again, line on line, ineffable sweetness and ivory-tinted fore- 
 head, all in the face of the boy with the wealth of hair 
 that was something between silver and gold. The too- 
 rounded contour of the chin that shot forward to cradle 
 a dimple, babbled about the weakness that should have gone 
 to the gentler side of the house. 
 
 Irreverently I thought, in a retrospective cast of mind, 
 that it was a curious misplacement of God's scheme of 
 creation. 
 
 The boy must have been studying some wrinkles of 
 thought that were a habit of mine, for he said, " Well, 
 Doc, have you joined them ? " 
 
 " Joined what who ? " 
 
 " The Pharisees the sycophants. You look like 'em, 
 27
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 one of the mourners. But you're all right, old man; you 
 didn't roast Neil when he was here like the others, and 
 then pull a long face when he flew his kite." 
 
 "Don't talk that way, Robert," I counseled; "think 
 of Jean, and what she suffers." 
 
 " Yes, she'll suffer. She'll wash the feet of that hypo- 
 crite and dry them with her hair every day she'll do that, 
 because she's so good herself that she doesn't know a counter- 
 feit from the real coin." 
 
 "You're not turning against Neil, Robert?" I pleaded. 
 
 " No; I turned. He was a sweet one to forbid them giv- 
 ing me a drink at the hotel, wasn't he? " 
 
 " He did it for your own sake, Robert, and for your 
 sister's sake." 
 
 "Well, what about himself?" 
 
 "What about him, Robert?" I asked vacuously. 
 
 " Yes, what about him nothing. The praying hypo- 
 crites knew nothing, and I, Doc ' poor Robert,' as he used 
 to call me know nothing. There's a big query written at 
 the end of his name in every house in lona, and when they 
 ask me I answer nothing\ " 
 
 " If you know anything you should tell it anything 
 is better than suspense." 
 
 " Is it anything?" 
 
 " I think so." 
 
 " I don't, so I say nothing." 
 
 What a curious mixture of weakness and strength was 
 the boy. I contrasted him with Malcolm. If Malcolm 
 had known anything, and deemed it wise to smother the 
 knowledge, he would have smothered even his thoughts; but 
 the boy must boast, like a weakling, of some knowledge 
 
 28
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 that was power, and then doggedly claim its sole guardian- 
 ship. 
 
 " Very well," I said impatiently, " but you'll only add 
 to Jean's misery by drinking now, Robert." 
 
 " Doc, you're a Christian Scientist. But you're only 
 half a Christian and no scientist at all. You've got the 
 cause and the effect playing cart before the horse it's this 
 accursed thing that started me off. It makes me boil when 
 I think of " 
 
 The boy stopped and flicked angrily at the lilacs with his 
 cane. 
 
 "Of what, Robert?" 
 
 " Of Hell and its agents posing as sky pilots. And lec- 
 ture ! Lord ! you'd think that howling in the church squared 
 everything! " 
 
 The boy was up, and striding for the gate, angry with 
 the insufficiency of the whole Christian faith, laid out weak 
 and panting by his sophistical babble. 
 
 " Hold on, Robert! " I pleaded; "come in and talk to 
 Jean." 
 
 He turned, and taking a step back we met. He scanned 
 my face closely; perhaps he found pitying sympathy there, 
 for he verged to a tone of confessional dependence. " I 
 can't do it; I'm shaky," he whispered. "I'm shaky now, 
 but I'll come back and see Jean. I'll come back, and I'm 
 going to cut it out, sure. I'm going to quit ! " 
 
 He was off before I could reply. 
 
 Perhaps the new-born tragedy in Jean's life was no 
 greater than the inherited one in her brother's. That was 
 the dreadful mockery of the boy's words when he said, " I'm 
 going to cut it out." It was a taint, a living sore kept 
 
 29
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 alive by the corrosive of insatiate desire the curse of Hani, 
 undying, because it was still a thing of levity the drink. 
 The boy's father had died rather had ended a living death 
 in horrible alcoholic dissolution. I remembered him well, 
 Andrew Craig. What the father had inherited of alco- 
 holic desire I know not, he never spoke of it. Perhaps he 
 had just been caught in the man-trap at the corner, the 
 tavern, that low-shouldered corral of bricks and mortar that 
 somehow I likened to the stockaded elephant Kheddas of 
 India, or the buffalo corrals of the western plains wherein 
 Indians slaughtered the vast prairie herds. 
 
 To me the bait in this place was more repulsive than 
 alluring; examples of its destructive force were so ever 
 evident. The whisky soaks as the habitual bar loafers were 
 called were always about. And the tavern itself! How 
 could its bare wooden floors, its long oaken bar, its walls, 
 unadorned except by cheap lithographs and innumerable 
 bottles, allure or hold any man who had any semblance 
 of a home. Surely the poorest, most humble cottage in lona 
 should hold more of comfort or human companionship. And 
 there was always some wrangling, uncouth, foul-mouthed, 
 drink-enraged workman declaiming against his master, or 
 the country, or the government, perhaps against his God. 
 A possibility of shunning part of this intolerable element 
 was afforded by little, square, dim-lighted rooms that were 
 like cells in a jail. It would be in one of these minor 
 spider parlors that Craig the father, and now Craig the 
 son, would sit beside a little table and drink. Far better 
 the open bar, for, in weak moral cowardice, each member 
 of the little party must keep his end up must call for an- 
 other round. 
 
 30
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 Altogether it was a problem stupendous, beyond the 
 power even of the Kirk. I had held aloof from it, knowing 
 an incompetency even to advise. But isolated, neither of it 
 nor actively antagonistic, I was like an observer of a game of 
 chess, the weak moves from both sides were apparent. 
 
 I had watched Neil Munro's fierce assault upon this 
 dominant evil. He had been a Ghazzi, a Peter the Hermit, 
 quivering with passion, exhorting, pleading, denouncing, 
 calling the wrath of God upon the apathy of those who 
 mingled their whisky and their religion, seeking to vitiate 
 the distaste of each with the other, swallowing the blend 
 with unction. And what result? Deplorable. 
 
 A thought of how Neil's sensitive soul must have known 
 the depression of unavail fell upon me, and from that, fol- 
 lowing the gruesome mood, recurred Malcolm Bain's awful 
 hint of Niagara. Had Neil committed suicide? I drove 
 the suggestion into the sod with my heel, tramped on it; it 
 couldn't be! He held his responsibility to his Maker too 
 majestically for that. But a man's mind, introspectively 
 putting the case, no sooner downs a sophistry than it is up 
 again in new form. Perhaps Minister had realized what 
 Teacher had strongly hinted at, that his labors, too earnest, 
 had but weakened the religious structure, caused the schism 
 in the Kirk. Patently it had. Instead of standing shoulder 
 to shoulder against the Evil One's strongest force, the con- 
 gregation had split up had come to squabbling over the 
 plan of battle; half holding for the somnolent, undisturb- 
 ing discourse such as had held them together during Doug- 
 lass's fifteen years of ministry; and the others all for bat- 
 tling for the souls of the young men under the evangelistic 
 banner of Minister Munro. 
 
 31
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 And Neil was certainly a modern Paul, as enthusiastic- 
 ally fearless. Ah! but just that, the words of Agrippa, 
 " Almost thou persuadest me to become a Christian." 
 There was a dozen a hundred Agrippas in the congrega- 
 tion when they should have been absolute Christians. That 
 was it, almost the word that meant everything in the 
 Devil's tally. 
 
 At this point in my thought the gate clicked. The 
 Agnostic stood there and leaned his shoulders across the 
 upper bar. "Have I disturbed you, Doctor?" he said in 
 his quiet voice, catching my attention. " Were you busy? " 
 
 " I was heavily in the mysteries of religion," I an- 
 swered. " Come in; I'm glad to be pulled out of waters too 
 deep for me." 
 
 " There's little mystery about religion," the Agnostic 
 said, as I made room for him on the bench ; " Christ simpli- 
 fied it much. It's just an intensifying of human love I'm 
 not saying but that there's mystery galore over the many 
 doctrines in the Church interpretations of the law of crea- 
 tion, or of God, or Pan, or whatever else we label it. But 
 what started you on such a matter? " 
 
 " When you've looked on the face of one dead, one 
 you've known intimately, your mind carries the image away 
 with it, and sets the pale mask up where sometimes we want 
 to place the living." 
 
 " Yes, man, I know ! " The Agnostic's voice was a gasp 
 of pain. 
 
 I could have bitten my foolish tongue, for his wife was 
 dead but a year ago, and I had forgotten. 
 
 " I mean that Robert Craig was here a bit ago, and we 
 were speaking of Neil Munro," I said hastily ; " that way 
 
 32
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 came the train of thought. I was thinking of a soul's 
 death." 
 
 " Aye, there may be such a thing, or worse; and if there 
 is, I'm afraid the poor lad's in for it. According to religion 
 he is, beyond doubt the sins of the father exacting the 
 penalty; and his chances of reformation are bad when Neil 
 Munro could do nothing with him. But as for the other, 
 Neil himself, it's different. He just went down before his 
 friends the worst kind of enemies when they choose. Still 
 I'd rather take chances with him in his future that is al- 
 lowing that there's a good and a bad future according to 
 belief than I would wish to hobnob with half of that 
 body," and he nodded toward the graystone pile across the 
 way. " You'll find less of denunciation in holy writ against 
 the beaten down than against the unctious, self-complacent 
 good." 
 
 " Have you any idea, Major " that was the Agnostic's 
 name to us dwellers at the Hedge ; to the village he was the 
 Agnostic, on what ground was not apparent, for he was rich 
 in his own conception of religion " why Minister disap- 
 peared so mysteriously, or at all ? " 
 
 " Just a surmise ; that's all anyone has unless the poor 
 wife knows." 
 
 "She doesn't. What's your surmise?" 
 
 " Defeated and he took it to heart. His judgment 
 must have given way; he was a dreamer at best; he thought 
 that God's intent, explained, was a power stronger than 
 Bacchus and Elder Holyman " the Major jerked his thumb 
 angrily first at the tavern and then at the tabernacle. 
 
 " You see," he continued, " the village is dominated by 
 two interests that's all there is here." He wagged his 
 
 33
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 head from one side to the other, indicating the tvvo structures 
 of such seeming divergent interests. " People go to either 
 one or the other some go to both ; they're the very danger- 
 ous ones the man on the fence is the unknown quantity. 
 Neil knew all this. What Peter, or Paul, or Simon, or 
 Noah, or Moses did was not so important in his sight as 
 what men were doing in lona. But the men of lona " the 
 Agnostic frowned at the church " would rather listen to 
 the shortcomings or the grandeur of these ancients than to 
 a rebuke of their own doings. I've seen it. I've taken cog- 
 nizance of the fathers mounting those wooden steps to com- 
 mune with God some of them for a long sleep of it in the 
 kirk over the sermon while their sons were going to the 
 devil by the fast express of the bottle. How many young 
 men of the village, Doctor, come out worth the while of 
 their being born ten per cent? That's the way Munro 
 looked at it, and how he fought it. He started the Athletic 
 Club; he took the smaller boys and drilled them as soldiers, 
 buying the wooden guns out of his own pocket; he organ- 
 ized a cricket club, a literary association, debates, and all the 
 rest of it, and what came of it? The MacLeans turned 
 lona into a Glenco for the MacDonalds; the MacRaes way- 
 laid the Kerrs, two to one, and battered them ; they were all 
 like the states of ancient Greece that took each other by the 
 throats and the elders held aloof and pitied ' daft Neil.' 
 He worked too feverishly; India had sapped his vitality, I 
 think." 
 
 " And the pity of it is there are ugly stories going," I 
 said. 
 
 " I haven't heard them ; but I know the townies well and 
 I'm sure Minister's condemned. He's like a good many 
 
 34
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 others that have attacked the national industry, pastime, 
 and cherished friend of the Empire Drink. Nine-tenths 
 of the trouble is the treating," he continued. " I like a 
 good beefsteak, but if, when I've eaten one, a friend said, 
 ' Have another, for companionship,' I'd think him a fool, 
 and if I ate it he'd think me an ass." 
 
 " But what's to be done? " I queried. " It's not a one- 
 man's job anyway, it's for the legislators." 
 
 " You're wrong, I'm afraid," the Agnostic declared ; 
 " they had the ' Scott Act ' here, closing the bars ; and the 
 mystery of it the getting of a drink on the sly, the hidden 
 jug in the cellar, like the forty thieves in their leathern 
 bottles, cast such an atmosphere of romantic adventure 
 about the business that the youths went into it wholesale. 
 There are drunkards to this day that can trace their novi- 
 tiate back to the ' Scott Act.' 
 
 " If a law could be enforced for sending a man to jail 
 for a year for slitting his brother's throat with a glass of 
 grog," he resumed, " it would be a deuced good thing. In 
 spite of all our wisdom, our advancement, we've somehow 
 got to go back to first principles the survival of the fittest; 
 drink and pray and take chances; and my regards to the 
 place of business across the road." 
 
 With a bow to the church, and " good day " to me, the 
 Agnostic was gone. 
 
 I sat on the bench for a time, watching curiously the play 
 of the sunlight through the fretwork of maples. Where 
 were we drifting anyway? I was like a horse in a bog, 
 the more I floundered the deeper I sank in this slough of 
 thought; and as a wise horse would have done under the 
 circumstances, I gave it up and lay still. I started playing 
 
 35
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 with Blitz, pulling his tail, to the tune of a childish thought 
 that perhaps if men pulled dogs' tails more, and rearranged 
 God's work less, they would be happier. 
 
 Before I had finished my writing that afternoon, the 
 Memsahib came to the study and drew me to the window, 
 I saw Jean, the gray folds of her dress almost hidden in the 
 shower of flowers the children were steadily pouring into 
 her lap. 
 
 Perhaps it was the gold against the gray that caused 
 the Memsahib to say: 
 
 " Jean has laid away all her dresses but that somber 
 one. She is having two others made from the same mate- 
 rial." 
 
 " I don't like that," I answered ; " it's depressing. She'll 
 become melancholic." 
 
 " No; it's just her way. With her it means constancy. 
 She seems to feel instinctively that she is to be tried for many 
 days." 
 
 " How does she know did Neil leave a letter? It's 
 all nonsense anyway," I added, impatiently; "we'll soon 
 know one way or the other Minister will be found alive, 
 or he'll be found. A man can't hide himself like that in 
 this busy world." 
 
 " You reason, husband, as if you were laying out a gar- 
 den, or planning a book, or making the rough sketch of a 
 landscape ; those are matters of limitation ; this is illimitable, 
 because it is God's doing." 
 
 " It's the unregenerate sleepers in the Church's doing," 
 I answered sharply; " either that or just the mad act of an 
 ill-balanced mind." 
 
 The Memsahib didn't answer except by a little sigh of 
 36
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 resignation, which was a tolerant reproof, and I studied 
 Jean's face limned against the flowing background of the 
 Hedge. I hadn't noticed before how extraordinary it was. 
 Undoubtedly it bore resemblance to the face of the Madonna 
 in the memorial window which cut the graystone wall of 
 the kirk just beyond. The eyes were huge depths, pools 
 that held indefinable power, great eyes, pleading, sympa- 
 thetic, unchangeable eyes. Trying to fathom them I lost 
 the play of the sunlight when it turned to bronze the rebel- 
 lious hair. The Memsahib's hand on my arm recalled me. I 
 asked her the question that had hung in waiting: "Jean is 
 beautiful, isn't she? Strange I never noticed it before!" 
 
 " Many men have, though," the Memsahib whispered ; 
 " Malcolm worshiped her in his grand, solemn way. And 
 I had hoped that Jean might have cared for him they'd 
 have been a noble couple, but ' Dieu dispose' " 
 
 " He directed her love toward Neil Munro," I said 
 tentatively. 
 
 " Not as you think of it, husband. I don't believe she 
 loved Munro as she might have loved Malcolm, for in- 
 stance. It was purely spiritual, her love for Minister." 
 
 "And the two are separable?" 
 
 " Sometimes. They were in Jean's case. With her it 
 was real heroism. No, it wasn't a sacrifice; she was per- 
 fectly happy over it, she felt it was God's will. It was 
 almost a purer thing than love such as we generally know 
 of. Jean wanted to be a Christian." 
 
 " She is," I interposed. 
 
 "Yes, she is. She determined to be; she thought that 
 a greater thing than being just the recipient of a man's 
 love." 
 
 37
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 The Memsahib was discovering to me what I had been 
 searching for that lay so deep in Jean's wondrous eyes. 
 
 " Jean suffered agony over her rebellious thoughts about 
 the inefficacy of God's power. I've always been an elder 
 sister to her, and she has cried to me in bitterness over the 
 unanswering of her prayers for her father and her brother. 
 Simon Craig was a good man, noble in thought and deed, 
 and yet Jean saw him drifting, drifting to destruction, saw 
 the inevitable doom of the drunkard throwing its black 
 shadow over his life. She saw her brother, a boy with the 
 face of a god and the voice of an angel, developing into a 
 dissolute dipsomaniac. Once she lay in my arms all night 
 pleading with God, asking Him to take her young life, be- 
 seeching the father and the son's Maker to give them 
 strength, to save them from worse than death. She cried 
 to me, and her despair was dreadful : ' Paul said that he died 
 daily, but I die hourly I die every minute of my life.' 
 When there was seemingly no answer to her prayers she 
 thought it was because of the very rebellion that was in her 
 heart over the futility of God's power against the devil of 
 destruction. Then, as you know, Neil Munro came from 
 the mission field in India, and his magnetic earnestness, the 
 soulful Christianity that burned in his impassioned eyes, in- 
 spired Jean with a love that was wholly spiritual. She 
 thought she saw a way to throw herself into God's work, to 
 become absolutely a servant of the Lord. It must have been 
 God's will, His mysterious way of working, for Neil from 
 the very first was in love with Jean. They were married 
 Minister was here but six months when they were married." 
 
 " Well, it looks to me that if this is God's plan it has 
 gone very much awry. Anyway the sacrifice did no good." 
 
 38
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " It wasn't a sacrifice, it was ordained." 
 
 " All sacrifices are spoken of in just that way. And 
 that face is capable of such intense suffering, such despair. 
 Why, anything might happen if Jean lost hope, if she once 
 became convinced there was nothing to live for." 
 
 " She won't come to think that Jean will have her 
 baby to look forward to." 
 
 "Baby what baby?" 
 
 But before the Memsahib could answer I understood. 
 What I had looked upon at first as an irritating happening 
 was broadening out into the whole scheme of the universe, 
 the repeating circuit of eternity, God and goodness, sin and 
 weakness, and constancy, and recreating. 
 
 I remained in subdued silence, and the Memsahib re- 
 sumed : " I wanted to talk about this to you, husband. Our 
 duty is plain, don't you think? We must carry Jean until 
 either Neil comes back or the baby is born. She can live on 
 hope till her child comes, and after that she must live for the 
 little one. You won't mind, will you, husband Jean's 
 being here, I mean ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " It will interfere with the writing it will trouble you 
 a little." 
 
 " No, it will help it; I'll think deeper. Humanity looms 
 larger now than it did an hour ago. Even you " 
 
 The Memsahib tiptoed up and kissed me on the cheek. 
 " You make me happy, husband. Come, quick, there's Mal- 
 colm coming down the walk. It's just as well it's better 
 for him to always talk with you. It is too bad that the vil- 
 lage is so uncharitable, but we've got to think of every- 
 thing." 
 
 39
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 Clutching my hat I hurried to the gate. 
 
 " I'll not come in," Malcolm said, in answer to my invi- 
 tation; " I'm in a hurry. I've a power of work these days, 
 I've taken on the report for the Meteorological Department 
 in York. This weather isn't going to last," he added, break- 
 ing off; " if the wind shifts to the southwest we'll have rain 
 to-morrow." 
 
 But he tarried a long time talking to me till I suspected 
 that his hurry was a pure fabrication. For some reason he 
 did not wish to come in. 
 
 " I just called to tell Mrs. Cameron," he said, " that 
 we've got a supply for the pulpit Sunday. It's only a stu- 
 dent from Knox College, but it'll keep them quiet. There 
 are some that would be willing to go without a sermon just 
 to strengthen the feeling against Minister. But I wrote 
 down to Dr. Monteith, and it's all arranged unless we 
 muddle it up like the men of Kintyre did." 
 
 " I didn't hear of that, Malcolm," I said, as an invita- 
 tion for the story, knowing it was apt to be droll. There 
 was a subtle undercurrent of humor tickling the pebbles at 
 the bottom of Bain's deep-water solemnity. 
 
 " No, they're not talking much about it Kintyre way," 
 Malcolm commenced. "It seems last summer Deacon Mac- 
 Phail wrote to the Secretary of Knox college for a sup- 
 ply. At the last minute, ministers being scarce, old Dr. 
 Monteith went to fill the pulpit himself. He's a very 
 learned man, but his personal appearance suggests decay; 
 mind you it's all a false alarm, for he's clear-headed enough, 
 especially on theology. Well, when the Doctor went to 
 Kintyre they didn't know him for the President of the col- 
 lege, and he's a silent man, publishing more about God than 
 
 40
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 about himself, so they thought the Secretary had sent a 
 superannuated minister just as a makeshift. When the good 
 Doctor went away they voted his sermon very dull; they 
 simply didn't understand it, man, that was the truth of it 
 it was too learned for them. But in a month Deacon Mac- 
 Phail was writing again for a supply, and he added a 
 postscript : " Please don't send the old duffer we had last 
 time." MacPhail knew the Secretary personally, but he was 
 away, and the letter came straight into the hands of Dr. 
 Monteith himself." 
 
 " Was he angry, Bain ? " I asked. 
 
 " Not a bit of it, he's too big a man for that. He wrote, 
 saying he'd send his grandson, and he did a student at 
 Knox." 
 
 Bain chuckled; so did I for that matter, picturing the 
 long face of MacPhail. 
 
 " There'll some of them be getting a surprise here, 
 I'm thinking," Malcolm added; "for there'll not be 
 time to send word to everyone. They'll stay at home on 
 their farms Sabbath, complaining about the drought in 
 religion." 
 
 " Any word of the lost man ? " I asked. 
 
 " Not a word. I've sent a detective from York to Dun- 
 dee to follow up any clews, and I've got a man at Niagara 
 looking about. And, Cameron, would you mind taking a good 
 look through the newspapers when they come to the house, 
 and if there's anything well, Mrs. Cameron would know 
 how to break it? I've told them at the office to send tele- 
 grams to you direct." 
 
 "You're very thoughtful, Bain." 
 
 " I believe the wind is shifting," he said, holding up his 
 4 4 I
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 hand critically; "it's working around to the southward. 
 There's a lot of wheat nearly ready to cut, and hot sunshine 
 is what's wanted. Well, I'll be going home." 
 
 My eye followed Bain's massive figure with curious in- 
 quiry. Perhaps it was his powerful physique that made his 
 delicacy of thought appear the more beautiful. 
 
 In the evening the Memsahib came into my study say- 
 ing: " Have you got the papers yet? Hadn't you better get 
 them and look through them before ?" 
 
 I clutched my hat and hurried to the village store and 
 astonished the dealer by my indiscriminate taste for litera- 
 ture this evening; I wanted all the papers. 
 
 " You're just like the others, man," he said. 
 
 "How is that?" I asked. 
 
 " Well, you're a Tory, and you're takin' home the Liberal 
 organ, the Globe, to read. Are you gettin' on the fence 
 is there any word of a turnover in the Government? I never 
 saw the like. Here's Postmaster MacKay buying a Liberal 
 organ, a man that for thirty years has sworn by the Con- 
 servative's Bible the Mail. I never knew him to do such 
 a thing before, never. I'll just have to rearrange all my 
 customers I'll be getting my supplies mixed. Up to now I 
 could just take the voters' list and tick them off, Liberals and 
 Conservatives, and order their party organs without askin" 
 what they'd have. It's fair confusing. Anyway I'm sold 
 out you've got the last paper. And I never saw such dili- 
 gent desire for readin' in lona before. There must be some 
 hint of Government change with a possibility of office for the 
 hungry ones." 
 
 I left the dealer in his mystification, but I knew quite 
 well why this demand. Like myself, the good people would 
 
 42
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 search diligently all the papers looking for news of the lost 
 minister. 
 
 Indeed, opening the Globe as I hurried back, a headline 
 startled me. " A man found dead," it read ; and then, 
 " Looks like suicide ! Body cast up by the waters of Lake 
 Ontario." 
 
 I read with feverish interest. I stood outside the gate 
 to cull the dread secret all by myself. But the description 
 relieved my fears, it was not Neil. " Five feet three," while 
 Minister was tall slender and tall, nearly six feet. That 
 was all the paper held, just that shadow of a fear, but I 
 realized now how deeply we sat in the gloom of Jean's 
 trouble. I had promised the Memsahib something, bravely 
 enough, but what a task what a vista of restraint over 
 thought and deed was opening up. 
 
 The children saved the evening from being absolute 
 gloom. I had got into a pessimistic, morbid mood, and the 
 Memsahib was tired. 
 
 We were somewhat of opportunists at the Hedge, irra- 
 tional as to rules, allowing hunger to dictate the meal hour. 
 Chiefly my doing, this, causing the Memsahib distraction and 
 the villagers play for ridicule. I was the one man in lona 
 who had dinner at night, a grotesque unconventionality that 
 appealed to them as something akin to the wearing of a silk 
 hat. 
 
 There was always an hour of unbridled license in my 
 study after the evening meal; from seven to eight a group 
 of Bedouins carried on a jirhad against decorum and order. 
 
 The Memsahib tickled the keys of the piano with rag- 
 time touch, or droned it till it wailed like a bagpipe, and the 
 children, led by Doo-doo, indulged in what they were pleased 
 
 43
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 to call dancing. This was the very mildest manifestation of 
 youthful exuberance ; there were other less decorous perform- 
 ances. But it kept us all just children, and we had in my 
 study the Pool of Water of Life that Ponce de Leon had 
 explored Florida for. 
 
 But this night the children knew, and the piano knew, 
 and the little ones sat like mice on the big sofa, their eyes 
 wide and round in solemn half-comprehension, and I read to 
 them " The Knight's Tale of Palamon and Arcita." 
 
 At eight o'clock Jean came by the longest kisses, and 
 the double allotment of kisses; in fact I was almost forgot- 
 ten hardly included. That was the way we were taking 
 up our load, even to the smallest ; and yet, strangely enough, 
 it was not a burden at all, we were eager for it. 
 
 44
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 I HEN I awoke in the morning I tasted the 
 bitter ash of regret in my soul. In active 
 combat against sorrow there was a stimulus 
 born of action; but this Sabbath morning 
 found me in the depression of exhausted effort. 
 Had I really been in deep sympathy? 
 
 " I shall not go to church to-day," I said to the Memsahib. 
 " Listening to a student would make an infidel of any man." 
 Blitz, hearing my voice, had come smiling into the room. 
 I am sure he winked at me when I said this, for he knew 
 the fields with all the joy they held would be our portion. 
 He rolled at my feet in delight as I laced the heavy walking 
 boots that carried the history of tramps through beech woods 
 and prowls by the banks of running brooks written in the 
 delicate language which his fine nose alone might read. 
 Those boots held not the decorous association of pews, and 
 now he would not have the patient, sad wait, in a window, 
 watching for my return from service. 
 
 As I loitered lazily after breakfast, the Memsahib turned 
 me out of doors, saying: " Please get clear of the village be- 
 fore the people go to church. It doesn't look quite right to 
 be meeting them." 
 
 45
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 Also Blitz was beckoning me forth, making great busi- 
 ness of opening the gate with his paw. 
 
 Quite solemn and circumspect, as befitted the Sabbath 
 hush that was over everything, I went the length of the 
 village street. But my companion, not holding to the moral 
 responsibilities of the day, shikarried cats. There are cats 
 in the village at all times, but Sunday morning there is a 
 double allotment. Perhaps this is because the boys are at 
 Sunday school, or are restricted on the Sabbath. Blitz 
 chases them, that is all ; he has not caught one in the five 
 years of his life here yes, once; but that time it was two 
 cats, and they caught him. 
 
 As I reach a bridge spanning the railway track, 
 I congratulate myself that I have been too early for 
 the church people, and have avoided all offense. Alas! 
 I am premature in my satisfaction. Mrs. MacRae, 
 worthy body, and earliest attendant, half checks as 
 we meet, and says, " Good morning, Dr. Cameron ; are 
 ye lost?" 
 
 I've no doubt whatever but that she firmly believes this 
 is the condition of my future. Then she adds with a Scotch 
 delight of torture, " I was no' knowin' there was ony preach- 
 ing out in the country." 
 
 " Oh, yes there is," I answered. 
 
 " An' who's the meenister? " 
 
 " Pan." 
 
 Mrs. MacRae pinched her chin, and her brow wrinkled 
 over this that was evidently aberration. 
 
 "Aye, aye! Good morning, Dr. Cameron," and she was 
 gone. 
 
 Blitz winked at me in commendation, and I am sure he 
 46
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 had my repartee quite as well as the good lady who had im- 
 paled me. 
 
 But she had an afterthought, stopping me just as I turned 
 away. 
 
 "Who's takin' the service have ye heard?" implying 
 that if I had the information it would be casual. " Is there 
 ony word o' Meenister yet? " she continued. 
 
 " None." 
 
 "Aye, aye! It's a dreadful affair altogether." 
 
 Then it occurred to me, too late, that I should have 
 taken the road sooner, allowing for the Scotch curiosity that 
 would draw the church members earlier this day for a bit 
 of gossip before service. 
 
 But presently we had come into the sweet outer 
 world, clear of the prison walls that held humans, with 
 their insecure hold upon gentleness, the rich fruitage of 
 existence. 
 
 I floated along (in reality I walked) between the fields 
 of burnt gold, wherein rustling wheat whispered to the 
 wind secrets of the ground dwellers the moles and the 
 beetles and the slugs that had their holdings down in the 
 depths of the gold-tasseled forest. Then the bronze turbans 
 of the grain gods faded into the gray-green of hay meadows 
 where the slender-penciled timothy, patrician and of high 
 caste, topped its brother, the full-bodied clover, a commoner 
 of good living, sensuous, sweet of breath, wine-colored and 
 cream-tinted of blossom. Star-eyed daisies, holding their 
 pale cheeks all day to the kiss of the sun and turning their 
 curved throats from east to west lest they lose one glance 
 from the god of warmth, flooded the meadow like a milky 
 way. 
 
 47
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 Not desolate in stillness the field, but a city of joyous 
 folk. Boisterous crickets sang Bacchanalian songs; and 
 artisan bees, turned pillagers, hummed lazy slumber songs 
 as they looted wax from the defenseless flowers, till their 
 thighs bulged like saddlebags, and pumped from the hearts 
 of the clover nectar for a long winter's carouse. Grasshop- 
 pers, lean as greyhounds, poised in the air like kingfishers, 
 sending the music of their shrill little pfiffaries far over the 
 heads of the dwellers. 
 
 Far up the strip of bare earth the road, that was like a 
 ribbon slit from tassa silk, a cloud of dust spiraled upward, 
 and in the center of its ghostlike holding I could see the 
 heavy heads of toil horses. 
 
 " People of order are coming, behave ! " I said to Blitz ; 
 for on the first limb of a thorn tree, laden with green haws, 
 sat a red squirrel, scolding back saucily at the frantic little 
 white animal that jumped and yelped beneath. 
 
 "Is there any service, Dr. Cameron?" the driver of 
 the wagon said, pulling up beside me. " I heard there was, 
 but you're no headin' for the kirk." 
 
 " There is service," I answered. 
 
 " Ony word o' Minister yet is he back? Is there any 
 truth in what they're saying up the line? " 
 
 " He's not back. I don't know what they're saying up 
 the line, but I'm sure it's not true if it reflects on Minister 
 Munro." 
 
 " Just that aye, aye ! that's what Maggie was saying." 
 
 And Maggie, looking very happy that we were on the 
 same side, beamed upon me and chimed: "No one'll make 
 me believe that Minister wasn't a good man. He trod a bit 
 hard on their corns that's what's troubling them." 
 
 48
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 But the husband, Angus MacLean, had gathered up his 
 reins, and, as they sped away, I slipped through a portal of 
 the meadow city wall. Huge and gnarled, like stranded 
 devilfish, were the giant pine stumps that, shoulder to shoul- 
 der, fenced the meadow from the roadway; the storm- 
 bleached roots, evil-twisting, outlined against the blue sky 
 like a cartoon of Dore's. 
 
 As my rude feet thrust ruthlessly at the heart-shaped 
 leaves of the clover, diminutive grasshoppers, lemon-green, 
 possessed of Gulliver's many-leagued boots, shot like tiny 
 rockets across my path that led toward a pine wood, which 
 the Memsahib, who was fond of christening everything, had 
 named " Toilers' Paradise." 
 
 Behind me on the roadway another cloud of dust was 
 idly moving villageward; but I had escaped its raisers. No 
 more questions to conjure up the treacherous spirit of doubt 
 that the sunshine and the fields were laying low. 
 
 Beneath the pines are couches for a regiment, a thousand 
 men, soft-trussed by the dead needles. I threw myself down 
 in luxuriant abandon; I lighted my pipe defiantly; while 
 Blitz ransacked the undergrowth for prey. His energy is 
 wasted, for in the forest live none so foolish as to yield 
 themselves to his clamorous, scurrying onslaught. 
 
 Presently the Gentleman of the Black Stock, with meas- 
 ured swoop of wing, sidles in from the open, and perches 
 above me. I am something for his morbid curiosity. The 
 crow preens his blue-black head, and shafts of sunlight are 
 alchemized into a filagree of copper and gold, and jewels of 
 turquoise and sapphire and ruby in his mirroring coat. He 
 is a comely villain, complacently self-satisfied. Of me he is 
 suspicious. 
 
 49
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " Avv-w-w-w there!" he exclaims, and waits for me to 
 explain my presence. 
 
 I answer nothing, but in fancy interpret his harangue 
 as, " Rooked you, did they ? " 
 
 Does he think I am come here in despair to hide from my 
 unfellow-men ? Perhaps he knows of this sort of thing. A 
 sudden chilling thought strikes at my heart. Shall I never 
 more get away from the questions? Have I escaped from 
 the churchgoers to come by the gruesome suggestions of this 
 prowler? Has he seen some one stricken to madness lay 
 himself down to the rest of Nirvana? 
 
 In a rage I hurl a stick at the prating fool, and he weaves 
 away through the heavy pattern of somber green, sending 
 back a harsh laugh of derision. I spring to my feet possessed 
 of this gloomy fancy which the crow's carrion laugh has 
 bred, and search the pine wood for something I do not want 
 to find. 
 
 It is but a mild frenzy. Was not the missing man seen 
 at Dundee? Doubt answers, "That was just a rumor." 
 
 Then my memory reads on its hidden page two records, 
 black-bordered, that are akin to this gruesome thought. A 
 year ago one wearied to insanity had been found in the little 
 river where it brawls down from the mountain ; and Trout 
 Lake, just a pond, had held the solution to the other mystery, 
 yielding its answer to the grapple hooks. 
 
 I find nothing but a big patch of sunlight; the rotunda 
 of the pine wood, breast high with raspberry bushes, ruby- 
 studded with fruit. And here are the guests gossiping, and 
 no doubt criticising one another's manner of dress; robins 
 that have taken voice culture, and a bluejay that needs it, 
 with his harsh repellant rasp. A songsparrow hails my ap- 
 
 50
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 pearance with a trill of merriment; and Blitz, bounding into 
 the brambles, raises a cloud of pudgy little birds. 
 
 The sunlight is good, it warms my marrow, it peoples 
 my mind with thoughts of things living. 
 
 I look at my watch; one o'clock! and the roast is timed 
 for half past one; I can just make it. 
 
 Spurred by thought of the Memsahib's reproach, I stretch 
 my legs, shortcutting it through a pasture field, the pile of 
 its velvet carpet close-shorn by the firm lips of cows till it 
 is like an antique Persian rug. 
 
 As I clamber over the high rail fence that is weathered 
 to purple, I miss Blitz, and, sitting atop the upper rail, I 
 whistle. A ki-yi of eager delight answers me from back in 
 the field. 
 
 I call and whistle unavailingly ; then, full of anger, and 
 also fearing that perhaps he is caught in something, I hasten 
 back over my trail. Behind a little grassless mound of earth 
 Blitz's stubby white tail is showing clear of a ground hog's 
 doorway. A cloud of sand thrown by the delver's paws 
 issues from between his hind legs. When I speak he un- 
 earths long enough to look up in approval of my return, 
 and then worms his body into the burrow like a cork in a 
 bottle. But it is no time for shikarri, so I hook the crook of 
 my walking stick in his collar, and away we go. 
 
 I am scarce under way on the road again before I hear the 
 rattle of wheels behind. The wheels are very rattley, for it 
 is old Mrs. Paisley 's antique buggy, and also ancient horse; 
 I really believe that part of the creaking comes from his 
 knees. 
 
 Now she has checked her wingless Pegasus as I step to 
 one side, and asks, " Will you have a lift, Doctor? " 
 
 51
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 After all I shall surely be in time now, I think, as I 
 clamber to a seat at her side. 
 
 " You've been up to Stonehill for church, I suppose. It's 
 a long drive, four miles, just for service," I say. 
 
 " I dinna mind it; if it was fifty I'd rather make it than 
 sit by yon screeching whustles in our own kirk." 
 
 " You're still unreconciled to the organ then, Mrs. 
 Paisley." 
 
 " Aye, just that, un-ree-conciled. That's well put, Doc- 
 tor. And I'm thinking the Kirk itself is un-ree-conciled 
 judging o' the peck o' trouble has come tae it." 
 
 " What has the organ got to do with that, Mrs. Pais- 
 ley?" I asked, thinking what a tenacious, bitter thing the 
 Scotch antipathy was. For ten years the old body had trav- 
 eled every Sabbath to Stonehill rather than enter her own 
 church that had so far lapsed from grace as to echo to the 
 sounds of an organ. 
 
 " Weel, it has to do wi' it in this way," she said as the 
 old horse seemed inclined to stop to listen I surreptitiously 
 prodded his thigh with my walking stick, for I was in a fair 
 way of being too late for dinner after all " it's just a visita- 
 tion, or proof of Biblical truth," Mrs. Paisley continued; 
 " it's the sins o' the faethers visited on the children. It was 
 Jean Craig's faether and a stiff-neck he was, too, when he 
 tuk a notion that was the insteegator o' puttin' yon Devil's 
 bagpipe in the kirk. It was Satan drivin' a wedge o' sin intil 
 the kirk through drink, d'ye ken; fiddling and singing and 
 dancing go together, and there was all o' that doon tae the 
 tavern at the corner, and naething but dry releegion at the 
 kirk, so it had to be changed. Craig gave fifty dollars toward 
 the organ himsel'. And d'ye ken this, Doctor, I've heerd it for 
 
 52
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 the truth, yon same man, old Craig, refused tae contreebute 
 tae the mission funds " the old lady lowered her voice, and 
 added, almost in a whisper " old man Craig said, when 
 they gang tae him for a subscreeption, that the Pagans in 
 India who worship graven images were better Christians nor 
 the members of our ain congregation. Wasn't that enough 
 tae rile the Lord, Doctor? It would rile onybody it did 
 me when I heard it. He was a' for new-fangled notions, 
 putting yon gaudy window in the kirk too. I dinna ken 
 what that cost him, something awfu' the price, I believe it 
 would ha'e bought hundreds o' Bibles for the benighted 
 Pagans. When I used tae attend, afore the organ came, 
 just the smattering o' the sun through a' them gaudy lights 
 glowered me eyes so I couldna discern a body in kirk; I 
 couldna' make out a MacPhail frae a Graham their faces 
 just blotches of blue and yellow like pictures o' gorillas 
 more than Christians." 
 
 Steeped in her favorite narcotic, the theme of the organ, 
 Mrs. Paisley, to my pleasure, had forgotten the newer trou- 
 ble. I was congratulating myself, for she had a prying 
 tongue, when she broke vigorously through my complacency, 
 exclaiming: 
 
 " Man alive ! I was near forgetting to ask if ye had any 
 word o' the Meenister. Mrs. Lancey, at Stonehill, was 
 telling me there was a body found in the Welland Canal, 
 and the descreeption o' it was vera like Meenister." 
 
 " Why should he be in the canal ? " I asked petulantly. 
 
 "Aye, just that! A strange place for Meenister sure 
 enough. I told her I didna believe it. But then, again, 
 Doctor, the man must be somewhere, and if he's no in the 
 canal, where is he, say I? There's just been naething but 
 
 53
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 trouble for the Craigs ever since that organ was insteetuted. 
 The old man Craig died in drink, and the son, Robert, will 
 die the same way God forbid ! but he will. And Jean, she 
 was the best o' the lot, she has her ain trouble noo. I was 
 often wondering, Doctor " she turned and searched my 
 face with her small, gray eyes " whether it was objecting 
 tae the organ kept you from attending kirk you dinna go 
 often. Ha'e ye ony scruples that way yersel'? Because if 
 you ha'e ony I could gi'e ye a lift tae service at Stonehill 
 every Sabbath there and back." 
 
 While I decline this kind offer we turn a corner and are 
 jogging down the village street. It is deserted. From 
 each dwelling issues a tell-tale odor of the day's fare. Blitz's 
 nose is in the air ; so is mine. At the little brick cottage it is 
 roast pork, I will swear; from the large graystone where 
 dwells the keeper of our general store, comes the respectable 
 announcement of roast beef. 
 
 Something of village smartness creeps into the old horse's 
 mind; he pricks up his ears, and we rattle down the main 
 street it is really downhill at almost an unseemly gait on 
 the Sabbath for people who frown upon the organ. 
 
 After all I am a little late. I plead the episode of the 
 ground hog, but the Memsahib says dryly, " Oh, yes; blame 
 it on Blitz." 
 
 She has met me at the door and adds, " I have brought 
 Malcolm Bain home for dinner." 
 
 The dining table, fitted to seven, is lengthened by an 
 extra leaf, which gives an air of unusual formality. 
 
 For the first time since I have known Malcolm Bain I 
 notice a change in him. He is a big man physically, even 
 mentally, and now his hands appear to trouble him they are 
 
 54
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 in the way they are too large even for his width of shoul- 
 der; he is embarrassed, awkward. Perhaps my perspective 
 has been deranged by the elegant small-fry of the fields. 
 
 " I was glad you were not at church this morning," the 
 Memsahib said. 
 
 " So was I," I answered, " for it is glorious out in the 
 fields to-day." 
 
 " We had such a trying sermon," she continued. " The 
 Supply was just a boy; he read his sermon, and was so nerv- 
 ous that we could hardly hear a word. Poor Teacher 
 Harkett nearly fainted when he rose and in a small, squeaky 
 voice gave out the wrong hymn." 
 
 " That was what made the commotion in the choir, was 
 it? " Bain asked. " I thought the organ had broken down." 
 
 " We got through it some way or other, but it was dread- 
 ful. In her nervous excitement Miss Harkett plunged into 
 the tune of ' Art Thou Weary,' while the congregation cheer- 
 fully sang to it from the number the minister had announced, 
 1 Onward Christian Soldiers.' " 
 
 " It must have been a rare entanglement, a little worse 
 than usual," I suggested. " What did the choir do? " 
 
 " I think some of us took part with the congregation 
 while some followed the organist. It sounded like that. 
 Teacher was ready to cry from sheer nervousness. You 
 know she lays out the choir chairs according to the pattern 
 of the carpet don't laugh, it's quite true she's awfully 
 fussy, and this morning they were all wrong; it was just 
 trying to one's own nerves to watch Teacher's misery." 
 
 "I'm afraid I came by little good myself," Bain declared. 
 " Amateur theology is like unripe fruit children may take 
 it without harm, but it doesn't agree with older folk. Dis- 
 
 55
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 crimination is a sad handicap, it limits one's enjoyment; 
 nothing but the best we're wanting, and that's not always to 
 be come by." 
 
 " Student preachers are a great lottery," I suggested, just 
 to fill a void left by Bain's suddenly stopping in embarrass- 
 ment as though he felt he had said too much. 
 
 " There was little time to arrange for a supply. Next 
 Sabbath " again Malcolm hesitated in affright; he had 
 blundered. But he struck out bravely, adding, " Next Sab- 
 bath we'll have our own minister back." 
 
 I looked at Jean. Her face was quite white, but I be- 
 lieve there was a look of gratitude in her eyes. 
 
 Kippie broke the awful silence that had come upon us, 
 taking advantage of it to say, " I 'member the text, Mudder." 
 
 Mentally I promised Kippie five cents over this relief, and 
 the Memsahib seized upon the opportunity with avidity, say- 
 ing, coaxingly, " That's a good girl; can you repeat it? " 
 
 The little one smiled bashfully. 
 
 " You've forgotten it, Kippie," I taunted, making the 
 most of the situation. 
 
 " Show Father that you haven't quick, before the pud- 
 ding is brought in ! " Memsahib encouraged. " What was 
 it now?" 
 
 1 ' Divide with us, for the day is far spent.' " 
 
 It was indeed cruel to laugh at a little child's mistake, 
 and sinful because of the subject, but I declare that a smile 
 hovered for a second about even Jean Munro's lips. 
 
 In my mind I doubled Kippie's reward ; and her mother 
 said gently, " It's a-bide with us, darling." 
 
 Jean put her head down and kissed Kippie, saying, " You 
 sweet angel ! " 
 
 56
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 I felt that Bain was eager to beat a retreat, so when we 
 rose I carried him off to the lawn for a smoke. 
 
 " I made a fine mess of it," he lamented when we were 
 alone. 
 
 " It was a dangerous subject," I answered. " We should 
 have talked about the weather." 
 
 " The weather is an interesting study," Malcolm added 
 solemnly. " This church trouble is taking up so much of 
 my time just now that I've lost all track of a storm I was 
 following from Dakota. It was due here to-day, but it may 
 have gone south of the lakes." 
 
 " There is no trace at all of Minister? " I asked. 
 
 " None." 
 
 " It's strange." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 I told Bain what I had heard from Angus MacLcan 
 about the gossip up the line. 
 
 "Yes, I've heard it the hounds!" he answered bit- 
 terly. 
 
 " What is it, it can't be money? " 
 
 " What they're always ready to accuse a good-living 
 man of." 
 
 " 111 living," I suggested. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " But it's a black lie," I declared. " He worshiped his 
 wife and well he might, one of the sweetest women that 
 ever lived." 
 
 " She is that. And Munro was as good ; but he was not 
 as strong as might be I don't mean morally he was a wee 
 bit weak in the fiber, he couldn't last out against the Phil- 
 istines ; he was brave enough in the attack, but they just wore 
 5 57
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 him out by taking no heed turning the other tough cheek 
 of indifference for him to smite at." 
 
 " Still if he was brave and he was he wouldn't go 
 away and leave " 
 
 " No, that's the mystery of it. There's only one expla- 
 nation he was deranged. And if he was that, God knows 
 what he mightn't do with himself." 
 
 " But if he had made away with himself, it would be 
 known he'd have been found." 
 
 " And if he were alive there'd be some trace of him, I'm 
 thinking. We're searching everywhere. He didn't cross 
 Niagara, I know." 
 
 " Well, it can't be for long, this terrible suspense ; it will 
 be settled one way or the other soon." 
 
 " I hope so. I'll fight to keep the pulpit vacant for him, 
 but there're some that'll fight hard the other way; they were 
 against him." 
 
 " Yes, you must do that, Bain. While the Church waits 
 for his return, as it were, it'll keep alive hope in the wife's 
 heart. I'm sure that if they extend a call to another min- 
 ister, she'll think they consider him dead." 
 
 " I'll keep it open," Bain answered, and his head sat on 
 his strong neck like a picture of a grim Covenanter. 
 
 " Are you going? " I asked as he rose. 
 
 " Yes, if you say good-by to Mrs. Cameron and Mrs. 
 Munro for me. I want to have a bit walk, and I think 
 there'll be rain before night. Yon mackerel sky presages a 
 change."
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 |OMEHOW I was dreading the evening. 
 
 The July night glided in with a silencing 
 depression. The trident leaves of the maple 
 rustled in a faint listlessness above the sleeping 
 lilac hedge. The sky that had glowered red 
 in the wake of the setting sun was now blurred by a vast 
 cloud that menaced a storm. 
 
 Across the roadway worshipers passed up the church 
 steps and through its Gothic doorway in a continuous file; 
 they were like a flock of sheep seeking the evening fold. 
 Many of them turned their eyes curiously the way of Lilac 
 Hedge. 
 
 I was glad the Memsahib had elected to stay at home, 
 for I felt incapable of consolation. 
 
 In the hammock, shielded by the hedge from the eyes of 
 the churchgoers, Jean Munro had about her a little court 
 of sympathy the children. 
 
 Presently the Memsahib came to the door and called 
 eagerly: "Come here, John, quick; Cricket is back. He's 
 chirping on the hearth in your study." 
 
 The children jumped up with joyous cries: "Oh, the 
 cricket! goody, goody! Come, Aunt Jean, and hear Cricket." 
 
 59
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 Very quietly we stood in the hallway and listened. There 
 he was, as joyful as a sandboy, " Creak, creak, creak! " 
 
 Then we went back to the lawn, and Memsahib told 
 Jean at great length all about Cricket. Of course it was to 
 draw her mind from the dread and misery. 
 
 " That means good luck," Memsahib explained. " We 
 haven't heard him for a long time now. We were afraid 
 he had got killed or frozen up, or something, last winter. 
 He's been with us for three or four years we're sure it's the 
 same one." 
 
 " Of course it is," I interposed. 
 
 " Oh, yes," Doo-doo affirmed ; " no strange cricket would 
 be so wise; he wouldn't know us as old Creaker does." 
 
 " He came to us in the oddest way," Memsahib con- 
 tinued. " A load of hay w r as going down the lane to the 
 stable, and he got brushed off against the kitchen shutters. 
 He lives most of the time in the old fireplace in the kitchen 
 it never has a fire, you know." 
 
 " But he wanders all over the house," I added. ' Tell 
 Jean about Sarah saving him when he was shipwrecked." 
 
 The children laugh at this weak attempt at facetiousness, 
 and Memsahib tells the simple story. " Sarah found him in 
 the bath floating about on the water. He must have been 
 after a drink ; he was nearly drowned, poor little chap ! She 
 took him to bed with her, and in the morning he was perched 
 on her pillow, quite chippy." 
 
 " And Blitz won't touch him," Doo-doo added ; " Blitz 
 knows he belongs to the house. He'll just go up and sniff 
 at Creaker when he sees him on the floor." 
 
 " He's our mascot, our four-leafed clover, our found 
 horseshoe " I was preparing the way for a clever little plot 
 
 60
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 of distraction I suddenly caught a glimpse of, for Cricket 
 should be dragged into the general crusade against morbid 
 depression. I cast about in my mind for enlarging correla- 
 tives. A cricket was such a tiny offset to huge Black 
 Care that I must use the story-building faculty. I even 
 traveled across seas to Burma for an apposite, substantiat- 
 ing touch. 
 
 " At the Hedge here," I said, " we're as much people of 
 lucky omens as the nature worshipers in Burma. There they 
 have the ' tucktaw,' a most repulsive-looking lizard, as rep- 
 resenting the god of good luck in a household. If this lizard 
 crawls about the walls though he is generally in the leaf 
 roof catching flies, and occasionally uttering his dismal 
 ' Tucktaw-w, tucktaw-w-w ! ' nine times, the dwellers will 
 remain happy, feeling that their household gods will come 
 to no evil." 
 
 " Faith is a great thing " Jean surprised me with this 
 sudden expression. " And you have Cricket as a tucktaw, 
 Doctor?" 
 
 " Yes ; and we are in for a run of luck now that he has 
 come back. Last year he helped me wonderfully to write a 
 book." 
 
 Doo-doo laughed outright. I was sure that Jean was 
 smiling at this oddity. 
 
 " Indeed he did. He was all over my study, singing like 
 a sandpiper." 
 
 " Do sandpipers sing, Father? " Doo-doo, who takes na- 
 ture study at school, asked. 
 
 " I don't know," I answered, " but Cricket did." 
 
 " And your book was successful I heard a great deal 
 about it," Jean commented. 
 
 61
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " It really wasn't " I forgot the real trend of the good- 
 luck argument enough to say " it fell very flat." 
 
 The Memsahib interposed with an explanation she al- 
 ways had one when my work failed. " Last year was the 
 tail end of the historical novel tied to the nose of the industry 
 narrative, and John's story was about Indians. It was too 
 original." 
 
 ' Primitive ' was the word used by the critics. The 
 editor I submitted it to gave as reason for declining it that 
 he wanted stories of people with clothes on." 
 
 " I love animal stories best of all," Doo-doo cried en- 
 thusiastically ; " animals are lovely. Father won't let us kill 
 even a spider at the Hedge; and now I'm not a bit afraid 
 of them. If it weren't for Mother, Father and I would 
 have all the strange cats in the village. Even Blitz won't 
 touch my kitten now. He killed the first one I brought 
 home, naughty dog! I cried. Do you like hens, Aunt 
 Jean?" 
 
 " Roasted, Doo-doo." 
 
 If somebody had suddenly blazed away at me with a shot- 
 gun from over the hedge I should have been less astonished, 
 though far less pleased. I had barely thought enough left to 
 laugh. The hens were an inspiration. 
 
 " I mean hens going to bed," Doo-doo explained. 
 " Father and I often watch them at roosting time. They're 
 the silliest creatures in the world. There's one old mother 
 hen, a Plymouth Rock, she bullies the others something 
 dreadful. She's fat and lazy that's why Father named her 
 the Dowager; she walks around scolding and complaining 
 about having to get up on a roost, and waits till it's all full, 
 then Dowager goes to one end, and makes a lot of motions 
 
 62
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 that she's going to fly up. Father says that Dowager says, 
 ' Watch me now, I'm going to fly! ' Then she makes such 
 a row with her wings ; and when she's up she starts crowding 
 and pecking and scolding I suppose Dowager thinks the 
 others have the best places until she clears the whole long 
 roost of every chicken. Then they fly up on the others; I 
 don't think they see very well in the dark. And such a 
 row!" 
 
 How happily we were getting on. I was just making a 
 mental note about a string of agate beads Doo-doo had her 
 eye on at the jeweler's, when, across the way, the organ 
 pealed forth in the sonorous notes of the opening hymn. It 
 hushed our chatter; it drove the brightness from Jean's 
 eyes; it brought us from the pleasant gone days to the bitter 
 present. 
 
 Apprehensively I watched Jean. Perhaps of all the 
 hours that had gone or were to come this, in the gloaming, 
 with all that the church service suggested, would be the most 
 bitter trial. 
 
 After a time the student-minister's voice came fitfully to 
 our ears. Carrying no words, it sounded petulant, like the 
 strange articulations of a mute. 
 
 " Odd, isn't it," Memsahib said, " that we can hear his 
 voice from across the street, when inside the church I was 
 sure it didn't reach to the back pews." 
 
 I was thinking how unlike it was to the full, rich voice I 
 had listened to many Sabbath evenings from the law r n when 
 Neil Munro thundered at the stiff-necked Scots. 
 
 The quiet suggested sleep to the children, and when they 
 had gone to bed our heavy silence seemed almost unbreak- 
 able. I think we three sat with the one thought tenant in 
 
 63
 
 our minds, the unwelcome intrusive guest of Neil's mysteri- 
 ous fate, our eyes fixed idly upon the one object of interest in 
 the somber landscape of approaching night, the memorial 
 window in the church. 
 
 But half conscious of its full import the Memsahib said : 
 " That window lighted up always gives me a feeling of peace, 
 of rest, of solace. The Madonna with the infant Jesus in 
 her lap seems so far removed from everything but just the 
 adorable love that is in motherhood that I think of my own 
 little ones, and forget trials which have seemed so bitter 
 through the day." 
 
 " Yes, motherhood is the greatest thing in the world," 
 I advanced; "it is creation itself that is, in its highest 
 form." 
 
 " If life were not a part of God Himself, a pulsating 
 manifestation of the soul, this engrossing adoration of a 
 mother for her child would be idolatrous," the Memsahib 
 continued in a thoughtful way. " See how the Virgin scarce 
 notices the homage of the shepherds; the babe in her arm is 
 everything, the whole world even the absence of the father 
 is not felt." 
 
 The Memsahib stopped awkwardly; her last words had 
 faltered. I knew they had thrown her into a confusion. 
 What slippery ice we traveled upon. But she came bravely 
 to her own rescue, saying: "A baby will make a woman of 
 a woman when nothing else will; it will cause her to bear 
 up against everything. I often think when I see some of the 
 women here who have been married two or three years, and 
 have no children, fluttering about, trying to get up little card 
 parties or dances, or something to kill time in what they 
 style ' this dull old place,' that they would be far happier 
 
 64
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 and of more real use in the world if they had children to 
 interest them." 
 
 The organ droned a gentle " Amen " to the Memsahib's 
 most wise reflections on the sisterhood. The prelude grew 
 in volume; as it hushed again, a sweet tenor voice carried on 
 the night air over the macs singing: 
 
 " ' I hear thee speak of a better land; 
 
 Thou callest the children a happy band ; 
 
 Mother, where is that radiant shore ? 
 
 Shall we not seek it and weep no more ? 
 
 Is it where the flower of the orange blows, 
 
 Or the fireflies dance through the myrtle boughs ? 
 
 Not there, not there, my child.' ' 
 
 " I think Robert's voice grows sweeter every day," Mem- 
 sahib said, as the last words of the song died away. 
 
 " He has the best voice I have ever heard," I added, just 
 to drown a noise that was suspiciously like a sob. 
 
 " I think I will retire, Allis," Jean said, rising. " It's 
 been so restful sitting here to-night. I'm so glad that Robert 
 is singing in the choir again." 
 
 " I'll go up with you to light your lamp, Jean," the 
 Memsahib offered. 
 
 When she came back she said : " It has done Jean good. 
 She has sat for days dry-eyed until her soul was hot ; but she 
 has had a good cry now, and I think she'll sleep." 
 
 I reached over and kissed the little woman on the fore- 
 head, much as a tribute to her wise intelligence in going up 
 to light that lamp. 
 
 " Jean will think always now of the Madonna and the 
 
 65
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 Infant; it will keep her mind more on her own baby that 
 will be a saviour to her." 
 
 " And if anything does happen, if we come to know any- 
 thing, we must keep it from her, wife, even if we have to 
 tell lies." 
 
 " Yes, we must." 
 
 This resolve silenced us for a little; my thoughts were 
 busy with an odd fancy that the blue-gowned Madonna's 
 face was strangely like Jean's. 
 
 The church door swung open, tossing out a square of 
 yellow light; there was a shuffle of feet, and grotesquely 
 shadowed heads blurred the blue gown of the Madonna. 
 The worshipers came down the steps; their forms loomed 
 large in the uncertain light, and then melted away. 
 
 The flood of blue and crimson and gold-colored light 
 died out suddenly from the window, and the somber wall of 
 the stone church stood silent and grim, like a ruined, lifeless 
 cathedral, against the night sky. 
 
 "It was Jean's father put that window in the church," 
 the Memsahib said, as we entered the house, " in memory of 
 Jean's mother." 
 
 66
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 | EXT day the Memsahib suggested that I should 
 encroach personally into Malcolm's life; that 
 the observed friendship between us two men 
 would cause his now often coming to the 
 Hedge, to appear more of our masculine asso- 
 ciation than a suggestion for gossip that Bain came because 
 of Jean's presence with us. It was a delicate thought, alto- 
 gether too subtle for the vandalic consideration of our coarse- 
 fibered villagers, I feared. 
 
 But I had myself, by this time, an itching desire to know 
 Bain to crackle the crust of his reserve. So that afternoon 
 I said to him as he halted at my gate: " I'll walk along with 
 you, Bain. My mind is clamoring for a game at words; 
 this as Shaftesbury calls it ' self-inspection ' is the father 
 of moroseness." 
 
 So we swung along together, our faces holding the yellow 
 blare of the sun in the west, for a half-mile to where Bain's 
 square, red-brick home half hid its severe outline behind two 
 giant locust trees. 
 
 Bain thrust open an iron gate to a cinder path that stretched 
 a narrow avenue, graced on either side by a broad-shouldered 
 acacia hedge, to the white-pillared portico of the house. 
 
 6 7
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 The spruce and balsam that interlaced their arms in a 
 little forest, clothing with an olive-green mantle the rounded 
 breast of a hill that laved its feet in a joyous burling brook, 
 caged a choir of feathered songsters that piped and sang 
 and twittered and whistled in a revelry of music, just as 
 though there was nothing else in the world but cool sylvan 
 retreats and well-filled stomachs, and joyous outpourings of 
 thankfulness for all this happiness that was nothing but the 
 essence of existence. 
 
 Bain caught an intuitive knowledge of my absorption in 
 earth's panaceatic draughts of delight, for he led the way, 
 skirting the huge quadrangle of bricks, to the brow of the 
 hill beyond, where a bench, curiously fashioned in the gnarled 
 twistings of a tortuous cedar, gave a resting place, from 
 which I looked down upon a stream of molten lead and silver 
 and gold that ran, in fluid blend, from some crucible held 
 in the rock lap of a towering upland beyond. The brook 
 leaped from ledge to ledge, a silver veil like that of Mah- 
 mud's screening from view the fleshless rock beneath; then 
 it swirled in a pool that hovered on butterfly wings of tran- 
 scendent beauty, gay in its azure and green and yellow and 
 crimson festooning as a shimmering rainbow, or the color- 
 dappled breast of a peacock. Fragments of lacelike silver- 
 work were tossed into the sunlight from the unseen fingers 
 of elfin artisans laboring in the caverns below. 
 
 " The trout are jumping fine," Malcolm said, shattering 
 my fancy with his realistic fact. 
 
 The sound of his voice brought a torrent of expostulating 
 " chir-r-r-rhs! " from a startled red squirrel that had crept 
 curiously to a zigzagging arm of the cedar above our heads. 
 
 "Cross, Patsy?" Malcolm asked, casting his eye up at 
 68
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 the bush-tailed chatterer. " He'd be down here on my knee," 
 Bain explained, " if I were alone." 
 
 " What an innocent creature a squirrel is," I observed. 
 
 " He's like the rest of us," Malcolm declared, " possessed 
 of the devil of destruction." 
 
 My eyes showed surprise, and he continued : " The young 
 rascal eats the robins' eggs ; he's a prodigal, putting by noth- 
 ing for a rainy day, a brigand. Yonder's his well rather 
 his fountain of drink " Bain's thumb indicated a maple. 
 " He cuts the little limbs and drinks the blood of the tree 
 he's a vampire. And if he misses the eggs of the robins, 
 when the young are hatched he throws them out of the nest. 
 Patsy is bad clean through. Ah ! " 
 
 A shaft of blue had shot down through the sunlight like 
 a sapphire hand grenade ; and then from a spray of sparkling 
 water it had swirled upward again to the overhanging limb 
 of a patriarchal elm. 
 
 " The Kingfisher ! " Malcolm said " gorging himself 
 with a tiny casket of life. Destruction is the mainspring of 
 creation it seems ; superficially, beyond the sweep of the chief 
 destroyer, Man, all is peace and sweetness ; actually, it is one 
 great war. The martens drive out the sparrows, and the 
 wren drives out the marten, and the black-hooded crow 
 prowls, a thief and a murderer." 
 
 Malcolm rose from the bench, and we turned back by 
 another path that was like a brown blank in the mottled 
 mosaic of a Turkish rug. Our feet brushed the velvet cheeks 
 of pansies that drooped their wealth of hue across our way; 
 and in our nostrils hung the tealike perfume that rolled in 
 clouds from a drape of crimson roses that hid the high house 
 wall.
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 A pair of robins hopped grotesquely in confident fear- 
 lessness just beyond the string of pansy beads. 
 
 " That's a hardy cock robin for you," Malcolm said 
 " the pair of them, in fact, for they stayed by me all winter. 
 They're like a good many humans, though, after all they'll 
 cleave so long as you feed them. I think the old robin took 
 a delight in making himself believe things. He's a bit like 
 the tiger, he'll only eat of his own kill no dead meat for 
 him. I used to hang a piece of fresh beef by a string, and 
 the wind would keep it moving, and whether he thought 
 it was alive, or made a pretense of so doing, I don't know, 
 but he'd eat of it. Put the same piece on a board or on the 
 ground, and he wouldn't touch it." 
 
 We had passed into the house as Malcolm talked, and 
 here again was the same simplicity softened to beauty by 
 touches of color. 
 
 I had pictured Malcolm's home as being like some of the 
 others I had seen, w-herein dwelt people allied to the soil- 
 tiller's life; a furniture of utility; a decoration of limited 
 art instinct and tuition; a crude, barren savagery of taste, 
 following in a picture the lines of hardness and crudity of 
 color with geometric delight carrying the value of a straight 
 furrow into a massacre of curving lines of beauty : a godless, 
 soul-depressing barrenness, suggesting a perihelion of habit- 
 able environment, complement to an existence devoted solely 
 to acquisition. 
 
 We passed from a wide hall, the ring of our heels on the 
 maple floor muffled in another step by the plush of a Turkish 
 rug, to the subdued restfulness of a room paneled in walnut. 
 Like faces peering from the distance in a Rembrandt, the 
 holdings of the room crept gradually from the brown shad- 
 
 70
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 ows and claimed my eye. A piano; tawny bookcases, flicked 
 soberly with deep red, and rich ochre, and emerald green, 
 where the volumes rested on their shelves. 
 
 Malcolm threw up a blind, and the light bathed a group 
 of toilers in a wheat field eye-level on the wall. I knew the 
 sweep of the brush that had fastened those pigments to the 
 canvas. 
 
 " A Reid ! " I said, indicating the oil. 
 
 " Yes ; and yonder's another ' The Forced Sale.' They 
 are windows looking out upon our national life of toil and 
 struggle and sometimes failure. Reid has the soul of the 
 man who wrote, ' This is my own, my native land.' " 
 
 Indeed it was a curious Bain that was issuing through 
 the crevices of his armor. The divine truth flitted through 
 my mind on the wings of fancy, that all this that I saw of 
 refinement, that was like the Armless One of Milo come 
 upon in a butcher's mart, was because of Jean. Before 
 Malcolm had switched to the trail of accepted loneliness, 
 perhaps Jean had inspired all this of delicate home arrange- 
 ment. 
 
 The pictures might have meant offerings to the spirit, 
 within Malcolm himself, that loved the pansies, and the 
 iridescent brook, and the rose-covered wall, but the piano 
 stood a rosewood monument to a yearning that had died. 
 Unconsciously my fingers strayed to the keyboard cover 
 it was locked. Something told me that it had always been 
 locked, and while Malcolm lived it would remain locked. 
 Curious testimony, these inanimate witnesses gave. 
 
 The books climbed one wall, shelf upon shelf, just as the 
 roses mounted the outer bricks. Did Bain read these their 
 backs carrying names that were of a race alien to the toilers 
 
 71
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 whose shadows intercepted ours daily on the village streets? 
 What did they know of Bacon and Tyndal and De Quincey 
 and Steel and Addison or these men of the shelves know 
 of them? And if Bain hobnobbed with Pope and Johnson 
 and Dr. Bentley in their murky Stagira, why did he leave 
 them coffined here in their buckram, and gossip about the 
 price of wool or the vile condition of country roads with 
 the village group, hiding his burning bush under a wooden 
 vegetable measure? 
 
 A grotesque fancy took me from the other side answer- 
 ing this query. What if Bain had transported a metaphysi- 
 cal shadow from that third shelf niching Meister Eckhart, 
 Jacob Boehme filled his huge head with intricate passages 
 from Nicholas of Cusa, Barcelsus, culled flowers from their 
 nature philosophy of the Renaissance, and, sitting by the old 
 box stove in Reid's store had given expression solemnly to 
 something like : " The soul of man, which as a microcosmos 
 resumes the nature of things, strives by self-abnegation, or 
 self-annihilation, to attain this unspeakable reunion, which 
 Eckhart calls being buried in God." I pictured what 
 would have transpired. MacKay would have thumped the 
 floor with his stick and exclaimed: "God, man! where did 
 you come by that? Are you well, Bain? " Willie Watson 
 would have pretended to get the drift of it, likening it to the 
 phraseology of a dissertation on law by Taschereau. But 
 it would soon be hushed, driven from cognizance by some 
 one's complaint of how the coal strike had driven up the 
 price of firewood a dollar a cord. Or Sweeny would tell 
 gleefully how Bankes, the new milkman, had been done up 
 by the simple farmers over his purchase of cows. How 
 that, knowing that Bankes was coming to buy a certain day, 
 
 72
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 they had refrained from milking for twenty-four hours, with 
 the result that the cows displayed great capacity for milk- 
 giving. 
 
 I turned from this psychology trail to the more trodden 
 literary thoroughfare of some late novels that, lying hap- 
 hazard on a table, indicated perusal. 
 
 Bain had been opening some letters he had taken from his 
 pocket. 
 
 " I have heard from three places," he said, resting his 
 hand on the letters, " but there's not the slightest trace of 
 Minister in those parts." 
 
 " It's a terrible mystery," I commented. But not wish- 
 ing to follow this subject just then, I swung the trend of 
 Bain's thoughts by asking: " Have you read this book, ' The 
 Foolish Marriage,' and what do you think of it? " 
 
 " It's altogether weak and vicious. I don't know what 
 the writer was after, unless it was just a salacious clamor 
 to attract buyers for the book. Out in the world they seem 
 just like we are here in the village; a story affecting the 
 chastity of a woman will bring everyone on the run to 
 listen. It just seems that with the tying on of the fig leaf, 
 a simple function of nature becomes a sinful mystery, an 
 engrossing theme for morbid tongues and minds. But while 
 we here in the village whisper it, holding our heads close 
 with a slight tribute to the indecency of it, writers such as 
 that author blazon it forth, not hesitating to run their poi- 
 soned daggers into the already dead." 
 
 " But I've heard it contended, Malcolm, that such stories 
 as this, depicting sin, are a beneficial lesson. I've always 
 thought myself that the fearless utterances of the Bible in 
 this way were efficacious. And the American classic, ' The 
 
 6 73
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 Scarlet Letter,' that deals altogether with the seduction of 
 a woman." 
 
 " There you're wrong, Cameron," Bain exclaimed ; " it 
 doesn't touch on the filthiness of the governing theme, it 
 deals altogether with the act as a sin, the aftermath of re- 
 morse and repentance, and fear and punishment. That is 
 just why it is a great book, and this one " Bain thrust the 
 " Marriage " from him as though it were carrion " this is 
 a wretched travesty upon the mental development. Physic- 
 ally and spiritually deteriorate beings gyrate through its 
 fields, living in an unholy atmosphere of desire, and at the 
 end the sinners, who have supplied their own temptations, 
 come by less of God's wrath than falls to many a man that 
 has led a life of hard-working usefulness. It's a dangerous 
 book to put in the hands of any young woman or young man, 
 for it's altogether of filthy desire ; and ' The Scarlet Letter ' 
 is a Puritanical Indorsement of the infallible punishment 
 which follows sin the most bitter retribution that can come 
 to a man, the prolonged lashing of his own conscience. And 
 you mentioned the Bible, Doctor, in the same breath with 
 which you spoke of these modern decadent blueprints 
 where the woman taken in adultery was brought before 
 Christ, and they were for stoning her. There was no ex- 
 tenuation offered, even by Christ the lust of the flesh was 
 not dragged up to be paraded in palliation. Christ looked 
 down and wrote in the sands, then he said : ' Go and sin 
 no more.' Isn't that the way to deal with this obnoxious 
 subject, Doctor? She had sinned, according to Christ, be- 
 cause he said ' Sin no more ' a command. That's a filthy 
 thing incinerated to toleration, if such a thing be possible. 
 Just read Proverbs vii if you wish to learn how this sin 
 
 74
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 is treated with strength and with clean fearlessness and with 
 literary beauty read that, Doctor, and you'll never more 
 be confused over the relationship which exists between these 
 filthy books and the Bible." 
 
 Bain's gray eyes were luminous with earnest intensity; 
 it was a new being bursting forth from his solemn holding. 
 
 " You've thought deeply on this subject, Bain," I said. 
 " I must confess I was rather surprised to see these newer 
 novels with you." 
 
 " Yes ; there are others of the same ilk, showing the 
 decadence of men in their gregarious existence. Satiated 
 mental appetites they come by, that must be tickled by 
 scorching cocktails of scribblers' brewing the absinthe and 
 the brandy and the vermouth and the tabasco of literature. 
 There is ' Man and Superman ' trying to prove God knows 
 what. I think the author is as much mystified by his 
 sophistry as any of us. He'll be like that commentator 
 of Aquinas whom Garden speaks of as having wept in his 
 old age because he could not understand his own works. 
 
 " All the big-heralded books that come to us from the 
 hub of the world, London, just have their narratives revolv- 
 ing about the lifting of the fig leaf, as though there were 
 nothing else of import in the world but the bestial, perverted 
 sexual desires of men and women led out of healthy reason- 
 ing by just such constant expression of thought as these 
 very books contain. And the pages are smeared over with 
 glamourous attributes of silks and satins and jewels and 
 wines, draping the hideous skeleton of this perpetual rutting 
 which places man as the lowest of animals for the others 
 have their seasons, ordained by nature until the young 
 reader, standing on the threshold of life, with its many paths 
 
 75
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 leading into the future, sees the wrong trail, the one lead- 
 ing to destruction, rose-bordered, a gentle gradient, smooth 
 of transverse, and hears voices more seductive than those 
 that Odysseus waxed his companion's ears against. They're 
 just horrible, these books. There's one, the most depraved 
 thing in all literature, ' The Picture of Dorian Gray.' A 
 brilliant, gifted man cast in that Sybaritic town, that is a 
 thousand times worse than the old place on the banks of 
 Tarantum, drew this sketch from the knowledge of his eye 
 and his experience. I read these books because I want to 
 know how the trend of thought is out in the world; they 
 can't hurt me, but they make me sad ; they reconcile me to 
 the lesser sins of our people here. Books are grand com- 
 panions when we take the upright man by the hand, and, 
 following a strong line of his rugged contour, shape our 
 own by it; and the profligates, the indecents, make us more 
 charitable toward men of our own knowledge, whose short- 
 comings fade away to nothing in the fierce heinous light 
 thrown by these sons of Ahab. But for the young and un- 
 thinking, the good books to build the character first, to the 
 end that when they chance upon the other it will be seen in 
 its own muck." 
 
 " The London life seems to engender a morbid taste for 
 a literature of illicit motif," I offered ; " thieves' tales or 
 bull-necked parsons or ' My Lady Careless ' even in the 
 theaters it is the same salacious seasoning indeed the whole 
 dish is of but putrid morals; but it is for themselves, and 
 we here in Canada need not be affected by it." 
 
 " But we cannot escape its poisoned breath," Bain ar- 
 gued " we are so very English here. It's a matter of faith 
 with us to hold up our hand in horror at any evil report 
 
 7 6
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 from the States, and say in pity, as Hosea said of Ephraim, 
 the Yankee ' is wedded to his idols, let him depart.' Also, 
 \ve consider him like Ephraim again in being but ' an un- 
 turned cake ' in the way of morals and culture and litera- 
 ture so we cleave to the London faith for our reading, de- 
 claiming that we are patriots, empire sustainers. And the 
 harm this vile picturing of English home life will do is in- 
 calculable. It will destroy all regard for the home people; 
 it will offset much of the present endeavor to draw the 
 people of Canada and the people of England into a closer 
 relationship, a relationship which must depend altogether 
 upon mutual regard, for it's useless to talk of regulating the 
 bond of unity by treaty official bargains, like other material 
 deals, are sure to be broken when the profit becomes one- 
 sided." 
 
 " Better the old books on the shelves, Malcolm," I sug- 
 gested. 
 
 " Perhaps," he said inconclusively ; " but the thunder of 
 philosophy that is in them deadens the small voice of truth, 
 I fear the clatter of dishes more impressive than the food 
 they carry. They've all bowed down to Bacon's ' Idola 
 Forti ' the Idols of the Marketplace ; standing words on 
 their weak legs as the embodiment of nonexistent things. 
 De Quincey divided literature into three parts; he might 
 have pruned closer and carried it forward with two, as most 
 things in creation are pro and con, for and against, for 
 God or against God, for good or for evil; the rest is but 
 a subdivisional ramification of letters. There's a book," 
 Malcolm said, indicating a volume of philosophic writings; 
 " it holds nothing but derelicts bound in the floating weeds 
 of uselessness. It is a Sargasso grave of floating sepulchers 
 
 77
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 of silence, carrying the dead bodies of wrecked theories. In 
 it we find page upon page of elaboration seeking to prove 
 that the New Testament was not inspired because its litera- 
 ture is crude and barbarous; the writer holding that divine 
 literature should be as pure as Plato's and eloquent as 
 Cicero's. And against him is Warburton, proving that it 
 was inspired because it is barbarous in expression. Just the 
 Idols of the Marketplace words. When shutting the door 
 upon all this book wisdom, we may come out into the glori- 
 ous sunshine, and the fields yielding sustenance to man, and 
 flowers to gladden his heart ; and not one of these philosophers 
 could do what that lily you see through the window has 
 done. A root delves in the black muck and brings up that 
 beautiful form, always true to its delicate conception. All 
 the Man philosophy in the world cannot create one simple 
 thing such as that. It may blend and make hybrids, it may 
 deviate these created things from their original paths, but it 
 cannot create them." 
 
 " You should have been a writer of philosophy yourself, 
 Malcolm," I hazarded. " It is marvelous that you should be 
 content with this empty village life." 
 
 " I am content for want of a road to greater content- 
 ment." 
 
 " You were for the ministry at one time," I said. 
 
 " I soon found I wasn't fitted for it. I'd have made a 
 poor servant not to God ; I think I could have labored for 
 Him, but there are intermediate agents that will harass a 
 man. I was afraid of the bit physical strength I have; I 
 don't just realize its full extent when I'm roused. And I've 
 seen occasions when not even the restriction of the Cloth 
 would have kept my hands from the throat of some black- 
 
 78
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 guard; and perhaps, not knowing it, I might have held him 
 till he was dead, and that for a minister it would not do, 
 I was afraid." 
 
 I knew well that what Malcolm said was simply a state- 
 ment of the truth, for once in the village when two hulking 
 brutes had insulted a girl, terrorizing the little constable till 
 he was afraid to lay hands on them, Malcolm had throttled 
 one so energetically that it was a question if he'd ever come to. 
 
 " But you're wasting great capabilities, Malcolm," I 
 ventured ; " you would have succeeded in almost anything." 
 
 " I might have made money that I don't need," he an- 
 swered simply; "perhaps taken it from some one who re- 
 quires it. That's the generally accepted idea of usefulness, 
 the acquisition of worldly goods; men wreck their bodies and 
 their souls over the laying up of stores they'll never use. 
 One can't engage in any business nowadays without being 
 at the throats of others, and them clutching at his. With 
 a large capital I might have employed labor, with the laborer 
 to revile me as a heartless capitalist grinding the last ounce 
 of force from his body; and perhaps I might have come to 
 look upon him as a treacherous, skulking ingrate ; if I believed 
 in him and trusted in him I should possibly find myself a 
 bankrupt. As it is, I can do a little good now and then ; hav- 
 ing time to supervise these little matters, the bit money goes 
 farther in the way of alleviation. As you're thinking, Doctor, 
 it's just a curious little sidetrack in life that I'm following; 
 not much of a goal at the farther end, but, in reality, just 
 the same goal that awaits us all alike. ' The paths of glory 
 lead but to the grave,' and a simple, truthful sticking to our 
 own path is the greatest kind of glory." 
 
 From the hall came the heavy boom of a standing clock. 
 
 79
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 "Man alive it's five o'clock!" Bain exclaimed; "I've 
 gabbled for an hour. Will you have a cup of tea Jennie is 
 somewhere about and she'll draw it for us? After that I'll 
 walk back to the village with you to let the sound of your 
 voice take the din of my own from my ears." 
 
 As we walked back to the Hedge there was little talk 
 from either of us, my mind subdued by the curious loosening 
 up of Bain that cast me in a mood of reflection. What a 
 strong factor in life he might have been had Jean unlocked 
 that piano. And yet was he not altogether grand in his soli- 
 tary breadth and honesty and beauty? 
 
 80
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 |OW the days came in a procession. It is curi- 
 ous how, when one waits expectant, that a 
 day which brings forth nothing of fulfillment 
 seems a period of utter uselessness. A great 
 sorrow narrows the vision. 
 Bain and others strove in vain to solve the mystery of 
 the minister's going. There was absolutely no starting point 
 to work from. Even the man who was supposed to have 
 seen Minister at the railway station the day he disappeared 
 destroyed the faint clew by now confessing that he was prob- 
 ably mistaken ; he had since observed a stranger getting on 
 and off the train several times whom he had undoubtedly 
 taken for Neil Munro that morning. Minister often walked 
 to the railway station for exercise, so he might have been 
 seen there that day, and yet not taken a train. He certainly 
 had not bought a ticket, for the agent knew him well, and 
 was positive upon this point. 
 
 One morning Bain came to the Hedge, his face carrying 
 a cloud of depression. My heart jumped to my mouth; had 
 he heard some dreadful news, learned some awful reality? 
 His words relieved me. 
 
 " There is a scribe in town," he said. " The York Times 
 81
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 has sent one of its reporters, and the paper will be full of 
 how you feed your hens, Doctor, and how the Scots are at 
 one another's throats. There'll be a picture of the deserted 
 wife, and dark hints of a woman in the case; or that Neil 
 stole the contents of the plate. Man alive! I've a notion 
 to take the matter in hand and souse yon gosling in the 
 pond. He's the freshest wee bit mannie I've seen for many 
 a day. He asked me if I thought it was a case of another 
 minister gone wrong; and followed this up by saying oh, 
 the gosling! that he'd heard hints of some lady in the choir, 
 Miss Harkett man, he had the name right enough that 
 there was suspicion of intimacy between Minister and little 
 Teacher. Heavens! Doctor, if it hadn't been so laughable, 
 I'd have smashed him. It was just the name that saved him 
 Miss Harkett. I saw through it at once; it was a fool's 
 joke. There are men that would try to poke fun at the 
 Lord, I think." 
 
 "Yes; just fancy! Teacher's name associated with that 
 of any man is certainly droll." 
 
 " I think I know the beast that loaded the fool up with 
 all this Archie MacKillop; and it's not all just humor 
 either, there's a touch of vitriol in it. I'll square matters 
 with him some day, if he's not careful. Oh, but the boy 
 scribe is going to have a wonderful story. I saw a head- 
 line on one of his notes, ' Mystery in the Ministry.' I 
 thought I'd best warn you, Doctor; you might speak to Mrs. 
 Munro and see if the Manse is all tight shut, for that in- 
 quisitive body might get round some of the elders that are 
 against Neil, and make entry into the house." 
 
 " That would do him no good," I said. 
 
 " No, it wouldn't. There'll be no wrong there ; but he'd 
 82
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 make evil of it sure he'd invent something; and have a pic- 
 ture of Minister's study, or something to prove it. The 
 liberty of the Press is a grand thing, Doctor." 
 
 " Well, I'll speak about it," I told Malcolm. And when 
 he had gone I waited for Jean to appear. Waiting, Robert 
 Craig came in. As I looked into his face I had a wish 
 that the lacrosse season and the football and the other 
 sports were done with for the year. The athletics that were 
 devised for the physical betterment of the young men in 
 his case had a detrimental effect ; they led to too much good 
 fellowship. Where some of the others could make one night 
 of it and abstain for weeks, he couldn't. It just seemed 
 useless to trouble over it though, for in the winter there 
 would be dances and parties and holiday times yes, it was 
 hopeless. 
 
 Jean came out to where we sat just as my mind had 
 struck this minor chord of despair, and I was glad of even 
 the troublous question of locks and bolts. 
 
 I drew it very gently about the reporter, suggesting that 
 I should go up and see if everything at the house were all 
 right. Jean gave me the door key, and then another, smaller, 
 saying: "This is the key of" she hesitated, eliding her 
 husband's name " of the study. I just locked the door. 
 I've been wanting to ask you before this, but hesitated, not 
 wishing to trouble you too much, to bring me any letters 
 or papers that might be on the desk there were some, I 
 remember." 
 
 " Give me the key, Doctor," Robert asked ; " I'll run up 
 it won't take me a minute. You needn't bother you have 
 your writing." 
 
 " I don't mind in the least," I said, putting on my hat. 
 
 83
 
 I was sure Jean's face had clouded when her brother had 
 asked for the key. 
 
 " Well, I'll go with you," Robert declared. 
 
 When we entered the Manse the boy said: " Everything 
 is all right here, just as it was when that Pharisee went 
 away." 
 
 " Why do you call him that harsh name, Robert he 
 may be dead." 
 
 " He's not dead why should you think of him as being 
 dead ? " The boy's voice was querulous and his face wore 
 a petulant, nervous look ; his mental disturbance seemed due 
 to something of the present, rather than to past dissipation. 
 
 He repeated his question petulantly. " Have you or 
 Malcolm heard anything that you are hiding why do you 
 say Munro is dead ? " 
 
 " There is no trace of him living ; a man doesn't sud- 
 denly melt into thin air." 
 
 " No, not even if he is dead they'd find his body. They 
 haven't; therefore he's alive, and will return when he 
 gets ready." 
 
 " He may have been murdered," I argued doggedly ; 
 " killed and his body hidden." 
 
 "Who would murder a penniless minister? And if 
 they did, it would be small loss to anyone, least of all to 
 Munro himself." 
 
 I laid my hands on the boy's arm he had shocked me. 
 I attributed his words to just a reckless, irritable frame of 
 mind, the aftermath of dissipation; his nervous, sensitive 
 temperament was subject to this uncontrollable mood after 
 a drinking bout, I knew well. 
 
 " Don't be so bitter, Robert," I admonished ; " you don't 
 
 84
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 mean what you say. I don't know w r hy you have turned 
 against Neil, and I don't want to, but I tell you this, boy 
 mind, I don't believe it will come to pass, but if Neil were 
 found murdered, or even dead from his own hand anywhere 
 about here, your idle words might stand forever against you. 
 You know the trouble Phelan had to clear his name when his 
 wife's body was found in the river. Indeed, to this day the 
 gossips and there are many of them in the village shake 
 their heads ominously when the subject is mentioned. It 
 was proven that she committed suicide, but that doesn't 
 still the evil tongues." 
 
 A look of fright came in the boy's eyes. He hadn't 
 thought of the interpretation that might be put upon his 
 careless words. I had no idea myself that it would ever 
 come to this, and spoke more to bridle his tongue, for Neil's 
 and Jean's sake frighten him into silence, for he evidently 
 had some sudden cause for antipathy to Munro. 
 
 " You're right, Doctor," he said, veering around to a 
 mollified complacence. " But Munro is just in hiding some 
 place and will be found unless he makes away with him- 
 self." 
 
 " It's too grewsome ; don't let's talk about it any more, 
 Robert." 
 
 " Yes, it is. You might look at the back door, Doctor 
 see if it's fastened. Give me the key; I'll run up to the 
 study. I know where Munro kept his papers; I'll take them 
 all back to Jean." 
 
 A curious suspicion that the boy wanted to keep me 
 from going to the study took possession of my mind. It 
 was something in his eager nervousness, his insistence upon 
 getting possession of the key, that bred this feeling. 
 
 85
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " We'll go up together," I answered. " In dealing with 
 another man's papers it removes the constrained feeling to 
 have two present. Come on, we'll go up together." 
 
 As I opened the study door Robert stepped quickly past 
 me. I saw him give Munro's desk a sweeping scrutiny. 
 
 " There are some letters, Doctor," he said ; " tie them 
 in a packet here are some rubber bands." 
 
 As I gathered the loose papers I heard Robert nervously 
 opening drawers, and a crackling noise as of a small lock 
 being forced caused me to turn my eyes in time to see the 
 boy slip something in his coat pocket. He caught my in- 
 quiring look, I fancy, for he said in an explanatory way, 
 " Neil's photograph Jean will want to have it." 
 
 " The very thing," I said ; " we may use it in tracing 
 Munro if he doesn't return soon." 
 
 I put the letters I had gathered in my pocket. Turning 
 from the desk I noticed a paper on the floor that perhaps 
 had fallen from the drawer Robert had opened. I stooped 
 to pick it up, and as I did so an odor struck my nostrils 
 with a force that arrested attention. It was an odor new 
 to me, fiercely penetrating, sickening, its very radiating per- 
 fume suggesting evil. 
 
 Involuntarily as I picked the fallen paper from the floor 
 I carried it to my nose. It, too, radiated that odor. It 
 was an unpleasant smell ; yet it aroused my curiosity. 
 
 "What's the matter, Doctor?" the boy asked. "Give 
 me that paper. I'm going to burn these that are in the 
 wastebasket in the grate." 
 
 He thrust his hand out eagerly for the sheet I held, 
 and closed the half open drawer with a nervous move- 
 ment. 
 
 86
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 "What's that odor?" I asked; "it's dreadful! I can 
 imagine it a snake poison or something vicious." 
 
 " I don't know I haven't noticed anything," he an- 
 swered. 
 
 Something in his voice caused me to look at him. His 
 eyes struggled to hide a lie and his weak lips were trembling. 
 
 The odor once in my nostrils clung to me; it was like 
 an evil spirit ; like some indistinct devil in a nightmare. 
 
 A pair of Munro's gloves were lying on a chair by the 
 desk. I picked them up and put them away in one of the 
 drawers, noticing that they carried the same heavy odor. It 
 now seemed to permeate the room. With an uncontrollable 
 curiosity I carried pens, a paper knife, even a Bible to my 
 nostrils they were all possessed of this invisible spirit of 
 repugnance. I saw the boy watching me with suspicious, 
 angry eyes. 
 
 " Are you acquiring Munro's scent so that you can trace 
 him like a bloodhound ? " he said presently in a sneering 
 voice. " If you've got it, Doctor, we'll go." 
 
 I did not answer him. We locked the door behind us, 
 and out in sunshine I drew a deep breath to wash from 
 my lungs the horrible stench that was stifling. 
 
 It was curious how such a seemingly small thing took 
 possession of me I could think of nothing else. A hundred 
 different perfumes of flowers and drugs and chemicals I 
 summoned from memory, seeking in vain for a correspond- 
 ing one. 
 
 Suddenly I remembered that Robert had exhibited no 
 curiosity over this that had troubled me. Did he know what 
 it was? If so, why had he offered no explanation? He 
 must have been lying when he said he had not noticed it; 
 
 8?
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 it would have asserted itself even to the dullest sense of 
 smell. 
 
 My mind hardly carried a suspicion of anything in re- 
 gard to Robert. That he knew something about Munro 
 that the rest of us did not, was more than a suspicion; it 
 was a certainty. I rehearsed the little scene in the Manse; 
 Robert's nervous irritability when I spoke of Neil; his in- 
 sistence that Neil was alive; his anxiety to go to the study 
 alone; the surreptitious placing of the photograph in his 
 pocket yes, that was curious; it would have been so natural 
 for anyone suddenly coming upon Neil's picture to have 
 shown it, criticised it. Why did he wish me not to see it? 
 
 It was after Robert had left, going up to the tavern, 
 that I suddenly fell to wondering if it really were a picture 
 of Neil he had put in his pocket. A conviction forced itself 
 upon me that it was not; something else but what? 
 
 I passed into the house and asked Jean if she had got 
 her husband's photo among the papers. 
 
 " No," she answered. " I think Neil never had one 
 taken ; he had a curious objection to it." 
 
 Evidently Robert's statement was untrue. What object 
 was it that had been of so much importance that he felt 
 called upon to deceive me? Not money, for with all his 
 addiction to liquor, the boy was the soul of honor; it was 
 bred in the Craig blood, nothing could eradicate that. 
 
 A sickening remembrance of Robert's face going white 
 when I had spoken of how his words would be misconstrued 
 if Neil were found dead came to me, and I strove to put 
 it away. The boy simply had no nerves of reliability ; they 
 were weak, shattered, unstrung cords that vibrated treach- 
 erously to every little gust of unusuality. But what an 
 
 88
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 awful thing it would be if the reporter, with a desire for a 
 thrilling story, should even hint at the possibility of foul 
 play! Jean's brother was the last person known to 
 have seen Munro, and their interview had ended in a fierce 
 quarrel. 
 
 My God! I might be called upon, forced, to give as 
 circumstantial evidence the vague impressions that were now 
 in my mind. 
 
 I was gloomed, morbid. I rushed into the sunlight. 
 I called Blitz, and strode away for miles over the hills, and 
 filled my lungs with the glorious breath of the hay fields 
 and pine woods and quickened my blood to a healthier 
 thought. 
 
 When I returned I found that the reporter had been 
 to the Hedge. With professional insistence he had suc- 
 ceeded in interviewing Jean; but her quiet sense had stood 
 her in good stead. 
 
 Minister Munro had gone away for a little rest, that 
 was all he could glean from Jean. 
 
 After all I was glad I had not been at home. Perhaps 
 my anger at his intrusion would have caused him to re- 
 taliate unpleasantly in his account of the mystery. 
 
 The next evening the York Times contained the re- 
 porter's version of " A Mystery in the Ministry." The 
 report itself was a remarkable contribution to literature, an 
 exasperating pot pourri of facts and fancies. Fortunately 
 for the good name of lona the writer was safe in York ; the 
 villagers would certainly have slain him they would have 
 tossed him gladly into the pond, at least. 
 
 For twenty years a small coterie of villagers had gath- 
 ered nightly in Hugh Reid's grocery store for converse. It 
 7 89
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 \v;is a dull evening, drawn blank, when nothing but poli- 
 tics and the weather were served up. Some one of the 
 half dozen seated around the square box stove was sure 
 to have a subject of wondrous interest. Winter or summer 
 the stove was there, and the same seats; two sugar barrels, 
 for the brown and the white, a couple of loose boxes ready 
 to be pulled up, the little table, on the farther end of which 
 were the ham and bacon on cut, and two chairs. These 
 seats filled, other attendants stood. 
 
 Ever since the disappearance of Minister and the taking 
 of the Skipper these subjects had been almost the sole topics, 
 and this night the caucus was nicely under way when Willie 
 Watson, the Town Clerk, appeared with a copy of the 
 York Evening Times in his hand, and the pleasing pos- 
 session of something new in his mind. 
 
 His quasi legal profession had inculcated in Willie a 
 love for dramatic effect. He knew what was in the paper, 
 and he also noted that none of the others had come by 
 their copies yet. 
 
 The papers came by the evening train, and Willie had 
 sapiently waited at the newsdealer's for his Times, having 
 used his cross-examining faculty to draw from the reporter 
 the information that his report would be in that issue. 
 Watson had glanced hastily through the daily and then 
 hurried to the gathering of the gossips. 
 
 Teamster Dick Sweeny was saying: "Well, b'ys, yon 
 detective that they've put on the Minister's track has got 
 something up his sleeve, mark my words. I had a drink 
 with him at the tavern." 
 
 "What does he think of the case, Dick?" asked Dun- 
 can Anderson, the Insurance Agent. 
 
 90
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " That's what I asked him myself, Dune, an' he just 
 looked wise at me." 
 
 " That rooster's got a sharp eye in his head," Ander- 
 son commented. 
 
 " He's got a still tongue, b'ys," Sweeny added. " Just 
 the same, he thinks there's something back of all this." 
 
 "What came of yon newspaper fellow? I ain't seen 
 nothin' of his in the Times?" queried Dugald MacFarlane. 
 " He got hold of a story here that the Minister had eloped 
 with the organist." 
 
 Everybody laughed ; it was an incongruous picture. 
 
 " Say, b'ys," said Sweeny, " I'll bet she'd swat a man 
 quick that would go for to kiss her. Faith, she'd run a 
 mile if a feller winked at her." 
 
 " She's a sweet little body all the same," declared Mac- 
 Farlane. 
 
 " Faith, I'll tell you what I think about it, b'ys," con- 
 tinued Sweeny. " Munro was a little off his base. He 
 shut himself up with books an' writin' an' sermons an' 
 prayin' till he got sick. If he'd gone to the bush an' chopped 
 a cord of wood every day, he wouldn't of looked so ganted 
 up an' blue about the gills. I mind myself the winter I 
 was watchman at the factory here. I hadn't a thing to 
 do but eat. Say, b'ys, I was goin' queer in the nut. I've 
 seen me go out on the road in the moonlight an' chase 
 a shadow for a mile. S'help me, God! b'ys, that's no lie, 
 I did for a week .straight on end. I could see the thing 
 ahead of me on the snow, an' what d'ye s'pose it was 
 a string on the peak of me cap. If anyone banged a door 
 I'd jump a foot in the air. I took patent medicines till 
 I had a drug store inside me. Say, b'ys, I was drug pow- 
 
 91
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 ders to there. S'help me, God ! I was " ; and the speaker 
 marked off with a hand the first button from the bottom 
 of his vest. " I was iron pills and tonic washes to there " ; 
 his hand rose a button. " There was salts an' sennie an' 
 herb teas to there " ; his hand caught the commencement of 
 a faded green tie at this. " An' just at the bottom of me 
 throat I could taste the goldashest bitter stuff that Mother 
 Kelly swore by she give me a big bottle av it. I was 
 full up, as I say, of medicals, and me chewin' gum to beat 
 the band all the time. I got that weak, be-gob I couldn't 
 lift me ax, and thin I found all the cure I needed was more 
 liftin' of the same. Work work that's what done it ax- 
 handle oil." 
 
 " It's all here in the Times" interrupted Willie, and 
 drawing from his pocket the paper he tapped it dramatically 
 with a finger. 
 
 "What's there, Watson?" queried MacKay. 
 
 " The reason for the disappearance of Minister." 
 
 "Read it, man, read it; let's hear what yon gosling's 
 got to say," cried MacFarlane. 
 
 Watson took off his hat, smoothed his gray hair back with 
 one hand, took a drink of water from the pitcher that was 
 always on the counter, stared over the top of his glasses 
 critically at his audience, and then read the daily-expected 
 write up. There was a headline worded " Dissension in 
 the Church." 
 
 " I wasna aware of any trouble myself," said MacFar- 
 lane. " I'm thinkin' yon lad was a bit o' a liar." 
 
 " Oh, we hae perfect harmony," declared MacKay, wink- 
 ing at Sweeny. 
 
 " ' The Minister was a temperance man,' " read Watson, 
 92
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 ' ' and some of the church elders thought he was too per- 
 sonal in denouncing the drink from the pulpit.' " 
 
 " That's expleecit," commented MacKay. " That brings 
 it doon to five individuals, including three that're present." 
 
 " The Minister or no other man ever saw me the worse 
 of liquor," declared Anderson hotly. He was an elder. 
 
 " I take a drop meself," said farmer John MacRae, " but 
 I'm no a drunkard. An' if I had yon scraggy runt of a 
 writer here I'd treat him to something stronger than 
 whisky." He was also an elder. 
 
 ' That's your Tory paper, MacKay, with its policy of 
 slander," sneered MacFarlane. 
 
 At this juncture Malcolm Bain came into the store 
 for a purchase, but there was a barricade wall of flour 
 bags that hid him from the group around the stove and 
 they were not aware of his presence. 
 
 Watson was reading in a monotonous voice some inter- 
 esting generalities when he suddenly stopped and said: 
 " Listen, MacKay you'll enjoy this, I know." 
 
 Then he read: 
 
 " ' One of the church members is an enthusiastic disciple of Izaak 
 Walton. He is also a Government official. One Sabbath the 
 Rev. Munro preached against the disregard of the sanctity of the 
 day of rest, intimating that some of his congregation were given to 
 casting a line in the brook instead of listening to God's word in the 
 kirk. The pew of the official spoken of was empty that day, and 
 it was whispered that the Minister's remarks were leveled at him.' ' 
 
 Watson lowered the paper and looked over his glasses 
 mournfully. The two angry elders smiled, and MacRae 
 coughed suggestively. MacKay stared in blank amazement. 
 
 93
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 "Of a' the liars! I've never strung a rod in my life 
 on the Sabbath. Some one in lona has just loaded yon gos- 
 ling up out of spite. If I kenned the fool I'd bash him." 
 
 " You're right, Donald," commended MacKillop. 
 " There's one man in lona that would just like to see a 
 split in the church. Perhaps you know who I mean ? " 
 
 " No, I don't." 
 
 " Well, who would have an object in throwin' the blame 
 of the Minister's goin' on the congregation ? " 
 
 To their credit no one took up the insinuation. 
 
 " A man doesn't leave his home because of trouble in 
 his business, often ; it's generally because there's something 
 wrong in the home," continued MacKillop significantly. 
 " As Sweeny said, that detective knows something behind 
 the scenes. Now, who's been hintin' at this same thing 
 that's in the paper that some of the congregation was against 
 Minister Munro and wanted to get rid of him; and who 
 was like to make trouble in the Minister's family? You all 
 know who I mean." 
 
 As though the speaker's strong allusion had conjured up 
 the embodied principal, Malcolm Bain stood before their 
 astonished eyes. His tall figure loomed gigantically above 
 the sitters, his square rugged face was like a bronze mask 
 it was terrifying in its power of control, for he must 
 have known that it was he whom MacKillop meant. 
 
 Watson shoved the paper nervously in his pocket. There 
 was a minute's silence, apprehensive, trying to the nerves. 
 And all the time Bain's eyes were fastened enigmatically 
 upon the dark, dissipated face of MacKillop. 
 
 " You were saying, MacKillop, that some one was mak- 
 ing trouble in the church were you meaning me? " 
 
 94
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " I mentioned no names." 
 
 " You ought to. A slander is worse if the slanderer is 
 too cowardly to give the other man a chance to defend 
 himself. If you were meaning me I'm just sorry for you, 
 for though I don't like to mention it, I've helped you many 
 a time. And I'm not trying to split the Church I'm trying 
 to keep it together. You did slander a man and mention 
 his name, but that's just as bad, for he's not here to 
 defend himself. And he helped you, too. He picked 
 you out of the gutter and tried to make a man of you 
 and you hated him for it. I'm meaning Minister 
 Munro. But worse than all this, you hinted slander at 
 a good woman as good as God ever put the breath of 
 life in." 
 
 As he said this, Malcolm walked to the back door of 
 the store and opened it. 
 
 MacKillop drew a breath of relief; he thought Bain 
 was leaving. But Malcolm came back to the stove and con- 
 tinued : " Ye're not fit to be sitting here with gentlemen. 
 Gossip's one thing, but slander's another; and slandering a 
 woman should be punished. So now I'm going to put you 
 out among the pigs in the back yard your own kind, you 
 can fraternize with them." 
 
 Bain swung his long arm with wonderful rapidity and 
 seized MacKillop by the collar. The latter was a strong 
 man, too, with a reputation for barroom fighting. As he 
 struck at Bain he was twisted sidewise, and another hand 
 that was like a bear's paw seized him by the roomy part 
 of his breeches; he was lifted to his toes, propelled swiftly 
 through the door, down three steps, then lifted bodily, and 
 canted over the low fence of a pig pen. 
 
 95
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 MacKillop fell sprawling among the porkers, the mire 
 smothering his curses. 
 
 Malcolm Bain came into the store, closing the door be- 
 hind him, saying: " Friends, now that yon liar has gone, I 
 just want to say that as we call ourselves men it's put 
 to us to protect the Church and the name of our Minister, 
 who was a good man, and the woman who has now come by 
 sorrow enough. I think I'll be going. Good night, every- 
 body." 
 
 " Say, b'ys," ejaculated Sweeny, when the door had 
 closed behind Bain, " that was as well done as ever I see 
 in me life. That's what they call ' buffaloin' ' a man out 
 west." 
 
 " In college we called it the grand bounce," commented 
 MacFarlane. 
 
 " Well," said Storekeeper Reid, coming from behind the 
 counter, " it served MacKillop right. A man has no busi- 
 ness to drag a woman's name into any discussion. There's 
 been too much talk over this church business anyway." 
 
 " Hivins! but that was a surprise party to MacKillop," 
 cried Sweeny enthusiastically. " Say, b'ys, when Bain 
 grabbed Archie it just put me in mind of what happened to 
 Bert Mullen yisterday up on the farm. You know what 
 Bert's like. Well, we was comin' up from the bush, me 
 an' Bert, an' just as we rounds the drive shed there was a 
 two-year-old mooly heifer sound asleep standin' up in the 
 shade. Says Bert, ' Watch me give the mooley a surprise, 
 Dick.' Say, b'ys, he just walked up to her, cunnin' like, 
 as though he was goin' to steal a bag of oats. When he 
 gets close he hauls off with his big fist an' gives her wan 
 in the ribs. Say, b'ys, I never see anythin' so quick in me 
 
 9 6
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 life. I guess the ould heifer'd been dreamin'. She whips 
 round, rippin' a bellow out of her that'd put yer hair on 
 end, an' ketches Bert in the ribs with her bunty head that 
 was like an iron pot, an' lands him on his back in a mud 
 puddle a foot deep. Hivins! I rolls on the ground yellin' 
 S'help me God! if Bert'd been killed I couldn't a' helped 
 it. When Mullen come out o' the mud hole he rips an 
 oath outen him an' says, ' Dick, don't never strike a sleepin' 
 cow.' ' I won't,' says I. ' Neither will I again,' says he." 
 
 " I wonder that Archie didn't come back at Bain when 
 he dim' out of the pig sty," remarked MacFarlane. 
 
 " I'm thinkin' he had needs to go home to dress first," 
 suggested MacKay. "And yon's where I'm going, too; I'm 
 awa' home. Who's going my way ? " 
 
 " Archie'll play Malcolm a dirty trick yet for to-night's 
 work, mark my words, men," Watson added. " He's got 
 an Indian streak in him, has Archie. I don't say there's 
 any truth in it, but he's got the face of an Indian, and 
 he's as mean as any redskin." 
 
 97
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 (HE day after the affair at the grocery, Mal- 
 colm Bain came to the Hedge, his ostensible 
 errand flowers for the Memsahib. 
 
 " It's the safest place to carry them," he 
 said, as he carefully removed his stiff black 
 hat, and brought forth a bunch of great cat-faced pansies. 
 
 " I brought them for the good wife, Doctor. She was 
 saying she had no luck with her pansies this year, and over 
 at my place they just grow like weeds." He added, apolo- 
 getically, lest I should make too much of the obligation, 
 " They don't come to much unless they're thinned out, and 
 I dislike throwing them away. We're all too prone to 
 hoard the pennies when we have more than enough of them 
 and trample under foot the beautiful things the Creator has 
 taken so much trouble to please us with. A love for the 
 beautiful and depravity seldom home in the same man." 
 
 " Seldom," I concurred. " In fact, any love possessed 
 by a man must keep him in the better way." 
 
 " Yes, Doctor, many wise men have left us deathless 
 passages preaching the beautiful. ' Wee modest crimson- 
 tipped fleu'r.' Think of the poet's heart with his lament 
 over crushing its bonnie stem. The whole wide expanse 
 
 9 8
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 of human sympathy laid bare to our sight by the picture 
 of a tiny flower. But speaking of the seeing eye, Doctor " 
 a change in Malcolm's voice, a harder ring in it, told me 
 that he had suddenly locked up the things of beauty " did 
 you notice in the paper about an unknown man being found 
 in the Niagara, at Queenstown? Well, it gave me a bad 
 start, but it wasn't Minister. And, Cameron, speaking of 
 the papers, do you take the Times?" 
 
 "No; the News." 
 
 " Well, keep an eye for yesterday's Times don't let 
 it come in. That daft junior smeared a page of clean paper 
 with ooze, and it's just fair criminal. What makes it worse, 
 the idiot got a smattering of truth into it. Aye, the truth 
 used as a plaything, or for evil purpose, is sometimes worse 
 than a lie." 
 
 " I'll take care that Jean doesn't see it." 
 
 " There's another thing you might keep an eye to. Over 
 this same matter there was an unfortunate discussion at 
 the store last night. The usual lot were there you know 
 them." 
 
 " Yes, I heard all about it, Malcolm." 
 
 Bain started ; a shamed look came into his face. *' How 
 did you come to know of it, Doctor? You weren't there." 
 
 " No; but I had it all from one who was. And you 
 did just right. The Church and Jean and myself are all 
 very much obliged to you." 
 
 " I'm glad of that," Malcolm answered simply ; " I fair 
 lost my temper, I fear. But a village that gives way to 
 idle gossip is in a far worse state than if it held fighting 
 tournaments every day in the park. Backbiting is worse 
 than black eyes it leaves nastier scars; scars on men's 
 
 99
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 souls. The ruction at the store may check the men's talk 
 a bit, but you can't stop the wag of women's tongues; it's 
 as difficult to keep them out of scandal mischief as geese 
 from young grain fields. They're the same a fence'll not 
 hold them. If you'll speak to Mrs. Cameron she'll warn 
 off the old wife gossips when they call." 
 
 " I'll do it, Bain, though I think she would have been 
 before either of us in that." 
 
 " Will it be too great a favor if I ask you to give 
 the supply minister a bite of dinner to-morrow. I've ar- 
 ranged for Dr. MacLean from York to take the service. 
 He's of Knox and has influence, you see." 
 
 " I understand. I'll be glad to have him with us." 
 
 " He'll be meeting Mrs. Munro and it'll not do harm 
 either side. I don't want the other party to get hold of 
 him. He'll be stopping with me, but my bachelor dinner 
 would be poor cheer for him." 
 
 "You'll come to dinner, too, Malcolm?" 
 
 "No, thank you; I've got to be home. It's a lovely 
 day, isn't it," he added, which I knew meant that his mis- 
 sion was ended. 
 
 " It's very hot," I objected. 
 
 " True, it is a bit warmish, but the heat'll harden un 
 the wheat berry; aye, and we'll have three days of it. The 
 wind blew from the southwest last rright till twelve and 
 this morning the barometer rose a point. Three days of 
 this dry heat'll make the wheat grade Ai ; it'll put five 
 cents a bushel on, at least. The farmers have much to be 
 thankful for in these parts. Well, I'll be going. I'll just 
 bring Dr. MacLean over after service. Perhaps you'll be 
 at church yourself." 
 
 IOO
 
 Bain fumbled a little over closing the gate, looked 
 thoughtfully up the street, and then critically at the sky. 
 I knew there was something still on his mind, but I couldn't 
 help him out with a lead. 
 
 " How is Jean bearing up through it all ? " he suddenly 
 asked. 
 
 " With the highest type of bravery, silently," I answered ; 
 " perhaps her suffering is too acute for words, it may be 
 that." 
 
 " Just tell her we'll find him. Good day to you, Cam- 
 eron." 
 
 Bain's advice appeared to me to be unwise. Jean's 
 character was too strong, or perhaps too deeply grounded 
 in simple faith, to need the bolstering up of problematical 
 premises; but his words revealed exactly Bain's position, his 
 point of view. 
 
 There was no doubt that he was deeply in love with 
 Jean; also that he had glorified his passion till it was like 
 the love of a brother, holy in its unselfishness, in the ab- 
 solute absence of physical influence. It was like some pre- 
 cious metal, gold incinerated to purity. Malcolm's powerful 
 frame, his almost dour Scotch face, the massive head so 
 stolidly fixed on heavy shoulders, suggested so little a 
 tabernacle in which homed this beautiful spirit of chival- 
 rous love. The magnetism of his strong nature always re- 
 mained with me after he had gone and now I continued 
 stroking the muscles, mental and physical, of the idol. 
 A fine nature, Bain's, I called from one side of my 
 mind to the other; intensely human, thoughtful beyond 
 count, yet liable to misjudgment through indifference to 
 diplomacy. 
 
 101
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 I threw off the alluring spell of character analysis by 
 tossing my voice up the stairway: 
 
 "Allis! are you there, Memsahib? Doctor MacLean 
 is to have dinner with us to-morrow," I announced, as her 
 head appeared over the upper banister; "he's the Supply." 
 
 " What ! the ' Dear Old Gentleman ' ! I'm so glad ! " 
 
 This simple pleasure brought her lightly downstairs. We 
 had grown into the habit of short-range communication 
 since the advent of Jean; far-carrying voices might cause 
 a twinge of painful remembrance. 
 
 " Doctor MacLean, of all men, will be most welcome," 
 Memsahib said, now at my shoulder; "he's just the sweet- 
 est Christian that ever breathed. That's why he's the ' Dear 
 Old Gentleman ' to everyone. If anybody can give Jean 
 spiritual solace, he can. It's Malcolm's arranging, isn't it, 
 husband?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I knew it." 
 
 Then I thought of Bain's flower tribute, forgotten, in 
 my hand. 
 
 " And he brought these pansies for you he said." 
 
 " Oh ! the duplicity, the delicacy of that huge creature ! 
 they're for Jean from me, of course; I'll give them to her." 
 
 IO2
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 HAT was It this Sabbath morning why did 
 the Hedge atmosphere vibrate with intense 
 currents? 
 
 Scarce eye-open, I was hurried into active 
 consciousness to the essay of recalcitrant stiff- 
 necked linen. But first the decorous shave ; haste was written 
 large upon the usually dawdling day of rest. The " Dear 
 Old Gentleman " had prematurely invaded my household in 
 spirit esoterically projected by his fame. 
 
 Gracious! sleep had obliterated his immaculate excellence 
 from my mind. But the Memsahib held her Aladdin lamp 
 to my eyes, and I saw as she saw. Indeed, I was .to attend 
 service! Unuttered died my objection, and I donned black 
 and linen as blithely as though the churchgoing had been 
 my own intent. 
 
 Little feet patfered from room to room to the bath- 
 room, where five pairs of shoes glistened in ebony blackness, 
 waiting to be transferred to their proper hiding beneath pews. 
 White dresses crackled and rustled as little figures brushed 
 through doorways, or galloped upstairs and downstairs. 
 
 The Hedge would contribute royally to the Dear Old 
 Gentleman's convening that Sabbath. 
 
 103
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 At last we filled the hall and poured out to the walk. 
 Ungraciously I whispered to Doo-doo, " Isn't Mother like 
 the Plymouth Rock hen with her chicks ? " 
 
 "Oh, Father!" and Doo-doo's reproof gurgled drown- 
 ingly in bubbling waters of laughter. 
 
 The street was fogged with the dust of farm vehicles. 
 Doctor MacLean's name was a shibboleth to test even the 
 reluctance of an agnostic. The old kirk swallowed up a 
 stream of humanity till I wondered where they would all 
 find sittings. 
 
 The Memsahib had used as a whip to my sluggish zeal 
 the promise of a fine sermon ; and when the simple, gentle- 
 faced minister took us all to his heart in the pulpit, and 
 reached us closer to God, I fell to wondering wherein lay the 
 strange alchemy that, dispensing with eloquent rhetoric, suf- 
 fused the temple with the whispering spirit of Christ. It was 
 all about Christ and Toleration thoughts of such boundless 
 width that we floated in a sea of communism. No making 
 a combative stand upon points of debatable theology; our 
 questioning mentality rested in Nirvana; our hearts softened 
 and dominated our selfish selfism, until, casting a truant 
 eye about, I saw all the rugged Celtic faces soft, like the 
 faces of the shepherds in the memorial window. It was 
 the window, perhaps, with its subduing light, I reasoned. 
 Certainly it was the face of the Madonna that stabbed 
 me with a poignant regret that Jean sat yonder under 
 the lilac hedge, alone, save for the companionship of her 
 sorrow. 
 
 Presently I was transfixed by words. Before, it had been 
 all a subtle spirit of Christian sincerity. Ah ! that was it 
 that was the compelling force, sincerity. The Minister was 
 
 104
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 asking of the congregation a continuance in unity, a mass- 
 ing of Christlike endeavor, when, like a line from an an- 
 them, came, in his gentle voice: " I would ask of you all 
 as Christians a cherishing love for our sister of the lone 
 furrow the wife of your pastor." 
 
 The exquisite beauty of this destroyed me as a reason- 
 able sitter in a pew. My brain surged with a strange 
 turmoil of disjointed thoughts words without correlative 
 connecting links. 
 
 It was something nebulous that God, and simplicity, 
 and inspiration and beauty of thought were one and the 
 same thing. These words pushed each other back and forth 
 until my head throbbed; I could have grasped the little 
 thin-haired old man of the pulpit in my arms, and carried 
 him in joy to some high throne that was a seat of the 
 mighty. 
 
 But presently Memsahib's hand was on my arm I am 
 afraid she thought I was asleep and she was drawing me 
 to a knowledge of observances that, with the words of 
 beauty in my mind, meant little. 
 
 We were soon in the open. I had the Doctor tucked 
 under my arm I could love him now without pretense 
 and we were ebb-tiding back to the Hedge. Not, however, 
 until Dr. MacLean had held levee on the greensward plat- 
 form, that like a rich woof of velvet carpeted the earth 
 beneath our tread, even enfolding with its warmth the cold 
 stone feet of the kirk. 
 
 Calvinistic faces, moulded hard by their owners' lives so 
 
 indissolubly wedded to toil, carrying the toil-endeavor even 
 
 into their religion, lost much of their austerity as they 
 
 grouped about the little gray preacher. Indeed, very proudly 
 
 8 105
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 I marched off with our guest, followed by looks of par- 
 donable envy. 
 
 And the Doctor, pulsating with human feeling, left his 
 mantle of theology flung against the kirk walls figuratively, 
 of course and said: "My, my! Dear me, Doctor Cam- 
 eron, what a lovely thing to have all these little girls. My, 
 my! Look at the sunlight on their white dresses; just a 
 sweet picture. If God had nothing else to give us but 
 such gifts we ought to think well of Him, indeed we should." 
 
 That wasn't theology not at all; it was just the joyous 
 boy's mind in the silver-haired dome. 
 
 I was thinking that the Scots would indeed be stiff of 
 neck if they did not bear patiently the yoke of casual min- 
 isters for a little, after listening to the Doctor's words 
 impregnate with resignation to the will of God. 
 
 As we sat behind the lilacs in the little interval between 
 service and dinner, I found myself constantly gazing with 
 puzzled wonderment upon this quaint old-fashioned man 
 who had thrilled me with his gentle sincerity. Sitting there, 
 rocking nervously in a low chair, his body had shrunken 
 from the commanding aspect carried in the pulpit. There, 
 also, the face had been luminous with magnetic power; be- 
 hind him the choir had appeared just blotches of color 
 against the somber-toned organ; now the face was plain, 
 perhaps sweet in its symmetry of plainness. The eyes car- 
 ried no fire, just trusting content; looking at me they seemed 
 to say: "We both, not meaning any evil, say this or think 
 that." Gazing into them I noticed there was a feeling of 
 mutual confidence. That he was fussy did not irritate in 
 the least. 
 
 Then there was the dinner. And, lo! suddenly, as if by 
 106
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 chance, the Doctor, the Dear Old Gentleman, was talk- 
 ing of my book had read it. Indeed, he was a wonderful 
 little man ! 
 
 And he came over a part that I had toiled at to the 
 extent that I had well-nigh buried the real issue, for none 
 of the critics had noticed it at all. At the lower end of 
 the table I could see the Memsahib's eyes luminous in ap- 
 preciation of his words; I feared she would rise and put 
 her arms around his neck. 
 
 But after dinner she exploded a bomb under my castle 
 of conceit, knocking at least a turret into mortar. 
 
 " Wasn't it thoughtful of Dr. MacLean," she said, " to 
 keep the talk going about your book, and those curious in- 
 fidels in China, so that there'd be nothing said of the church 
 here to worry Jean." 
 
 " I thought he was really interested in my story of the 
 Minister among the Indians," I answered somewhat stiffly 
 " he must have been, to have read it before he knew us 
 before he came out here." 
 
 " Of course he is interested everybody is; I mean every- 
 body who has read the book," she answered. 
 
 " Dear me, how lovely! this simple life yes, yes! " thus 
 Dr. MacLean expressed his boyish satisfaction, as we trav- 
 eled from the hot interior to the land dominated by the 
 hammock. 
 
 Three soft maples standing on guard up and down their 
 beat of my frontage fought back the hot slanting rays of 
 the afternoon sun, and with the screen of their broad leaves 
 veiled the dust that swirled up from the roadbed and sought 
 to leap our hedge. In barter for the sunlight they threw 
 across the lawn a cool shade. 
 
 107
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 We almost laid hands upon our guest to get him in 
 the hammock. " The ladies dear me, the ladies, by all 
 means; Mrs. Munro, or you, Mrs. Cameron a little rest." 
 But finally he yielded. 
 
 " You were asking about the hardships in China, Doctor 
 Cameron," he began. 
 
 I hadn't asked; but that was a mere bagatelle, so I 
 nodded as encouragement to the Reverend's story. 
 
 " One of our missionaries," he continued, " the Reverend 
 Philpot, was lost for dear me, how long was it? three, 
 five, yes, six months. Of course, we had given him up for 
 dead, sorrowed for him greatly he was a most conscien- 
 tious worker; we had dispatched a missionary to take his 
 place, when one day I received a cablegram that he had 
 been found, restored to us by the grace of God. I haven't 
 the particulars yet, it was quite lately, and we don't know 
 whether he got lost, or wandered away, or was captured 
 by the Boxers and held for ransom." 
 
 " It must have been a relief to you," I said. 
 
 " Indeed, it was a blessed relief. It shows we should 
 never lose hope just live in faith until well, until all hope 
 is gone. Of course, all hope is never gone, because at best 
 it is only change, a happy change." 
 
 What a deep little old man it is, I thought, as I began 
 to realize the sentiment that had prompted him to say, " You 
 were asking of China." 
 
 " Doctor," put in Malcolm Bain suddenly, who with 
 the Agnostic, had joined our little party, " do you remem- 
 ber that you are to have tea with Mrs. MacFarlane?" 
 
 " Dear me, dear me ! thank you, Mr. Bain. I had for- 
 gotten it. Dreadful, inexcusable! I must go." 
 
 108
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 Such a bustling departure the Doctor had, fearing he 
 would not be in time. It was not yet five, but the Dear 
 Old Gentleman quite forgot to look at his watch, accept- 
 ing Bain's suggestion that he would be late. 
 
 "A Disciple of Christ," the Agnostic said with abrupt 
 brevity, watching the quaint figure in black that seemed 
 top-heavy beneath the tall silk hat. " Faith like his is 
 worth having." 
 
 " But it's very common here," declared Bain. " I mean 
 the belief. I'm not saying that its obligations are carried 
 out as conscientiously as in Dr. MacLean's case. You don't 
 go to the kirk, at least you haven't for some time, or you'd 
 see sitting up there in the front pews let me see, well, 
 a dozen gray-haired men, with stooped shoulders, that have 
 worked hard for fifty, or sixty, aye, even seventy years 
 some of them, and the joy of life has pretty well leaked 
 out toward the end of all those years. So if it weren't for 
 this religion My God, man! it would be awful to think 
 of the desolation, wouldn't it? I've looked in their faces 
 many times they're honest faces as the world goes and 
 there's no trace of despair; they're as content as we are. 
 Man, do you mean to say there's nothing in all that? " 
 
 " Bain, you're as honest in your convictions as the good 
 Doctor who has just left us. I like to argue this question 
 with men I suspect don't believe what they preach. Over 
 the way," and the Agnostic nodded toward the church, 
 " there'll be men to-night with their heads bowed to the 
 prayer, and in their hearts an evil hope that Munro, who 
 was as good a Christian as the Doctor, may never come 
 back and just because he let them see that they were 
 hypocrites. They would deceive themselves if they were 
 
 109
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 left alone, but he wouldn't leave them alone, he was trying 
 to save them from themselves." 
 
 I had a strong suspicion that the Agnostic was still trying 
 to convince himself, unsuccessfully, that the faith he had 
 imbibed at his mother's knee, that had been his God-fearing 
 ancestors' before him, was a chimerical nothing. Apart from 
 this divergence, he was altogether a lovable man; as his 
 criticism of the Doctor indicated, of a fair-minded disposi- 
 tion. But, unfortunately, he was tenacious of argument. 
 This I think was an exemplification of the statement " Satan 
 finds some mischief still for idle hands to do." 
 
 He was a retired official, having seen service in India. 
 Voluble enough over some things, he was rather reticent 
 about his own early life. This I put down to the English 
 insular diffidence toward discussing personal affairs. I was 
 certain he could have nothing to hide, nothing prejudicial. 
 Indeed, perhaps, he was not even English born; his tongue 
 was cosmopolitan to a degree, that is an English-tongued 
 Cosmopolii. His idioms had a range from Oxford to Cal- 
 cutta, loitering on the return journey in New York, with 
 a large sweep of Canada. 
 
 It was difficult to place him by his speech, or accent, or 
 lack of it. Many would have thought him a Canadian; 
 indeed, he may have been drafted from the Kingston Military 
 School to the British service, or, born in Canada, dribbled 
 through the schools in England and turned out a griffin 
 with a billet in India. 
 
 He had acquired a vast fund of information upon gen- 
 eral topics, and drew upon his store at times for most 
 convincing similes, or examples. Why he had come to 
 our village probably to spend the remainder of his days was 
 
 110
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 not clear to me. Perhaps he had some socialistic antagonism 
 to the British Raj ; perhaps it had not used him quite fairly 
 in the way of promotion. 
 
 I conjectured that his agnosticism it was only that be- 
 cause of a more relative word was more or less a form 
 of mind exercise, like playing solitaire. Had he retired to 
 England he would have had his whist at the Club de- 
 lightful solace of the superannuated a frock-coat stroll in 
 Hyde Park and Piccadilly; and that recurrent theme for 
 desultory conversation the fogs. 
 
 Perhaps he had simply come to Canada to find a home 
 where his slender stipend he never sought to conceal the 
 fact that his means were limited would be sufficient for 
 a good healthy life, good food, books, and the smell of the 
 fields. 
 
 lona, seen from the railway station, its homes nestling 
 like gray- and red-wooled sheep in the valley and up 
 the undulating hills, was very like an English hamlet, and 
 perhaps the Agnostic had thus discovered it from the win- 
 dow of a train. At any rate, here he was, and I, for one, 
 was pleased to have him as a neighbor. 
 
 Possibly even it were better for him to mentalize over 
 these problems of creation, and futurity, and the present 
 well-being of humanity than to fritter away the balance 
 of his time with whist and frock coats and execration of 
 the fogs. If he liked the simple it was certainly good for 
 him. 
 
 I congratulated myself that the mental storm had passed 
 when the Major resumed : " From where I sit I can count 
 four church spires, which means four bodies of sane people 
 set against each other in the matter of their common good. 
 
 Ill
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 And the same thing subdivisionally exists beneath each spire. 
 Across the way most uncharitable stories are going the rounds 
 to account for Munro's disappearance." 
 
 " Don't listen to them, man, they're quite untrue," said 
 Malcolm. 
 
 " Where was Munro in the ministry before he came to 
 lona, Bain ? Have you thought to inquire in that parish ; 
 he might have gone back there for a rest. If he were suf- 
 fering from aberration brought on by overwork and de- 
 spondency he might drift back there by a sort of instinct." 
 
 " It would be a long journey, Major India." 
 
 " Was he there as a missionary? " 
 
 "Aye; and a good one, too; a martyr all but the final 
 journey with the Silent Boatman he was stationed some- 
 where in Central India." 
 
 " That's the whole thing then," cried the Major eagerly ; 
 " I'll wager a guinea he got a touch of sun ; and once touched 
 always touched I think something melts in the gray mat- 
 ter, for a man is never the same again, liable to go off at 
 a tangent at any moment. By Jove! we had a hot spell 
 just before he disappeared. Now we have got a clew. Their 
 devilish dark hints about other things are all moonshine; 
 Munro was a bit dotty owing to the sun." 
 
 " It might be so," Malcolm admitted slowly. " There 
 was a famine in his district the year he came home, and 
 he just slaved to save his people, and sapped his constitu- 
 tion for the benighted." 
 
 " And now his reputation is sapped by the benighted 
 here. I admit that I wasn't in love with the missionaries 
 when I was in India; some of them were so zealous that 
 it just kept the officials busy keeping things straight. A man 
 
 112
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 would be taken from the plow in America, rushed through 
 a superficial course in theology, and sent out there inspired 
 by the idea that he had ignorant, crude savages to teach. 
 Lord bless me! he would go up against men that these 
 questions had been torturing for fifty generations back 
 heritage, you know and they would look upon the mis- 
 sionary as crude, a novice, a false doctor who had come 
 among them to destroy a belief, or a faith of generations, 
 and then, when he had shattered everything they had ever 
 believed in, destroyed their faith, would ask them to accept, 
 on his assertion, a new dogma. To my mind it's a dan- 
 gerous thing. Smash a man's faith and it is difficult to 
 get him to hold to anything after that, new or old. I'rri 
 not saying that Brahmanism or Buddhism are true gospels; 
 in fact, they are founded on wrong principles, Brahmanism 
 particularly, for it is grounded on fear. Siva, the Destroyer, 
 and his horrible consort, Kali, are fearful embodiments. The 
 religion of Christ is far more potent to elevate humanity. 
 But these students of theology, the Brahmans, were keen 
 analyzers, dissectors of doctrines, and they could find in the 
 Christian religion with its ' eye for an eye, and tooth for a 
 tooth,' and the wrath of God, much to liken to the very 
 things the missionary denounced. When he innocently 
 enough declaimed against the Hindoo's reverence for the 
 cow, he attacked an ordinance that had been enacted in great 
 wisdom. The Brahmans knew that and laughed at him. 
 In times of extensive famine and famines were but nature's 
 way of preserving the balance in earth's creatures those 
 who were dying of starvation, after they had eaten whatever 
 grain there was, would have swept from the land the cattle. 
 Then when a time of growth came, the stronger ones that
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 had survived would have had no means of tilling the soil. 
 It would have been perpetual starvation until all were ex- 
 tinct. Nothing but deifying the cow, and the sacred bull, 
 of course, would have kept the knife from their throats. 
 The fear of eternal punishment for this sacrilege was greater 
 than the fear of a temporary death. But I'm preaching, 
 lecturing; it's a tremendous subject. And ignorance of all 
 these things is what blunts the sword of Jehovah in the 
 hands of inexperienced babes." 
 
 " But Munro was a man of wide knowledge and broad," 
 contended Bain. 
 
 " He was," assented the Agnostic. " And perhaps where 
 he seemed narrow, bitter, nailing the sin of intemperance 
 like they nailed the thieves to the cross, may have been due 
 to just this very Eastern experience, comparing the laxity in 
 regard to drink among the church members with the ab- 
 stemious habits of the Mohammedans and the Buddhists. 
 I've traveled myself among the Beluchis and the Afghans, 
 and they, as a body, shun spirits as a Protestant does Holy 
 Water. Perhaps Munro wished to sustain the Christian re- 
 ligion on a higher plane than these faiths we look upon as 
 Pagan. Anyway he wore himself out here over the famine 
 of Christ's manna as he did in India, and broke himself 
 down." 
 
 " And of more import than the cause of his going is 
 that he has gone and we have no trace of him," said Mal- 
 colm. 
 
 " But I have heard dark hints of foul play " ; the Ag- 
 nostic said this with an unconscious lift to his voice, as 
 though the remembrance had suddenly flashed upon him. 
 
 Before Malcolm could express his ridicule of such an 
 114
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 idle report, Robert Craig's voice broke in upon us from 
 almost at my elbow. 
 
 His boyish face peered at us from over the gate, the lilacs 
 hiding him until he leaned forward. 
 
 He had heard the Agnostic's words for he said : " You 
 are like three black crows sitting on a tree. Croak, croak, 
 croak!" 
 
 He swung open the gate and took my chair which I had 
 vacated for a seat on the bench. 
 
 " We were just talking over plans for tracing Neil," 
 Malcolm explained; and I understood this as a hint for 
 us to eliminate the general discussion of Munro in Robert's 
 presence. 
 
 " And just now you're busy over some old woman's 
 yarn that he's been murdered, like the prince in the fairy 
 tale, eh?" 
 
 " We're not listening to such idle, foolish gossip, boy" 
 Malcolm answered, most of his reproof centered on the in- 
 flection he put upon the word " boy." 
 
 Then by chance the Agnostic startled me with a simple 
 question : " Have you sent to the papers a picture of Minister 
 Munro? That's one of the most effective methods of finding 
 a lost man." 
 
 "That's just where we're hampered the most; there's 
 not a photograph of Minister to be had. I was wanting 
 one, but Mrs. Munro says her husband never had one 
 taken ; he had a curious objection to it," Bain answered. 
 
 Hanging on Malcolm's words, I was watching Robert's 
 face, for his curious conduct in the Manse study came back 
 to me disquietingly. I caught his eye once in a furtive, 
 frightened look ; I was sure his face grew pale. Now is his
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 opportunity, I thought; if he does not offer the photograph 
 his explanation to me that day was all a lie. I sat silent, 
 waiting. He did not speak. I had a chance to either con- 
 vict or clear him of deception by referring to the photograph 
 he claimed to have discovered, but I just thought of what 
 trouble a word might lead to, and desisted. 
 
 Besides, in my mind he was already convicted of in- 
 explicable deceit. And there was that other terrible, un- 
 explainable dread engendered by the remembrance of the 
 smothering drug odor. It was in my nostrils now, killing 
 the sweet breath of the flowers; it had drifted in with Rob- 
 ert, clinging to his clothes. It sickened me. I wanted to 
 sweep the Hedge of it of the boy of the whole nauseat- 
 ing mystery of Munro's fate. 
 
 I rose, saying: "I'm sorry, but I've letters to write." 
 
 " By Jove! so have I, nearly forgot," declared the Major 
 rising; "I must be off. It's too bad you've no picture 
 though, Bain." 
 
 " I'm going in to see Jean for a minute, Doctor," Robert 
 said. 
 
 "Just call up to the Memsahib," I advised. Then I 
 traveled to the sidewalk with Malcolm saying: " Bain, 
 you've got this whole load perched on your shoulders like 
 an old man of the sea you must give me a chance to 
 help." 
 
 " I'll call on you soon as there's need," he answered. 
 " See yon hammer-headed cloud ! That's sullen looking ; 
 there'll be a storm to-morrow. The Major's a fair type of 
 Christian if he'd only let himself believe it." 
 
 Left alone I sat in retrospect over the discussion that 
 had just taken place. My mind must have been fogged 
 
 116
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 with so much of it; the wide range, India and theology and 
 Brahmanism and our own mystery. 
 
 All the philosophy of the world seemed so utterly inade- 
 quate to glinting one strong flash of light across the dark- 
 ened path of the lone furrow. 
 
 Not one of us had the slightest clew to work from 
 then with an erratic jump my mind landed irritatingly in 
 the study at the Manse. Did Robert really know some- 
 thing? If not, why should I, unsuspicious naturally, attach 
 so much importance to that drug smell and Robert's pre- 
 varication ? 
 
 The thing tortured me. I must settle absolutely the 
 matter of the photograph. I had hesitated to speak of it 
 before others, but now The boy's step on the veranda 
 put a seal on my determination. 
 
 " Jean is feeling pretty blue," he said, as I rose, block- 
 ing his exit; "but there's no cause for despair. Munro'll 
 come back when he " The boy stopped abruptly. 
 
 " When he what ? " I asked incisively. 
 
 " When he realizes what it means deserting Jean. He's 
 gone off in some temporary fit of despondency; he's a weak 
 man." 
 
 Again I felt the boy was prevaricating ; that his lips were 
 not uttering what was in his heart. 
 
 " Why didn't you offer Bain that photograph you had ? " 
 I asked, looking straight into his dissipated eyes. I saw them 
 twitch nervously, then narrow to defiance. I read in them ab- 
 solutely that I should get nothing from them but perhaps 
 another lie. 
 
 " Where is Neil's picture? " I asked; " we need it. Was 
 it that you put in your pocket ? " 
 
 117
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " It was something of Munro's and I threw it in the 
 fire." 
 
 "What was it?" 
 
 " None of your business." 
 
 " Why did you lie about it? " 
 
 " Again, none of your business, Doctor." 
 
 I was staggered. It was something of importance enough 
 to cause him to quarrel with me. He was ready enough al- 
 ways to quarrel with others, but with me he had been 
 different. 
 
 " I'll speak to your sister about it I'll ask her," I said, 
 in a foolish threat. 
 
 He divined the weakness of my statement quick to 
 know that I would not execute this threat, and answered 
 sneeringly: "Jean has trouble enough; if you wish to cause 
 her more it rests with you. There's too much talk al- 
 ready," he added, as he swung the gate open ; " it's a wise 
 head that preserves a still tongue." 
 
 I felt that he had beaten me. His indifference to the 
 accusation of having lied showed me that some stronger force 
 governed his actions than his own susceptibilities. This 
 seemed to make darker still the mystery. 
 
 The hopelessness of everything gloomed my spirits on 
 into the evening. When the Memsahib went to churcn the 
 house became utterly desolate. I sat in my study plodding 
 on behind the solitary figure in the lonely furrow, watching 
 her in speechless sorrow searching for something that she 
 never found. Perhaps, like the princess in that weird love 
 song of Afghanistan, who, with her lantern, searched the 
 battlefield, she would come upon her lover slain. Perhaps 
 even that would be better than this shadow-seeking.
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 Rousing myself, I wandered across the hall and into the 
 drawing-room. It was dim with the blurring shadows of 
 approaching night, the last gray of the dying light battled 
 back by drawn curtains. The crimson-and-gold window 
 across the way would brighten this gloom. A majesty of 
 music welled up, cloudlike from the organ, pealing the end 
 of the service, as I groped my way to a window. Thrusting 
 back its curtain my hand fell upon the head of Jean, bent 
 low to the ledge. 
 
 Jean must have heard my step, for she was less startled 
 than I; and when she did not raise her head the thought 
 came to me that she was weeping; I could feel a tremor. 
 
 " I'm sorry I didn't know you were here," I said 
 lamely. " It's too gloomy come into the study and I'll 
 read." 
 
 A sob answered me. 
 
 " Come," I continued, gently putting my hand on her 
 arm. 
 
 The soft gray fabric that she always wore now grated 
 on my fingers like crape. It was a seal of despair. 
 
 She rose to my little drag at her arm, saying: " I came 
 to this quiet place to hide my cowardice; I should be braver." 
 
 " Not out of yourself, Jean ; you couldn't be braver ; but 
 you must trust in God. You know that He will watch over 
 your husband, that He will sustain you." 
 
 I think it was the utter impossibility of putting my 
 thoughts upon material support some reasonable argument 
 to combat her despair that caused me to so readily offer 
 spiritual solace, for, inexperienced in this, I was lamely con- 
 ventional. Like many a weakling in this field, I only blun- 
 dered, for I accomplished something worse than if I had 
 
 119
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 remained silently sympathetic I drove Jean into the most 
 inexplicable revolt. I listened to a perfect torrent of re- 
 bellious despair; I had unwittingly thrown open the gates 
 of the dike, and the pent waters of tried patience flooded 
 forth. It was only afterwards that I remembered Jean's 
 earlier struggle with this same spirit of rebellion. 
 
 "Carry to God what?" she asked, her voice cynically 
 questioning, " a parched, dried desert of a heart, scorched 
 by nothing but trial, but starvation of everything that fat- 
 tens the heart of a human, and then have God turn His 
 face away, and be thrust back into deeper misery? I've 
 tried to be a Christian; I've read and plodded and listened 
 and smothered down doubts and shut my eyes to the 
 hypocrisy that sat, long-visaged, under denunciation from 
 the pulpit, turning away with the cheek of a Pharisee the 
 shafts that an inspired man leveled at their sins and their 
 weaknesses." 
 
 Jean was trembling in her intensity; and, not answering, 
 I pulled a chair, though we were still in the half light of 
 the shadowed room. 
 
 " If ever a human being tried to come close to God I 
 did," she resumed, " and to-night He is farther from me 
 than from some murderer waiting in his cell to be hanged. 
 What did God do for my father? Left to smother in his 
 own weakness and never in his heart was an evil thought 
 for man or woman. And my brother thrice accursed. Will 
 God save him? Did not God remove the one man who had 
 dominion over Robert's consuming passion for drink? " 
 
 "Jean," I pleaded; but she continued as though I had 
 not spoken: 
 
 " If God ever had a zealous advocate on earth, it was 
 120
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 my husband. He had no thought but His labor; he gave 
 his life for it, his soul." 
 
 "His soul?" I cried out of my dark mystification; 
 " Neil's work would save the soul of a devil." 
 
 " You don't know ; I say he gave more than his body 
 to God's work. And now if we were to believe the ac- 
 cepted interpretation of salvation he would be better sit- 
 ting there in a pew atoning for mean sins by a formality 
 of church observances." 
 
 " You are wrong, Jean," I said bluntly ; " God knows, 
 and He rewards His faithful servants." 
 
 My words uttered in objection really had no bearing 
 on the change that came over Jean. She had exhausted 
 herself with her vehemence; the torturing spirit of revolt 
 had escaped in words. A flood of tears welled up from 
 the depths of her misery, and she sobbed : " My God ! I'm 
 tried too sorely. My heart grows lean with the starvation 
 of hope. Black, black! past, present, and future; all a 
 pall, a cloud without light. I'm meager in my asking; 
 not even love, nothing but just a ceasing from this long, 
 never-ending trial. Let God give me back my husband 
 let God save him, then I'll believe everything." 
 
 " Jean, even if Neil be lost to us he'll be saved" I con- 
 soled. " Didn't the Lord deliver over to the tempter even 
 Job's body for affliction after all the other trials had failed 
 to shake the faith of the man of Uz and didn't Job still 
 bless the name of the Lord? That's what Neil himself 
 would have done is, no doubt, doing." 
 
 " You don't know, Doctor nobody knows! I sometimes 
 wonder if even the Almighty knows right from wrong." 
 
 I heard the the door swing; its creak was like a hush. I 
 9 121
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 was glad of the relief. Jean's despair and revolt were too 
 powerful for my weak man's mastery; but the Memsahib 
 would conquer it with just the uncombative way of a wom- 
 an. She could talk to Jean of the unborn babe until she 
 became like the Madonna, seeing nothing of the illimitable 
 misery of the world, nothing but the savior that had been 
 given her of the Creator. 
 
 122
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 NCE in the hush of midnight Memsahib and 
 I sought to untangle this delicate-threaded 
 skein of correlative affliction that draggled so 
 persistently at the heels of Jean's trials. Mem- 
 sahib held the invisible skein in her delicate 
 hands, while I blunderingly sought for the true thread of 
 continuity. 
 
 With a tug at an evident thread I exclaimed : " Jean 
 gives expression to such extraordinary pronounced bitterness 
 against the Church influence that has practically submerged 
 her living life in a living death of despond. With her 
 constancy and courage, Christianity should have sustained her 
 even in a trial of this magnitude." 
 
 " You forget something, husband," Memsahib answered 
 going on to show me that I had seized upon the wrong 
 thread " at present, Jean is not Jean at all she is an 
 overtried woman with tortured nerves. A woman in her 
 condition is subject to strange fancies and hallucinations; 
 everything rational becomes irrational. Why, I've known 
 a woman, conjuring up disaster for her unborn babe, to 
 turn against her own mother ; so when Jean says she doubts 
 God's goodness, she just voices one of these suspicious an- 
 
 123
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 tipathies that she might have held, without the slightest 
 cause, against you, or me, or Bain, or " 
 
 The Memsahib hesitated. I knew she was casting about 
 in her mind for even a stronger, closer tie of consanguinity 
 that Jean should have held to, and it came to me suddenly, 
 as a revelation, that Memsahib had exhausted the list. In 
 the whole world we three, unrelated to Jean, were, by a 
 caprice of Fate, the bounden Door of Hope to the Valley of 
 Achor in which she wandered. 
 
 The Memsahib resumed, returning empty-handed from 
 her mental search : " Jean's child will lead her back to a 
 Christian acceptance of God's dispensing, then she will be- 
 come her old self again. I don't mean that if Neil is 
 still absent, his fate wrapped up in mystery or solved in a 
 bitter way, that she will be the joyous woman she was be- 
 fore, but she will bear her cross bravely; and for such as 
 do that, there is a sweet reward of hope." 
 
 Then at once I discovered a tangle in the skein. " If 
 the blow falls before her baby is born," I said " if some- 
 thing terrible transpires over Neil's fate ? " 
 
 The Memsahib figurately rolled the whole skein into a 
 hard ball by answering : " We shall know this first and, if 
 necessary, we must tell Jean a deliberate lie I shall; and 
 I'm sure I shall be forgiven for the sin, if it be one. We'll 
 lock the gate against every tongue, and tell her that there 
 is no news of Neil until after." 
 
 "Yes, we've put our hands to the plow, girl, and we 
 must not turn back. I'm with you we'll carry Jean." 
 
 Memsahib gave me one of her quaint little smiles of 
 appreciation and took my face in her hands, saying : " And 
 all for my friend you are very good ! " 
 
 I2 4
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " My friend, too," I answered. 
 
 Then to prove my willing interest, I dipped into plans 
 for the future, saying cheerfully: 
 
 "I'll conjure up happenings to break the monotony; 
 and what has become of our picnics to West Branch by 
 Jove! just when they were most needed, too. We've forgot- 
 ten all about them, haven't we? " 
 
 " So we have it is strange the children haven't been 
 clamoring for them. We'll have one to-morrow and twice 
 a week after this until " 
 
 The Memsahib hesitated. That dreadful until ! it would 
 end many a sentence of hope and despair for us, until 
 ah ! there it was again. 
 
 " Yes, to-morrow," I concurred eagerly ; " it will do 
 Jean good in every way. Will you round up some of the 
 other children, Isabel and Margie; and I'll ask Bain? He'll 
 be handy to have along; he'll keep an eye on the weather 
 for us." 
 
 " No, not Malcolm! " Memsahib objected, and her lips 
 were hardened to thinness in decision. 
 
 "Why not? He'd enjoy it he's just as simple as a 
 great boy." 
 
 " Because because oh, I hate to even think of it I 
 believe women are the most spiteful creatures on the face 
 of the earth." 
 
 " Yes," I interjected encouragingly. 
 
 " Well, Miss Harkett has heard things." 
 
 " Which was it the Ladies' Aid, or the Sewing Circle, 
 or ?" 
 
 " It isn't in the Church. You know, she has music 
 pupils in many homes, and I suppose they've let their 
 
 125
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 tongues wag, unconscious of the terrible crime they were 
 committing." 
 
 " Yes, yes, please connect it with the picnic, else I don't 
 want to hear about it. For unless a woman sits beside a 
 man while she is talking, what she says is of little interest." 
 
 "They were malignant they were unthinking! They 
 said that Malcolm was in love with Jean, and that Minister 
 must have come to know of this " 
 
 " I think he must have known that before others did ; 
 and that Jean chose the man she loved." 
 
 " Don't you understand, husband they are saying that 
 Jean really loved Malcolm all the time." 
 
 " Which is nonsense." 
 
 " It is; but their vile scandal isn't nonsense. Think what 
 would happen if it were whispered loud enough for Jean 
 to hear! Don't you see? she is so entirely innocent that 
 the scandal people might find evident confirmation of their 
 lies; and Malcolm well, he's just stupid in his absence of 
 consciousness." 
 
 My thoughts went back to the trouble in the grocery 
 store. 
 
 " I see ; we mustn't have Malcolm at the picnic then ? " 
 I questioned. 
 
 " No; we mustn't. And we must see less of him here." 
 
 " Heavens! and give the best fellow in the world the 
 cold shoulder because some old cats malign him ? " 
 
 " No; for Jean's sake and not the cold shoulder." 
 
 " How can we manage it? " I asked. 
 
 " I don't know. We must just see as we go along. But 
 this is one case, the picnic, in which we need not help the 
 scandal." 
 
 126
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " Of course this is a very easy proposition, but I see a 
 vista studded with pitfalls before us in a general endeavor 
 to head off a man unconscious of the fact that he is not 
 wanted. And I'd rather put everyone of those gossipers 
 on a suttee pile and cremate them, than load Malcolm's 
 clean mind up with this filth." 
 
 On the morrow the Hedge premises fairly vibrated with 
 a bustling preparation for our picnic. Of course it was 
 school vacation, and the children were primed with the 
 giant powder of readiness for fun. 
 
 Such a merry turmoil in the kitchen over the lunch 
 basket. The sandwiches, the cakes, the bottle of milk, the 
 jar of lemonade, and it was my suggestion, born of many 
 summers on the Western prairie a camp kettle for tea. 
 
 Blitz understood. He sniffed at the bathing suits ap- 
 provingly. Upstairs, downstairs, and in the Memsahib's 
 chamber he scurried after the little ones. 
 
 At last Cook Sarah's voice is heard : " Come on, chil- 
 dren ! " and we marshal on the lawn, bulging with utensils 
 until we resemble the Acadians about to be exiled. 
 
 Away we go; Blitz, fearful that he may be forced to 
 share the fate of Laddie's pup locked up in the cellar, scam- 
 pers over the stone wall and pushes on ahead. He knows 
 quite well what we are up to. 
 
 We gather in our quondam relatives, Margie and Eliza- 
 beth, and, like a comet an orderly comet of leisurely proce- 
 dure stream over the hills and far away to West Branch, 
 that is calling, calling, over its pebbled reaches, like the sea 
 whispering to sons of mariners. 
 
 The small feet patter eagerly over the rustic bridge that, 
 like a lover's knot, binds the cleaved ends of the pink road- 
 
 127
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 way. Beneath, the brook chuckles and laughs in its freedom, 
 as though it were a boy playing truant from school; for, 
 has it not, higher up in the forest-holding valley, leaped a 
 wooden dam the human toilers, beaverlike, have thrown 
 across its path ? To the right MacKay's sign " Trespassers 
 will be Prosecuted," leans hopelessly to one side, and some 
 one, in misguided humor, has hung a dead crow from the 
 post. To the left, following the lead of portly Sarah, we 
 clamber over a much-disarranged panel of the rail fence, and 
 are knee-deep in a daisy-spattered meadow; purpled-plumed 
 asters are trampled ruthlessly under foot; we are like a 
 destroying army. 
 
 As if to escape our onslaught, a wild clematis has rushed 
 up a lightning-shattered tree stub to save its feathery clusters 
 of white star flowers. Across the stream the intense green 
 leaves of a Virginia creeper drape the mournful ugliness 
 of a dead pine. 
 
 We are traveling Into a horseshoe, a crescent of young 
 cedars, festooned with myriad green buds till their boughs 
 droop. Here and there in this olive-green line show touches 
 of gold and silver where the brook smiles at the sunlight, 
 or tosses its chipped ripple over whispering stones. 
 
 The brook's purling drone hushes us of the care-thought 
 to silence; its song is a lullaby that attunes our ears to 
 something that echoes far down the cavern of the past, 
 something that tinkled in the laughing days of childhood. 
 
 But the children race with eager cries through the 
 meadow, and the tall grass grasps and clutches at their pink 
 legs and winds about their little toes, and there is always 
 some one of. the seven going down or getting up, at one end 
 or other of a fall. 
 
 128
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 I hear a deep drawn-in breath just at my elbow; some 
 one is draining a cup of this nature nectar, the wondrous 
 draught that is sunshine and balsamed air. Then a voice 
 says, " Isn't this glorious? " 
 
 I turn quickly in astonishment. It is Jean. 
 
 " Here we are," says the Memsahib. " Hueh-h ! Thank 
 goodness that basket will be lighter to carry home. I'll bet 
 we've forgotten something we always do; sugar, lemons? 
 yes, there they are." Strange to say, everything needed seems 
 to have been remembered. 
 
 In the cool shade of a cedar we rest after our battle with 
 the sun. Just ahead of us are the two swimming pools, 
 41 Shiner " and " Two-logs." These bathing ghats arc like 
 the village school; the little ones as they learn to swim 
 graduate from the shallow " Shiner," with its floor of 
 gleaming pearls, to the great lake that is " Two-logs." I 
 can cast a fly with my six-ounce trout rod across this vast 
 expanse of water, but to the little ones it is a Hellespont. 
 
 All at once the air is shattered by the battle cry of 
 Indians. A figure, all but naked, darts from behind the 
 hiding skirts of a cedar, and yelling murderously, " Watch 
 me dive, you people Hi-yi-yi-yi ! " dashes through the sun- 
 light, then disappears over a cliff, and a great shower of 
 pearls, sparkling white, are thrown above the emerald grass 
 border. 
 
 There go the whole band of them little Sioux in pink 
 and blue bathing suits. Involuntarily my fingers are at my 
 shoe laces, a matter of thirty years wiped off the slate by the 
 necromancy of forgetfulness. But I have brought my 
 brushes, to take my share of the sport in sedate seriousness. 
 The bridge with its simple lines suggests tangible results 
 
 129
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 with little perplexity of drawing. The strong sunlight sets 
 forth the chiaroscuro in easy blocks. I go at it with full 
 brush, with an indolent nonchalance that promises looseness 
 and breadth. 
 
 Blitz is making great hunting with his nose, reading the 
 letter page of the night's writing. Just there where the 
 eddies swirl, jewel-beaded, about the denuded roots of a 
 pine stump, purple-gray from twenty years of weathering, 
 ends the wondrous trail scent of some vulgarly perfumed 
 traveler whom Blitz would like to reprimand for trespass. 
 But the terrier's cogitations are cut short by Laddie, who, 
 seizing him, plunges into the pool. When Blitz reappears 
 upon the bank his aspect is so pathetic that Jean laughs. 
 
 Ah ! we are pleased with him evidently ; and in a second 
 he is at our feet, sending over us a shower of water. 
 
 A red squirrel sits upon the fence and cocks his whis- 
 kered nose inquiringly at the noisy animals that have come 
 into his domain. " Chirrh-rh-rh ! chuch, chuch!" Fatal 
 note of expostulation; unwise denunciation; for Blitz, leav- 
 ing the intangible record of an animal that has come and 
 gone, a muskrat, speeds with whine of delight to little Reddy, 
 whose plumelike tail, flipping so jauntily while he jeered at 
 us slow-footed humans, is now straight out in the exigencies 
 of flight. Fleet as he is, his route is a tortuous one; the 
 rail fence is a series of recumbent triangles; his course is 
 southeast by southwest, nautically diagramed. 
 
 Now Blitz has headed him, a panel of the fence short of 
 a tall elm, which was Reddy's objective. Back they come. 
 The dog's eager yelp stirs the boy in me again; pallet dis- 
 carded, I become an accomplice not possessed of blood lust, 
 but chasing up and down without thought of disaster to 
 
 130
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 harmless Reddy. It is Doo-doo's passionate cry of reproach 
 that awakens me to the enormity of our onslaught. " I ought 
 to be ashamed ! " Indeed, I am, now that Doo-doo puts it 
 that way. And Blitz, who has clambered to the topmost rail, 
 is lifted down and most securely held close to the cake bas- 
 ket, that he may forget. He is even tempted with a piece 
 of cruller, which is his epitome of gastronomic indulgence. 
 
 I go back to my chromatic scrawl; my eye unblinded 
 now, freed from the surcharge of color by the interruption, 
 takes critical cognizance of this, my latest mournful failure. 
 
 The sketching never comes to much at a West Branch 
 picnic. The trees, mighty elms, obdurately elbow too much 
 of the landscape out of the canvas ; I get no distance every- 
 thing is in the front yard, and behind the front yard is 
 nothing. There are no converging lines in field beyond 
 field at least I find none. And at close range the bunchy 
 cedars symbolize the fiercely green trees that are in toy 
 Noah's arks. 
 
 The children have dressed by now, and like hornets 
 swarm about the lunch that Sarah has spread upon a rug. 
 
 " We are all ready for the tea," Memsahib calls; " light 
 the fire." 
 
 By Jove ! I had forgotten it. Some dry twigs are quickly 
 gathered; I put a finger and thumb in my vest pocket and 
 find a pencil and two postage stamps they are the stamps 
 I had looked for so earnestly in the morning. But now 
 my search is for a match. Generally they are in at least 
 three pockets, but now 
 
 " Haven't you got a match? " Memsahib asks. 
 
 " I'm afraid" I fumble. "Ah, by Jove! here's one. 
 We've got to be careful; I've got just one."
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 There are some dry leaves and a whittled twig. As I 
 kneel, the Memsahib holds my coat against the slight breeze, 
 and Jean, and even Sarah, stand in tense attitude, watch- 
 ing the momentous trial. I hold my breath and strike the 
 match. It flares up deceitfully; one leaf is seared, and that 
 is all. We've missed fire. 
 
 " I've never seen it fail," the Memsahib remarks 
 " never ! And we have forgotten something the matches ; 
 I said we had I knew it ! " 
 
 I sit in dejection. Casually I notice that there is a little 
 glow of color in Jean's pale cheeks. The wondrous triviality 
 of a match has drawn her interest into forgetfulness ; my 
 panacea of hurly-burly is working splendidly. I had been 
 all for a cup of tea, a souchong dipsomaniac; but now lemon- 
 ade any old thing will do, I cry. 
 
 " My dear boy," objects the Memsahib, " you must think 
 of us poor women. We've simply got to have tea. Jean 
 needs a cup." 
 
 " I've got a headache," declares Sarah. 
 
 " How they do hammer a man when he's made a mis- 
 take," I mutter. 
 
 " I can get a match," offers Laddie; " there's men work- 
 ing in the field up on the hill they'll have matches, 'cause 
 they smoke." 
 
 So away the boy goes, and is soon back; and presently 
 the camp kettle is giving us a pibroch like faintly heard 
 bagpipes pianissimo. Then there is spirit rapping from the 
 lid; the imprisoned musician suggesting the possibility of 
 moving great iron engines. 
 
 We squat like Burmese Phoongyis about a pagoda that 
 is a pyramid of sandwiches. We worship it till it vanishes ; 
 
 132
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 when, lo! the mango-tree trick is outdone Sarah executes 
 a mystic pass, and a cake appears magically in its place. At 
 a cabalistic word from the Memsahib, Sarah she is greater 
 than Hermann conjures up a lemon pie. We sit around 
 the shores of this little lake of chrome and the audience yell 
 with delight; table manners are at a discount; it is really 
 a pantomime play after all. 
 
 The illusion is purely hypnotic, I know; otherwise, why 
 does not my appetite slacken ? I imagine I have eaten things, 
 for I am still hungry we all are. 
 
 I am eating an unsubstantial, frail something, and Kippie, 
 holding up a similar strip of sweetness says, " I dess love 
 woman's fumbs." 
 
 Luckily no one is cruel enough to correct her with 
 " lady-fingers," and I, speaking, throw the blame of our 
 laughter on Blitz. 
 
 Bananas walk across the rug and languidly recline before 
 each squatter ; oranges roll into the circle, and of themselves 
 select their individual owners. 
 
 There are at least seven little white dogs. I have just 
 given Blitz the last of a sandwich, and yonder, across the 
 little valley that is between Doo-doo and me, a white dog 
 is having a piece of cake. Immediately, just at my left, 
 Kippie has given another one a piece of pie crust. Indeed, 
 it is magic, because Jean is laughing. 
 
 "What's the joke?" I ask; I have heard nothing hu- 
 morous. 
 
 " You are stirring your tea with a cruller, Father." 
 Doo-doo bears false witness I declare. And I had not 
 even seen the tea poured. I must have been asleep and 
 dreaming, for the beverage wakens me. There is nothing 
 
 133
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 unusual, absolutely nothing; there is only one little over- 
 fed white terrier rolling contentedly in the grass, stuffed 
 to the point of discomfort. 
 
 " You'll have indigestion, Father," Doo-doo says, per- 
 haps reading my thoughts. " Come and play squat tag. And 
 you, too, Mother." 
 
 The kindly cedars close in, holding their skirts wide to 
 hide us from chance passers on the road as we play squat tag. 
 Jean is drawn so far into it that she acts as umpire; just 
 sipping at my medicine, I call it. But when my knees 
 commence to ache from much squatting, I know that my 
 digestion is all right, and say so; and, lighting a cigar, 
 stretch myself in the nestling grass, and watch the green fade 
 from the little valley with its holding of hay meadows, and 
 the pines that shutter its upper reach grow purple beneath 
 the wine-red sky. 
 
 In the east a harvest moon, copper-hued, draws itself 
 lazily from the grasp of a holding hill. In fancy I see, 
 winding down the blurred road-trail, brawny scythe men, 
 their bare arms showing nut brown, and beside them trip 
 maids that carry stone flagons and sheaves of grain. One 
 maid's voice carries to my ears saying: " Come on, Father, 
 wake up; we're going home now." 
 
 "Gracious! was I asleep?" I query, in too frank un- 
 wisdom, and they all laugh. 
 
 The long hill and all that has gone before tires Kippie's 
 little legs, and taking her astride my shoulder we finish the 
 pilgrimage marching gallantly up the center of the village 
 street. 
 
 As we swing through the Hedge, Jean sighs. I know. 
 For hours she has forgotten almost; and now the shadow 
 
 134
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 of despair chides her for her lapse of memory. Just a little 
 aftermath of depression, the dust crumbling back into the 
 footprints of exhilarated gambols. I am wondering if my 
 nature panacea will allay the mind's spiritual illness will 
 the sun and the youth elixir check the heart's revolt? This 
 summer the village, with its varicolored life, had thrust 
 itself suddenly into my vision like an apple blossom bursting 
 forth in one day upon a leafless limb. Hitherto the vil- 
 lagers had been people who had followed daily vocations 
 and believed in the church; but now the air was charged 
 with electric currents of esoteric projectings. 
 
 Here was Jean, stricken by sorrow, neither chastened 
 to a greater Christianity nor submissive because of the 
 scourge. But I had been convinced that this was nothing 
 more than a phase of her mental illness, just as when one 
 is ill physically he turns against all physical things, food 
 everything. 
 
 But in spite of the Memsahib's bravely spoken optimism, 
 she troubled much over Jean's spiritual vagaries. 
 
 The Memsahib was as stanch in her convictions as John 
 Knox; the stake if need be, but no wavering. She had 
 always looked askance at the Agnostic's philosophy she had 
 another name for it really, and now, in the way of tribu- 
 lation there was evidence of a friendship between Jean 
 and the Agnostic. 
 
 I was sure this would prove helpful, but the Memsahib 
 was cross about it. When I maintained that the Major was 
 altogether lovable in his nature she ignored his personality, 
 and pitched upon the biting evil of his words; his cynical, 
 ever-recurrent attack upon church people, saying impetu- 
 ously: " It will just give unkind tongues food for gossip. 
 
 135
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 They'll say Jean is a backslider, that she's a friend of an 
 enemy of the church. They won't understand her not at- 
 tending worship, as we do ; some of them could never under- 
 stand the torture she would undergo facing the pulpit that 
 to her would be empty. Besides, we can't advise the village 
 that Jean is expecting a baby." 
 
 " But it is going to be so difficult to hedge Jean about 
 with a moral barrier that these strong throwers can't top 
 with some missile," I answered despondently. " It will come 
 to this, if we keep on, that I'll have to put on the door 
 a red card marked ' scarlet fever.' We'll be practically, so- 
 cially, quarantined. Lord bless me! Allis," I broke in im- 
 patiently, " Jean is a free agent. If she wishes to talk 
 to a good clean man I can't first catechize him on the articles 
 of faith." 
 
 Strangely enough I was arguing against myself, for I was 
 really at one with the Memsahib on this question. 
 
 " Well, I know one thing," the Memsahib added de- 
 cisively, " that, wise as the Agnostic thinks he is, and clever 
 as his Pagan books and papers may be, a little baby will 
 make fools of them all. Jean can't feel chubby ringers 
 kneading her cheek, or the little warm arms about her neck, 
 and believe in this heathenish thing. She'll be thanking 
 God then for His mercy in sending her something to love. 
 That will be her salvation from everything." 
 
 " Or if Neil should be found alive," I said. 
 
 " Yes, but I can't believe that he will. How could any 
 sane man go away from home and leave a woman like Jean 
 I mean, stay away? He might have gone, but if he were 
 alive she should have heard from him." 
 
 " But Munro wasn't sane, I'm sure," I interposed ; " Jean 
 136
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 doesn't think him dead, and you believe as well as I do that 
 there is something that she won't speak about." 
 
 " It's all guesswork dark mystery; I strive not to think 
 of it; I close my mind to everything but a hope that he 
 may return alive; I live in suspense, just trusting in the 
 Lord's protecting care for the time till Jean's baby comes." 
 
 "And won't that apply to the Agnostic's presence? It 
 may help to keep Jean from brooding." 
 
 " It's a dangerous remedy." She caught me by the arm 
 excitedly, and pointing through the window said : " The 
 Major is coming now, and Jean is on the lawn. Just keep 
 him from talking about Christians and the folly of religion." 
 
 Hurrying out, I saw the Major sauntering leisurely up 
 the walk. The Major had a mind prolific of expedient, and 
 generally bore some unnecessary excuse for what he feared 
 might be an intrusion. This time he had it in his hand 
 a pear, rich red in cheek. 
 
 "What kind of pear do you call this, Doctor?" he 
 asked, carrying himself, fruit, and question through the gate. 
 
 I took the tempting thing gravely enough, and knowing 
 it was all pretense on his part, deliberately ate the mystery. 
 
 " I call it a good pear," I answered, " and that's about 
 as strong as I am on horticulture." 
 
 The Major laughed, saying: "That grew on a tree in 
 my yard and I have never known the name of it; besides, 
 I have never had so sensible an answer before. I think if 
 we'd trouble less over the abstract attributes of things, such 
 as that pear's proper name, and enjoy the goodness of them, 
 we'd be happier." 
 
 I headed him off by chasing Blitz away from a cat he 
 had treed up the maple. 
 
 10 137
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 But Fate had been busy in the meantime, for, when I 
 came back to the lawn, Jean from the hammock was carry- 
 ing the Agnostic along she was saying: " If we would only 
 speak from our absolute knowledge there would be fewer 
 lies told." 
 
 " Yes, we might well think more and talk less," I said, 
 sitting down. 
 
 " But you Christians condemn unbounded exercise of 
 thought," the Agnostic added ; " blind acceptance of formu- 
 lated tenets, that's the superstructure raised upon a mytho- 
 logical base." 
 
 I was accustomed to this sort of thing, but I turned 
 apprehensively toward Jean. In surprise I noticed that she 
 was not even startled. 
 
 " Indeed," she said, harking a little back to my speech, 
 " after all, words are better than thoughts. It is the silent 
 argument that makes cowards of us all; dragons can be 
 explained away. If we could come face to face with every 
 accusation, let light in on every dark spot well, it would 
 be at least brighter. It is the cutting that lends beauty to 
 the diamond; the noblest sentiment hidden in itself is of 
 little avail; love unuttered is almost like a poison, it 
 
 Jean stopped suddenly, and taking up the trail of her 
 startled eyes I discovered Bain's head just topping the hedge. 
 He had come straight across the noiseless earth road; his 
 solemn face, full to us, looked grotesquely droll, its seem- 
 ing support the slender lilacs. 
 
 I swung my hand toward the gate, and as Bain joined 
 our group he had his usual alpha of conversation. 
 
 " That was a fine shower last night," he said, as he 
 took the camp stool I held toward him. " Yes, a fine 
 
 138
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 shower," he continued ; " it'll bring on the fall pasture. I'm 
 thinking we'll have a wet month. The moon has been 
 drinking heavily the first half, and we'll get it back we'll 
 get it back. Aye, that's nature's way ' for value received 
 I promise to pay.' " 
 
 " Your big body, Malcolm, is fattening to the excellence 
 of some future ruler of men according to that," I com- 
 mented. 
 
 " It'll be little use without the mainspring, I'm think- 
 ing," Malcolm replied, " and I'll be needing that myself, 
 wherever I am." 
 
 " We were just discussing something of that, Cameron 
 and I," the Agnostic added. 
 
 I repudiated this, declaring that such matters were be- 
 yond me. 
 
 " They shouldn't be that," objected Bain. " Christianity 
 is a very simple matter. It's like all things pertaining to 
 creation, wonderful because of its extreme simplicity." 
 
 " The Major says it is mythology," I objected ; and im- 
 mediately I realized I had given him an opening. 
 
 " It's too simple for yon complicated business, my- 
 thology," Bain affirmed. " It's just following what a man 
 knows to be his true guidance. There's little sin because of 
 actual ignorance, in spite of all we hear on yon point." 
 
 "There you are," cried the Agnostic exultantly; "all 
 the teaching's for nothing. And yet Christians claim that 
 Agnosticism is a dangerous thing, that free thought is the 
 Devil's invention." 
 
 " Agnosticism is hardly a dangerous thing," declared 
 Bain, to my astonishment and to the Agnostic's pleasure, for 
 his face lighted up. " It's just a hopeless sophistry," Mal- 
 
 139
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 colm added, after an aggravating pause; "it's not strong 
 enough to be dangerous, it's just hopeless just hopeless." 
 
 " How is that, man ? " queried the Agnostic. 
 
 " Well, I'm thinking it wouldn't harm a strong, upright 
 man much, that is, from the viewpoint of his fellows. You're 
 an example yourself. I'd be very willing to vote for you 
 if you were running for Parliament, for, as Antony said, 
 ' You're an honorable man.' " 
 
 " Thank you, Malcolm." 
 
 " In that way there's little to choose between your way 
 of thinking and my own, or any other Christian's ; but Chris- 
 tianity, the Church, will pull a man out of the gutter. Poor 
 weaklings and the world is full of them find the flabby 
 muscles of their minds toughened and made strong by it; 
 aye, even strong men that have gone w r eak, because of pres- 
 sure, are brought back to moral health by the simple lesson 
 that God loved such that are of that portion of the world 
 so much that He sent His own son as bearer of this mes- 
 sage of redemption, or help, or hope, whichever you choose 
 to call it. And that shows the use of Christianity, and 
 the uselessness of Agnosticism, and the hopelessness of it, 
 because I never yet knew a man that it found in the 
 mire and sat him in the clean sweet-smelling meadow 
 of life." 
 
 I stared at the heavy-headed man that was talking in 
 the low, measured, earnest voice of one who relates a true 
 happening of interest. 
 
 " Very fine, Malcolm," the Agnostic declared, " but it 
 doesn't work out. What do we see here in the village in 
 the way of religion? There's Mrs. MacCormick I'll give 
 you a sample of Church tuition. She's the strictest body 
 
 140
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 in the whole Kirk in the Kirk, mind you, I say. Last year 
 she came to me two weeks before Thanksgiving and ob- 
 tained an order for a turkey. Turkeys were twelve cents 
 a pound in the stores, but hers were to be ' birds,' something 
 extra, mind you, corn fed and all the rest of it, and fourteen 
 cents a pound, my dear boy. Well, I agreed to take one. 
 She said that everybody was to pay her that price for her 
 turkeys, being so fine, mind you." 
 
 " By Jove! I got one of that lot," I said; " go on; what 
 happened I believe I know." 
 
 " If you got one from Mrs. MacCormick you do know. 
 I was away the day the Christian body brought the bird, 
 and the good wife took it in and paid fourteen cents a 
 pound ; and as true as I'm sitting here, that poor dead turkey 
 had peas enough in his crop to have kept him over winter. 
 His neck looked as if he had died of goitre. I weighed 
 his crop nigh on to two pounds. Peas are worth a cent 
 a pound, and worthy Mrs. MacCormick got fourteen for 
 hers." 
 
 " My turkey was the same," I concurred. 
 
 41 Now, was that Christian dealing? " asked the Agnostic. 
 
 " No, it was not," declared Bain ; " and if it wasn't for 
 that same sort of thing, for the evil weakness cupidity and 
 the rest of it that is in humanity, Christian teaching wouldn't 
 be needed at all." 
 
 " But she's had a fair chance at Christian teaching." 
 
 " Aye ; I don't know how she'll turn out. It takes a 
 long time with some of them; and a few I'm feared never 
 come round just hang off too late, and the Devil catches 
 them unawares. I believe they get a double dose of punish- 
 ment, too, for all their pretense." 
 
 141
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " Is Mrs. MacMillan a Christian? " asked the Agnostic 
 pointedly. 
 
 " Man alive! I can hardly answer for myself I'm always 
 in doubt." 
 
 "She's always at prayer meeting; and just now she's 
 crying her eyes out because there's no regular minister." 
 
 " She's a bit troublesome at times, I must admit," said 
 Malcolm calmly; "she's a pushing body. I think she likes 
 to see the church in a prosperous condition." 
 
 " She doesn't forget Mrs. MacMillan in the meantime. 
 Last week she brought a basket of butter, pound prints. I'm 
 a bit suspicious when they come around skipping the stores 
 there's generally something doing. ' Twenty-one cents a 
 pound,' quoted she. 
 
 "I'm buying from the stores at twenty,' I said. 
 
 " ' Where do they get their profit, for they offered me 
 twenty? ' she queried. 
 
 ' ' In trade,' I replied ; ' their profit is on their goods.' 
 
 " ' All right. Twenty cents cash'll do,' said she. 
 
 " I tasted the butter it was fine; and carried it to the 
 kitchen to give her back her basket. On the way I kept 
 thinking: 'This can't be all clear sailing what's up any- 
 way that she's come to me ? ' ' 
 
 " You're a suspicious man you're lacking in faith," com- 
 mented Bain dryly. 
 
 " Aye ; dealing with Christians." 
 
 " I turned a pound pattie of the butter over, hefting it 
 in my hand, judging if the weight was short or not. It was 
 a lovely yellow and solid as Jersey butter should be. Sud- 
 denly I discovered a change of color on the bottom of the 
 pattie; and there, like a silver medal no, like a lead medal, 
 
 142
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 was a big wad of pale well, Lord bless you, man, it may 
 have been lard; but it was dovetailed into the real thing so 
 that only an expert could have found it. And it was rank 
 by Jove ! but it was rank ! " 
 
 " What did you do?" Malcolm asked, and I saw Jean 
 holding her lips tight against a laugh. 
 
 "Do? I took it back to Mrs. MacMillan she was 
 sitting in the hall with a face as meek as that picture of 
 Nicodemus on the Sunday-school cards. I handed the basket 
 to her saying, ' The housekeeper has just bought a quantity 
 of butter, and she's against my taking this while the 
 weather's hot ! ' ' 
 
 " Man, were you afraid to tell her the truth," queried 
 Bain, " that you must put the blame of refusal on the good 
 housekeeper ? " 
 
 " Is there a man in this village that wouldn't shrink from 
 Mrs. MacMillan's sharp tongue? Besides, catching a body 
 thieving makes one feel as bad as if he were an accomplice, 
 I think." 
 
 "What did she say?" asked Malcolm, and from the 
 wrinkle in his cheek I knew he was smothering a smile. 
 
 " Well, the angel went out of her face in a minute 
 as she said: 
 
 1 ' Bargains is like pie crust, made to be broke, I sup- 
 pose.' 
 
 " ' Pie crust has lard in it too,' I remarked at that. 
 1 ' I don't understand,' said she. 
 
 ' The bottoms of the patties are bleached, you've 
 churned in the sun,' I explained." 
 
 " Did she take the hint? " Malcolm asked. 
 
 " She took the hint, basket, butter, and all, and flounced 
 
 143
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 out of the house, very angry with me because she had failed 
 in cheating me, and now she's telling everybody I'm an 
 atheist and worship graven images." 
 
 " Aye," said Malcolm dryly, " and she'll not fool the 
 Lord with the spurious article in her religion either. It's 
 only the honest dealers that'll make trade with Him." 
 
 "Well, what do you make of that?" queried the Ag- 
 nostic. 
 
 "Just nothing as regards religion; but it's sad to see 
 individuals too near in a bargain. I've seen a cow on a 
 farm that was what they call a robber cow; she'd eat as 
 much as any of them, and look slick and contented, but 
 she'd be a bad milker, and inferior quality at that. But the 
 farmer would not give up butter making and condemn the 
 whole business. Generally he'd turn the robber into beef. 
 We can't do that with the delinquents in the Church, of 
 course, but we can utilize them in some other way. Now, 
 the lady you speak of will do more to make a church social 
 a success than any other woman in the congregation; and, 
 though you mightn't believe it, she's a free giver to mis- 
 sions and all calls on the purse." 
 
 " Missions ! " snorted the Agnostic. " They'll give to 
 missions, to the heathen in Africa or India. Aye, and didn't 
 they let that poor body, Jennie Stubbs, starve to death, be- 
 cause her brother drank all his money and wouldn't sup- 
 port her?" 
 
 " I didn't know of that in time," answered Malcolm ; 
 " I'm afraid there's some truth in it." 
 
 " What's your opinion of missions? " asked the Agnostic, 
 turning to me; " you've been in India, Cameron." 
 
 " I haven't much faith in them," I answered candidly 
 144
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 enough. " I know in Calcutta none of the Sahibs would 
 hire a Christian servant if they could get a Mussulman, or 
 even a Hindoo. I had one, a Telugu, from the Madras 
 coast, and I thought he was an exception to this rule, but 
 in the end he looted me thoroughly." 
 
 " It wasn't Christianity that made him bad though," ob- 
 jected Bain, " he was simply a bad Christian." 
 
 " Yes, he was a bad Christian, right enough ; and the 
 warmed-up article, I'm afraid, is apt to produce spiritual 
 indigestion. It's like feeding a rice-eater upon canned beef, 
 this insistent swap of religions." 
 
 " Religions? " quoted Malcolm " they're pagans." 
 
 " And yet one of the holiest men I ever knew was a 
 Buddhist," I contended this talk having carried me back to 
 a sweet memory " one Pathenine." 
 
 " There you are," said the Agnostic, " Christianity or 
 a belief in religion, you see, is not necessary to produce the 
 finest quality of human." 
 
 " In his case it was," I objected ; " it was his faith in the 
 Buddhist religion, which is not so very dissimilar from our 
 own. He was held to his high moral plane by the Bud- 
 dhistic Christ Gautama." 
 
 " But would that simple faith be sufficient for the higher 
 mental development that people living in America or Europe 
 possess?" queried Bain. "It may have held good in your 
 Burman's case ; no doubt he was a man of the jungle." 
 
 "Indeed, he was not; he was cashier in the Bank of 
 Bengal in Akyab, an educated man, and a fine Shakespearian 
 scholar, too, at that." 
 
 " Hadn't we one such in our own village? " declared the 
 Agnostic, " John Lancey. I mention his case to disprove 
 
 145
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 your argument, Cameron, that a man must believe in the 
 Unseen to be superlatively good in the evident. For twenty 
 years John was never inside a church, and when he died 
 every man, woman, and child was at his funeral, and it 
 was felt that the sweetest, most honorable man in the whole 
 village had gone ! " 
 
 " He was a rare man," affirmed Malcolm. " If ever there 
 was a human that didn't need spiritual sustaining it was Lan- 
 cey. But that state was not because he didn't accept religion : 
 it was because he didn't know how to be bad, he was bred ab- 
 solutely right. His mother and his father were Church peo- 
 ple, and he never went wrong. But there's Crowley, and 
 there's Blake, and Smiley, and MacPhedran they were 
 vomiting their souls into the Devil's caldron, that's what 
 they were doing. God! man, I've seen them till my heart 
 ached. They were good workmen Crowley was as fine a 
 carpenter as ever drove a plane, but the drink turned him into 
 a poor, useless tool, and a demon to his family. And what 
 saved them they're men now? Was it teaching them there 
 was no God to look after them ? No, a servant of God " 
 Bain lowered his voice till it fell short of Jean's ears and 
 whispered, " Neil Munro with the power of God over him, 
 pulled those weaklings back from the mouth of the pit, and if 
 you asked them to go back to the old life because some one in 
 the church had cheated, they'd look on you as insane." 
 
 " You mustn't count me on your side," I said laughingly 
 to the Agnostic; " though I have little faith in the missions, 
 yet, like Bain here, I think we'd be very badly off without 
 something to make fast to. Life is an erratic flood, and we're 
 cockle-shell craft at best." 
 
 " God is indeed deified by some," the Agnostic asserted ; 
 146
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " good results are attributed to His influence, and bad happen- 
 ings to the Evil One's machinations. The men you speak of, 
 Bain, were strengthened by the influence of an enthusiastic 
 human. He opened their eyes by a living picture of their 
 own loss, physically " 
 
 I felt a hand on my shoulder. Bain and the Agnostic 
 rose together. " Good day, Mrs. Cameron." 
 
 The Memsahib, leaning over the bench back, said, to my 
 astonishment, in an even tone: " Don't let me interrupt you, 
 Major." 
 
 Inwardry I smiled, for I could see that he did not relish 
 the idea of continuing in the presence of the Memsahib. 
 
 " I was just saying," he continued, " that organic results 
 are credited often to visionary causes ; an argument without 
 correlative proof must be weak : it's like believing in clairvoy- 
 ants and spiritualists. There is no such thing as influence 
 upon the mind other than that which can be conveyed materi- 
 ally, physically by sight, or sound, or touch ; pain teaches us 
 fear, and having seen pain removed or alleviated, we get hope ; 
 and we come to have faith in others by having seen their 
 words come true. Theosophists, with their Mahatmas and 
 their esoteric projections, are not greater humbugs than some 
 Christians who juggle with God's spirit, using it as a scourge, 
 or a reward, its very inefficacy of nonexistence rendering it 
 the more terrible to those who dread the unseen, the un- 
 known." 
 
 " You mean, Major, that there's no interchange of spirit 
 influence except by words, or sight, or touch in fact, that it 
 would need a transmission of a message from one mind to an- 
 other, outside of one of these three manifestations, to prove 
 you are wrong, for instance? " the Memsahib asked quietly. 
 
 147
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " Yes, Mrs. Cameron ; I think that's my point of view." 
 
 " Well, Major, if you will kindly come with me to the 
 nursery I think I can convince you that there is still something 
 in the universe your logic cannot account for. And we must 
 have the others as witnesses." 
 
 The Memsahib smiled very gently into my wondering eyes 
 as we rose to follow her lead. I was glad to see Jean come 
 as eagerly as the others. 
 
 Upstairs, our footsteps hushed by a strange expectancy, 
 we crept noiselessly, and at the nursery door Memsahib put 
 a finger to her lips warningly. We tiptoed gently into the 
 room and the Memsahib pointed toward the cot upon which 
 the twins, Elsie and Beatrice, were lying asleep. At once I 
 understood her strategy, for we had often discussed in won- 
 derment the phenomenal unity of spirit that governed the lit- 
 tle girls' actions. 
 
 One twin was a replica of the other in posture. They 
 were lying on their left sides, exactly alike ; left hand under 
 cheek, and the right folded sweetly across a plump little chest, 
 even the restful droop of each head was the same. 
 
 It was not necessary for the Memsahib to speak. The 
 Agnostic took in the full significant beauty of the scene, and 
 I think it suffused his being with the same gentle wonderment 
 that it did ours. 
 
 But Memsahib was only half done with her experiment. 
 She rocked the foot of the cot gently back and forth on its 
 castors; just enough to half rouse the little ones from their 
 deep slumber. With a deeper breath, a little sigh, Elsie un- 
 curled her arms, and turning over, rested with one chubby 
 hand folded over the other. While one could count five we 
 stood in breathless suspense, waiting we all understood. 
 
 148
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 With what intensity I watched a sign of compliance from 
 Bee. Ah ! I could have shouted in triumph, for, as if called 
 by a voice in slumberland, Bee turned, her fingers groped for 
 each other, then they, too, were united. 
 
 Memsahib put the light cover softly over the little ones, 
 and turning, I saw two great tears pearling Jean's eyes. 
 
 As softly as we had come up the stairs we went down 
 again, I explaining to the Major that the Memsahib called me 
 to the nursery almost nightly to see this beautiful, mysterious 
 spirit-arranged tableau. 
 
 Outside the Major said : " Thank you, Mrs. Cameron ; 
 that's the most beautiful sight I have ever seen." 
 
 " Yes," the Memsahib answered, " from the first a BaBe 
 has confounded the philosophers, and ' Of such is the King- 
 dom of Heaven.' The sublime wisdom of Jesus asserted it- 
 self when He said, ' Suffer little children to come unto me,' 
 for there is no element in the world so powerful to alle- 
 viate sorrow or to keep the heart pure and good as the pres- 
 ence of little children." 
 
 I think the two men would have liked to have kissed this 
 wise little woman ; I did, and so did Jean. 
 
 The Memsahib's object lesson had the curious effect of 
 causing the argument to pass into oblivion. 
 
 The Major, whether he felt defeat or not, had the deli- 
 cacy to convey that impression, and at the same time sustain 
 the sweet ending by remaining theologically silent; in fact, 
 with protective discrimination he took up the matter of the 
 Twins' affinity. 
 
 " Their resemblance is remarkable," he said, " even for 
 twins; I can't tell them apart." 
 
 " Nobody can," claimed Memsahib very proudly ; " I am 
 149
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 always being corrected myself by one or the other for mis- 
 naming them. I am always hearing, ' I'm not Elsie, Mother, 
 I'm Bee ' ; or the other way about. In fact, to the family, the 
 name ' Twinnie ' has become absolutely necessary. It's ' here 
 Twinnie,' or ' waft a minute Twinnie ' that saves investiga- 
 tion at close range." 
 
 As an interested partner I contributed some facts out of 
 my own knowledge, saying: " They always weigh exactly the 
 same. If one becomes ill the other seems to fall away in flesh 
 too; we've never found them an ounce apart." 
 
 " But if one gets anything measles, or cold, or croup, 
 the other one is sure to get it," Memsahib interposed. " If 
 Bee hurts herself, Elsie cries, and if Elsie is sent to her room 
 in punishment, Bee goes and sits with her." 
 
 " What do they think about it themselves," the Major 
 asked " or do they think separately ? " 
 
 " They must have different viewpoints," answered the 
 Memsahib, " for they quarrel." 
 
 "About who's who?" questioned the Major, with a 
 laugh. 
 
 " One of their quarrels was about well, it was this way : 
 They were in bed with the chickenpox, and Sarah heard 
 them crying. When she went to the nursery she found they 
 had fallen out over the momentous question as to which had 
 the greater number of pockmarks on her face. To pacify 
 them Sarah had to count, and Bee, defeated, made it honors 
 easy by contending that she had more on her body. And yet 
 they're curiously mixed themselves over each other's identity. 
 I observed Elsie looking in the mirror one day, and casually 
 asked her what she saw there? She promptly answered, ' I 
 see Bee.' " 
 
 150
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " You're to be congratulated Doctor, on having such a 
 pair of little girls," the Major said, provoking a pleased smile 
 from the Memsahib. 
 
 "I'm being eclipsed," I retorted. " When I first came to 
 the village I was known as Allis Bransford's husband, now 
 I am known as the ' Father of the Twins.' " 
 
 Bain laughingly declared he must go, saying there was 
 a meeting of the elders that evening in the church. 
 
 He hung for a little over the gate, allowing the Major to 
 move away. 
 
 " Our Agnostic got a black eye over his materialistic argu- 
 ment," he said, his big shoulders trembling from a suppressed 
 chuckle. 
 
 " What's the meeting about, Bain? " I asked. 
 
 " A section are determined to extend a call to the Rev. 
 Donald Grey, and I've got to fight against it. If they get 
 their way they'll have fine punishment coming though, for he's 
 a narrow-minded busybody if there ever was one in the minis- 
 try. But I must be going." 
 
 The Memsahib had gone into the house, and Jean looked 
 up at me from a book. 
 
 " After the Agnostic, Marie Corelli," I said, reading the 
 title; " from the silent velocity of the spinning top to the 
 clatter of a falling pan! It's really wonderful how solemn 
 villagers like the hysterical in fiction ; I dare say Corelli has a 
 larger constituency here than Dickens." 
 
 " Dickens was more stertorous in his hysterics," Jean an- 
 swered. " Yes, Marie Corelli is hysterical ; she is heretical, 
 devotional, emotional, vivacious, dull, clever, stupid I sup- 
 pose she is intensely human I mean she mirrors forms 
 that we could find right here in our own village, speaking a
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 different language, a different cut to their coats; and some of 
 Mane's people are altogether as small of soul as vile in their 
 Cainlike brotherhood as some we have." 
 
 " You are still listening, Jean, to the voices of the after- 
 noon, the one voice. The Agnostic's tongue leaves a sting 
 that festers. Why can't you remember just the beautiful, the 
 simple discomfiture of the wise man by babes? That's really 
 God's answer to such things ' by works shall ye know 
 them.' Could the Agnostic, or the philosophic writers he 
 quotes from, create one alleviating panacea for the heart-sick- 
 ness of the world ? " 
 
 " The life here is beautiful, Doctor ; the children keep my 
 heart from starving; I sit in the shadow and they come with 
 their little hands and draw me forth into the sunshine, and 
 when their hands release me I go back into the vale of dark 
 shades." 
 
 " But the shadow will be all sunshine when the Creator 
 lets the full light in." 
 
 " When ! yes. But why should God wait until it is too 
 late? Why do graves yawn openly to close over drunkards 
 too late ? Why was my brother born to go down the aisle of 
 life between pews holding saintly ones pointing the finger of 
 scorn at him ? What has He done for me ? Since I was born 
 I have heard little else but talk of church and worship and 
 death, and I have tried to accept what the others profess to 
 take with closed eyes of belief. Why do I now doubt why 
 can't I accept it as His wise will what have I left undone 
 that a human being could have done to become reconciled to 
 God's will? I believe I sacrificed my earthly self to save my 
 soul. My husband did give himself absolutely to the Lord's 
 work, and could the Lord help him did He try ? " 
 
 152
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " I don't understand, Jean." 
 
 " No, you don't; you don't know, and you think I'm rebel- 
 lious through lack of grace. But what is to soften me? If 
 the Maker's love is a relentless persecuting semblance of hate 
 and destruction how am I to incline my heart toward Him? " 
 
 " I must keep the Agnostic away, Jean," I said firmly ; 
 " he's doing you harm." 
 
 " The Agnostic is as powerless, as ineffectual one way or 
 the other, as are the revilers or the consolers across the way ; 
 just words they utter, meaningless words. It is the terrible 
 actualities, the fearful ruin of the bodies and souls of those 
 I love that burns my heart to ash, and withers my own soul 
 till it is but a torturing spirit." 
 
 Jean saw in my eyes the pain her words caused, and the 
 heart she had spoken of as ash throbbed warm and generous 
 in an instant. She put her hand on my arm, and leaned her 
 face close under mine, her big black eyes welled full of tears 
 as she pleaded : " Forgive me I pain you ; I am weak, mis- 
 erably ungrateful for your care. O my God! how can I 
 keep in faith or hope ! You would pity me more than you do 
 if I could tell you everything, but I can't I can't; I'm 
 so alone ! " 
 
 " You're with friends, Jean; you're not alone." 
 
 " I know I have friends here at the Hedge, but I am like 
 a stranger in a great city; he sees faces and forms they 
 throng about him they encompass him on every side, but he 
 can't go to them and lay his heart bare." 
 
 " If it will do you good, Jean, you can confide in me, tell 
 me everything." 
 
 " I can't I can't! I must just sit in solitude there is no 
 one." 
 
 11 153
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " There is God," I said. 
 
 " No, not even Him. I cannot be a hypocrite, ask Him to 
 help me, and rebellion in my heart. I have been tried till I 
 am broken. Nothing but destruction for all that I love. I 
 am like Rachael weeping in the wilderness for her children 
 desolate; and out of the wilderness come not words of 
 Christian sympathy, but a mocking echo like the voice of 
 Bildad the Shuhite crying to Job that the affliction the Lord 
 had put upon him was because of his sins. Here in the vil- 
 lage are many Bildads seeking to put shame upon the name 
 of a man who wore his soul threadbare to make clear the way 
 of righteousness to them." 
 
 At once I knew. I sprang to my feet and paced the lawn, 
 schooling my mind to words that would take the sting out of 
 this serpent touch. Jean had at last heard of the village gos- 
 sip, I knew. 
 
 " That can't be so," I said at last in desperation ; " they 
 couldn't speak ill of Neil. Confide in me," I pleaded ; " tell 
 me what it is." 
 
 She handed me a letter, saying: " Read this, please, Doc- 
 tor, and tell me what I am to do. I must have some one to 
 talk to me about it. My mind is now drowning in a sea of 
 troubles I must cling to somebody or I shall sink." 
 
 Jean left me, passing swiftly into the house, and I knew 
 that the fierce storm that raged in her heart had driven up a 
 rain of tears. It would be a blessed relief. 
 
 I apostrophized the letter " So you are the lurking 
 devil." Unopened it scorched my hand its poison oozed 
 through the falsely dainty envelope. " A she-devil's work ! " 
 I muttered " the heartlessness of the sisterhood ! " 
 
 The mauve-colored envelope suggested to me the blue- 
 
 154
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 cowled monkshood that flaunts its purple bells above a poi- 
 soned stalk upon the western plains. With repugnance I 
 drew forth the sheet, traced by a pen dipped in spat-out 
 cobra's fluid. It was signed " A friend." Such a friend ! 
 
 The subtle wording might have deceived a mind less 
 acutely attuned by trial than Jean's, but even I saw that some 
 one, draped in the tartan of clanship, stabbed. I hid the ac- 
 cursed thing in my pocket and sat unutterably moody and de- 
 pressed, thinking. 
 
 The Memsahib's voice roused me, saying: " What has hap- 
 pened to Jean ? I heard her sobbing in her room, but she did 
 not answer to my knock what is it, husband? " 
 
 " She has had a letter " 
 
 " From Neil from her husband has she heard ? " 
 
 " No, it's from a Witch of Endor." I drew Jean's letter 
 from my pocket, but the Memsahib fended it away with her 
 hand, saying: " I won't touch it no, no! Tell me what is 
 in it." 
 
 "It's about Bain; and that people are blaming her for 
 keeping up the split in the church keeping the pulpit open 
 through Bain." 
 
 "What does Jean say?" 
 
 11 She's in revolt against everything. She's like a runaway 
 horse, galloping blind." 
 
 " Does she blame anyone for it? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Whom?" 
 
 " God." 
 
 " God! What are you saying, husband? " 
 
 " Yes, she blames Him for everything and the Church." 
 
 " It's the Agnostic's fault," Memsahib declared. 
 
 155
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " No, it's the fault of the Believers. She places as little 
 reliance on the Agnostic's deductions as I do ; but Jean's a wo- 
 man of strong feeling, and she's righting in the only way she 
 thinks she can." 
 
 " Give me the letter; I'll ask Jean to burn it." 
 
 " If we could only burn the witch that sent it. For want 
 of that sacrificial offering I think I'll burn this tempestuous 
 book. Marie Corelli and her spiritual exotics are not the best 
 thing for Jean in her present state," I declared, picking up the 
 novel. 
 
 " Nonsense ! Jean has read her Bible and I'll trust in that 
 inspired book to hold its own against all others. Give me the 
 novel, I'll take it up to Jean. It might rain and spoil it." 
 
 Little the Memsahib cared about the destruction of one 
 of Marie Corelli's novels, I knew, but it was a curious evil 
 that she couldn't turn into a path of good, and this would be 
 utilized as a plea for entry to Jean's room, with much gentle 
 consoling sympathy. 
 
 At nine o'clock in the evening Bain called just long 
 enough to tell me about the meeting of the elders. 
 
 " Man, but they were obdurate," he said. ' Those that 
 were for keeping the pulpit for Munro had been forced to 
 give in for the sake of peace in the church, and were for ex- 
 tending a call to the Reverend Grey. The best I could do 
 was a compromise, a month as we are, with Supply, and then, 
 if Neil is not found, we're to give Grey a call. I got the 
 month by standing out against the little busybody; then I 
 agreed to having him in exchange for a month's wait."
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 |T was after this fashion that days succeeded 
 each other at Lilac Hedge. They were like a 
 weather indicator that varied its color with at- 
 mospheric change, some bright the days that 
 were left to ourselves were like this and some 
 darkened by an evil atmosphere surcharged with enmity. And 
 all the time absolute silence from the mystery; no decisive 
 note either of hope or despair. 
 
 The Hedge life might have been styled a battle between 
 the sustaining influence of materialism and the depressing 
 effect of a somber spiritualism that hovered over our heads, a 
 dark, rainless cloud. Some finality from this shroud of mys- 
 tery, like a fierce downpour of rain from the ominous cloud, 
 would have cleared the atmosphere. 
 
 One day by chance I overheard a discussion on these lines 
 between Jean and the Memsahib. They had drifted into it 
 casually through Jean speaking gratefully of how everybody 
 at the Hedge strove to cast sunshine into her life. Not only 
 because of the unsolvable mystery enshrouding her husband's 
 disappearance, but because of the unborn babe, Jean's present 
 condition of mind was pessimistic, morbid, deepening the act- 
 ual shadows, and feeling less of warmth from the sunshine; 
 
 157
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 so from a pleased recital of the many little things that were 
 always turning up as helps, she passed into a criticism of the 
 inefficacy of that which should have been her real sustaining 
 force Christianity, or specifically the Church and the 
 Church people. 
 
 This was particularly distressing to the Memsahib; not 
 only on account of her faith in God's wise protective power, 
 but because of its ultimate evil effect upon Jean's peace of 
 mind. So she combated the morbid one's reflections sturdily. 
 I heard her saying in a resolute, well-modulated tone: " Jean, 
 the very things you speak of as being helpful, are they not of 
 God's ordering too? Is He only a Being of shadow does 
 He only exist in the present trials you have, and which w r ill 
 pass away? Is not the sunshine His; the flowers; the beau- 
 tiful little valley with its silver stream where you were almost 
 happy the other day? If we help brighten your life here are 
 not we of God's creation does not He give us the power 
 to do the little we have done? The children, are not they of 
 the Creator's giving? And your own baby, Jean " 
 
 I saw the Memsahib put her hand upon Jean's cheek, and 
 turn her face within reach of a kiss " hasn't God been merci- 
 ful and kind to you to give you something sweet to live for ? 
 And when your baby is in your arms I know what you'll do, 
 Jean; you'll just thank Him for the gift. And that little 
 baby will do for you just what the infant Christ did for the 
 world reconcile you to your Maker. That one thought 
 should keep you safe from all doubts, make you brave to stand 
 all that may come to you in your hour of trial." 
 
 What sophistical logic could stand against that plea? It 
 seemed to me that the Memsahib's wise purity of thought was 
 like the undimable beauty of the Pleiades in their unchange- 
 
 I 5 8
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 able path across the heavens, beautiful beyond count and in- 
 exorably steadfast, so unchangeable. As it is in the book of 
 Job : " Canst thou bind the sweet influence of the Pleiades, or 
 loose the bands of Orion?" 
 
 Listening shed a new light upon the value of that which 
 I had deemed but a casual transpiring of little happenings. 
 Were we all stars in a firmament of destiny following out an 
 ordered routine, or was it just the necromancy of Memsahib's 
 simple earnestness that gilded the trivial episodes with the 
 gold leaf of dignified value? 
 
 In fact, I needed the mental tonic that carried in her 
 words, almost as much as did Jean, for I was beginning to 
 find this forced absorption in the small things of daily life 
 making sad inroads into my power of, what I was pleased to 
 call, real work. My novel which Doctor Monteith had 
 praised so valiantly had, owing to its comatose state in the 
 book market, all but guillotined my prospects. Publishers 
 caring little for merit, that is, the merit which every author 
 believes his work holds are indissolubly wedded to the mone- 
 tary value of a book; the public are the sole arbiters of the 
 penman's fate, unless, of course, he is either so rich that he 
 can continue his writing as a pleasurable exercise, or so poor 
 that he is willing to die at any time and leave the books to 
 wait for the generation they are written for. Of course, 
 even then, it is but an advanced section of the omnipotent 
 Public. 
 
 But there, sitting by the open window, surrounded by my 
 defeated literary soldiers, I stole a portion of the stimulus of 
 bravery that Memsahib was lavishing, out of her fullness, 
 upon Jean, and formulated a heterogeneous plan. I would 
 keep pegging away with the quill, and impress into our mis- 
 
 159
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 sion of sustaining Jean all the episodes of distraction I could 
 lay hands upon, accidental or premeditated. 
 
 Thus alert, these wished-for mind simples came tumul- 
 tuously, and I built a barricade of them to wall out the 
 skeleton. 
 
 One day we made a discovery that, in the spring, David 
 had planted Memsahib's bulbs upside down. Lilies long over- 
 due are an invisible irritant, generally ending in a delve of dis- 
 covery; and Memsahib, who had faithfully watered the abid- 
 ing place of these sluggish tubulars, her patience now ex- 
 hausted, solved the mystery with a trowel. There were the 
 blanched shoots of the rare bulbs patiently retracing their 
 steps, after a futile journey downward in search of the home 
 of their infancy, China. 
 
 We all laughed even Jean except Memsahib, who 
 looked very reproachfully at David. 
 
 David was general handy man about the village, consid- 
 erably more of an expert at spade work than artistic gar- 
 dening. Indeed his very excelling profession was sawing 
 wood; he held some sort of a record for this, having sawn 
 and split a cord of wood in a fabulously short time in a 
 competition. 
 
 David was present when Memsahib unearthed the re- 
 versed bulbs and seemed as much astonished and perplexed as 
 anyone could well be. He took off his straw hat, rubbed a 
 hand across his wrinkled brow, puckered his lips, and at first 
 could only think of his favorite expression, " Well I'm gol- 
 danged ! if that don't beat all ! " 
 
 This suggested something else and he added : " And me so 
 careful wit' 'em, too. I remember as well as if 'twas yester- 
 day, I wet me thumb and rubbed the pimply end of that root 
 
 1 60
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 a-lookin' fer the seed pod." He illustrated this by rubbing his 
 chin. Something came of this process, for he brightened up 
 with a plausible explanation of the mystery. " Well, I'm 
 gol-danged I might a-knowed! I don't like to say nothin' 
 about a man in the same line of business, but I'll bet anything 
 I know the very duck as turned 'em roots over. I ain't men- 
 tionin' no names " and David winked solemnly at me 
 " but he done it right 'nough. 'Tain't the first dirty trick he's 
 played me." 
 
 As old Joe Haney was the only other " man in the same 
 line o' business," we felt that he stood convicted. At any rate, 
 David trudged away quite satisfied that he had turned his un- 
 fortunate mistake to profitable account, and had put a spoke 
 in his rival's wheel. 
 
 Some of our household was always having more or less 
 business with David. I think as a rule the profit leaned his 
 way, while the lightsome pleasure was ours. 
 
 His own little garden fairly bristled with old-fashioned 
 flowers, and literally, David considered that a bloom would 
 smell as sweet by any other name, for he spoke of the nas- 
 turtiums as the " excursions," poppies this was excusable- 
 were " puppies," and the magnolia tree that bloomed on my 
 premises caused him many a rapturous tribute to its beautiful 
 " regalia blossoms." He always spoke of the shrubs as 
 " scrubs " ; the nicotine, in spite of its immaculate purity-sug- 
 gesting white flowers, to David was " Nicodemus," alyssum 
 was " Lizzie 'em." In fact he had a wonderful vocabulary of 
 popular names. 
 
 David would have made a great political economist. 
 With the little house he had rented the land was thrown in as 
 of no account. Having the land, David borrows a horse from 
 
 161
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 one man, a plow from another, and, lo! he has a garden. 
 Then he acquires seed potatoes on shares. 
 
 This summer he and Doo-doo combined over a wondrous 
 deal. David had a clutch of bantam eggs from somebody, to 
 hatch out on royalty, but no hen to undertake the job. One 
 of my Plymouth Rocks, possessed of the mother instinct, had 
 made herself so great a nuisance, interfering with her sis- 
 ters who were keeping our table supplied, that she had 
 been given two door knobs and a glass egg in a nest all by 
 herself. 
 
 Her ready acceptance of these unfecundible toys conveyed 
 the impression that Burroughs is right, that animals are not 
 as wise as we think them. 
 
 I believe that David had his eye on this hen when he ac- 
 quired that clutch of tiny eggs, for he fired Doo-doo's im- 
 agination with the delight of having a pair of " banties," until 
 she borrowed the old hen from me, and formed a partnership 
 with the gardener. 
 
 If the old hen had known anything of ornithology, I am 
 sure she would have thought that a cuckoo had deceived 
 David and herself when the brood of tiny chicks swarmed 
 about her like overgrown sparrows. 
 
 This deal fructified into a distraction for Lilac Hedge 
 when David brought Doo-doo her allotment, a chipper little 
 cock and a demure gray hen creature. But the dwellers in the 
 hen village, which was the stable and yard, were as cruel as 
 humans; they would none of the small strangers. Among 
 themselves the big full-bodied Rocks picked at and bullied 
 each other, but they all united in aversion to the helpless 
 mites. Instead of joy the banties brought sorrow and tears 
 to sympathetic Doo-doo. Indeed, their condition was pitiful; 
 
 162
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 they were like two child waifs thrown on the tender mercy of 
 a city. In pity I built a cage for them, and they were in- 
 stalled in a corner of the veranda, and soon were as much at 
 home as the dogs, or the cricket, the cage door often left open 
 for them to stretch their legs. 
 
 The rooster told us his name was " Chuck " ; many times 
 a day he repeated it, " Chuck, chuck, chuck, chuck, chuck! " 
 and his wee brown wife would plaintively add, " I am Pee- 
 wee, pee-wee, pee-wee ! " 
 
 The day Chuck discovered me in my study we had be- 
 come great friends he was filled with joy. " Chuck, chuck! 
 here he is here he is ! " he yelled ; and the wife she had 
 wandered far down the dark cavern of the hall came on the 
 run, crying, " Pee-wee, pee-wee! " 
 
 I liked them, because any little misdemeanor was soon 
 put right, and they told me no temper-trying stories of scan- 
 dal, and, I knew, considered me quite as great a man as was 
 anywhere in the world. 
 
 It was something to lift Jean out of a brooding fit, to call 
 her to see Chuck roosted on my chair, or, in the evening, when 
 he should have been in bed, bathing himself in the glow of my 
 grate fire. 
 
 She even laughed a strong audible chuckle at sight of 
 Chuck on one of my knees, and Blitz on the other, the 
 terrier tremendously jealous. I was really a Mountebank, 
 a psychological juggler, pitting little simples of this order 
 against such mighty interests as Jean's heart-trying be- 
 reavement, and her floundering in the slough of theological 
 despond. 
 
 My idea was to leave those two subjects alone, if I could, 
 believing, with the Memsahib, that when Jean's baby came 
 
 163
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 we could all give a great sigh of relief, knowing that the wise 
 gossips, and harsh fate had all been confounded. 
 
 The mystery over Neil would clear itself up or not just 
 as God decreed. All that could be done in the way of find- 
 ing him had been, and was being done. 
 
 164
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 I HEN I told the Memsahib of Bain's month of 
 grace just four Sabbaths in which the pulpit 
 would be held casual, she gave way to a fit of 
 despair; the tears welled up, and made violet 
 the blue-gray of her eyes. 
 " I knew there was something in the air," she said, " some- 
 thing dreadful, I felt so blue. If it were longer three 
 months, it wouldn't matter, not in the same way." 
 
 " What will be the effect on Jean ? " I asked. " Perhaps 
 her revolt against the Church will lessen the force of this 
 blow." 
 
 " It won't, I fear. She'll take it that they've given up 
 hope of Neil's being alive ; that's what I'm thinking of. And 
 it is hard enough for her to bear up. At any rate I won't 
 have the Rev. Grey coming to the Hedge." 
 
 Alas for the Memsahib's unwillingness to entertain the 
 probationer, Grey, he, meddlesome as Bain had described him, 
 quite took the matter out of our hands by assuming the role 
 of spiritual consoler to the wife of him he was pleased to 
 call " his dear colleague in the ministry." In reality he was 
 seeking to soften his own nest with the down of her quiescent 
 acceptance of his Pastorate. 
 
 l6 5
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 It was the day following his first temporal occupation of 
 the pulpit that he called upon Jean, to impress upon her the 
 solace that was to be found in a meek acceptance of the cross 
 God had put upon her. 
 
 Unfortunately for his mission, Jean detected that he had 
 been primed and was really come to school her, and for his 
 own benefit. 
 
 I think he was a bigot, Bain had hinted as much. Jean 
 knew as well as we did that she needed buoying up with hope. 
 I think she would have clutched eagerly at even false hope. 
 
 " Tell me that Neil is not dead say it again ! " That 
 was the cry of her desolate heart; and when the narrow little 
 schemer talked of resignation, she gave him an uncomfortable 
 quarter of an hour. 
 
 I didn't hear it, nobody did, for we had discreetly left 
 them alone in my study. In fact, I rather fancied the rousing 
 of combative energy in Jean w r ould do her good; the little 
 minister would help her in a way he had not intended. 
 
 However, his face told the story of his non-success, as he 
 left, and the tails of his black coat appeared to jerk anath- 
 emas at the depraved people of Lilac Hedge as he stalked 
 crossly up the street. 
 
 Jean had been strong enough for the officious minister, 
 but when he had gone inevitable reaction cast her prone, face 
 buried in a pillow, where she was found by the Memsahib. 
 
 The Reverend Grey was still in sight as the Agnostic 
 came leisurely along under the maples, and leaned up against 
 my gate, nodding to me pleasantly as I stood on the lawn. 
 I believe he had been waiting for the departure of the min- 
 ister. 
 
 " Yon is a sample of a man's serving two masters," the 
 166
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 Agnostic observed ; " he's credited to the Lord, but casts a 
 number of fish into the Devil's net, I'm thinking." 
 
 " I thought you didn't believe in the Devil," I answered. 
 
 " I was speaking figuratively," he replied. " I mean that 
 busybody has a little hell of his own that he draws people into. 
 And the worst of it is, I believe he's kind of honest in it ; he's 
 built in proportion his soul, and his heart, and his mind are 
 cast in a small mold, like himself. He shoves his religion 
 down people's throats, and if they don't swallow it he thumps 
 them on the back. I've seen more than one man, half-stran- 
 gled by his dose of threatened God's anger, spew it up again, 
 and swear he'd rather have the disease than the cure. He'll 
 suit some of them here fine, though. He's a grand hand at 
 church dogmas ; and he'll give them long sermons. He's fond 
 of the rattle of his own tin-pan voice." 
 
 " He has been saying a few words to Mrs. Munro," I re- 
 marked. 
 
 " Well, I hope he had the good sense to try to brighten 
 her up a bit, but it's almost certain he didn't." 
 
 " Say, Doctor, the Major here's got yon little man down 
 pretty fine." 
 
 I turned half crossly at Sweeny's words. The teamster 
 had been putting in a load of coal, and coming with the bill, 
 had evidently stood behind my back listening to the Agnos- 
 tic's remarks. 
 
 But the twinkle in Sweeny's blue Irish eyes was always 
 sufficient to disarm resentment with me. 
 
 " Oh, I know you Reverend duck purty well," Sweeny 
 added, seeing himself unchecked ; " the Major's ticked him off 
 to a turn. It was him made all the trouble down to Plymp- 
 ton tryin' to bury a man afore he was dead." 
 
 167
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " That's a grewsome subject for a joke, Sweeny," I re- 
 monstrated. 
 
 " I tell you, b'ys, it's no joke, it's the God's truth. I 
 was there mesilf at the time. Jack Cavanagh that kept the 
 tavern at Kelly's Corners eight miles beyond Plympton, got 
 hurted wit' a runaway team, an' he was purty bad. A man 
 comes up to the Corners from Plympton Saturday mornin' an' 
 says Jack ain't got an hour to live. 
 
 " Minister Grey Man alive! you couldn't have a litter 
 of pups born in Plympton but he'd know of it he gets to 
 hear that Cavanagh is dyin'. Then he gets frettin' fer fear 
 the Sabbath'd be desecrated by diggin' a grave Sunday if they 
 waited to hear final from Kelly's Corners. You see, b'ys, 
 Cavanagh'd have to be tuk up to Plympton fer plantin'. So 
 the Minister tells old man Woolly that's in charge of the 
 buryin' ground, to dig a grave fer Cavanagh; an' Woolly, 
 thinkin' Cavanagh is dead, tells everybody. You see it was 
 terrible hot weather, fierce ! I 'member I was hauling gravel 
 on the Town line, an' the horses'd sweat standing still till 
 there'd be little puddles of water at their feet. Well, that's 
 what their hurry was about, he'd have to be buried Sunday. 
 So all his friends in Plympton an' he had a swarm of 'em 
 passes the word, an' goes off down to Kelly's Corners fer 
 the funeral. I'm not sure, but I think the undertaker got 
 word an' went. Anyway to make a long story short, there 
 was Cavanagh sittin' up in bed takin' nourishment, just 
 cheatin' the hole in the ground they dug fer him. An' he got 
 all right, too. Snakes! but there was a row about that, and 
 no mistake ! " 
 
 Laughing at the success of his story, the teamster made off ; 
 a few minutes later the Agnostic followed him. 
 
 168
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 Making all allowance for the Agnostic's cynical overrat- 
 ing of professing Christians' uncharitableness, I felt that his 
 summing up of Grey's character had been true in the main, 
 and that the latter's advent would not lessen the mischievous 
 scandals. 
 
 These thoughts were painfully confirmed the next even- 
 ing. 
 
 Miss Harkett whisked in to us at the Hedge, her beautiful 
 wavy gray hair vibrating with electrical disturbance. 
 
 " My, my ! " whispered the Memsahib to me, " Teacher 
 is excited; something has happened; it puts me all on edge 
 when she comes in that state." 
 
 " And Jean will absorb telepathically this nervous de- 
 moralization," I whispered back. " Hurry up, capture 
 Teacher; rush her into my study, and let her unload the ter- 
 rible something." 
 
 Miss Harkett had stopped to shake hands with Jean. I 
 heard her saying something, and she appeared nervous and 
 excited. 
 
 " For Heaven's sake ! grab her before she lets the cat out 
 of the bag," I muttered. 
 
 " Are you going in, Mrs. Cameron ? " Teacher said as 
 Memsahib rose. 
 
 " Yes, will you come too? we'll talk about that hymn." 
 
 They disappeared through the door. I could hear the 
 drone of their voices in my room, and presently the Memsahib 
 called, asking where I had put the matches, she wanted a 
 light. 
 
 "Brilliant idea!" I whispered to myself, "with match 
 safes all over the house." I went in, knowing that I was 
 wanted. 
 
 12 169
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " Close the door, please," Memsahib commanded. 
 " What do you suppose has happened now ? " she asked 
 next. 
 
 " The Kirk's gone over to Rome," I answered. I knew 
 that only Church matters agitated little Teacher to the edge 
 of collapse. 
 
 " They're saying that Jean is an atheist." 
 
 " Indeed they are," Teacher confirmed. 
 
 "Who are they!" 
 
 " The Sewing Circle Set," Memsahib answered. 
 
 " But, my dear girl, that's what they meet for to crucify 
 somebody, isn't it? The last victim was that poor girl whom 
 they drove out of town until she really did go wrong. You 
 know who I mean Miss Miss " 
 
 " This is worse," the Memsahib interrupted me. 
 
 " Of course, it's worse to us it comes nearer home." 
 
 " Miss Harkett was there and heard them, so there's no 
 mistake about it," Memsahib declared. 
 
 " It was just dreadful! " wailed little Teacher. " Mrs. 
 MacFarlane declared Jean was like Peter, that she denied the 
 Lord and to Minister Grey's own face." 
 
 " So much the worse for Grey it's his fault," I com- 
 mented. 
 
 " And Mrs. McRae said that she was learning pagan 
 signs and things from the Agnostic. And Mrs. MacMillan 
 said that Malcolm Bain was always about her, and that she 
 was putting him up to making trouble in the Church." 
 
 " You mean Widow MacMillan," I said " she set her 
 cap for Bain, and worried the poor man's life so that I was 
 afraid he'd have to marry her or leave the country. It's just 
 jealousy with her." 
 
 170
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " Grandma Murdock settled them," cried the Memsahib 
 gleefully. 
 
 "Indeed she did the dear old body!" confirmed 
 Teacher. 
 
 "Good for Grandma! How did she shut them up she 
 must have called out the hose reel." 
 
 " When Mrs. MacFarlane said that Jean denied the 
 Lord, Grandma turned on her My! she is such a gentle old 
 body I could hardly believe my ears when I heard it she told 
 Mrs. MacFarlane she ought to be ashamed to say such a 
 thing that Jean was a good woman, a better Christian than 
 many of those that prayed long and loud in public." 
 
 " How do you know that? " snapped Widow MacMillan. 
 
 ' Yes, how do you know Jean Munro's a God-fearing 
 
 woman,' asked Mrs. MacRae ; ' she's that proud she'll speak 
 
 to nobody, cutting her betters. Does she confide in you, Mrs. 
 
 Murdock?' 
 
 1 ' She does with her troubles what you ought to do, she 
 takes them to the Lord and not to the town pump ; and not 
 when people are looking to say how holy she is, either.' " 
 
 " Good for Grandma splendid ! " I exclaimed enthusias- 
 tically. 
 
 " You should have seen the vindictive look on Mrs. Mac- 
 Rae's face, for it was a home thrust," said Teacher. 
 
 " ' And how do you know that Mrs. Munro takes her 
 trouble to the Lord in prayer if there's no one to see her do it, 
 Mrs. Murdock?' sneered Mrs. MacMillan; and the others 
 laughed spitefully, thinking they had her trapped. 
 
 " ' I'll tell you how I know,' went on Grandma; ' it is a 
 sacred private thing, but thank goodness you can't make scan- 
 dal of it if I do tell you. Mrs. Munro's bedroom at the Hedge 
 
 171
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 faces my kitchen, and often when I'm busy there at night I can 
 see her against the blind. And if you'll just clean your minds 
 while I tell it, 'cause it's a sacred thing, I've seen her shadow 
 as she knelt beside her bed in prayer. Not a dip down and up 
 again, but as long as some of you bow your heads in church. 
 Now, tell me, would an atheist do that or one that denied 
 the Lord?'" 
 
 " Good for Grandma! " I reiterated, my heart just warm 
 for the faithful old body. 
 
 " They hadn't a word to say," added Teacher. " But 
 Widow MacMillan she's spiteful wouldn't let up about 
 the other matter. She said : ' It's common talk that Neil 
 Munro was jealous of Malcolm Bain and I don't wonder 
 at it.' " 
 
 " I'll bet Grandma scored them over that, too, didn't 
 she? " I was eager to know. 
 
 " Mrs. Murdock turned on the Widow like a flash and 
 said : ' You ought to be ashamed ! You had a good man 
 yourself, and you're a mother, and I'll tell you something else 
 to still your nasty tongues ' " 
 
 Miss Harkett stopped abruptly, and looked hopelessly at 
 Memsahib. 
 
 " What did she say " I began, with great stupidity; but 
 the Memsahib frowned at me, and I stepped over to turn 
 down the lamp a little it was smoking. " By Jove ! " I 
 said, " it's a wonder the chimney didn't break." 
 
 This diversion gave little Teacher a chance ; she was quite 
 flustered. I turned from the lamp, that was really all right, 
 and walked out on the lawn. 
 
 172
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 HAD seen nothing of Robert Craig for three 
 days ; in fact, I had thought little of this, for 
 on two or three occasions during the past 
 month he had suddenly disappeared from 
 lona for a couple of days. I had taken a 
 pessimistic view of these physical elisions, surmising that 
 they were drinking bouts in York, for the poor boy appeared 
 utterly incapable of restraint. 
 
 It was about ten o'clock on the morning following the 
 visit of Miss Harkett that Malcolm Bain came to the Hedge, 
 and I could see from his affected casuality of manner that 
 there was something in the wind. 
 
 Jean was in the hammock, and the Memsahib had the ver- 
 anda looking like an auctioneer's mart with rugs and chairs, 
 while the open door and the swish of an active broom within 
 proclaimed that it was sweeping day. 
 
 " I came to tell you that you've been appointed a delegate 
 jointly with me to represent the society at York," Bain said 
 presently, and from the pitch of his voice, which was usually 
 low, I knew that this was meant more for Jean's ears than 
 for mine. As I belonged to no secret society I was naturally 
 fuddled over Bain's enigmatical message. Luckily I caught his 
 
 173
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 eye, and there a ponderous wink promptly initiated me into 
 whichever order he had pitched upon as an excuse for carry- 
 ing me off to York. 
 
 " That's really too bad," I objected, falling in with his 
 humor; "I'm busy." 
 
 " Oh, it'll not take you away for long," he replied cheer- 
 fully; "we'll be back to-morrow." 
 
 " When do we start? " I asked. 
 
 "At noon." 
 
 " Well, I suppose I must go," I said resignedly; " I'll tell 
 the Memsahib. Won't you come into my study, Bain? I'd 
 like to get a line on what I'm to do at the meeting." 
 
 " Now what is it? " I asked when we were beyond Jean's 
 hearing. 
 
 Bain handed me a telegram. It had been sent from Buf- 
 falo by Robert, and read : 
 
 " Come at once ; found." 
 
 "Minister?" I said inquiringly. 
 
 "Yes; or Robert has been soaking in the accursed drink 
 till he's fair daft. Will you go, Doctor? " 
 
 We were in Buffalo that same night at nine o'clock, and 
 back in lona the next afternoon. Just one more frowsed 
 thread pulled from the tangled woof of Mystery. Nothing 
 definite nothing but a battered water-logged body, all that 
 remained of some man in whose pocket had been found a pulpy 
 card with the name " Munro " upon it. There was a flushed, 
 heavy-eyed boy, Robert, who insisted that the dead man was 
 Neil. But the trail down which the now dead had glided, 
 traced back by the sleuths, led not to the shadow of any kirk, 
 but to the Devil's playground, and I wondered that Robert 
 did not hold this as proof that the dead man could not be Neil. 
 
 174
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " It is impossible that the horrible thing we saw was Min- 
 ister," I said to Bain ; " it is too indefinite too unsolvable 
 for us to even mention it ; we must hold that Neil is alive un- 
 til there is no doubt over his death ; we must swear to secrecy 
 about this foolish find of Robert's he's just queer with so 
 much dissipation, and fancies things. If we were but to men- 
 tion the card on that body in lona, rumor would write it that 
 we had been with Neil in his last moments that we had 
 buried him. Think what a terrible thing it would be if he 
 were to come back alive after that it would be like Eugene 
 Aram." 
 
 A troubled look in Bain's face startled me into a recog- 
 nition of what import might be put upon my words. 
 
 " There are so many cases where men have been reported 
 dead and have come back," I added hastily, " and it would be 
 such a terrible blow to Jean, all the more vicious if it were un- 
 true." 
 
 Journeying back to lona my mind had recurred over and 
 over again to Robert's peculiar actions the day we visited the 
 manse. This unpleasant feeling had almost died out, but 
 now it broke forth again distractingly. I determined to con- 
 fide in Malcolm indeed, perhaps I should have done so be- 
 fore, for with him, whatever there was of a secret in it would 
 be as inviolate as with myself. So I related all the circum- 
 stances of Robert's peculiar actions that day. Put into words 
 it really sounded very little, nothing at all as it impressed 
 me, augmented by hardly shaped suspicions. 
 
 "We'd better have another look through the manse," 
 Bain said practically. " I expect that Robert was just a bit 
 flighty. When a man's pretty well soaked in alcohol his mind 
 is like a rain cloud, just drives here and there, whichever way 
 
 175
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 the wind blows. To tell you the truth," he continued, " this 
 hunt for Minister has been carried on in the wrong way 
 from the start; there was never any system pursued too 
 many cooks spoiling the broth; and at first no cooks at all 
 just, for Mrs. Munro, naturally enough, not thinking that 
 her husband was gone for good, said nothing for a day. Then 
 came the reports that he'd been seen going away on the 
 train. These were believed till they were found out to be 
 false. I think myself that he did go away, but there's no 
 proof. And the absence of proof in this direction is con- 
 fusing. How could a man, well known, like Munro, get 
 away without somebody seeing him ? It seems impossible. We 
 did search the country hereabouts, but we were late starting, 
 and at that it was more a matter of form, for we all thought 
 that he was away and would turn up at some place, or come 
 back." 
 
 " Is there another key to the manse? " I asked Bain. " It 
 might disquiet Jean if we went to her for the key." 
 
 "Yes, MacKay has one in charge; I'll get it." 
 
 When we returned home I ran the gantlet of a severe 
 trial. Before I had a chance to tell the Memsahib the real 
 business we were away upon, she, abetted by Jean, put me 
 through a jocose catechism about the meeting of the secret 
 society I was supposed to have attended. This illustrated 
 absolutely the constant overlapping of the tragic and the 
 comic in our lives; the heavy heart behind the mask of smiling 
 lips, the laugh that smothered a sigh. 
 
 Bain and I went together to MacKay, and in answer to 
 Malcolm's request, Donald said: " Yes, I've got a key o' the 
 manse." 
 
 After a search in his desk he added petulantly : " I wonder 
 176
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 if that careless young deevil brought it back, it doesna' appear 
 to be whaur it belongs, i' yon pigeonhole. I'm vera particu- 
 lar over Church property; a man should no trifle wi' the 
 Lord's belongings, and I wish others would just think the 
 same." 
 
 MacKay was angry now. He tossed papers about he 
 even searched his pockets. I saw him looking in the stamp 
 box. This was characteristic of MacKay; when excited he 
 added to the trouble in hand by worry. 
 
 " Man alive! " he exclaimed as we waited patiently. " It's 
 like when I used to lend my trout-rod; I'd no' come by it 
 again till I went after it." 
 
 "Who had the key?" Malcolm asked, as MacKay, 
 utterly nonplussed, stood in front of us, hands thrust deep in 
 his trousers pockets, and face puckered with angry disgust. 
 
 " Who had it let me see? I wonder if I left it home, I 
 wonder if he brought it to the house." Malcolm's question 
 had been driven, half-answered, from the Scot's mind by his 
 perturbation over the missing article. 
 
 "Who had the key from you?" Malcolm repeated stol- 
 idly. 
 
 "Who had it? that's what I'm asking mysel'. Who 
 was it now? Was it Minister Grey? No. Did you get it 
 yourself f rae me, Malcolm ? " 
 
 " Indeed I didn't! I'd have returned it if I had." 
 
 " Of course you would, man; you're vera particular, Bain, 
 I might ha'e known that. It would be just such a reckless, 
 godless lot as yon Robert Craig that would ha'e just treated 
 the key o' the manse to the residence of God's minister, 
 like he would an empty beer bottle, to be thrown away when 
 done for." 
 
 177
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " Was it Robert got the key ? " Malcolm queried impa- 
 tiently. 
 
 " Aye, the very man ! you've said it, Malcolm ! " 
 
 Bain and I glanced at each other. I suppose there was 
 a startled look in my eyes, there certainly was an enigmatical 
 expression in his. 
 
 " Why didn't you say so before, man ? " he asked MacKay. 
 
 " Aye, just that; it fair slipped my mind, bothered by the 
 loss o' the key. I remember vera well when he brought it 
 back " 
 
 " He did bring it back then ? " Malcolm asked. 
 
 " Aye; at least I'm thinkin' he did. I remember putting 
 it down here where I stamp the letters I was just closing 
 the mail for Kintyre, and was in a hurry and where is it 
 now? that's what I'd like to ken." 
 
 " It might have got shoved in there under the pads, be- 
 hind the shelf," Malcolm advised ; " look there, MacKay." 
 
 The pads were brushed to one side, some of them clatter- 
 ing to the floor; letters and papers were swirled into a whirl- 
 wind, and then, with a yell of triumph, MacKay dragged 
 forth the big brass key, adding complacently: "I knew it 
 couldna be lost ; I'm vera particular about Church property ; 
 everyone should be. Here it is, Malcolm. Be sure and 
 bring it back. And yon careless de'il'll no get it again, 
 I promise you that. All this worry just because when you 
 lend a man a thing he thinks you ha'e no further use 
 for it." 
 
 "I wonder what Robert was needing the key for?" I 
 said, as we walked to the manse. 
 
 " Most likely it was to get something for his sister," Bain 
 answered. 
 
 I 7 8
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " In that case she would have given him her own key," 
 I reasoned. " I don't like it at all. The boy is certainly 
 hiding something in his mind." 
 
 " He hid something in his pocket, you say, Doctor." 
 
 " Yes; what was that what do you suppose that could 
 have been, Malcolm?" 
 
 " I don't know. It may have been some compromising 
 letter, some kindly disposed woman might have written to 
 Munro about Robert." 
 
 There was a certain plausibility in Malcolm's suggestion, 
 but somehow it had not the slightest validity with me. I had 
 an intuitive feeling that whatever it was Robert had taken, 
 it had to do with Munro's disappearance. I knew absolutely, 
 it was like an inspiration, that soon or late I should find this 
 true. 
 
 We went at once to the study. I led the way with fever- 
 ish haste, dreading I knew not what. There would be some 
 new evidence there, some change. Robert would not have 
 gone there out of idle curiosity. 
 
 I searched the room like a detective, Bain contenting him- 
 self with a chair, saying, " I'll just wait, Doctor! I've not 
 been here before." 
 
 I noticed that Neil's gloves were gone from where I had 
 placed them on the desk; a smoking jacket that had hung on 
 the door of a little closet was not there. On an open shelf, 
 and attached to the wall, there was a collection of Indian 
 curios which Munro had brought from that country. A 
 brass prayer wheel from Thibet, with its enclosed long scroll 
 of prayers printed in red ink, still lay upon the open shelf; 
 but beside it was a blank space from which something had 
 been taken. I remembered well that at the time of my former 
 
 179
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 visit this little shelf had been quite full. I tried to remember 
 what had lain there. I ran over in my mind the odd Indian 
 trinkets I had made a mental note of. An Afghan knife, with 
 a jade handle, was certainly missing from where it had rested 
 on two nails driven into the wall just above the prayer wheel. 
 I had examined its long tapering point, sharp as a lance, and 
 had said something of its vicious look to Robert the day we 
 had been there together. 
 
 " What are you looking for, Doctor? " Bain asked pres- 
 ently. 
 
 " I'm trying to think what was on this shelf it's gone." 
 
 "What's the difference?" he commented; "perhaps a 
 trinket of just no value that Robert took a notion to. There's 
 something on the floor by your foot," he added in the same 
 breath " what's that? " 
 
 I picked the object up. It was a small mouthpiece, fash- 
 ioned from a bird's wing-bone evidently. 
 
 " It's like the reed of a bagpipe," Malcolm said, " but 
 most like it's the stem of a tobacco pipe." 
 
 " I think it is," I answered, " and I'm sure there was a 
 small Indian pipe here on the shelf." 
 
 " Well, I think we're wasting time," Malcolm said. " I 
 suppose Robert took those things. Neil may have given them 
 to him." 
 
 " There's been a fire in the grate since I was here," I 
 commented, poking in the ashes. 
 
 " Perhaps there were more letters that Robert wished to 
 destroy." 
 
 " But why did he burn the gloves and the coat? " I re- 
 torted, showing a leather thumb and some buttons. I darted 
 to the desk with something else in my hand. " And even 
 
 1 80
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 Munro's pens, they're gone. Here are nibs I fished out of the 
 ashes." 
 
 " Why should the boy burn those," Malcolm queried. 
 " It's mighty strange." 
 
 " It has something to do with that peculiar odor I 
 told you about, Malcolm." 
 
 " It's strange," Bain said solemnly. " That black-faced 
 wooden god, with the many arms, grinning on the shelf gives 
 me a creepy feeling." 
 
 " That's Kali, the Goddess of Cholera, the evil consort 
 of Siva the Destroyer," I explained. " And this mystery that 
 hangs over Neil's fate is just like her devilish reputation." 
 
 " I don't like these pagan things; they're like false gods," 
 Malcolm declared with a grimace of disgust. " I suppose it 
 was these queer implements of darkness that stirred the im- 
 agination of Maggie, Jean's servant, for she spread some 
 strange yarns about Munro it wouldn't take much cloth to 
 make an overcoat of scandal in lona, though; half an egg 
 shell, and there's a mare's nest with three dozen eggs in." 
 
 "What was Maggie's story I never heard of that?" 
 
 " I just came by snatches of it, a word here and a word 
 there that Neil used to shut himself up for a whole day or 
 longer, and the girl thought he was making magic." 
 
 " I suppose he was studying," I said ; " he was a great 
 student." 
 
 " Likely taking refuge in his Bible, and praying for 
 strength to bend the necks of the Philistines to the yoke. It 
 was here that Neil and Robert had the quarrel the night 
 before Minister walked out into the great silence." 
 
 " What did they quarrel about, Malcolm ? " 
 
 " I don't know nobody knows. I suppose Robert must 
 181
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 have come to Neil drunken ; perhaps Minister upbraided him 
 for it. It was Maggie who told of the row. At any rate, 
 Robert was drinking heavily the day Minister disappeared, 
 and he had been free from the accursed thing for months be- 
 fore." 
 
 " I am sure that Robert was the cause of Neil's going," I 
 said. " I wouldn't utter this thought to anyone but yourself, 
 Bain. We'll just keep silence over this suspicion. If it were 
 whispered through the village I believe it would kill Jean in 
 her present condition." 
 
 " Yes, her mind is sore troubled ; she's swimming in a sea 
 of calamity. Just a false report that her brother was sus- 
 pected of anything might put her out of her mind." 
 
 " It isn't the mind alone, Malcolm." 
 
 Nothing but love could have flashed the look of tender 
 concern from the Scot's strong eyes. 
 
 " Jean expects to become a mother," I answered. 
 
 If I had been a black-capped judge passing sentence of 
 death upon Bain, if I had been an elder rising in church to 
 denounce him as a heretic, my words could not have wrought 
 a greater change in his countenance. Bain's strong features 
 writhed in a struggle with tremendous emotion his face 
 darkened till his eyes became lurid in wrath. For a full 
 minute I watched him in the play of this fierce emotion. 
 
 " The hound ! the miserable cowardly hound ! " 
 
 I understood. Malcolm's passion became beatified. I 
 had almost misunderstood it. It was concern intensified by 
 the knowledge that a man could have deserted Jean at that 
 time of all others. 
 
 " Yes, Malcolm," I said, speaking at last, " you're justified 
 in your execration, if the husband, rational, sane, went away 
 
 182
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 giving no sign. But to my mind this proves one of two 
 things; he was either insane through overwork physically 
 broken to mental distraction, or else he is dead " 
 
 " My God! the poor girl! If the people who know this 
 say slanderous things of her they must be devils incarnate. 
 Thank God, Doctor, I'm strong enough to stand up for her, 
 and blest with enough to see that neither she nor the little 
 one ever wants. I never valued the money I came by much 
 till now. I'll tell you, Doctor " Bain came over beside me 
 and laid his hand on my shoulder " I can trust you, man, 
 and I'd like to say what's in my heart for just once; it seems 
 a fitting time. It's good for a man to let out the truth when 
 it can do no harm, and when it will be heard in trust. I tell 
 you I cursed the money. I worshiped Jean Craig, and I 
 thought that perhaps she loved me better than others. I 
 never spoke outright to her, I was afraid ; I knew she was too 
 good for me. Once or twice I was on the point of speaking, 
 to chance my hopes, but something in her manner told me 
 that I should fail. I was a coward I was afraid ; I came to 
 think that it was the money stood between us, that Jean 
 thought it was just a home with plenty I had to offer; and 
 not a man's love. I couldn't word my thoughts in her pres- 
 ence, I was just a blundering man, rough of speech. Un- 
 fortunately I spoke of it once that way, about taking care of 
 her, I never could put it right, even with myself. I'm awk- 
 ward at all times, but with Jean I was like a man drunk. 
 
 " She was always proud her father and her mother be- 
 fore her were that and I couldn't explain that it was love 
 and not pity. I know it was just because I was her father's 
 friend, almost his only friend at the finish, that Jean thought 
 I had taken upon myself to look after her future. Now I can 
 
 183
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 be just what she thought I was her father's friend and 
 I'm satisfied. My! my! little Jean a mother won't that be 
 beautiful! It will be a blessing straight from God." 
 
 Bain had gradually passed from fierce passion to earnest- 
 ness, and now to a sweet tenderness of thought like a 
 woman's. I gazed with rapture upon the great human giant 
 with his fine sensibility. A knight he was in his chivalry. 
 
 " A curious place we happened upon for this talk," Bain 
 said simply, and, as I thought, as apology to the absent hus- 
 band. 
 
 " It might have all been said with Munro present," I an- 
 swered. 
 
 " Aye, perhaps! But you've finished your look-about, Doc- 
 tor?" 
 
 A thought struck me and I slid open the drawer that 
 Robert had forced the lock of, saying: " I first got that odor 
 I spoke of here the drawer reeked of it. That's curious," 
 I continued, " some one has stripped this." 
 
 I pulled the drawer away from the desk and held it to my 
 nostrils; there was still a faint nauseating odor clinging to 
 its wood. I passed it to Malcolm, saying: " Do you detect 
 anything? " 
 
 " Yes ; there is a strange drug smell about it a heathen 
 taint like the smell of yon infidel prayer wheel." 
 
 " What do you think it is, Malcolm have you any 
 idea?" 
 
 " I've never got a whiff of the Devil's breath, but I think 
 it would be a bit like this. Still I think you're putting too 
 much store by it, Doctor, as a cause for consideration. What 
 could it have to do with Neil's disappearance ? " 
 
 I could see his eye searching my thoughts, as if he would 
 184
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 fathom something that I hesitated to express. I came back to 
 my former argument that it must have a strong bearing on 
 the mystery, because Robert, who knew something which we 
 did not, had been forced into a lie through the desk drawer 
 and its contents. 
 
 " Well, it's an elusive clew this, and will lead to noth- 
 ing," Malcolm declared. " Hadn't we better be going? " 
 
 " I want to take a look through the house," I answered, 
 " cellar and all. It will rest my mind." 
 
 We went down to the kitchen, Malcolm searching for a 
 candle. 
 
 " It won't take us long, anyway," he said, with the light 
 in his hand. " You look as though you expected to see a 
 ghost, Doctor," he added at the bottom of the cellar stairs, 
 holding the candle above his head, and scanning my face. " I 
 declare you're white about the gills." 
 
 I answered with a nervous laugh, and he led the way 
 into the coal cellar, and then into another storage room, con- 
 taining nothing but barrels and tubs. 
 
 Suddenly I heard an exclamation of surprise from Bain. 
 He had thrown open the door of a closet, and was holding a 
 bottle between his eyes and the candle light. He put the bot- 
 tle down and picked up another. This he replaced on the 
 shelf, and stood rubbing his chin contemplatively. 
 
 " What's the matter? " I asked. " Were you for a swig 
 at the bottle and found it empty?" 
 
 " It's empty, right enough, and so is the other one. But 
 there should be a dozen full ones here, and there are none." 
 
 "Full of what, Malcolm?" 
 
 " Communion wine for the sacrament." My silence car- 
 ried him on with an explanation. " The thrifty elders of the 
 13 185
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 Kirk get it in bulk once a year, and it has always been stored 
 here in the manse cellar. It was a good idea because I've 
 known of an occasion where, through forgetfulness, there was 
 no wine forthcoming for communion service. Man! it's 
 lucky I discovered this shortage, for next Sabbath is com- 
 munion, and we'd be depending on this for supply." 
 
 " What's become of it? " I queried. 
 
 "Aye, that's what's troubling me." 
 
 " Could somebody have broken in and stolen it? " I asked. 
 
 Malcolm pointed to the two empty bottles. " Besides," he 
 said, " the house has not been broached." 
 
 " Somebody in the house drank it, you think? It couldn't 
 have been Munro himself, he was bitter against drink. He 
 even raised his voice in protest against having wine on the 
 communion table," I protested. 
 
 " No, it wasn't Minister." 
 
 " Could it have been Robert? " I said hesitatingly. Then 
 carried on by this train of thoughts, my mind groping for 
 links in the broken chain, I added : " Robert was intoxicated 
 the night he quarreled with Neil. Can it be possible that 
 Munro caught him drinking this wine? " 
 
 " It's a dreadful thought," Malcolm answered heavily. 
 
 " But the boy's liquor had been shut off at the tavern, 
 and I know from what I've seen of these weaklings that a 
 man with a craving for strong drink will steal it when he'll 
 steal nothing else. Without being a thief if you can call it 
 that he'll steal liquor for the devil that is in his blood. 
 Heavens, it's horrible! Isn't this guardianship of our 
 brother's a terrible thing? Is it any wonder that the Devil 
 seems to get the upper hand of the Lord when humans are 
 the chessmen in the great game ? Let's away into the open 
 
 186
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 my soul is sick of this ; let's out to the air. I want to blow my 
 lungs full of the wind from the fields. God, man! I think" 
 that we were better when we dwelt in caves and gnawed at 
 bones like animals." 
 
 We trudged silently up the cellar stairs and out into the 
 sunshine, and then Malcolm said : " Come for a walk, Doc- 
 tor, before you go back. Your face is not something of cheer 
 the stubble of the reaped fields, and the drapery of the 
 clouds in the sky will wipe off the smudge." 
 
 Walking, I think we each tried to wean our minds from 
 the disagreeable. Malcolm talked vociferously of the sky 
 aspect. 
 
 " Man ! but the clouds are glorious to-day," he said. 
 " Yon tangled mass in the west is like the Rocky Mountain 
 Range, huge-cleft valleys and snow-topped peaks. All the 
 majesty of man's construction is like a jack-in-the-box com- 
 pared with that magnificence." 
 
 " It's a very black heavy cloud," I answered ; " It hovers 
 over the burnt-gold carpet of these fields like the mystery that 
 hangs over our spirits." 
 
 " There you go again, Doctor. Born an optimist I'll 
 wager you had red hair when you were young the hopeful 
 castle builder, now you're in apostasy, pessimistic to the edge 
 of despair. Man alive! look at the glorious silver fringe to 
 that mass of cloud." 
 
 " But I see no silver lining to the lone woman's cloud," 
 I objected. 
 
 "You don't? and what did you tell me to-day not an 
 hour ago? " 
 
 Rebuked, I plodded on a little in silence. 
 
 " It's no use, Malcolm," I cried bitterly, " I can't shake 
 I8 7
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 off a horribly repugnant feeling that Neil never left the vil- 
 lage alive," I added. 
 
 " Well, he couldn't leave it in the daylight any other way 
 but alive, without somebody knowing it." 
 
 " His body could have been carried out in the dark." 
 
 " Aye, it could, but it wasn't." 
 
 " How do you know that, Malcolm? " 
 
 " I can prove it to you, and perhaps that will add to your 
 peace of mind, though it never had much influence with me, 
 for I always felt convinced that he just walked quietly away, 
 taking the country road for it, perhaps to some small railway 
 station, with the animal cunning of some half-daft creature." 
 
 " But the proof, Malcolm," I cried impatiently. 
 
 " I'll give it to you. There was a letter found in the post 
 box at the opening hour, eight o'clock, by MacKay ; it was ad- 
 dressed, in Munro's peculiar well-known hand, to the pro- 
 prietor of the ' Plowshare,' and was an order revoking the 
 ban that Minister had put upon the selling of liquor to Rob- 
 ert Craig. For my own information I had a talk with Postie 
 MacKay about this letter. He's a sharp-eyed man, is Don- 
 ald, and the fact of Minister writing to the tavern keeper 
 caught his inquisitive fancy. Well, MacKay, when I quizzed 
 him, remembered that Neil's letter lay on top of all the others 
 two of my own, in fact, that I'd slipped into the opening 
 about six o'clock. I was abroad early, taking a look at the 
 sunrise. And there were others, workers, that post letters 
 early in the morning; so you see Doctor, Minister must have 
 slipped that in the box sometime about seven o'clock, perhaps 
 later." 
 
 " Did you have suspicions, too, Malcolm ? " 
 
 " I was just looking for a clew. I just locked all fancies 
 188
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 and imaginings in a drawer by themselves as being worse 
 than useless." 
 
 " But Robert might have put that letter in the box," I 
 persisted ; '' he may have forced Munro to give it to him." 
 
 " A very weak argument, Cameron," Malcolm retorted ; 
 " Munro was not a man to be forced by anybody he just did 
 this thing voluntarily. And Robert was intoxicated I'm 
 thinking that's what caused the row so Minister wouldn't 
 trust the letter to him; and, even if he had, the boy, made 
 boastful with strong drink, irresponsible, would have taken 
 it to the tavern keeper, flourishing it as a sign of victory. 
 He'd have been a great man in his own estimation." 
 
 " But why should Munro give such a letter just when 
 Robert appeared to need being on the black list most, when he 
 had broken out? " 
 
 " That was the very cause," Malcolm affirmed com- 
 placently. " That the devil of desire that was in the boy had 
 not been lain low, that it now made him a thief, caused Min- 
 ister to give up in despair. The ban was so useless anyway. 
 The law seems powerless to put down the drink. Do you 
 know how they evade that restriction of the black list? " 
 
 " I thought it was impossible there's a heavy fine," I 
 said. 
 
 Bain looked at me pityingly. " You're a man of books, 
 Doctor, having great faith in the majesty of the law. I'll 
 tell you. A man on the black list, with his liquor forbidden, 
 will be invited up to the bar by a man more foolish than him- 
 self. Aye, we might name the foolish one Cain. Cain asks 
 Abel to take a drink, calling for whisky himself. The bar- 
 tender passes Abel who is under the ban a cigar. That 
 closes the deal so far as the hotel is concerned ; it has observed 
 
 189
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 the letter of the law. Then Cain slits Abel's throat he 
 makes a trade with him, trades his glass of whisky to Abel 
 for the cigar. Man alive! but it's a glorious thing, this hu- 
 man intellect; it's clever. I suppose that when Robert had 
 the quarrel with Munro that night he cast this up to him 
 sneered at his puny efforts for reformation. Perhaps it was 
 the last straw that broke the camel's back of Neil's fruitless 
 endeavor. What the workings of his mind were, I can't say ; 
 melancholia takes strange forms. He wouldn't be the first 
 nor the thousandth who has wandered off pursuing strange 
 phantoms, forgetting name, the ties of home, perhaps even 
 God." 
 
 Bain's voice lowered huskily as he mentioned the last stage 
 of forgetfulness. 
 
 I returned to the Hedge, my mind brighter because of 
 Malcolm's logical reasoning. Perhaps, after all, it was some- 
 thing in connection with this drinking business that Robert 
 wished to conceal. It must be ; the other was too horrible. 
 
 And then, at this summing up, the Devil pinched my 
 elbow and whispered, " why has that sharp-pointed knife dis- 
 appeared why were the coat, and the cap, and the gloves 
 burned?" 
 
 "Why? My God!" I cried in misery, "everything is 
 'why.'" Nothing but to wait; and to wait better perhaps 
 than to know. If everything would but remain steeped in un- 
 solvable mystery, time would draw the thick veil of eternal 
 silence about it, and leave Jean bravely stepping the lone fur- 
 row, till her babe came a new life rising out of the dead. 
 
 190
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 I OR a week we drifted on almost placid 
 waters ; deep and murky unruffled by storms 
 or dangerous currents, the heavy monotony 
 of biding on sorrow and mystery relieved by 
 trifles of brightness emanating almost entirely 
 from the children. 
 
 There were distressing reports about Robert Craig; and 
 often at midnight I could hear his unsteady step passing the 
 Hedge, as he made his way to the old Craig home where he 
 still lived. 
 
 One afternoon I saw Robert coming on the sidewalk and 
 from his glances toward the house I conjectured his intention 
 was to come in. From his appearance I judged that he was 
 about three parts gone in the circuit of his daily orbit; his 
 physical exterior was an unfailing index of his mental con- 
 dition. Generally about ten o'clock he was in perihelion, 
 neat and vivacious ; from that on there would be a subtle de- 
 terioration in apparel and gentility of intellect. Each addi- 
 tional drink would set awry his hat, or his tie, or disconnect 
 a button brush his eye with the glaze of brightness until, 
 later, layer upon layer, the glaze would become opaque ; and 
 at this stage his vocabulary would become disjointed. Now I
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 observed his most absolute sign of spirit excitement a hand 
 twitching nervously at one side of his thin blond mustache. 
 
 I didn't want him coming in where Jean might see him in 
 that state, so I passed hurriedly through the gate, ostensibly 
 on my way to the stores. 
 
 " Hello, Doc," Robert cried when we met, " skipping the 
 muse? How's the quill mightier'n the sword to-day? " 
 
 " Jean is not very well she's lying down with a bad 
 headache, and I was just going up to the druggist." I said 
 this to forestall what I anticipated was a visit to Jean; but 
 he answered, " I wasn't coming to see Sister I wanted to 
 speak to you ; strictly confidential, you know." 
 
 Robert pulled at his thin mustache and eyed me. 
 
 "You haven't heard anything, have you, Robert?" I 
 asked, startled. 
 
 ' That's just what I have; that's what I want to see you 
 'bout." 
 
 Jean was really in her room lying down, and lest passers 
 might hear what he had to say, I led the way back to my 
 lawn. 
 
 " Ah! that'sh what I like This'sh better," the boy said 
 as he took a chair ; " I hate standing up to talk bus'ness no 
 good." 
 
 I scrutinized him closer now. Judging from his careless 
 speech he was more drunk than I had thought. 
 
 "What is it, Robert?" I asked; "not bad news, I 
 hope." 
 
 "Yes; bad news" the boy viciously hesitated long 
 enough for me to show my anxiety, then he added, " Munro's 
 alive, right enough." 
 
 " And you call that bad news, you confounded rascal." 
 192
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " I'll excuse you, Doctor you don't know what you're 
 talking about." 
 
 I ignored this. " How do you know? " I asked, " what 
 have you heard who told you where is Neil?" I poured 
 the questions one after another. 
 
 " A man 'at used to know Neil saw him in Montreal." 
 
 " Where is the man here ? " 
 
 " No; he's in York and that's what I want to talk about 
 I am going in to see him." 
 
 " My God, boy, you'll save your sister's life perhaps, if 
 you can find Neil." 
 
 Robert looked at me curiously. There was sullen dissent 
 in his eyes; the profligate lips hardened in a sneer. 
 
 " You mean well, Doctor, but you don't know what 
 you're talking about," he answered through the lips that bit- 
 tered the words with their sneer. Then he added, " I want 
 to get twenty dollars from you; I'm short." 
 
 A sudden suspicion flashed across my mind that Robert, 
 now* under the influence of his master, had fabricated this 
 story to obtain money for a drinking bout in York. I re- 
 membered the stolen wine, and Malcolm, who was trustee 
 for Robert and Jean, had confided in me the trouble he had 
 in keeping the boy from spending not only his own but Jean's 
 income. And the boy's causticity in his reference to this trace 
 of Munro was also suspicious. Besides, he was in no state 
 to start away half intoxicated. 
 
 " I won't give you the money to-night, Robert," I said 
 flatly ; " you've been drinking too much wait till to- 
 morrow." 
 
 He flared up indignantly, declaring he was as sober as a 
 judge; but I was saved a scene by Malcolm's opportune ar- 
 
 193
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 rival. He nodded to Craig, saying: " Good day to you, Rob- 
 ert. It's warm we'll have rain." 
 
 To me, knowing the subtle manifestations of Bain's 
 moods, this greeting of friendship, tinged by reserve, the al- 
 lusion to the neutral subject of the weather indicated plainly 
 that Malcolm's shrewd eye had noted the boy's condition. 
 Indeed Malcolm always preserved an attitude of reserved po- 
 liteness toward Craig, and, in consequence, the latter stood 
 considerably in awe of him. It was really a trying renuncia- 
 tion upon Bain's part, adopted as a painless form of mastery ; 
 for, because of his chivalric love for Jean, Malcolm enter- 
 tained toward the boy the same tender regard he might have 
 had for a younger brother. 
 
 " I came in for my umbrella, Cameron," Bain explained, 
 turning to me " I left it yesterday; we'll catch it heavy to- 
 night. I thought the mountain might split yon black cloud, 
 but the wind is from the east, and the east wind always has 
 its own way. I've got to come out to a meeting in the church 
 this evening it won't be bad if some of the determined ones 
 get a soaking for their hurry, I'm thinking." 
 
 "What's up?" I asked. 
 
 " It's all up. They've convened a meeting to have the 
 Presbytery declare the pulpit vacant, and then extend a call 
 to Minister Grey." 
 
 " They seem to take it for granted Munro is dead," I ex- 
 claimed bitterly. 
 
 " Aye, they do." 
 
 Robert had been sitting in sullen anger, Malcolm's ar- 
 rival having curbed further expressions of wrath at my 
 declaration. Now his anger shifted from me to the church 
 people, his temper got the upper hand ; he rose to his feet in a 
 
 194
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 rage. " Damn them for a lot of fools! " he cried. " I'll give 
 them a surprise. You're all fools looking in the only paths 
 you've ever trod for Munro's trail. I'm drunk, am I ? " 
 now he had veered back to me " but I'll tell you this, drunk, 
 loaded to the neck, I'm the only one in the whole lot that 
 knows anything about this, or about that hypocrite Min-is- 
 ter Munro \ " The boy broke the word minister into three 
 fragments with a sneering drawl of contempt. 
 
 I stared in horror. It was like the fitful play of an insane 
 mind ; but Malcolm just drew a deep breath, and said calmly, 
 " Robert, if you know anything, tell it like a man." 
 
 " Tell it like a dog, you mean. Never, Bain. I'll give the 
 Pharisees a jar." 
 
 The boy went out through the gate, clanging it angrily 
 behind him. And Malcolm, turning to me with a troubled 
 face, asked : " Have you any idea, Cameron, what Robert 
 means? I heard his voice, angry-like, just as I happened in. 
 One minute I think he's just going queer with whisky, and 
 again I'm of the opinion that there's something behind his 
 antics. Was he saying anything about Minister? " 
 
 " Yes that he was alive had been seen." 
 
 "Thank God!" 
 
 It was an honest exclamation. 
 
 " But I'm in grave doubt, Bain, about any dependence to 
 be placed upon Robert's story." 
 
 I saw the glad look pass gradually from Bain's face as I 
 related my interview with Craig. 
 
 " I'm afraid you're right, Doctor ; and you acted wisely in 
 not giving him the money. I'll see Robert myself to-morrow, 
 early, when he's quite himself. I'll just force the truth 
 from him ; there may be something in it, and if I think there 
 
 195
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 is, I'll just go to York with him that's the only way. He's 
 as weak as water, poor boy! I'd go to-night if it weren't for 
 this meeting. I was meaning to have a talk with you, while 
 I was here, about these same money matters. I was putting 
 it off till the last minute, till like the foreclosing of the 
 mortgage. To-night Munro will practically cease to be the 
 incumbent and his salary will be stopped it would have been 
 stopped before now, if I hadn't made a strong stand. Aye, 
 my brother Scots don't leave their business instincts at the 
 door of the kirk like a Mussulman puts off his shoes at the 
 mosque. And I'm going to confide in you, if you don't mind, 
 Cameron, a business that I hoped to keep all to myself; but 
 it's not safe, it's not to the best interests of of Mrs. 
 Munro. 
 
 " In the first place going away back as you know, 
 MacKay and I were executors for Simon Craig. Robert 
 was left the home; the income from the estate, which was 
 chiefly some timber lands and a saw mill in Tecuinseh, was to 
 be divided between Jean and Robert. I think I managed 
 fairly well, for there was little to do but just pay out the in- 
 come. But for the past year or two there's been little to 
 divide, and, paradoxically, that has made it harder." 
 
 " I see." I understood that Malcolm was thinking solely 
 of the loss to Robert and Jean. 
 
 " I'm glad you do," he said dryly, " for what I stated 
 hardly sounded like good sense. Minister Munro had his 
 salary, but he might as well have been without it ; he didn't 
 seem to comprehend that any of it was needed for himself or 
 the wife; in fact, he gave away all he had more, too, for 
 there are a few debts. I thought that the timber property 
 would pick up, so I just loaned the estate a trifle without 
 
 196
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 saying anything to MacKay about it I was looking after the 
 books myself, mind you. Robert was needing money more 
 than he got, I'm pleased to say and the sister too; so I just 
 paid them what they should have got if things hadn't been 
 bad in the timber line. I didn't make any notes of this 
 matter in the books, or anywhere, for it would only have 
 fuddled MacKay, and he's a busy man. I wouldn't have 
 done it if I had needed the money myself but I didn't I 
 had enough," Bain added apologetically when I involuntarily 
 put my hand affectionately on his knee. 
 
 " Don't flatter yourself, Cameron," he continued, " that 
 you'd have been let know this or any other man for the mat- 
 ter of that, only that I'm now forced to tell you because I'm 
 needing your services. In short, with Munro's stipend cut 
 off and the mill shut down this summer because there was 
 no snow last winter to get out logs there'll be little or noth- 
 ing for either of the poor children. Also I had a bit look over 
 the timber lands, and it's pretty well stripped, so there'll not 
 be much for the future." 
 
 " I understand." 
 
 " I think you do now I'm trying to be explicit, though 
 tiresome perhaps. Now I want to just keep up a bit income 
 for Mrs. Munro and Robert; they were left in my charge, 
 and the Lord was good enough to supply me with funds not 
 of my own making. I could have managed this much with- 
 out troubling anybody about it, for MacKay is not much for 
 meddling if he thinks things are all right, but you see, Doctor, 
 something might happen me." 
 
 " God forbid, Malcolm! " I ejaculated. 
 
 " Aye, I hope it won't, for a time, but it may. There's 
 a very strong line in the Good Book bearing on that subject 
 
 197
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 illustrating the uncertainty of life: 'Thou fool, this night 
 thy soul shall be required of thee ' so, Doctor, I'm going to 
 arrange for up to the time that shall be spoken in my case, 
 and for after, if needed. And I'm going to ask you to just 
 see that it's carried out. Will you do that, man? I've 
 thought hours over it I can't do it alone, and I can trust 
 you, Cameron ; now, will you do it, man ? " 
 
 " God ! Bain, you're a noble character I'll do everything 
 in my power." 
 
 " There's no great praise coming to me, Cameron ; I can't 
 eat the money, I've no one to give it to, that is, that's needing 
 it sorely. And these two were left in my charge ; they are the 
 only children I ever came by or ever will. And if anything 
 is ever said that would hurt Jean, you could nail the lie, Doc- 
 tor, for you know how it is now. 
 
 " Man ! but I've talked a lot," Bain added, looking at his 
 watch. 
 
 " Not a bit of it," I objected. " Silence may be golden, 
 but speech clears the air." 
 
 " It's the other way about sometimes," Bain argued. 
 " There'll be the meeting to-night." 
 
 " I'll go, Malcolm," I declared. 
 
 " Thank you, Doctor. See the cleverness of that storm ; 
 it'll come down the Ninth Concession Road through the dip 
 in the mountain. It'll just save its energy for a full bang 
 at the village. Good afternoon to you." 
 
 It was solely Bain's unexpressed wish that gave me an in- 
 tention to attend the church meeting. Functionally I might 
 go as an interested member in proxy for the Memsahib, who 
 was quite a church worker. This would be sufficient to still 
 the tongues of captious ones ready to impute idle curiosity, or 
 
 198
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 a prying lieutenantship In Jean's interests. But now, drawn 
 into it casually though I had been, I thought of the meeting 
 with eager anticipation. It would be a chance for psycho- 
 logical study. The villagers had moved upon a somewhat 
 distant horizon. I had seen them as an artist views a land- 
 scape through half-closed eyes, the shading lids blurring to 
 softness hard lines of distinction, blocking the whole into 
 masses of light and shade. 
 
 Trooping stanchly to church Sabbath mornings, I had 
 taken their submissive adherence to the Calvinistic creed as 
 an admirable guarantee of observance of the highest law gov- 
 erning humanity. Indeed Sunday the village was Utopian 
 from a theological point of view. The slightest attempt at 
 desecration of the holy day had been put down ruthlessly; 
 new-fangled innovations of the Devil's instigation nipped in 
 the bud. Perhaps the most serious attempt to offset the Lord's 
 wise fourth commandment had been the insidious introduction 
 of a Sunday newspaper full of worldly doings. It wasn't really 
 a Sunday paper, for it was published Saturday night in the 
 city of York. 
 
 The son of a poor widow, wishing to help his mother in 
 her struggle for existence, no doubt listening to the tempting 
 voice of the Evil One, hit upon a plan of endeavor, which, if 
 he had been allowed to pursue his wicked course, would, soon 
 or late, have brought about moral disaster. He entered into 
 a compact with the godless proprietors of the York papers to 
 send him by the Sunday morning train running through lona 
 a bundle of these " Devil's pamphlets." 
 
 It was Deacon Hoskins of a lesser church who had so 
 rightly named the pernicious journal ; and it was Deacon 
 Hoskins who overthrew the Evil One and his campaign of 
 
 199
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 destruction by stopping the sale of the paper, using the law as 
 his weapon. 
 
 Could we have lived thus seven days of the week I fancy 
 it would have taken little strain to remain entirely holy, but 
 the other six of sharp-edged strife in the matter of barter, 
 threw the theological system sadly out of joint. Several deals 
 of my own had confused my mind sadly as to the real moral 
 status of the good people. 
 
 There was the unreconcilable cord of firewood that had 
 been delivered to me at least a quarter short in measurement ; 
 there was the load of potatoes for which I had paid a liberal 
 price upon the assurance of the tubers being superlatively 
 good, that in the pot turned a chrome-yellow and nauseating 
 to the palate through having been frozen before delivery. In 
 fact I had a suspicion that, trading upon my inexperience, the 
 worthy farmer had sought me out as an easy victim. And 
 rankling in my mind as a curious misvaluation of trust were 
 the several barrels of apples I had brought from another yeo- 
 man as prime A I shipping fruit, charged for in accordance 
 with this quality; but " when the pie was opened they all be- 
 gan to sing," a veritable song of derision, for the apples were 
 " seconds," worth less than half the sum I had paid for them. 
 
 My trust in humanity carried a chipped edge all around 
 its rather wide margin through the nicks that had been left in 
 it by men who considered me in a very bad way indeed, spirit- 
 ually; it resembled a wall which abutted my lawn. It was 
 the Agnosttc's critical eye and tongue that discovered to me 
 how thoroughly I had been done in this piece of masonry. 
 
 " Making bricks without straw was nothing to the feat 
 those masons accomplished," he said one day, prodding at the 
 wall with his cane. 
 
 2OO
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " Be careful, Major," I exclaimed ; " you are poking a 
 hole in it." 
 
 He laughed quizzically and continued not only his dis- 
 course, but the disruption of the abutment. " Here's a 
 cement wall without any cement." 
 
 " You're mistaken, Major," I asserted ; " I paid for four 
 bags of cement." 
 
 " I don't doubt that in the least, and some other man paid 
 for them again when they were really put into his work. 
 This is nothing but a square mound of sand and gravel 
 and a little lime, glazed over with a cement shell the 
 thickness of blotting paper; a pail of cement for the whole 
 job." 
 
 The Major was right. The disreputable wall was some- 
 thing to stand there as an insistent rebuke to my faith in the 
 honest toiler of the simple life. 
 
 The only incident in this warfare of spiritual excellence 
 against mundane depravity that I failed utterly in tabulat- 
 ing correctly was an incident that actually had nothing to do 
 with me whatever, yet, like a true villager, I bothered the 
 more over it. 
 
 Perhaps Hugh Chisholm had found Presbyterianism too 
 frivolous and unexacting ; at any rate he was a deacon in the 
 Church of the Plymouth Brethren. Coincident with this he 
 kept a store. 
 
 And one day his fellow-Plymouthians stared aghast at an 
 advertisement of Deacon Chisholm's in the lona paper which 
 read : 
 
 " Nobby hats and smart shoes for sale." 
 
 This was a little too much for the Plymouth Brothers, and 
 they took serious counsel with Deacon Hugh, asking him to 
 14 201
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 eliminate that dangerous word " Nobby." It was almost as 
 wicked as the posters of women in short skirts which an un- 
 wise traveling show had attempted to display upon the vil- 
 lage fences. 
 
 The Deacon bowed his neck meekly to their reprimand, 
 and next week his advertisement was changed to: 
 
 " Hats for the upright and shoes for tender-feet." 
 
 I noted this change with varied interest. I knew the Dea- 
 con as a man most conscientiously interested in his own af- 
 fairs and the affairs of others, but up to this reading I had 
 never felt that he was unnecessarily hilarious. His whole 
 manner rather inclined one to not expect too much levity ; but 
 that hyphen was either due to weak punctuation or an ex- 
 tremely subtle humor, to say nothing of the reference to 
 persons qualified to buy his hats. 
 
 I took the liberty of a cheerful allusion to the pleasure I 
 had derived from his advertisement, but he reproved my 
 jocose comment solemnly, saying that the Brothers were quite 
 right in calling his attention to the matter, that owing to a 
 press of business he had not given the first advertisement suf- 
 ficient thought, forgetting how prone to frivolity the young 
 were. He had not realized how dangerous such an example 
 from a leader in the Church really was. 
 
 I had been started on this rehearsal pilgrimage of moral 
 obliquity and Sabbath rectitude by an anticipatory belief that 
 I should see, that evening, at the church meeting these two 
 antagonistic elements at each other's throats, as it were. I 
 wandered about the lawn, caressing the Memsahib's ox-blood 
 dahlias, sniffing at the fragrant petunias, tantalizing my finer 
 sensitiveness with the subtle perfumed breath that came fit- 
 fully from the pale lips of My Lady Nicotine, who, now rous- 
 
 2O2
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 ing from her odorless sleep of the day, kissed the evening 
 shades with langorous sweetness. 
 
 My first impression at the church meeting that evening 
 was one of astonished surprise at the metamorphosis of char- 
 acter in John MacRae. Ordinarily he was a heavy-faced 
 Scot, economical of everything, including words though 
 once upon a time I had known him to draw on his bank of 
 Golden Silence for the saving of a little silver. He had 
 brought me a load of very musty hay, veneered on top by a 
 thin layer of the choice sweet article, and his taciturnity, up 
 to a certain point when I sought to discuss this matter with 
 him, encompassed him like an impenetrable armor; then at 
 last he came out of his shell to say: 
 
 "Aye, aye! Man alive! but it's too bad. They English- 
 ers we ha'e to hire on the farms now are just too careless for 
 ony thing. I'll just see about it. I'll gi'e yon Cockney that 
 loaded the hay a lecture aboot his carelessness man alive! 
 it's fair dishonest to be as reckless as that. I'll ha'e a bit talk 
 wi' him, an' see just what he's got to say for himsel'. Forbye 
 he doesna come an' apologize to you, Doctor, I'll just see to 
 it mysel', an' we'll arrange it to suit all parties. I'll no' stand 
 for such doings." 
 
 That was the last I ever heard of the matter; MacRae 
 had my money in his pocket, I had the bad hay, and, for all 
 I knew, the Cockney hireling was a mythological person. No 
 doubt it had grieved the Scot to squander so much breath, but 
 it was in a good cause, it saved him parting with some of 
 the money he had filched from me. 
 
 Now at the meeting Elder MacRae was one of the first 
 to express his views, and nobody but a Scot could have so in- 
 terminably intermingled religion and uncharitableness. It 
 
 203
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 really appeared as if, in condemning Munro's pastorate, in 
 asking the congregation to extend a call to Minister Grey, 
 MacRae was suffering the pangs of martyrdom ; somehow, by 
 a far-reaching sweep, he likened himself to Daniel in the lion's 
 den, even, I believe, that he was like One driving the pigeon 
 dealers from the Temple. 
 
 Bain was sitting beside me at the time MacRae was strenu- 
 ously severing the tie of sympathy that connected the congre- 
 gation with their absent minister; he leaned over and whis- 
 pered : " Yon's a fine sample of a wife-badgered husband. 
 Jennie MacRae has molded the bullets John is firing into 
 poor Neil's back. A vindictive woman is as productive of 
 condemning reasons as the Jews that were at Pontius Pilate 
 to crucify the Saviour." 
 
 There were friends of Munro in the meeting several, 
 but they were sorely hampered by the ethical weakness of 
 their cause. Munro had voluntarily gone away, practically 
 deserted his post ; and so mysteriously that it was impossible 
 to combat almost any derogatory reason that might be ad- 
 vanced. Besides, the Church was without a head, which was 
 of course a very bad affair. These points were brought out 
 very clearly by what Malcolm called the " Grey party " 
 the eye-for-an-eye and tooth-for-a-tooth party. 
 
 Minister's defenders could plead only for sympathy and 
 patience in fact, judicially their case was lamentably weak. 
 
 It was Anderson, an elder, one of those who had been 
 stung by Munro's crusade against the sin of intemperance, 
 who alluded to the defection of certain members from the 
 church, even while Minister Munro was with them. He 
 all but said that it would be better if Munro did not 
 come back. 
 
 204
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 I think it was this that galvanized Malcolm Bain into his 
 electrically thrilling plea for Minister Munro. 
 
 MacKay, an uncertain quantity at all times, apt to twist 
 a line of argument into a toboggan chute, carrying him with 
 swift recklessness to distances far beyond his intended goal, 
 somehow became vindictively critical of Minister Munro's 
 last appearance in the pulpit, the somewhat sensational ser- 
 mon he had preached the day before his disappearance. 
 
 " It was very unorthodox," MacKay began moderately 
 enough ; " it was confusing but no' deep. Declamation is vera 
 fine in its place, mind you," he qualified " in its place." 
 He repeated this sapient rider slowly while he groped for an 
 explicit place for declamation. " On the hustings it's vera 
 effective; but politics is no' religion. Aye, Minister was dis- 
 tinctly sensational, which is all vera well for some denomina- 
 tions, but'll no' do in the Kirk at all, at all." 
 
 " Aye, aye," affirmed MacRae, nodding his shaggy head 
 as ponderously as a Durham bull. 
 
 " There was no solemnity about his discourse at all," con- 
 tinued MacKay ; " it fidgeted me ; and a body is no' in a 
 proper prayerful mood when they're fidgeted. A man might 
 as well expect to hook a cunnin' trout while he was being 
 jiggled off his pins wi' mosquitoes." 
 
 " True enough, true enough ! " applauded Anderson ; 
 " the congregation was very restless during the sermon. Mrs. 
 MacGillicuddy I remember quite well dropped her glasses 
 on the floor. My ! they clattered ; an' I'll guarantee that she 
 sat in yon side pew for thirty years without blinkin' an eye. 
 She is a model of decorum during service, is the old body." 
 
 " And old Archie Campbell never slept a wink," affirmed 
 MacRae ; " he just sat there glowering wi' his glassy eyes, 
 
 205
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 staring in horror at the theories they were just that, 
 theories, nothin' more propounded by Minister." 
 
 Bain leaned over to me and whispered : " It was vastly 
 improper for Munro to rouse Archie Campbell like that. He 
 must have been talking about the long-tailed sheep of David's 
 time, for Archie just comes to church for a rest I think, a bit 
 of sleep ; and he's a hard man to make pay for his bed too." 
 
 " Aye," continued MacKay, scratching his head for the 
 fugitive rest of his argument that these observations had 
 caused to elude him. " Aye, poor Munro, indeed it was! He 
 was fair distract. He was a gude man just in himself, I'm 
 meaning, though if he'd exerted less, trusted more in the 
 Book, and the power o' the Lord speecified there, he'd a come 
 by grander results. He was aye feverish in expression. It's 
 a large congregation here, and deefficult to keep in hand for- 
 bye, and I'm thinkin' Minister took too much on himsel'." 
 
 Bain pressed his toe gently against my leg to draw my at- 
 tention to the extraordinary winding in and out of the Scot's 
 argument. 
 
 But MacKay, somehow attracted by a sympathetic remem- 
 brance of Munro's zeal, proceeded to neutralize his earlier 
 efforts in behalf of a call. He continued: " Perhaps if Min- 
 ister is just biding quietly some place for a bit rest, he'll come 
 back to us more in harmony wi' the majesty o' the Presby- 
 terian form o' discoorse. If ony one has word o' him, I'd be 
 for indulgin' in the patience that we're enjoined to hold. But 
 if he's dead, it stands to reason that we're wi'out a pastor. 
 Perhaps it would be as well for us to prove this point first. 
 I'm no' against Minister Munro, but I'm no' for him if he's 
 dead I mean, I'm no' for keeping the pulpit open indefi- 
 nitely." 
 
 206
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 When MacKay sat down everybody realized that though 
 he had talked considerably very little progress had been made ; 
 whatever his intentions were, he had spoiled the broth by too 
 many ingredients. 
 
 But Anderson, clinging tenaciously to one word MacKay 
 had uttered, " distract," used it as a shibboleth to disqualify 
 Minister Munro. 
 
 " I'm not for criticising harshly any minister of God," he 
 began, " but as Elder MacKay has said, Minister Munro was 
 not only distract, but unorthodox in his discourse the last 
 Sabbath he occupied the pulpit. I remember at the time, as I 
 stood for a minute in the vestibule I said to well to some 
 one ' Minister is not himself, yon man has trouble.' But says 
 he back, ' I'm thinkin' the shoe is on the other foot to-day.' 
 
 "'How so?' asks I. 
 
 " ' Well,' says he, ' if you or me got as worked up as yon, 
 they'd say we had a drop too much.' " 
 
 " The sneak means that Munro had been drinking," whis- 
 pered Malcolm. " My God ; was there ever such a Pharisee 
 from the beginning of things! " 
 
 " Mind you, friends," added Anderson, " I'm no' entering 
 an accusation against the absent pastor, I'm just makin' a 
 general observation bearin' on the matter of holdin' the pas- 
 torate open. The idle rumors as to his going away are not 
 in our province here to discuss; we must just bear in mind, 
 however, that it was immediately after the sermon that he re- 
 moved himself from our midst. The sermon was erratic, and 
 Minister Munro was suffering a good deal from mental dis- 
 turbance. Others saw this, it caused deflections from the 
 congregation. The people from the fourth Line're all at- 
 tending the Kirk at Dunnville now. There's a vast difference 
 
 207
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 between spiritual guidance and secular interference, and Min- 
 ister Munro did not discriminate. I've known him to tramp 
 out to a barn raising a good four miles to lecture the men 
 about the evils of a bit drink. Men don't want the yoke 
 roughed up to scald their necks. Good intention is often 
 knocked out by overexertion. I've had men workin' myself, 
 that had grand plans in the morning of the wonderful things 
 they were going to accomplish that day, and by noon they 
 were bushed and laid up for repairs. You see I'm givin' 
 Minister Munro credit for a grand desire for betterment, but 
 I'm thinkin' in the interest o' the Church we ought to give a 
 call to some one." 
 
 " I'm not very clear from his speech what he's meaning," 
 said Malcolm. " Of course he's for Grey, but he's wordy 
 without saying much. I think I'd better say a word ; but it is 
 kicking against the pricks, they're firm-set already." 
 
 With a little flutter of trepidation I watched Malcolm 
 uncoil his huge figure, ungainly beyond any suspicion of ora- 
 torical pose. Sitting quietly on the lawn with one or two, 
 he could hark back to first principles in a few simple words, 
 no matter how deeply involved the discussion might have be- 
 come. Elemental principles were ever present in his mind, 
 therefore whatever he said was usually very much to the 
 point. But how successful would he be here in this discussion, 
 bearing in mind that the stubborn facts, the patent necessities, 
 were with his opponents ? 
 
 " I'm not rising to speak in defense of Minister Munro," 
 he began, " for that would be wasting your time, as it's not 
 needed. There's no charge against him except that he la- 
 bored too zealously, and that didn't please some; but that's 
 hardly a fault in the Presbyterian Church. There was need 
 
 208
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 for him, or some other right-thinking man of authority, to 
 go to the barn raising Elder Anderson has spoken of, for the 
 week before a man lost his life because of the liquor his pike- 
 pole slipped because he was too drunk to hold it in a post, and 
 the bent came down, killing him, and by nothing less than a 
 miracle were others saved when the bent crashed to earth. 
 It has been spoken as a fault on the Minister's part that there 
 were some defections some of the members went elsewhere 
 for more agreeable religion. But I'm thinking that you could 
 hardly expect a human to hold every member of a congre- 
 gation, when Christ Himself couldn't hold His disciples. We 
 know, for it is written in God's word, that when Jesus ac- 
 cused them of lack of faith they fell away at once many dis- 
 ciples left him. But that did not change the Christian re- 
 ligion, nor weaken it, nor destroy His usefulness as a teacher 
 of God's will ; and I'm thinking that truthful denunciation of 
 wickedness, of evident evil, is as useful as the pruning hook. 
 If it lops off branches with a canker at their hearts, the tree 
 itself grows stronger and more beautiful, and bears better fruit 
 than if the husbandman had held back in fear and hesitancy 
 and allowed the disease to spread, shutting his eyes to its en- 
 croachment. 
 
 " Anyway that was our great teacher, Christ's, method, 
 and it was the way of the Prophets ; it's the lesson in God's 
 word. You may gild sin till it passes for virtue, but if a 
 strong, right-thinking man unmasks it there it is, hideous and 
 revolting, and something to be shunned. 
 
 " Christ stated Himself that He had come not to call the 
 righteous, but sinners to repentance, and that was the animat- 
 ing spirit of our minister's life. And when he spoke of their 
 sin that they might know the danger, and they rebelled, so 
 
 209
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 much the worse for the sinners; it couldn't hurt the Church 
 or the cause, or anything but themselves. But it did hurt 
 Minister. I've seen him with tears in his eyes, because he 
 feared that he was weak, and not strong enough to call them 
 to repentance. 
 
 " And I'm just saying this I think it's true that he was 
 worn down with his labors, and went away for a little rest, 
 and that with patience we'll find him yet. If we declare his 
 pastorate abolished, it will be like tolling a bell to his memory. 
 Minister's friends here are not asking this as a right, but 
 just as a touch of God's love and charity. If we're Christians 
 in our hearts, we'll not become evil through being satisfied 
 with supply ministers for a little yet." 
 
 I think Bain had another point or two annotated on the 
 margin of his memory; if he had, they had become blurred, 
 for he hesitated, looked about into the unsympathetic faces of 
 the elders in a big pleading manner, and sat down. 
 
 What a fine man Bain is altogether, I thought ; but still 
 I felt, as I suppose he did himself, that he was dealing with 
 precise, not-to-be-disturbed, Scotch minds. 
 
 After a little more discussion it was carried by a majority 
 of votes that the Presbytery should be asked to appoint the 
 Moderator to preach the pulpit vacant the first Sabbath. 
 
 " What have they done at the meeting? " the Memsahib 
 asked when I returned to the Hedge. 
 
 " Well, they've overmastered poor old Bain," I answered ; 
 and when I told her the full result, the Memsahib said: 
 " We'll just keep it from Jean as long as we can. She'll come 
 to hear it, but one never knows what may happen we'll just 
 put off the evil day as long as we can, perhaps Providence 
 will intervene." 
 
 2IO
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 IN hour later the Memsahib called to me from 
 my study window where she stood, a half- 
 drawn curtain in her hand, holding her cheek 
 against the soft autumn night air that stirred 
 the pale white bells of the nicotine resting its 
 slender form against the veranda. 
 
 " Come and look at the Madonna, John," she said ; " there 
 is a most extraordinary light on the window." 
 
 " It's a strange effect," I answered, putting a hand on 
 her shoulder ; " the figures have the appearance of being in a 
 fiery furnace." 
 
 " They're late putting out the lights," she added. " Ah ! 
 there they go," as the glass window became merged in the 
 gray wall of gloom that was the stone church. I had half 
 turned away when the Memsahib grasped my arm, crying: 
 " It is lighted up again ! It is uncanny creepy! " 
 " It is," I confirmed. 
 
 It was a picture that might have been conjured by some 
 high priest of theosophical mysticism. Now we could see the 
 adorable face of the Madonna, growing discernible, pale and 
 wan, and then reddening to luridness as the Babe Saviour 
 materialized in her lap, and out of the darkness that sur- 
 
 211
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 rounded her, bearded shepherd faces came one by one in a 
 flickering light and then were gone as though the owners stole 
 a look and fled. 
 
 " Somebody is moving about with a candle or lantern," 
 I said ; " the church is in darkness." 
 
 " It is like an omen of trouble of disaster," the Mem- 
 sahib answered ; shiveringly she drew a wrap about her shoul- 
 ders. 
 
 " Oh, look at it now ! " I cried ; the whole window blazed 
 red and angry, and weird shadows flickered back and forth 
 within. 
 
 Suddenly there was a crash, a tinkle, the Babe Christ had 
 fallen from the Madonna's lap, and where He had lain, a 
 licking tongue of flame darted forth and lapped at the dark- 
 ness. 
 
 The Memsahib gave a scream of affright. I stifled in my 
 throat the cry of fire, and by the arm drew her from the 
 window. Her face was white. " Is the church on fire? " she 
 gasped. 
 
 " For God's sake keep cool, girl ; grip yourself." 
 
 I clung to her for a little, and speaking with hushed 
 rapidity went on : " Jean ! get her to her room at once. And 
 the children, too! yes stay with them." 
 
 " I was thinking of Jean," she said. 
 
 " Quick! there they go! " 
 
 Hurrying feet beat at the board sidewalk till it echoed 
 like an alarm drum, and one, strong lunged, sent a rolling 
 cry of " Fi-re ! " as he ran. 
 
 "Quick, Allis!" I urged. 
 
 Higher up the street the runner's cry was echoed, " Fi-re! 
 
 212
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 What dread import it carried, how it startled and jumped 
 the nerves! 
 
 Beside the Memsahib I raced upstairs and spoke to the 
 children, as, half roused from slumber, they blinked sleepily, 
 their faces wrinkled with frightened wonder. 
 
 " There's a little fire in the church," I said ; " don't be 
 afraid when you hear the reels." 
 
 The boy came running from his room, and almost in 
 shame I saw in his face eager joyous excitement. Reels a 
 fire ! It was a kind of game ! 
 
 Now the town bell clanged angrily, warningly, and 
 soon there was the reverberating thunder of the high-wheeled 
 hose-reel, hyphened by the short imperious clang of its 
 gong. 
 
 Beyond the Hedge the street was a pandemonium. Just 
 in front of Grandma Murdock's little lawn black spirits of 
 the night were clawing at an iron hydrant, and a long gray 
 serpent, held by their strong arms, writhed and twisted in the 
 dust of the road, and bit open-mouthed at the iron fountain. 
 From my gateway I watched the figures writhe and twist 
 and struggle. It was a shadowed group like the Laocoon. 
 With hoarse voices they called to each other; they tugged 
 at the unyielding iron. 
 
 With calm fascination I watched this hurried fight against 
 time; seconds were ages. Now the fierce red tongues across 
 the way were lapping and licking at the night with hissing 
 exultation through many rents in the glass window, and be- 
 hind the holding stones that were like the walls of a lime 
 kiln, there was a crackle of musketry, and against the hydrant 
 metal the copper mouthpiece of the canvas hose clicked and 
 clattered unavailingly. Would it never connect! 
 
 213
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " Push her up push her up reef on her ! " a voice bel- 
 lowed, and the order smothered away in an oath. 
 
 " Give her to me! Steady, lads! " 
 
 Ah, loved voice of soothing confidence, of gripping 
 power! And the broad shoulders dipping to the work, 
 silhouetted bearlike against the store window across yes, it 
 was Bain. 
 
 " All right run her out! " And the man, hurrying from 
 the hydrant, laid the canvas serpent up the side street. 
 Against the gray walls is a ladder. " Up, up! " it is Mal- 
 colm's voice "smash the window with an ax!" 
 
 The glass is shivered it falls a tinkling shower; and 
 against the broad stone ledge of the rudely opened window 
 two men lean, gripping the handles of a copper nozzle. 
 
 Then they fight. The little ants of men, the Lillipu- 
 tians, with the javelin of water, thrusting at the demon of 
 fire that snarls and hisses through all the front half of the 
 church. 
 
 The fire is coming from below, from the basement; the 
 floor is all ablaze ; the pews are tinder, are rows of fagots to 
 feed the hungry maw. 
 
 Anxiously I scan the somber clouds of smoke that rise 
 like huge-winged vultures upward and fly to the west. 
 
 " Thank God ! " I mutter, " the wind is from off our 
 quarter." For it's a shingle roof that tops Lilac Hedge, and 
 I have no longing for a shower of burning embers on its cedar, 
 and a flood from the hose. I have the garden hose con- 
 nected and am throwing a dampening spray of water on our 
 front. 
 
 I bless the sheltering maples; even as they beat back the 
 scorching sun in summer days, st> now they barrier from us 
 
 214
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 this fierce flame, their guarding leaves, shriveled up, dying in 
 the combat, and floating away on gossamer spirit wings, or 
 falling blackened and charred to earth. 
 
 The oaken doors of the church, barrier between the push- 
 ing draught of air and the sucking flames, eaten into, give way. 
 They collapse like a burnt-out Catherine wheel. The draught 
 makes hoarse music as it roars through the aperture. Driven 
 before this fanning wind a hot blast belches forth to scorch 
 the men's faces who hold the hose. Insatiably drinking as 
 though it lapped oil, fire creeps along the floor with the un- 
 checkable force of an incoming tide. 
 
 Opposite, another window is smashed, and the copper bar- 
 rel of a second nozzle, throwing a mighty stream, is thrust 
 through. 
 
 Now the battle holds even; the balance tips slowly this 
 way and then that way, and victory hangs poised between the 
 fire and its fighters. 
 
 Suddenly a cry of fright goes up from one of the win- 
 dows. 
 
 " My God, boys, look at that ! " cries Sweeny, clinging, 
 with scorched face, to the copper nozzle, as a man reels 
 drunkenly into the blaze of light from the shadow of the 
 great organ. He has come up a little stairway that leads from 
 basement to apse, the choir passage. 
 
 The yellow, sulphurous light shows his face pale, bluish, 
 like a death mask; his eyes are starting from his head with 
 fright. He gives a cry like a caged animal, and recoiling 
 from the scorching heat, falls against the organ. He wheels, 
 and rushes to the stairway up which he has come. Below, 
 the basement is a furnace, an incinerating pit of cremation. 
 He starts back with a cry of despair. 
 
 215
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " Help! My God! " he cries, and shuts the blare of light 
 from his eyes with an arm. He is dazed. 
 
 Bain, on the ladder behind the two hosemen, bracing 
 them with his shoulders to the window ledge, hears the fire- 
 man's cry of fright and calls: " What is it, Dick? " 
 
 " Craig is in the church ! and, God in heaven, he'll be 
 burned alive ! " 
 
 " Hold steady, lads ! " Bain calls ; " brace against the wall, 
 I'm coming." 
 
 Between their legs he creeps; his knees are on the stone 
 ledge; one look, to balance in the scales the chances, then 
 he says: " Play the stream on the floor; I'm going after the 
 poor lad." 
 
 From window ledge to floor Bain dropped with panther- 
 like lightness ; down an aisle and up to the apse ; then his big 
 hand lifted the figure that huddled against the organ. 
 
 "Up, man, up! Stand on your legs! You're saved! 
 You're saved! do you hear?" 
 
 His words carried no meaning to the senses numbed by 
 fear; the alcohol-sapped nerves, unstrung, were broken cords. 
 
 " Come with me you're saved ! " 
 
 Then dragging Craig like an unwilling child, Bain pushed 
 down the steps, and as the flames, ever creeping on their path 
 of destruction, brushed hot against their forms, Craig shrank 
 back and fought like a maniac. 
 
 " You fool ! " Bain roared in anger, as he swung from the 
 pulpit a red plush chair. 
 
 It was a fearful hazard ; the floor hung by its half-burned 
 sills, a treacherous sieve; the fire had eaten it like a moth- 
 ridden cloth; and from below flames darted up through the 
 wooden mesh of its network. From the window eager helpers 
 
 2l6
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 waited as Malcolm, now carrying Craig, crept cautiously to- 
 ward them, sometimes hidden by the smoke. 
 
 There he was, just beneath, in one hand the chair. Half 
 blinded he placed it as a ladder against the wall, and lifting 
 Craig to his breast mounted upward. Sweeny's long arm 
 stretched far down, and his fingers clutched at Craig's shoul- 
 der as he was lifted high by the strong hands of Malcolm. 
 A second and they would be saved. 
 
 Suddenly a stream from the opposite window thrust 
 downward like the swinging cut of a scimiter and struck with 
 awful force the chair back on which rested Bain's feet. 
 
 He reeled outward. Half pulled from the window ledge, 
 Sweeny's fingers relaxed their grasp, and Craig's body, lying 
 across Malcolm's neck, carried him down like a stricken bull. 
 The treacherous charred floor split like a drum head, and 
 Craig shot through, his rescuer lying half stunned across a 
 sill. 
 
 One look down, and Bain, swinging his body between the 
 floor beams, dropped. A cloud of smoke swept over the open- 
 ing, blotting it from the vision of the watchers. 
 
 " Holy Mother he's a goner ! " wailed Sweeny. " Hold 
 her hard, Donald play the water fair on the floor!" and 
 grasping a rung of the ladder he dropped to the ground, cry- 
 ing: " Up, one of you b'ys, an' help at the hose! Help! some 
 of you fellers the back door the back door! An ax here 
 with an ax ! " His voice was an agonized yell. 
 
 As he ran around the church Sweeny called : " Bain's in- 
 side in the basement. Smash the back door! Here, Mac," 
 he called, as one came running with an ax, " hit her ! The 
 lock, you damn fool ! the lock ! " as the pole of the ax re- 
 bounded from a heavy oak panel of the door. 
 15 217
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 A crashing blow and the cast metal sprayed them with 
 iron hail. 
 
 Some force from within swung the door as it loosed from 
 its holding bolt; a figure reeled forth, shoulders first, and 
 plunged against their legs; beneath it, clutched in the mighty 
 arms, was a rag-doll of humanity, limp, senseless. 
 
 "Malcolm! B'ys, b'ys, he's alive! Merciful powers! the 
 other wan, too! Lift him, men, lift him! " bellowed Sweeny. 
 "Are you hurted, Malcolm?" he continued solicitously, 
 bending to thrust an arm under the brawny Scot's head, and 
 peering into the blackened face. 
 
 Bain answered something; it was a groan, a struggling 
 cry for mastery over his failing senses, a fight against uncon- 
 sciousness; calling himself out of stupefying lethargy. Half 
 consciously he rolled his body from off the man that was 
 crushed beneath his weight. 
 
 "Where's Doc? heigh, Doc Weston!" Sweeny called. 
 
 " All right, Dick," a voice answered; I'll look after them. 
 Here, men, bear a hand we must get them to some house 
 quick," he added. 
 
 " My house," I said ; " it's close by, and there's room." 
 
 Eager men darted forward, and Bain, struggling to his 
 knees, said wearily: "Give me a steadying hand some- 
 one, I'm queer I'm queer I can't see." 
 
 " Youse b'ys look after Bain," commanded Sweeny. 
 " Doc'll tell you what's wanted." Then in futility he turned 
 fiercely upon the firemen at the window. " Get her down, 
 b'ys! Damn it, men, down wit' her down wit* the hose! 
 in at the back door; yer t'rowin' water at the moon, up 
 there!" 
 
 " I'll hurry on ahead," I said to Doctor Weston. 
 218
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " How is the fire? " Memsahib asked as I came to the 
 gate. 
 
 " They're beating it down," I answered aloud ; and in an 
 undertone added, " Bain is hurt, and Craig is worse. They're 
 bringing them here. What room will you put Craig in? 
 he'll have to get to bed he's bad." 
 
 " We must break it to Jean," she answered. 
 
 "Yes; speak to her now quick, before they come." A 
 slow-moving procession of black figures was now crossing the 
 street, coming to the Hedge. 
 
 The Memsahib passed to the veranda where Jean was 
 sitting, and almost immediately the latter came to me, saying: 
 " I must have Robert in my room; I can take care of him 
 there." 
 
 I felt a trembling hand on my arm, there was a weak 
 querulous pull at my sleeve, and little Teacher, on tiptoe, 
 whispered in my ear, " Is he dead, Doctor Cameron is it 
 Robert ? Poor, poor Jean ! " 
 
 Before I could answer, men, carrying the injured boy in 
 their arms, crowded us from the hall, and I led the way to 
 Jean's room. 
 
 Craig looked like a blackened corpse on a bier, as the 
 men laid his form tenderly upon the sncwy sheets. 
 
 Bain had pulled himself together. " I'm not needing a 
 bed, Cameron," he said; " I'll just rest a bit I'm thinking 
 I'll be no good at the fire." 
 
 MacFarlane, who had steadied Bain as he limped to the 
 house, looked at the big man with a power of hero worship in 
 his eyes. 
 
 " I'm afraid the poor lad's done for entirely," Bain 
 wailed. " I'll wait to hear what Weston says." 
 
 219
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 In her room Jean was sitting beside the bed, her face 
 paler than ever, waiting for the verdict, as Doctor Weston 
 examined the battered body of her brother. 
 
 I could do nothing but help the Memsahib bring such 
 things as the Doctor from time to time called for in a quick, 
 low voice. Sheets were torn into bandages, sweet oil and 
 vaseline requisitioned, and even then, when the Doctor's skill 
 had done what it could, his verdict was one of indecision. 
 Craig was not dead that was all. There was evidently some 
 serious injury though an unlocated fracture or internal 
 hurt. Then Bain's wounds were dressed. 
 
 During a lull in the physical salvage within the house, I 
 stood watching the dragon of destruction consume the bones 
 of the church. 
 
 Tongues of fire, eating through the roof, lapped angrily 
 at grotesque smoke forms that fled heavenward. At times 
 there was the boom of falling timbers or a dislodged stone. 
 The chimneys fell with the grinding crash of an avalanche, 
 sending a myriad cloud of starlike glowing cinders up from 
 between the walls. 
 
 At first the steeple rose like a black marble monolith ; then, 
 glazed by the lurid vermilion, its tin-shingled sides glittered 
 as a golden pagoda, to pass in transformation, as the flame- 
 tongues licked its bones to a skeleton, into a tapering network 
 of fireline design ; a giant fern, its fronds diamond-lighted by 
 sun-kissed dewdrops. It was weirdly beautiful penciled 
 against the black sky in running letters of red and yellow. 
 Hissing serpents darted up its steep incline, vomiting particles 
 of fire that, carried by the wind, glinted like stars, and then 
 were swallowed up in the night. But presently its wooden 
 structure was consumed by the monster that roared as he fed ; 
 
 220
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 it swayed drunkenly, and then came down between the stone 
 walls of the kiln that belched upward like a volcano. 
 
 " I'm going to make hot coffee for the firemen," Mem- 
 sahib said, coming to me. " They'll be wet and tired, and 
 will need something. The coffee will be better than liquor 
 for them." 
 
 I knew what she meant. Because of Munro and his cru- 
 sade against drinking, some of those who toiled across the 
 way, had been won from intemperance, but this would be an 
 hour of trial for them. The village was hospitable ; the tav- 
 ern-keeper generous to a fault; in mistaken kindness there 
 would be open bar for the gallant men. 
 
 " Will you go, husband, and ask the lads to come as they 
 can a few at a time?" the Memsahib asked. "I'll put a 
 lunch on the dining table they can help themselves; and 
 Sarah will keep plenty of coffee steaming hot. Tell them 
 that, husband, please, steaming hot." 
 
 " Wise little woman," I praised, patting her cheek; " and 
 don't forget Jean. Slip up and give her a word of encourage- 
 ment." 
 
 I gave the firemen Memsahib's message ; and as the chance 
 came they hurried across, singly and in twos and threes, for 
 the steaming bowl that was better than liquor. 
 
 Once as I stood in the study I heard a rustle on the stair- 
 way, and Jean came into the room. 
 
 " I've come to thank you, Mr. Bain," she said, holding 
 out her hand to Malcolm. " The Doctor has been telling me 
 how you risked your life for my brother. You are a brave, 
 good man." 
 
 She turned away quickly. Passing me I could see in the 
 lamplight tears glistening on her pale cheeks. 
 
 221
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 Teacher had disappeared ; I thought perhaps she was in 
 Jean's room helping the doctor. But now she slipped into the 
 house like a wan, frightened little hare a very damp drag- 
 gled hare; not only her skirts dripping wet, but her face a 
 course for a river of tears. 
 
 " Where have you been, Miss Harkett? " I asked. 
 
 "Across the way. Oh, Doctor Cameron, it's dreadful! 
 The organ is destroyed, and we'll never get another one we 
 haven't the money! " 
 
 " Don't trouble about that, Miss Harkett we can't help 
 it." 
 
 " We might have helped it. It's like a visitation of the 
 wrath of God for all the dissension and falling from grace." 
 
 " Well, we can't help that either ; but you can help getting 
 soaked with water, and catching your death of cold that's 
 very unwise." 
 
 " I just don't care, Doctor Cameron ; I'm ready to give 
 up ! " and the little body gave way to a passionate flood of 
 tears. 
 
 " Come, Miss Harkett, you must change your wet trap- 
 pings; Allis will give you something dry to put on. You're 
 killing yourself with excitement; we must put you to bed." 
 
 I called the Memsahib who took Teacher to her room. 
 
 When the Memsahib came back she said : " Was there 
 ever such a conscience-troubled goose? She's now working 
 herself into a fever, saying that it's all her fault, and the 
 organ's fault, and Heaven knows what." 
 
 "The organ's fault! the excitement has unbalanced her; 
 what is she talking about? " 
 
 " That God is angry because the organ drove Mrs. Paisly 
 and old Jimmie Johnston out of the congregation." 
 
 222
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " She's just upset," I answered. " The organ has been 
 like a child to her, and its destruction has unnerved her. 
 She'll be all right in the morning. Give her a cup of hot 
 coffee, and cover her up ; Nature will put her all right." 
 
 One of the last to come for coffee was Sweeny; and 
 even then, with two hours of heroic toil crusted on him, his 
 eyes were still big with the light of battle, his gaunt frame, 
 whipcord and bone and parchment, still of elastic springiness. 
 
 He tilted a cup at his lean lips, and its seething contents 
 were gone. 
 
 "B'ys!" he ejaculated, pluralizing my oneness, for we 
 were alone, and dropping the cup back to its saucer with an 
 emphatic clatter, " yon was devil's work." 
 
 " The fire? " I questioned, startled. 
 
 " Faith, I don't know about that, but the knockin' down 
 of Bain was fair murder." 
 
 " They said it was an accident." 
 
 "Accident be damned! It was murder, I tell you; an' 
 God's judgment on the Divil's spawn curse his black heart! 
 that took the cowardly chanst." 
 
 " Who was it? " I asked, my voice dropping to an invol- 
 untary whisper. 
 
 "Who was it? Who's been makin' his boasts that he'd 
 git even wid Bain for throwin' him in the pig sty? Archie 
 MacKillop. I seen it I seen the devil's face acrost in the 
 windie when Malcolm and Bob dropped. I tell ye, man, 
 Archie's eyes was fair jumpin' from their sockets. The curse 
 o' God on such as that black-hearted coward. B'ys, b'ys, b'ys ! 
 but it was cowardly! " 
 
 " We must investigate," I said, " we can't let it go by. 
 
 If Craig dies " 
 
 223
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " You'll never prove it damn him ! never. He'll claim 
 that he was helpin' that he was keepin' the fire down on the 
 floor that the pressure was too strong fer him. The Divil 
 just thro wed the chanst his way an' he took it the black- 
 hearted skunk! But if ever I git a chanst at him, may the 
 Lord forgive me, an' stay me hand short of murder. B'ys, 
 b'ys ! To throw a man to his death it was near his death 
 that was riskin' his life to save a rapscallion that wasn't 
 worth goin' into that pit of fire for! I'm goin' back; we've 
 got her under control the big stone walls saved themselves, 
 and that's about all that's left." 
 
 Sweeny's words filled me with unutterable depression. An 
 accident and the possible loss of life, no matter how useless 
 that life, was sad to contemplate, but that here in our little 
 village of law and order we had one a cowardly murderer, 
 was a thought seeming to drag us all down in the human 
 scale. Even the elevating example of Bain's heroic effort 
 failed to neutralize this dreadful glimpse of depravity. 
 
 I sought to escape from these things of felony by shutting 
 the door of the dining room behind me, like locking them in 
 a cell, as I passed to the study where Bain was resting on a 
 couch. 
 
 " Are you feeling better, Malcolm ? " I asked, drawing a 
 chair beside him. 
 
 " I'm not bad," he answered ; " my eyes trouble a bit, but 
 I can see. I was afraid that I'd been blinded. Everything 
 was black when I got out before I got out; I just groped 
 my way to that door. I knew the road well I'd been over 
 it often or I'd never have made the open. But the door 
 was locked Oh ! " 
 
 Bain coughed. 
 
 224
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " My lungs are fair scorched, I'm thinking," he added 
 apologetically. " When I found the door fast I thought it 
 was all up, for I hadn't much left in the way of strength. I 
 just heaved against it when they smashed the lock and tumbled 
 out head first." 
 
 " You did a brave thing, Malcolm, to go down into that 
 inferno to the basement after Robert." 
 
 " You mustn't make too much of it, man," he answered, 
 with plaintive seriousness ; " for, would you believe it, I was 
 just in a funk all the time." 
 
 " You acted like it," I declared sarcastically. 
 
 "It wasn't bad below. I just looked down where poor 
 Craig had dropped and the fire wasn't bad there at all, it was 
 mainly in the other end of the kirk. And I thought I'd make 
 the back door of the basement easier than I'd come up through 
 the window." 
 
 " Malcolm, you're just telling lies," I said. " You were 
 thinking of nothing but saving Craig, and you knew you 
 were taking the shortest kind of a chance on your own life. 
 How did it happen that the boy was there at all; do you 
 know?" 
 
 " That's been bothering me," Malcolm answered. " I saw 
 him at the meeting, and I was a bit shamed, for, poor chap, I 
 could see he was the worse for the drink. He was sitting over 
 in a corner near the furnace. I thought at the time he was 
 asleep, and I was glad of it. He must have slipped down on 
 the bench, or perhaps to the floor. Coming out from the 
 meeting everybody was talking about what had been done, 
 and he was overlooked, I suppose. I'm sure I forgot all about 
 him." 
 
 " And old Tommy the caretaker is that blind he would 
 225
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 never see anything when he was putting out the lights," I 
 added. 
 
 " No, he wouldn't. I suppose the lad woke up with the 
 fire all about him ; that's how he was like a horse in a burning 
 stable, just fair crazy. And when he rushed up the choir 
 stairs there he was cut off again." 
 
 " The fire must have started from the furnace," I said. 
 
 " We'll never know that. It's not going regular yet, and 
 old Tommy put on a wood fire to take the chill off for the 
 meeting. Most likely he dropped a coal among the wood 
 there was some piled beside the furnace, I saw." 
 
 " Well, the cause is nothing now, the effect the terrible 
 result, dwarfs that into insignificance. Your miraculous escape 
 makes us thankful that it is no worse," I said. 
 
 Bain drew a long breath that ended in a cough. " It's 
 the smoke," he said ; " I can taste it." 
 
 A grotesque smile flitted over his lips grotesque, indeed 
 fiercely droll he looked, the stubble of his singed beard and 
 mustache standing out stiffly like the growth on a tramp's 
 face. 
 
 " I'm thinking," he said, " that they'll not preach the pul- 
 pit vacant come Sabbath the Lord's ahead of them. Per- 
 haps," he added, " though I shouldn't say it, it's His hand we 
 saw manifest to-night. He worketh in mysterious ways, and 
 I have a feeling that we'll have Munro back before the pul- 
 pit's ready for an occupant." 
 
 " Teacher thinks it's a judgment on the congregation for 
 its dissension. The members will have to unite now, anyway, 
 over rebuilding the kirk." 
 
 " It'll mean a bit of debt, too," Bain sighed. " What's 
 it like now," he asked, as I came back from a look at the fire. 
 
 226
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " It is out," I answered ; " just smoldering." 
 
 Almost immediately the body of firemen came to the house 
 to ask after Bain, and report that it was now considered safe 
 to go home, leaving one reel and a guard over the smoldering 
 ruins. 
 
 Backed by Doctor Weston's orders, I persuaded Bain to 
 take a bed for the night in my house. 
 
 All through the dark hours, dark in every way, we 
 fought in Jean's room the silent battle, heritage of the fierce 
 fire. 
 
 One, two, three, four o'clock still, silent, mysterious 
 hours; hours in which disaster grows like shadows over- 
 masteringly strong; hours to steep one's spirit in despair. 
 Sometimes I sat in my study, thinking dismal thoughts in uni- 
 son with the monotonous tick-tick, tick-tick of the mantel 
 clock, of how our simple life at the Hedge had drifted into 
 tragedy, and its sinister whisper of inhuman crime. Where 
 would it end ? 
 
 Above my head was a muffled sound of feet where a 
 life hung in the balance; and across the road smoking 
 ruins cut jagged lines against a starlit sky. Even the leaves 
 on the maples were shriveled to death by the destroying 
 heat. 
 
 At times, with almost noiseless steps, the Memsahib came 
 to me, begging that I would go to rest. But she would not 
 leave Jean, and so I, too, could not sleep. 
 
 Early the street filled with curious villagers, solemn of 
 face, who moved about like convicts of a chain-gang; on their 
 spirits a weight of disaster that unconsciously suggested some- 
 thing beyond the ordinary mundane happenings of life. The 
 church destroyed seemed to have removed the guarding care 
 
 227
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 of God. They were sheep without a fold ; restless, magnify- 
 ing the material loss into a spiritual deprivation. 
 
 We of the Hedge were almost too much depressed for 
 words. I had not slept at all. 
 
 On the lawn Jean came to me saying: " I feel that I shall 
 choke I want to fill my lungs with air." 
 
 " How is Robert? " I asked ; " any change for the better? 
 has anything been done can anything be done ? " 
 
 " We seem just helpless," she answered bitterly. " He 
 hovers, the doctor says. His body lies there on the cot, 
 broken, disfigured ; I can stretch out my hand and touch it ; 
 but the poor boy himself, his spirit, I cannot find. I can just 
 pray to his Maker for mercy for him. The prayer of the 
 righteous availeth much, it is written that way, Doctor Cam- 
 eron, but what are mine will they be answered will they 
 avail ? In my heart I cry, ' Why am I tried ? ' All that I love 
 is blighted, and in despair, I cry out against God's vengeance. 
 And then I pray, pleading: ' Merciful God! lessen the load 
 spare my brother give me back my husband.' " 
 
 " You are overtired Jean," I ventured, soothingly. " Rob- 
 ert is certainly now brought close into the hand of 
 God, and you must drive from your mind these doubts, these 
 questionings." 
 
 " I try I plead I offer contrition ; I will never doubt, 
 I will force myself to resignation if my brother be spared. 
 He isn't ready. If he dies now will he be punished for all 
 eternity for the sin that was not his that had been handed 
 down to him ? " 
 
 "We mustn't discuss it, Jean not now; we must just 
 try to save his life." 
 
 I was glad when the children came eagerly from the 
 228
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 house, bringing their young lives as a revivifying tonic to our 
 somber mood. 
 
 They were materialists, their vision short-focused to re- 
 ality; the spiritual, the metaphysical, everything was elimi- 
 nated but the actuality of the fire. It was a building that had 
 been burned; and the wondrousness of the hose reel that 
 threw \vater without pumping filled them with astonishment. 
 Their philosophy was healthy. Somehow it drew us, Jean 
 and myself, closer to the air, and the sunlight, and the sky, 
 and the trees which were still with us, though not clothed 
 as they had been yesterday. 
 
 Kippie, youngest, having traveled the shortest journey into 
 life's field of care, was loquacious; while Laddie, his enthu- 
 siasm roused by the doings of the night, declared he was going 
 to be a fireman when he grew up. And he was going to be a 
 hero like everybody was saying Mr. Bain was; only in his 
 book the hero was a man who killed people and then married 
 the princess. Then how was Mr. Bain a hero if he didn't kill 
 anybody ? 
 
 Teacher had not appeared ; and presently when Memsahib 
 joined us she struggled in vain to smooth a troubled look from 
 her face. 
 
 " Miss Harkett is not very well this morning," Memsahib 
 said ; " she has caught cold, and is nervously excited. She's 
 had trouble with her heart before I must have Doctor Wes- 
 ton look at her when he comes." 
 
 " I thought he was here still," I said. 
 
 " He went home for breakfast I couldn't induce him to 
 remain. Breakfast is ready now. Try to eat something, 
 dear," she said, putting her hand on Jean's shoulder. " Mal- 
 colm is with Robert, and I'm going to remain, too, until you 
 
 229
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 have had something to eat. Doctor Weston has telegraphed 
 to York for a nurse," she added turning to me, " and she 
 should be here by nine o'clock." 
 
 " I can't eat," Jean answered wearily ; " I should choke 
 I'm going up to my brother. You have breakfast with your 
 family, Allis." 
 
 The Memsahib's breakfast consisted in taking a cup of 
 tea and toast, and her own homemade currant jelly up to 
 Miss Harkett. 
 
 Even with the children strung like a garland of flowers 
 about the table it was a gloomy breakfast. I, tortured over 
 the vicissitudes of Lilac Hedge, drank my coffee in a hospital 
 for crushed bodies and stricken souls. 
 
 Presently I heard the heavy step of Doctor Weston on the 
 stairway, and after a time he came down to where I sat in the 
 study. 
 
 " You look tired, Doctor," I said. 
 
 " Yes, I haven't had my clothes off for forty-eight hours. 
 I had two long drives to patients in the country, night before 
 last that's the joy of a country doctor's life and last night, 
 of course, we were all busy." 
 
 " How are your two patients?" I asked. 
 
 " I have three now. Bain is all right at least he's burned 
 and bruised enough to keep weaklings like you or me in bed, 
 I dare say, but he's very much of a horse at any rate he can 
 go home now. I'm altogether lost over Craig. He's badly 
 injured in some part of his anatomy. He's still unconscious, 
 but that's just as well! that part of it is chiefly due to ex- 
 haustion his system has been gutted by alcoholic fire till 
 his spirit lives in a half-furnished tenement, so he has just 
 collapsed. But I'm fearful that there's an injury to the spine, 
 
 230
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 probably when he fell. I'm going to send to York for Doctor 
 Colton for a consultation." 
 
 " Can you give us any encouragement at all about 
 Craig? " I asked; " something for his sister to build on she 
 needs it, poor body." 
 
 " I know I understand. You may be sure I'll fight 
 pretty hard for his life. You'll be justified in offering her en- 
 couragement you may say I'm very hopeful; that will be 
 something. But I'm concerned over Miss Harkett." 
 
 I started. There was a serious look in his solemn gray 
 eyes that frightened me. 
 
 " Teacher! isn't it just a little cold? " 
 
 " Yes, a cold but not a little one. Her heart is going 
 like a trip hammer ; and nerves ! they're like floss silk, vibrat- 
 ing at every touch it's a wonder she didn't drop last night. 
 She always was a fretty little body; the sweetest creature in 
 the world, and the most conscientious Christian her real 
 disease is organ on the brain." 
 
 " I know," I interjected ; " fretting about the destroyed 
 church organ." 
 
 " Yes. You'd better get her home, Camei'on she'll be 
 more contented. She's worrying over being a trouble here 
 to Mrs. Cameron. I'll go my rounds and come back." 
 
 231
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 |HE conflagration had left a governing influ- 
 ence upon the village. The fire seemed to 
 have lapped at the uncharitable hearts of the 
 gossips, incinerating the venom, leaving what 
 little of gold there was, and a better spirit 
 breathed in the atmosphere. 
 
 Church matters had taken a wider scope, touching the 
 adherents in their most vital spot the pocket ; dwarfing the 
 question of a pastor, subduing the enmity to Neil Munro ; on 
 everybody's tongue was the paramount query, Where was the 
 money to come from to rebuild the church and supply the 
 organ ? 
 
 Wise old Bain saw his opportunity and seized upon it 
 with big-hearted avidity. He confided to me his plan to 
 utilize this secular difficulty in cornering the spiritual market. 
 " The loudest exhorters will be the most near over con- 
 tributing," said Malcolm. " They'll figure that speech is 
 golden and offer it instead of the baser coin. They'll be full 
 of wise counsel over raising the wind, but they'll pull a long 
 face of hard times, smut in wheat, murrin in the cattle 
 heavens knows what all, to keep from giving. I'll just let 
 them dawdle along until I see they're fair stuck, then I'll 
 
 232
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 give a round sum out of hand, and I'll loan them more at a 
 low interest on condition, aye, on condition." 
 
 Without asking, I knew what the condition would be a 
 longer waiting for Munro's return. 
 
 The preaching vacant of the pulpit would now be some- 
 what incongruous; the pulpit was not only vacant, but non- 
 existent. The town hall was improvised as a kirk; an ill- 
 befitting temple within which to induct a new pastor. The 
 square, unadorned, uncarpeted Municipal Chamber, cold and 
 cheerless, was enough to damp the ardor of even Minister 
 Grey. The austere Scots could well take it that God would 
 feel their presence there as well as in their own orthodox edi- 
 fice, but this unusual function would lose its impressive so- 
 lemnity enacted in the town hall, and religion to the Cal- 
 vinists, shorn of its profound attributes, was something akin 
 to the gimcrack hurly-burly of the Salvationists. 
 
 The first Sabbath's gathering for worship in the town 
 hall completely divorced Minister Grey's aspirations from 
 the desire of the majority. His peevish, squeaky voice rose fit- 
 fully in the acoustically ill-balanced chamber. He was like 
 a dreary locust rasping in a barren field. 
 
 A melodeon had been impressed into the song service of 
 the Lord, and, Teacher being ill, a volunteer substitute, in 
 the person of a very nervous girl, obtained. 
 
 I think even the stanchest elder felt that a very wretched 
 testimony had been offered up to the Creator that day. The 
 chairs and the benches screeched on the hardwood floor, wail- 
 ing the irritating treble of little Minister Grey to nothing- 
 ness. Resignation to the will of God was his theme, inter- 
 preted from the text: " The wall of Jerusalem is broken down 
 and the gates thereof are burned with fire." 
 16 233
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 It was all about that the kirk had been destroyed, as 
 Jerusalem had, because of sin, and, somehow it appeared from 
 the Minister's exhortation that he, like Nehemiah, would 
 build it up again, bringing the Lord's favor to bear upon the 
 work. 
 
 I was thinking he would have a more difficult task bring- 
 ing all the Mac-Somethings freely to the work, than Nehe- 
 miah had had with the men of Judah. 
 
 I fancy that everyone felt as I did, that while we might 
 subdue our spirits to acceptance of such trials as the burning 
 of the kirk, it was just a little too much to take on the trying 
 yoke of Minister Grey for an indefinite period. 
 
 I surmised that after that Sabbath, Bain's prophetic hope 
 that Munro would occupy the rebuilt pulpit would material- 
 ize so far as Minister Grey was concerned. 
 
 The consultation with Doctor Colton over Craig's con- 
 dition left the case somewhat as it was before problematical. 
 The boy had regained consciousness, but an indicated paral- 
 ysis of the lower limbs confirmed Doctor Weston's hurried 
 diagnosis that the spine had suffered. The evident injuries, 
 burns and bruises, were unimportant, though they had added 
 in a shock to the nervous system. 
 
 Dr. Colton's advice had been to wait for time's develop- 
 ment ; nursing and care would cure the patient of everything 
 but the suspected bone fracture, whether of the spine or hip 
 joints. 
 
 So at the Hedge we were in a state of solicitous suspense. 
 I think that, strangely enough, the care of her brother bene- 
 fited Jean. The nerves, fed by action, worked more smoothly 
 than they had when irritated by the brooding brain. 
 
 That Jean's nature was altogether lovable I came to 
 
 234
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 see more clearly under these conditions. Perhaps it was that 
 unselfish subjection of her own affliction to her brother's needs 
 had brought its own physical reward. It had been said in the 
 village it must have been iterated and reiterated many 
 times, for I had heard it that Jean was cold, unsympathetic, 
 selfish, in that she watched her brother's slow, alcoholic sui- 
 cide with passive indifference; that because he was a 
 drunkard she drew the fine linen of irreproachableness across 
 her eyes that she might not see the unpleasant vision of a 
 relative disgraced; that she avoided him out of a heartless 
 antipathy to her legitimate duty ; that, figuratively, like Cain, 
 she said : " Am I my brother's keeper? " 
 
 No one had ever heard her reproach Robert; no one had 
 heard her speak of his infirmity. Sphinxlike she had sat 
 through the years of his retrogression, unspeaking, immutably 
 silent in tongue and eye. Where she should have wept tears 
 of bitterness, she gave no sign. 
 
 It was thus the village had summed up its judgment of 
 not-understanding, superficially reading the outer page, igno- 
 rant of the bitter story of suffering and sorrow that was en- 
 graved in the heart of the sister. 
 
 Now we of the Hedge had opportunity to observe the 
 world of love this woman herself needing sustainment from 
 sympathy poured out like a river of wine over the poor 
 wrecked lad who lay helpless, his big eyes watching her as a 
 babe follows the movements of a mother. 
 
 Grandma Murdoch came many times and forced Jean, 
 with gentle words of reproach, to go out into the sunlight, or 
 to lie down for a little rest in the day, or to seek sleep at 
 night; and the Memsahib did the same. And I brought my 
 authority to bear to the same end. 
 
 235
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 Sisterly love ! yea, I came to know that it was as great, as 
 deep, as abiding as the love that is the theme for bards, as I 
 watched Jean in these sad days. 
 
 Of course, from the very first there was the question of 
 the part alcohol was to play in the treatment of the patient. 
 Dr. Weston was an unusually common-sense practitioner, 
 brushing aside theoretical formulas in favor of his loved as- 
 sistant Nature. " Wait, have patience," was engraved in his 
 quiet, thoughtful blue-gray eyes. " No violence to the good 
 Dame, my masters, but just a little humoring of her, and a 
 little of learning lessons from her." I am sure he talked like 
 this to himself. 
 
 However, he said of Craig: " His system will crave the 
 food it has fed upon " 
 
 " Is it a food, Doctor? " I asked ; " I have read that 
 
 " Yes," he interrupted, " one may read himself to destruc- 
 tion. I will admit that alcohol is a bad food, but just now 
 we will bend it to our needs. The patient will require a 
 very, very little." 
 
 If I regretted this, hoping that perhaps a chance had come 
 to essay a cure of Robert's diseased appetite, Jean rebelled. 
 She pleaded w r ith the Doctor, argued with him, besought 
 him, saying: " It is a poison that searches out the innermost 
 recess, the niche in which the soul has its existence. Cannot 
 his physical strength be sustained except at the cost of his 
 eternal life? You say he may recover; but to come back 
 to a life that is a living death It is hard to say it I 
 know, God must forgive me, but this would be worse 
 than if he died with the renunciation of strong drink as 
 atonement." 
 
 The doctor wavered. " It's risk)'," he said, in his corn- 
 236
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 mon-sense manner " it's risky to switch the human system 
 abruptly." 
 
 " But if ever we are to look for help from God in the 
 saving of my brother it must be now. If He sends blessings 
 in disguise we are justified in accepting this evident affliction 
 as such. Will you try, doctor? Will you try without the 
 liquor and watch, and when you say that it is unsafe, that 
 Robert's life is imperiled, I will bow to the inevitable I 
 will myself give him this soul-drug that you call brandy." 
 
 Dr. Weston yielded reluctantly; and Jean labored like a 
 slave over preparing the substituted stimulant that was also a 
 true food, the expressed beef's blood. 
 
 That day after Jean's impassioned plea to Doctor Weston, 
 I had from her own lips the refutation of the village story of 
 her indifference. Perhaps she felt that I might consider her 
 fanatically opposed to liquor. Like a child's extenuation for 
 accused evil was the story of her long fight against the ser- 
 pent that had wound its sinuous coils about her brother. As 
 she talked I discerned with how much wisdom she had striven, 
 saving his pride by letting no ears but his own hear her plead- 
 ings and her warnings and her prayers, for sometimes, in his 
 hours of depressed weakness, Robert had knelt beside his sis- 
 ter in prayer, and asked of his Maker strength to reclaim 
 himself, pleading that the curse of inherited appetite might be 
 removed. It was a bitter, sad tale, just the voicing of a de- 
 spairing struggle. 
 
 " Of course, you know," Jean said, " how my husband 
 strove to save Robert from his evident doom." 
 
 " I have heard that he was very bitter against the drinking 
 so prevalent in the village. He took a strong stand, and made 
 enemies over it; but he was a conscientious servant of his 
 
 237
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 Master, and I don't see what else he could have done. I 
 suppose," I added, " that this passion for drink has ruined 
 more homes in the village than all other causes combined 
 don't you think so ? " 
 
 Jean did not answer at once, and looking at her quickly 
 I saw a most unearthly pallor upon her features ; her face was 
 drawn with abject misery. 
 
 " You are ill you have overdone yourself don't talk 
 any more," I pleaded. 
 
 " I am better now," she added. " It was just a spasm ; my 
 nerves are tricky. What you say is true, Doctor Cameron, 
 but you do not know the full depth of the misery this cursed 
 thing entails. Do you know what a home is in which lurks 
 this monster? It is a living hell it is like those homes in 
 India where they harbor a cobra, not knowing the minute the 
 serpent may strike in the dark." 
 
 " You have known it," I said, " but let us hope that it 
 is now past." 
 
 "Yes, my God! I have known it. If I could tell you 
 all all everything No, a thousand times, no I can't I 
 mustn't ! " 
 
 I was startled by Jean's vehemence, but I attributed it to 
 her overtried nerves. 
 
 " Neil tried everything to save Robert. He pitted him- 
 self against an army of destroyers men who were always 
 ready to drink with the boy and tempt him. In desperation 
 my husband as a last resort, prohibited the hotel from sell- 
 ing liquor to Robert. This could never cure the disease 
 King Alcohol is too powerful to be bound by a law unless the 
 law destroys him utterly." 
 
 " I fancy Neil thought this a mistake," I said, " for didn't 
 238
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 he remove this embargo the day he disappeared that was 
 probably the reason, wasn't it?" 
 
 Jean hesitated, and her face had paled again. Then she 
 answered simply, " No, that wasn't the reason." 
 
 Jean's words, and a shrinking look of fear in her eyes, 
 chased my thoughts back to Munro's study ; the quarrel that 
 had taken place there between him and Robert; the boy's 
 mysterious actions the day we had searched the room together. 
 A numbing cloud of shadowy questions and suspicions 
 crowded my brain tumultuously. There had been some ex- 
 traordinary happening what was it? 
 
 I was roused by Jean saying: " Perhaps God has given me 
 this chance to save my brother from a drunkard's grave. I 
 had almost lost faith even now it seems so hard to think that 
 Robert must be crushed, his body sacrificed to save his soul." 
 
 " He won't be sacrificed, Jean," I said ; " we'll pull him 
 through, and I believe it will work a cure." 
 
 A wan smile lighted up her face, and she answered : " You 
 always give me hope affliction is not all affliction when it 
 brings such friends as I have found here." 
 
 239
 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 ISS HARKETT had been under Doctor Wes- 
 ton's care during these days. She had im- 
 proved quieted down after the first attack 
 of riotous nerves. We had been lulled into a 
 false sense of security as was proven, for one 
 day Doctor Weston came hurriedly for the Memsahib, and 
 in a little she returned, saying: "John, I wish you would 
 go for Mrs. Paisly and bring her to see Teacher." 
 
 Memsahib's expression of misery made useless the ques- 
 tion that I asked : " What's wrong has Teacher had a re- 
 lapse?" 
 
 We were standing in the hallway, and she, putting her 
 arms about my neck buried her face in my shoulder, sobbing: 
 " She is going to die. O God ! will the bitterness ever pass, 
 will the time of trial ever cease? We are like a scourge-swept 
 city, a place visited by divine wrath. The sweetest little 
 woman that ever breathed, that has given her whole life for 
 the good of others, and now she is cut off with never a season 
 of rest." 
 
 " Why bring Mrs. Paisly, girl what can she do? " 
 " She can make happy Teacher's last moments if she 
 wishes. What a pure little life it has been ; nothing troubling 
 
 240
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 her conscience but remorse that Mrs. Paisly has left the con- 
 gregation because of the organ. If Teacher can reconcile the 
 old lady to the church here she'll die happy." 
 
 " I'll bring the old Puritan," I answered, " and she'll in- 
 deed be an infidel, barren of human love, if she sticks out." 
 
 The old lady lived at Paisly 's Corners, two miles beyond 
 the village, so I drove to her abode. 
 
 A desolate quietude shrouded the Corners ; a forest, an ex- 
 panse of tilled plain, even wild mountain rocks would have 
 been less dreary than Paisly's Corners. A small stone black- 
 smith shop, as rigidly uncompromising as a rock, threw a 
 shadow on the cross-roads from its roof. On the opposite cor- 
 ner two frame buildings, the unpainted boards weathered to 
 blue-gray, stood sullenly apart, separated by a dilapidated 
 picket fence. It was this weak gregarian effort of the inhabi- 
 tants that rendered the Corners so pitiably desolate. They 
 were like lepers outcasted from the grander isolation of farm 
 life and ostracized from the village community. 
 
 In the blacksmith shop a hammer tinkled on an anvil like 
 a monk's bell ; and from the solitary chimney on one of the 
 neutral tinted dwellings a tiny streamer of smoke filtered up- 
 ward as if the spirit of the fire sought a wider existence. 
 
 I tied my horse to a gate post and knocked upon a door. 
 
 " Good day, Mrs. Paisly," I said, when it was opened. 
 
 " Good day tae you, Doctor Cameron I hope you're vera 
 weel. Come in, come in, Doctor. Your knock gi'e me a 
 shock," she said, as, dusting a chair with her apron, she drew 
 it beside a square box-stove for me. This was force of habit 
 there was no warmth in the stove ; it was a little fire temple 
 that no doubt had drawn forth in confessional many a bit 
 of scandal gossip. 
 
 241
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " I'm sorry if I frightened you," I said. 
 
 " You did, and you didna', Doctor. We dinna ha'e many 
 callers, and I was fearin' Janet's David had come by an ac- 
 cident. Yon's his hoose," her thumb shot over her shoulder. 
 " He wouldna' come in workin' 'oors gang there was nae- 
 thing wrong," she explained, " though we often foregather 
 for a bit sociable converse o' an evening." 
 
 " You haven't many visitors, then, Mrs. Paisly? " 
 
 " Weel, we ha'e an' dinna ha'e. No vera desirable ones, 
 as a rule. Come Friday it'll be a week, a lightnin'-rod ped- 
 dler just swooped doon on the Corners wi' his ungodly tricks; 
 a bit iron he was for stickin' up tae avert the hand o' the Al- 
 mighty. Says I tae him : ' You're thinkin' tae cope wi' the 
 Lord, man tak' care ye dinna be struck doon yersel' for 
 your blasphemous thoughts.' I'll tell ye what it is, Doctor 
 Cameron," the old lady continued, swinging restlessly back 
 and forth in her big wooden rocker, " the farmers an' folk like 
 oorsel's in the villages are just prey for city sharks." 
 
 " That's why you jumped when I knocked at the door, 
 was it, Mrs. Paisly? " 
 
 "Aye; but ye ken, Doctor, I hadna time to tak' a peep 
 through the glass; an" the first I kenned o' your comin' was 
 the bang at the door. I was puttin' doon plums for a bit 
 kitchen to the bread it saves mony a poond o' butter, does 
 the jam." 
 
 " They look very sweet and appetizing," I complimented, 
 nodding to a row of jars that stood on her kitchen table. 
 
 " An' like mony a comely lass's face their looks just a' 
 1'e just standin' monuments tae the deceit o' peddlers" 
 Her accent on the peddlers was a treat in its acrid in- 
 tensity. 
 
 242
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 To humor the garrulous body I said, " How's that, Mrs. 
 Paisly?" 
 
 I was Impatient with my mission, but I knew her well. 
 
 There was the peace of a dying woman at stake a ruf- 
 fling haste would surely breed a spirit of obstinacy. I was 
 drawing her into my depth, that my request might be hon- 
 ored. 
 
 " It was this way, Doctor. It's gone eight years syne my 
 husband was gored be a bull. He was a gran' man, was John 
 Paisly the same name as yoursel', Doctor there's a stability 
 aboot the name John, I'm pleased wi' the profound roll o' it ; 
 Archie or Sandy are too lightsome tae my mind. Weel, John 
 d'e'd o' the bull's attack. We were back on the farm yon 
 time, an' I got that miserable wi' lonesomeness that I could 
 dae naething but mope; I was failin'. An' David John's 
 brother, him that haes the smithy yonder advised me tae 
 sell the farm an' live here at the Corners where it's sae cheer- 
 ful. I picked up at once. I couldna' ha'e stood it anither 
 year yonder." 
 
 "You find it brighter here?" I asked, thimcing of the 
 wonderful potentiality that comparative conditions held, and 
 trying to picture the greater desolation that she had fled from. 
 
 " Aye, I'm vera satisfied wi' the Corners. Through the 
 open window I can hear the bang o' David's hammer smiting 
 the iron; an' I take strange humors aboot it. Sometimes I 
 liken it tae the clang o' Moses' rod on the rock when the 
 waters gushed oot. In the winter mony a time I'll peek 
 through the glass thinkin' it's sleigh bells I'm hearin'. But 
 the gran' company is bein' sae near the railway track it's 
 just yonder halfway o' the field ; an' the freight trains are 
 passin' three or four times a day. The engine has tae blaw 
 
 243
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 the whistle at the crossing yonder, an' it's the cheerfullest 
 soond imaginable. I maun say I dinna like their blawing on 
 the Sabbath it's a pity they canna dae enough wark on six 
 days wi'out desecrating the Lord's ane." 
 
 I sat patiently, casting furtive, even strong glances at the 
 plum jars, hoping to draw the garrulous body's mind to the 
 question at issue, for the iniquity of the plums settled, I meant 
 to state my errand. 
 
 A sizzling on the kitchen stove, a pungent odor of burned 
 sugar, luckily cut into Mrs. Paisly's reminiscences and she 
 darted with surprising agility to the salvage of her boiling 
 over fruit. 
 
 " It's just that, Doctor," she resumed on her return, " the 
 ruination quantity o' sugar them plums tak'. As I was sayin' 
 when the kettle interrupted me, I was na sooner here at the 
 Corners, the acre o' land no' fenced yet, when a fruit tree ped- 
 dler happens along; they're like vultures wi' their swoopin' 
 doon on hones' folk. He haes a buik wi' glamourous pictures 
 o' plums the size o' peaches, an' peaches the size o' King o' 
 Thompkins apples, an' apples as big as melons. I had my 
 doots o' all that, but he just talked me roond an' I paid a fear- 
 fu* price for six plum trees. Man alive! I signed for trees, 
 but when they came they were whiffet spindle-shank things 
 like gooseberry bushes; an' they grew that slow I was tired o' 
 waitin' for them. An' then the plums! Look for yoursel', 
 Doctor." 
 
 Mrs. Paisly brought from a basket for my inspection a 
 handful of green and purple plums the size of hickory nuts. 
 
 " That's why I ca' them a standin' 1'e," she said. " But 
 yon godless peddler will get his deserts when he goes where 
 there are na plums." 
 
 244
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " I suppose he disappeared he never came back to ask 
 how your plums were doing, did he, Mrs. Paisly? " 
 
 My question brought forth the most extraordinary, ir- 
 relevant answer I suppose it was the idea of the disappear- 
 ing peddler that switched her active mind. She simply writhed 
 in the big chair at the past entire subversion of her innate 
 curiosity, ejaculating: "Saints above! Doctor, I'm daft 
 just daft, not to be asking after Jeanie Craig's man. Is there 
 ony word o' Minister Munro this week? " 
 
 " None," I answered. 
 
 " Dreadful ! the puir body ! In a temporal sense I'm 
 meaning, Doctor, for I canna bring mysel' to a harmonious 
 sympathy wi' the spiritual goings on that's come tae the Kirk 
 in lona. They're going tae build it up again, ye were 
 saying." 
 
 I hadn't said so, but she continued : " Perhaps they'll no' 
 be sae keen aboot trifling wi' the solemnities noo." 
 
 She looked at me so searchingly that I was driven to ask: 
 " How are you meaning, Mrs. Paisly? " 
 
 " Just that by the time the kirk's finished they'll no' feel 
 like frittering awa' money for an organ. I dinna say it is, 
 mind ye, Doctor, for I'm no' ane tae interpret the mysterious 
 way o' the Lord, but the destruction o' that godless instru- 
 ment is like a visitation." 
 
 I seized upon the opening and thrust forward what was 
 in my mind. " Whatever they decide upon," I said, " the 
 saddest part of it will be that Miss Harkett will not be there 
 as organist." 
 
 "Little Teacher? Goodness, Doctor, that was the ane 
 prick tae ma conscience that yon sweet little Christian was 
 troubled o'er the stand I took. Would ye believe it, Doctor, 
 
 245
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 she's walked a' the way oot here tae the Corners tae win me 
 o'er. Man, I just had tae steel my heart tae what I consid- 
 ered my duty tae God. Tears would come frae the body's 
 e'es; an' her pleading aye, she is a Christian, though I 
 couldna' understand her infatuation for the drooning, snor- 
 ing pipes. Is Teacher going awa', Doctor? " 
 
 " I'm afraid she's going on a very long journey, Mrs. 
 Paisly she's dying! " 
 
 " D'eing! little Teacher d'eing? " 
 
 Mrs. Paisly rose and paced the floor. I sat silent, wonder- 
 ing what was passing in her mind. She seemed to have for- 
 gotten my presence. She opened a little cabinet nailed to the 
 wall, and took out a knitted shawl. 
 
 " D'ye see that, Doctor ? Teacher worked that wi' her 
 own hands an' gi' it me last Christmas, making me promise to 
 wear it when I was driving tae service at Stonehill. An' noo 
 she's d'eing. Puir body. I must awa' in tae see her. Can 
 I see her, Doctor just tae kiss her good-by, for I'll be hop- 
 ing tae meet her in heaven, for she's ane o' the Chosen." 
 
 " I came out for you, Mrs. Paisly," I said simply. 
 " Teacher is asking for you, and you can comfort her last mo- 
 ments. Can you come back with me now?" 
 
 " Indeed I can. The plums are that soor they'd no' take 
 hurt if they soaked i' sugar for a month. I'll just ask Janet 
 tae keep an eye tae their stewing. I'll be wi' you in a jiffy. 
 Janet'll fair greet when she kens Teacher's sae poorly. 
 Dearie me, dearie me! Poor little Teacher! " 
 
 Lamenting, Mrs. Paisly slipped to summon her relative, 
 and as they were back, Janet thrusting the door open sud- 
 denly, I saw over her shoulder a handkerchief furtively ob- 
 literating tears. 
 
 246
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 Soon we were on the way to lona, I striving for an open- 
 ing to prepare the way for Mrs. Paisly's reconciliation to the 
 organ. But what was I to do in such a delicate mission a 
 man bungler? Perhaps my patience in listening to the tale 
 of the acrid plums would be something in a preparatory way. 
 
 The Memsahib came out as I drove to the gate of little 
 Teacher's home. She stood for a second with her hand in the 
 old lady's, saying: " You had better send the horse away till 
 you are needing him again, John. I'll bring Mrs. Paisly to 
 the Hedge for tea, then you can drive her back." 
 
 What would be the result of the Scotchwoman's visit, I 
 questioned over and over, waiting at home for the Mem- 
 sahib's coming. Would that wondrous, indefinable, evanes- 
 cent, enduring, ethereal, ever-recurrent element, love, subdue 
 the fanatical obduracy of the Calvinistic Mrs. Paisly, where 
 argument and exhortation and the influence of the whole 
 church set had failed? It would be a curious study in theo- 
 psychology. It would be something like Christ pitting His 
 doctrine of love and gentleness against the harsh tenets of the 
 Jews. Would gentle, dying Teacher transmit something of 
 the broader religious spirit to the woman bred within the nar- 
 row environment of uncompromising spiritual austerity? 
 And Mrs. Paisly had declared that she would never counte- 
 nance the desecration of God's tabernacle by what she firmly 
 believed was an innovation of the Devil. 
 
 And also well I knew that he who hoped to convince a 
 Scot against his will had a task such as Mahomet undertook 
 when he summoned the mountain; such as King Canute es- 
 sayed when he bade the tide stay its advance. 
 
 Most certainly Teacher would fail. 
 
 Then I thought of Christ stilling the angry waters. In- 
 247
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 deed there was a greater power than Mahomet's or Canute's. 
 Perhaps through Teacher Christ's love-power would prevail. 
 
 I saw the Memsahib and Mrs. Paisly coming up the walk. 
 Something in the Scotchwoman's appearance suggested a 
 softening of harsh lines; her angular face was gentler in ex- 
 pression, as though she had passed through a dozen years of 
 refining influence ; her steel-gray eyes radiated the questioning 
 light of one who walks falteringly like a child, as if new 
 worlds had opened up to her in mysterious beatitude. 
 
 I held the gate for them to enter, and Memsahib said 
 softly: " Teacher is resting so happily." 
 
 " Is there any hope? " I asked. 
 
 " No ; and it just seems as though it would be a sin to 
 ask for anything but just what is. I never saw a person in the 
 full joy of life and hope so perfectly happy, so contented! 
 It's the saddest, most beautiful thing in all the world, 
 Teacher's faith and resignation." 
 
 " Aye," Mrs. Paisly added. I started at the change in the 
 Scotchwoman's voice ; even the single expression " aye " car- 
 ried the most wonderful note of softening. 
 
 " Teacher is just drifting intil the arms o' God," she con- 
 tinued, as I drew a chair for her. " It would be a black heart 
 that could beat beside yon couch and keep tae harshness or 
 evil thought." 
 
 " Mrs. Paisly has removed the last worry from Teacher's 
 mind," the Memsahib said. 
 
 "And I thank God I had a chance tae do it," Mrs. 
 Paisly added solemnly ; " and I feel a load off my ain heart 
 because o' it. I believe in conserving tha principles o' re- 
 ligion, but when Teacher spoke wi' me, something o' the 
 speerit o' Christ seemed tae look f rae her e'e, and hang on her 
 
 248
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 words. And when I gave up I felt a great sweetness o' relief 
 warming aboot my heart. It's naething tae dee like yon 
 Christian; she maun say: ' O death where is thy sting? O 
 grave where is thy victory ? ' ' 
 
 " We'll have a cup of tea Mrs. Paisly," Memsahib sug- 
 gested " you look tired." 
 
 " And I'll drive you home whenever you're ready," I 
 added. 
 
 " With Mrs. Cameron's permission I'd like tae bide here 
 till the end. The doctor thinks Teacher'll no' last till mid- 
 night." 
 
 Memsahib drew the Scotchwoman's withered face within 
 her hands and kissed her tenderly, saying: " I'm glad you're 
 going to wait Teacher might forget, and ask for you 
 might think your coming had been just a vision." 
 
 " I'd like tae see Mrs. Munro Jeanie Craig, as she al- 
 ways was," Mrs. Paisly said. " I'm afeered I've no' been as 
 neighborly as I might. Perhaps I've been a bit set in my way 
 through clinging tae the old style o' things." 
 
 " I'll ask her to come down," Memsahib answered ; " she's 
 up with Robert." 
 
 " Aye, there it goes again I'm just selfish, indifferent, 
 no' asking aboot the poor laddie. Hoo's he daing I heerd he 
 was bad hurted? It's just ane thing after anither trouble 
 a'togither for everybody." 
 
 Memsahib brought Jean to the lawn, and as I wandered 
 about in and out of the house, restless because of the intense 
 mental atmosphere, I could see the Scotchwoman who had 
 told me at Paisly's Corners that she did not approve of the 
 goings on in the kirk since Munro came, lavishing upon Jean 
 sympathy, and encouragement to stand strong in the hour of 
 17 249
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 her trial. She was calling her " Jeanie," and holding her 
 hand, and brushing little flecks of dust from her skirt with a 
 handkerchief, and mothering her. 
 
 In my restless orbit, passing, I heard snatches of advice. 
 " The Lord will put it a' right." And she wanted to know 
 what were sparrows that fell and were seen of His eye, com- 
 pared with a conscientious servant like Minister Neil. The 
 shrewd Celtic eye of Mrs. Paisly, a grandmother herself, had 
 discerned something. The Scotch voice was attuned to a 
 baffling of the masculine ear, but notwithstanding this, at 
 times intensified to clearness by this wondrous bond of sym- 
 pathy between women, of motherhood, words leaped such dis- 
 tances as I could place between us. Once it was, " Jeanie, 
 you'll be a happy woman then. Dearie, I remember when 
 Aleck was born " 
 
 I shut the study window things of the lawn were sacred. 
 I sat staring vacantly at a shelf of metaphysical volumes, won- 
 dering if there was anything within their leather covers that 
 could teach me the true guiding spirit of this wonderful Cel- 
 tic temperament, fierce as a Ghazi in religion, gentle and 
 sweet as a dove in human feeling all embodied in excehis 
 in Mrs. Paisly of Paisly's Corners. 
 
 We stood meekly face to face with the nearest manifesta- 
 tions of God's omnipotence dissolution and evolution and 
 creation thrust themselves as new worlds bursting forth had 
 appeared to Agamemnon on the walls of Troy like illumi- 
 nating stars across the dark sky, heralded, claimed of appear- 
 ance by the tongue of the Scotchwoman, as she talked in 
 solemn fervor of Teacher's approaching death and Jean's 
 baby that was to be. 
 
 I heard the Memsahib say to Mrs. Paisly that she had 
 250
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 made the tea strong. Perhaps it was what did it matter; 
 before midnight something exquisite, something closely akin 
 to Christ's spirit would have passed from us. 
 
 It w r as almost midnight when Teacher, her fingers lying 
 in Mrs. Paisly's hand, just breathed her spirit away from us, 
 so gently that Memsahib, not knowing that she had gone, 
 whispered softly to her, " Ruth Ruth, dear it is I, Allis." 
 
 In the morning I drove Mrs. Paisly back to the Corners. 
 
 Once she tried to speak of Teacher, but it was too much 
 she broke down. We traveled half a mile before she 
 trusted her voice to say: " I maun grip mysel' My! but I'm 
 a shaughlin' old body ! " 
 
 The mauve-tinted twin cottages of Paisly's Corners threw 
 themselves across our vision at a turn in the road, and their 
 intrusion awakened the everyday perceptions in my compan- 
 ion's mind. 
 
 " I'm wonderin' how Janet got on wi' the plums," she 
 found voice to say. " Hooever, she couldna spoil their they 
 were that soor. I told her to just souce them wi' sugar. I'm 
 no' carin' much. Do you ken, Doctor, I've a queer sad feelin' 
 o' happiness; it doesna matter aboot the plums or onything; 
 naething matters much. I'm reconciled tae my ain Kirk, and 
 I've seen a guid Christian d'e, glad tae be wi' the Lord. The 
 Corners look sae peaceful and restfullike tae me this morning. 
 I'm hoping the trouble will pass frae Jeanie Craig I'll ask 
 it o' the Almighty to-night." 
 
 251
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 |HE Agnostic was a perambulating query; his 
 existence one long question "Why?" His 
 endeavor restless, persistent delving into the 
 adamantine rocks of impenetrability. His very 
 appearance resembled the printed query mark ; 
 large-browed head drooped forward from rounded shoulders; 
 attenuated limbs ending in a dot at the bottom of which were 
 his feet. A desire for knowledge, commendable no doubt, 
 might yet turn to the frittering away of time and talent if the 
 niche explored was like the old lady's cupboard, bare of even 
 a bone of contention. 
 
 I had not seen him for a few days, and thought perhaps he 
 had ostracized himself out of consideration for our mental 
 unrest. 
 
 After I had returned from Paisly's Corners he found me 
 sitting alone at least in a companionship that was dually 
 company and isolation, for Blitz lay on the bench, his head on 
 my knee. 
 
 " It's curious," the Major said, " how the most tre- 
 mendous throbbings of nature or, as Schelling would have 
 put it, Trinity Godhead gallop here with a relentless stride 
 
 252
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 harnessed to the carriage of life beside a donkey of thistle- 
 down vacuity." 
 
 " You mean ? " I queried. 
 
 " I mean, to begin at omega the drifting thistledown 
 to-day I met Tommy, the sexton of the kirk that was. I've 
 been away in New York for a couple of days, and this morn- 
 ing Tommy, meeting me, asked : ' How's tricks in New 
 York, Major?'" 
 
 " That sounds good," I said ; " what did you answer? " 
 
 " I replied that they were about as usual, and Tommy re- 
 marked : ' I suppose New York is the same as lona, dull as 
 ditch water. Poor crops flatten a town out quicker nor any- 
 thing.' " 
 
 " Tommy has a limited perspective," I observed. 
 
 " That's just it," objected the Major, " he hasn't. New 
 York is the same as the village a place for transients. More 
 or less gilding doesn't matter ; to ride or to walk doesn't mat- 
 ter. The same thing that convulses us here at the present 
 convulses the man yonder, millionaire or pauper the happen- 
 ing to the body, and the uncertainty of the real journey 
 through eternity." 
 
 " I think you're right, Major." 
 
 " You think ! Well, that's as far as any man can go. 
 Neither Hegel, nor Spinoza, nor Meister Eckhart could go 
 beyond that just to think." 
 
 " What of Minister Grey? " I hazarded in banter. 
 
 But the Agnostic seized upon it with avidity as material. 
 " He's as provable as they are, and as unprovable ; and out 
 of his knowledge as inefficacious. But " and the Major's 
 voice grew low out of its own volition " the little woman 
 that died last night was a message." 
 
 253
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " Of what? " I asked, thinking to trap him. 
 
 But the Agnostic fenced warily, as metaphysically as 
 Meister Eckhart might have done. " That's what I'm asking 
 myself," he answered. " Was it just a purity of life here, 
 comparison inducing adulation, magnetically exacted tribute? 
 I heard about it," he explained ; " and if I, or you, or Min- 
 ister Grey, had gone to that Scotch warrior of conviction, 
 Mrs. Paisly, and asked her in the name of the Lord to yield, 
 what would have happened ? " 
 
 " But God chose the fitting instrument," I objected. 
 
 " But He had the ordained one the minister, called for 
 that purpose. It is difficult to determine just what is chance 
 and what is of arrangement ; or is there anything predestined 
 to happen except the two things, evolution and dissolution 
 even these seem purely matters of chance, not even separate 
 elements, just changes, varying phases of the one great essence, 
 a noisy ripple in the matrix of quiet." 
 
 " There's nothing of chance work in God's scheme of crea- 
 tion," I answered. " Look at the Pleiades. Come back a 
 thousand years from now, Major, and you will find them 
 gradually circling with majestic sureness across the sky from 
 east to west, and you can tell the day, the hour by the truth 
 of their position." 
 
 " That's your short vision, Doctor," he contended. 
 " Within them there are changes occurring the happenings 
 of chance. And if we're to believe Genesis they were not al- 
 ways as they are. But perhaps you can answer this question 
 that troubles me not a little. There are the maple trees 
 they're all alike, aren't they? " 
 
 "Yes," I answered. 
 
 " Only superficially. Among all the maple leaves on 
 
 254
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 earth there are not two exactly alike, neither are there t\vo 
 trees alike. Sheep all look the same, but close observation dis- 
 covers a difference; a farmer can come to know each indi- 
 vidual sheep of his flock by its face. No two humans are 
 exact counterparts. Even your twins the mother can dis- 
 tinguish between them." 
 
 " That's the infinity of God's creative power," I asserted. 
 
 " Is it? Then man is infinite; for a carpenter could no 
 more saw two boards the same length than he could create 
 two hills without a valley between. I'll admit I've troubled 
 over this question. Is it the wondrous infinity of a Godhead, 
 or inability for perfection? Man was created in a certain 
 image some of them are a hideous reflection on the Model 
 and yet never one attains to the same form as the other." 
 
 " I don't know I can't answer," I said. 
 
 " Neither can I, nor could Spinoza, nor Minister Grey." 
 
 "Why trouble?" I asked. 
 
 " A seeking for knowledge is commendable," the Major 
 answered. " Galileo and Newton gave us a rich heritage be- 
 cause they were not content with not knowing." 
 
 " Yes, because Galileo was wise enough to stop at the 
 outer limit; the stars were a border line between knowledge 
 possible and impossible." 
 
 " But what's beyond the stars nothing? " 
 
 " Teacher knows," I answered " she always knew; just 
 because she leaned on something greater than human knowl- 
 edge." 
 
 " It was very beautiful and very good," the Major said 
 sincerely. " A gentle sweet type of thistledown. There's 
 another, a rougher texture, Sweeny with his ax-handle cure 
 for physical ills. The M. D.'s, and the nostrums I think 
 
 255
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 he tried eveiything in that line failed to pluck the shadow- 
 throwing string of delusion from his cap, but the ax-handle 
 cured him; that and a diet of fried pork. What was that, 
 Doctor?" 
 
 " Nature," I answered. 
 
 " Yes, a grand curative for mind or body. But I must 
 travel, Doctor, for nature tells me I am hungry; and human 
 rule has so arranged it that if I don't eat now at twelve 
 o'clock, I must go hungry till six. Think over what I have 
 said." 
 
 " Heavens! " I mentally ejaculated. " Think over what 
 he has said it is trying enough to listen patiently! " And, 
 besides, here were the real torturing thoughts of everyday 
 trouble, driving from my mind everything else, as the mar- 
 tins in spring drove the sparrows from their nests in the iron 
 coping of the corner store's roof. 
 
 It was always this way when I was alone now, a tumultu- 
 ous tableau ; Minister Munro a blank ; Teacher dead ; Jean in 
 a desert of misery ; Robert, his body broken, at best a helpless 
 cripple for life a heavy price for the regeneration of his 
 soul. Something in that thought staggered the idea of consid- 
 ering his redemption from drink as a touch of silver lining. 
 The study in the Manse, the unholy odor of drug, his quarrel 
 with Neil, the disappearance of the jade-handled dagger 
 these remembrances perched like birds of evil omen on the 
 walls of the regeneration edifice, and I fell to wondering why 
 Robert had not cleared up the mystery when it was thought 
 he might die. It must be a dark something when he had not 
 spoken then. 
 
 Bain had arranged for Doctor MacLean to come from 
 York for the last service over little Teacher. 
 
 256
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " It will be just in keeping with her gentle, Christian life 
 for Doctor MacLean to word what her loss means to us, and 
 draw our attention to the reward religion holds for such," he 
 said. 
 
 The morning of the funeral the Memsahib said to me: 
 " It seems cruel that Teacher could not be buried from 
 the church she loved so well; she spoke of it toward the 
 last." 
 
 " It doesn't matter much," I answered ; " the real beauti- 
 ful part, Teacher herself, has gone." 
 
 At two o'clock shutters hid the windows of the stores ; the 
 hammer that had rung upon an iron anvil was leaned against 
 the forge ; the smith stripped the leather apron from his waist, 
 and in his home donned his Sunday suit of black. The village 
 rested from toil and from barter and from play. The school- 
 room, deserted, held only silent, solemn benches. The 
 w r ooden sidewalk echoed to the sedate tread of men and 
 women and children that marched, scarce speaking, to a little 
 brick cottage that had for many years known the quick, nerv- 
 ous patter of Teacher's feet. 
 
 Within an acacia hedge the villagers waited. 
 
 Presently, actuated by transmitted impulse, they thronged 
 into the cottage, pushing gently, silently, like sand drifting 
 before a wave, until men stood shoulder to shoulder, a solid 
 mass of human sympathy. 
 
 Doctor MacLean spoke gently of the loss that had 
 brought all these friends of the dead woman together, asking 
 the listeners not to make useless the glorious endeavor of the 
 Christian life that had been so long with them an embodied 
 call from God for better living. Then he offered up an ear- 
 nest, pathetic prayer. When the gentle-faced minister rose 
 
 257
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 and, like an inspired poet of divinity, chose as a text for the 
 Church's last tribute, reading from his Bible : 
 
 " ' But Deborah, Rebecca's nurse, died, and she was buried be- 
 neath Bethel, under an oak, and the name of it was called Allon- 
 bachuth.' " 
 
 I saw the Memsahib's eyes swim in tears, and all about 
 me were white signals of unrestrainable sympathy and human 
 feeling. 
 
 " Allon-bachuth means the Oak of Weeping," Doctor 
 MacLean said, in his poet's voice, " and to-day we lay to rest 
 our loved sister under the oak of our weeping hearts. Like 
 Deborah, she was a nurse for the afflicted in spirit. All 
 her life she nursed the weak in heart and the stricken in 
 mind." 
 
 Mercifully Bain caught the Memsahib in his arms, and 
 making a pretense that she walked, literally carried her out 
 to the little lawn bordered by the acacias. 
 
 " I'm such a coward," the Memsahib sobbed. 
 
 " No, it's the brave quality of human sympathy," Bain 
 objected. " It was just more than I could stand myself. You 
 saved me from making a weak display." 
 
 When Doctor MacLean had ceased his tribute, the vil- 
 lagers passed in a long line to take a last look at the cold pale 
 face, still sweet in death, that they had each loved man, 
 woman, and child. 
 
 Then from the little cottage that was like a great vase 
 with its holding of white flowers, the long procession of car- 
 riages and farm wagons passed to the village cemetery in 
 its grove of pines. Through their harp boughs the wind car- 
 
 2 5 8
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 ried a plaintive dirge to blend with the minister's soft voice 
 as he read : 
 
 " Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them 
 that fear him. 
 
 " For he knoweth our frame ; he remembereth that we are dust. 
 
 ' ' ' As for man his days are as grass ; as a flower of the field so he 
 flourisheth. 
 
 " ' For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone ; and the place 
 thereof shall know it no more. 
 
 " ' Behold I show you a mystery ; we shall not all sleep, but we 
 shall all be changed. 
 
 ' ' But thanks be to God which giveth us the victory through our 
 Lord Jesus Christ.' " 
 
 As some beautiful dream is shattered to waking pain by 
 the fall of a book, so I almost cried out in anguish, waked into 
 dreary realism by the dull thud of gravel echoing on the coffin 
 from the bottom of the grave. Indeed it was the last terri- 
 ble rite of inexorable reality. 
 
 259
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 |ICK SWEENY was not a man to remain 
 silent over what he had seen the night of the 
 church fire. He repeated what he had told 
 me of MacKillop's treacherous act. Donald 
 Campbell, who had been holding the nozzle 
 with Sweeny, confirmed the latter's story. But a careful 
 canvass of the situation made it evident that the crime of 
 attempted murder could not be proven against MacKillop in 
 a court of justice. He could easily claim that he was fighting 
 the fire back from Bain, and that the high pressure in the 
 hose had caused the nozzle to swerve. 
 
 There was a tacit understanding that MacKillop would 
 have to leave lona. I saw the full extent of this one day 
 when I chanced into the Plowshare tavern. I had gone there 
 in quest of a man to spade the Memsahib's garden. 
 
 As I passed from the hall into a general lounging room 
 that was next the bar, a falsetto voice, familiar, perhaps half 
 an octave higher through environing inspiration, fell upon 
 my ear. It was Sweeny's, and he was saying: " Well, b'ys, 
 here's to the fire brigade, and the waterworks though I'm 
 not for much water in mine, I'll leave that fixin' to the land- 
 lord." 
 
 260
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 I knew as well as though I had seen it that the speaker 
 winked diabolically down the avenue of grinning faces, that 
 lined the bar. 
 
 " Here's to the fire brigade! " Sweeny continued; " and 
 to the sandiest man in lona, barrin' none, Malcolm Bain." 
 
 " By God ! you're right there, Dick," some one in the line 
 answered. " I've seen game men in my time I see a chap 
 get the V. C. in Africa last year for takin' a less chance than 
 Bain took." 
 
 I heard the front door open and close, and turning my 
 head saw MacKillop. 
 
 He entered the outer room, scanning its occupants fur- 
 tively; his face, always vicious in its sneering uncertainty, 
 now carried lines that were not alone of weariness or 
 physical toil. I felt that he was an outcast wary of his fel- 
 lows, and yet a cry in his heart for even casual companionship. 
 
 He took a hesitating step that carried him to where two 
 men sat. 
 
 "How are you, Andy?" he greeted, holding out his 
 hand ; " how d'ye like farmin' out in Manitoba have you 
 just come back for a visit to the old place? " 
 
 I watched curiously for the result of this experiment. The 
 man he addressed rose, and took the proffered hand, saying: 
 "I'm not so bad How's tricks with yourself, Archie? 
 Manitoba's all right I just got home last night." 
 
 " Will you take something, Andy? " MacKillop queried. 
 
 " I don't mind," the man replied. 
 
 Just as they reached the barroom door Sweeny's voice 
 came shrilly, saying: "And, b'ys, here's eternal damnation to 
 a treacherous murderer that hangin's too good fer." 
 
 MacKillop's face darkened ; he hesitated for an instant, 
 261
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 then entered the room and walked up to the bar. The man 
 next him put down his glass with half the liquor in it and 
 drew away. 
 
 Sweeny, standing with his back to MacKillop, said: 
 " B'ys, I'm agin lynch law, but there's times when it's a 
 damn good thing." 
 
 He turned quickly at the sound of MacKillop's voice, 
 who was saying to the bartender: " Here, Charlie, give us 
 a drink." 
 
 The file of men faced about, and seeing the speaker, 
 moved away. The bartender turned and busied himself dust- 
 ing some bottles. 
 
 " Charlie! I want a drink!" MacKillop repeated. 
 
 The man at the bottles dusted in silence. 
 
 MacKillop picked up a glass and struck the oaken barrier 
 sharply. Charlie faced about, a frown drawing his heavy 
 black eyebrows together in a sullen look of defiance. 
 
 " You must be deaf," declared MacKillop. " Give us a 
 drink d' you hearl " 
 
 " Yes I hear ; but I won't serve you." 
 
 I saw Andy's lean, toil-conditioned head go up in com- 
 bative rigidity. His grizzled red beard bristled in anger 
 as he said: " Look here damn your cheek! am I an Injun 
 that I'm refused a drink? " 
 
 There was no sound save the voices of this little group ; 
 the others stood in listening attitude, glorying in the stand 
 Barkeeper Charlie had taken. 
 
 " I'm sorry, Mr. Black," the latter said ; " you can have 
 anything that's in the house what'll you drink?" 
 
 " I'm drinkin' with Archie MacKillop," Black answered ; 
 " an' if he drinks, I drink; an' if he don't, I don't." 
 
 262
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 I admired the speaker's loyalty, and knew that, having 
 been away, he was probably unaware of the feeling, even of 
 the suspicion against his companion. 
 
 " If you don't serve me," declared MacKillop, " I'll 
 break your license; where's the boss where's Mac- 
 Gregor?" 
 
 " Here I am," a short, thick-set man answered, stepping 
 forward. 
 
 " I'm refused a drink in this bar," MacKillop said an- 
 grily. 
 
 " Well, try some other place," MacGregor replied with 
 disdain in his voice. 
 
 This quiet dispassionate answer roused a devil of fury in 
 the other man ; the words stung him deeper than angry oaths 
 would have. His resentment turned on Sweeny no doubt 
 MacKillop had heard what the Irishman had said of Bain's 
 accident. 
 
 His passion blinded him. The drink he had come in for, 
 the bartender, the proprietor everything was eliminated but 
 the presence of the man he blamed as the author of his ostra- 
 cism. He broke forth in a torrent of abuse. 
 
 " I know why you won't give me a drink, you whisky- 
 slingin' swine! It's because of that Papist's lyin' tongue. 
 He's set out to ruin me. I'm an outcast. That long-legged, 
 red-mouthed mick has been tellin' about that I tried to do 
 up Bain. . . . Stand back, you fellows, an' give me a show ; 
 if you don't, by Hell ! as sure as God made little apples I'll 
 cut your hearts out!" 
 
 " Here, you, be quiet," began MacGregor. 
 
 " Look out, Dick ! " warned one of the others. 
 
 "Let him come! By hickory, I'm here!" Sweeny an- 
 263
 
 svvered, backing against the wall, and just missing a vicious 
 blow that the enraged man, darting forward with stooped 
 shoulders, aimed at his stomach. 
 
 Before Sweeny could swing his big fist something of elas- 
 tic strength caught MacKillop, and drew him to the other 
 end of the room. This power was Andy Black's long arm. 
 Now he had dexterously shifted his position, and held by the 
 chest the man who was half maniac. 
 
 The proprietor, too, had clutched an arm, and was say- 
 ing: "You'll keep still, Archie, or I'll call the constable in 
 a holy minute; and you'll go down to the county jail for 
 this, or my name's not MacGregor." 
 
 When the man of violence was quieted a little, Black 
 turned to Sweeny and the others, saying: " Don't make any 
 mistake, you fellows, I'm standing at Archie's back." 
 
 " Faith, he'll need it if he comes at me again," declared 
 Sweeny. 
 
 " Just hold your horses, Dick," advised Andy; " I'm not 
 spoilin* for a fight, but I came in here to drink with Archie, 
 an' I'm goin' to see him through his trouble if he's gettin' the 
 worst of it. I just want to know the ins and outs of this. 
 It's the first time in my life I was ever refused a drink, an' 
 I want to know the reason." 
 
 " You're shovin' your oar in, Black," retorted Sweeny, 
 for he was angry; " I wouldn't poke another man's fire if I 
 was you." 
 
 " I'm interested, ain't I ? " Black queried crossly. 
 " When Andy Black goes back on a chum just because 
 there's a dozen against him you'll find pigs in the moon 
 do you understand that, Dick Sweeny ? I want to get at the 
 bottom of this." 
 
 264
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 MacGregor nudged the speaker, and together they left 
 the bar. 
 
 Presently Black returned, and facing MacKillop, said: 
 " I'm not wantin' a drink now. I'm thinkin' you'll be better 
 away from here, man. You'd best go, MacKillop. I'd tell 
 a lie if I said I was sorry for you." 
 
 With a curse MacKillop turned and passed out to the 
 street. 
 
 18 
 
 265
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 |HERE had been another consultation over Rob- 
 ert Craig Doctor Colton coming from York 
 for it. 
 
 While the boy had grown stronger, there 
 was no evidence of improvement in the injured 
 part, and Dr. Colton advised that he should be sent to Mon- 
 treal where a famous French physician, Dr. Lupin, a spe- 
 cialist in hip and spine diseases, was temporarily practicing. 
 Both Malcolm and I had volunteered to take Robert to Mon- 
 treal, and Jean, half reluctantly, had consented to part with 
 her brother. 
 
 The storm of tragic happenings that had swirled about 
 our heads, leaving so much mental distress in its wake, seemed 
 to have passed. Indeed, we were like the remaining inhabi- 
 tants of a place devastated by a tornado, in an aftermath of 
 apathetic desolation. 
 
 Craig was to be taken to Montreal Monday ; and Sunday 
 evening, sitting alone in my study, the Memsahib having gone 
 to church, I was trying, by reading, to project my mind, 
 esoterically, across seas from a retrospective contemplation of 
 the village's unpleasant life problems. I struck fair across my 
 domain, not taking any path, by just reaching to a shelf for as 
 
 266
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 many books as would come away in fingers stretched to an 
 octave leaving even the looking for suitability to the eyes in 
 the finger tips. I could not well have gotten farther from the 
 present provincial environment had I consulted a list, for I 
 opened a gray-tinged book that carried on its cover the 
 legend : " Croydon, The Teignmouth Public Library." 
 Within was a date carrying me back a century; and the pi- 
 quant chatter was of a hundred years still deeper in the an- 
 nals of the past. A fine flavored, joyous, scintillant atmos- 
 phere, darting its rays of light through the murk of London 
 fogs and chop-house smoke. 
 
 Colley Gibber defending his comedies against the scalpel 
 of Pope's vicious dissecting Gibber as the " Author " de- 
 fending his work against Pope personified as Mr. Frankly. 
 And again Pope at war with a doughtier knight, Addison, 
 smarting under the older man's crushing, insincere patronage, 
 painting this word-picture of an enemy-friend: 
 
 " Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer ; 
 And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer ; 
 Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike ; 
 Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike." 
 
 And across the pages of my book of the Croydon Library 
 trooped the heavy Warburton, the merry Steele, and the liter- 
 ary mountebank, Mallet; the imperious Bolingbroke dom- 
 ineering, cursing the memory of Pope over the printing of 
 1,500 copies of my lord's "Patriot King," but secretly an- 
 gered because Pope had left the editing of his works to War- 
 burton instead of His Lordship Bolingbroke. Touches of 
 humor, as when Mallet, pompous in his self-sufficiency, com- 
 
 267
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 ing upon an anonymous new thing, " Essay on Man," dis- 
 missed it with a contemptuous fling at the author's lack of 
 quality and knowledge, only to discover later that it was 
 Pope's. And Gibber's epigrammatic verse upon the failure 
 of his play, "Caesar in Egypt," declaring in one line: 
 
 " 'Twas ne'er in Caesar's destiny to run." 
 
 And again when King Charles put the merry joke of the 
 fishes upon the learned doctors of the Royal Society. 
 
 Wondering why Pope should lay down his pipes to 
 twang upon the triangle of discord plaster a festering leaf 
 of his " Dunciad " over a wound in the back of some liter- 
 ary swashbuckler, when he might have piped to the stars, or 
 echoed the travail of world-birth, led to the curious thought 
 that these literary gods were very like the men of lona in 
 their crisscross state of savagery. 
 
 A knock at the door brushed it all away, I wishing a God- 
 speed of relief. 
 
 Rising, I opened the door, and the hall light flickered 
 the dark face of MacKillop into relief against the night 
 background. I was surprised to see him, of all men, at the 
 Hedge. 
 
 " I'd like to speak to you a minute, Doctor Cameron," he 
 said, and in an indecision of reluctance and pity I swung the 
 door wider as an invitation. He sidled in nervously, and I 
 closed it behind him. 
 
 " I want to see Mrs. Munro, if I can," he said. 
 
 "I'm afraid you can't," I answered with brevity; "she 
 is with her brother, and I'm sure she's very tired perhaps ly- 
 ing down." 
 
 268
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 MacKillop twirled the hat he held in his hand depre- 
 catingly ; he was turning something over in his mind. 
 
 I waited. 
 
 " I know what it is, Dr. Cameron," he said; " I might 
 as well be Lazarus " 
 
 " Come in here," I invited, interrupting him, and leading 
 the way into my study, closing the door behind us. 
 
 "What is it you want to see Mrs. Munro about?" I 
 asked. " Under the circumstances this is my business, for 
 here we seek to save her trouble she has had enough." 
 
 " I can't tell you," MacKillop answered; "but I've just 
 got to see her. God, man! is there no such thing as mercy, or 
 humanity? Am I Cain, to be turned from every door? " 
 
 It was the appeal of a broken man, a man beyond evil 
 intent. A sudden surmise came to me that he was here in 
 the way of atonement ; and was I to remain hard should I 
 grind the nether millstone? 
 
 " Wait," I said ; " I will speak to Mrs. Munro sit here 
 till I return." 
 
 I told Jean that MacKillop had come; adding that she 
 had better see him. She came down the stairs, and I, 
 showing her to the study, waited in the dining room. I 
 could hear MacKillop's voice pleading with compelling 
 intensity. 
 
 Presently Jean called me into the study, saying: "Mr. 
 MacKillop wishes to see Robert. I think I shouldn't allow 
 it, but I'll consent if you'll go up with him, Doctor just for 
 a minute." 
 
 MacKillop's face at once slipped into the distrustful look 
 of a wary, hunted wolf. " I was wantin' to see him alone," 
 he said sullenly. 
 
 269
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 "I can't permit it," Jean answered decisively; "you 
 would only excite him." 
 
 " It's impossible," I confirmed. 
 
 " Well, if I can't, I can't; I'll go up with Doctor Cam- 
 eron. I just got to see Bob, and say something that's on my 
 mind. I'd better be dead than walkin' the floor with it night 
 after night. Thank you, Mrs. Munro." 
 
 " Wait here a minute, please I'll see if Robert is 
 awake," Jean requested. 
 
 When she had gone MacKillop turned to me, saying: 
 " I'm goin' to make a clean breast of the whole thing. I'm in 
 hell this village is a livin' hell that's what it is. But I 
 don't care that " he snapped his ringers " for the whole 
 gang of them; they can do their dirtiest. Nor for Bain 
 curse him ! But the poor boy, lyin' upstairs there, he got the 
 worst of it and it was never meant. As God's my judge, 
 Dr. Cameron, I didn't know it was Craig that Bain had a 
 hold of." 
 
 " Never mind don't talk about it," I advised. 
 
 " I've got to I'm driven to it; that's what I'm here for 
 to-night. I've been hounded by the men of this hole as if I 
 was Cain. If I was Dives in Hell beggin' for a drink of 
 water I wouldn't get it from them. But I can stand that 
 curse them! When I had money some that turns their 
 backs now was glad to help me drink it up and they 
 did." 
 
 " Drinking friends are not of much account when the 
 pinch comes," I remarked. 
 
 " They'll turn on you like a dog when you're down ; 
 but it's only Bob that I'm worryin' over. We were chums, 
 Doctor, and he was white clean through, if he did drink. 
 
 270
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 Man! do you think I'd want to hurt the lad I never had a 
 cross word with in my life? We went to school together, and, 
 though I'm ashamed to say it now, we got drunk together a 
 hundred times." 
 
 " I hope you'll not go on like this upstairs, MacKillop." 
 
 " I won't that's why I'm telling you. I've got to put it 
 off my mind I've got to tell some one it's settin' me fair 
 crazy ; you won't split " he put his hand on my arm, and 
 his eyes, in w r hich dissipation had mapped little rivers of blood 
 and yellow ocher, looked at me from under heavy black brows 
 like the eyes of a pleading dog; " give me your word, man to 
 man, that, save you're asked in court, you'll never mention 
 what you hear to-night." 
 
 " I give you my word I'm sorry for you, MacKillop," 
 I declared. 
 
 " That's the first kind word I've heard for days. I'm 
 starvin' for somebody to say ' MacKillop ' as they used to. 
 And as God's my judge I never meant it against the boy, 
 never. I saw Bain and my eyes just went hot with blood 
 I'd been drinkin'." 
 
 " How did it happen?" I asked. 
 
 " Me and Maloney was holdin' the hose, playin' the 
 water on the floor, when all at once I felt a jerk Maloney 
 slipped. I could a held the nozzle off Bain, but I didn't. 
 God forgive me, the chance come, and I took it. But I didn't 
 know it was Bob; and Bain, the man I held the grudge 
 against, got next to nothin', and the poor boy that I would 
 have stood by got the worst of it. I heard that they were 
 sendin' him to Montreal Monday, and they're sayin' that he'll 
 never come back alive, and I've come to ask him to forgive 
 me. He's the only one I care for ; the village can go to hell ! 
 
 271
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 Them that turns their backs on me half of them, are pray- 
 ing hypocrites." 
 
 " You may come up now, please," Jean's voice sounded 
 down the stairs. 
 
 " Mind, MacKillop," I abjured, " the boy is all gone to 
 pieces in his nerves, and you mustn't get him excited." 
 
 I preceded the penitent. Twice I stopped and looked 
 back, not hearing his footfall on the carpeted stair ; each time 
 he was three steps behind me. A nervous reluctance such as 
 makes weak the limbs of a man mounting the scaffold was 
 over MacKillop's heart. 
 
 There was a wan, tired smile of welcome on Robert's 
 face as MacKillop hesitated just within the door; and then, 
 at a touch from me on his arm he took the chair Jean had 
 placed beside the bed. 
 
 A thin hand stretched toward MacKillop. He took it 
 in his own and pressed it to his lips. 
 
 " I'm glad you've come, Archie," the boy said ; " I'm glad 
 to see you again." 
 
 MacKillop's black, shaggy head was bent down over Rob- 
 ert's hand, and in a jerky voice he said: " Bob, I didn't mean 
 it I didn't mean to hurt you, Bob I didn't know you was 
 there before God, I didn't, Bob. If you'll say you forgive 
 me you'll take a load off my mind. I'd rather die to-night 
 than live a hundred years thinkin' you held this out against 
 me. God in heaven! it's awful, Bob, to think that I brought 
 this to you, and I didn't mean it." 
 
 MacKillop's plea for forgiveness was crude in sincerity, 
 just a repetition of the boy's name and confession of the black- 
 ness of his treachery. 
 
 " I know, Archie, you wouldn't injure me willingly," 
 272
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 Robert said, his voice weak, uttering the words wearily. " I 
 forgive you you didn't mean it." 
 
 "I didn't, Bob I didn't! but I feel as bad as if I'd 
 meant it. It ain't fair, Bob; you that never hurt nobody 
 smashed up, and me the cause of it! " 
 
 " It was the drink, Archie; that's what did it all. It was 
 that Devil that put me to sleep in the church, and made you 
 hold the grudge against Bain." 
 
 The boy's head sank back on the pillow wearily, and Mac- 
 Killop, holding his hand, sat silent. And the same silence 
 was over all the room. 
 
 Presently Robert spoke again: "Archie, this smash isn't 
 all bad, for I've conquered the drink-devil that caused it ; 
 will you do something for me to make good ? " 
 
 " Anything you can ask, Bob." 
 
 " Will you promise to cut out the whisky? You were a 
 good man before it got the upper hand." 
 
 " With God's help I will! " 
 
 "You'll try hard, Archie?" 
 
 " / will I I'm goin' to make a new start; I'm goin' away 
 to the States. I couldn't leave lona till I'd asked you to for- 
 give me, Bob ; I just couldn't go away till I'd seen you." 
 
 " But there's something else before you go, Archie you 
 must do it for my sake. You must go to Bain and ask him 
 to forgive you." 
 
 MacKillop sat silently pulling at his mustache, his eyes on 
 the thin fingers he held in his hand. I could read the fierce 
 turmoil that was in his heart. He hated Bain. It was a dif- 
 ferent thing from coming to ask forgiveness of the boy whom 
 he had unwittingly injured. Besides, how would Bain take 
 it; would he not turn upon him in scorn? I knew these 
 
 273
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 thoughts were passing through the man's mind. They 
 found utterance when he said: " It wouldn't do, Bob; Bain 
 wouldn't give in ; he'd only take advantage of what I said and 
 have me up." 
 
 "You're wrong, Archie; Bain is too much of a man for 
 that. Come, Archie, promise" 
 
 The thin fingers pulled gently in the other's strong palm ; 
 they drew the reluctance out of MacKillop and he yielded. 
 
 " I owe you more than that, Bob ; I'll do it, no matter 
 how Bain takes it. I'm glad I came God bless you, old 
 man! You'll be gettin' better in Montreal they'll cure you 
 there. And if I come to any good myself, I'll come back to 
 see you." 
 
 He carried the boy's fingers to his lips, then rose with a 
 great sigh. 
 
 " Good-by, Archie ; don't forget," Robert said. 
 
 As MacKillop passed Jean, standing by the door, he hesi- 
 tated, turning awkwardly, and said: "I thank you, Mrs. 
 Munro. I'm sorry for all the trouble and pain I've given 
 you without meanin' to. I'm sorry; I'm goin' to stick to my 
 promise to Bob." 
 
 Jean held out her hand to MacKillop. He took it hesi- 
 tatingly, as a man feeling guilty of some crime might accept 
 the sacrament. 
 
 MacKillop had crept in as a fugitive animal; he went 
 out more erect, like a man who had escaped a death penalty. 
 
 The confessional! Like a stanch Protestant the confes- 
 sional box to me savored of abhorrent mystery, a dangerous 
 acquiring of power over humans; but here was confession 
 itself a purifying fire, something to lift a depressing load 
 from off a tired soul ; how a man, taking thought with him- 
 
 274
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 self, could add to his stature, not alone morally, but, as in 
 MacKillop's case, physically. 
 
 I could have sat at the shrine of the open grate hours with 
 this psychological manifestation, but the Memsahib fluttered 
 in, casting off, in a wonderfully petulant mood for her, parti- 
 cles of the dreary municipal-church atmosphere with the dis- 
 carding of her wraps. With the unpinning of her hat it was: 
 " I declare it makes one almost fancy that, after all, there is 
 something of comfort in the mummery of the Catholic 
 Church, and the ritual of the Anglicans." 
 
 " Dear me ! " I exclaimed, for I could not have been 
 more startled had the ceiling suddenly come down upon me. 
 
 " It's just disheartening! " one arm out of her jacket 
 " the minister's squeaky voice was just a whine, beating petu- 
 lantly against the barren walls of that hall ; and for the choir 
 to sing an anthem to a croupy little melodeon, tortured into 
 revolt by a girl without any ear for music, from a dismal 
 stage, is just a little too much even for me, and I think I'm 
 patient enough." 
 
 " Yes, a church ought to be nice and comfortable," I com- 
 mented maliciously; " the draughts in that hall are enough to 
 give the regular sleepers their death of colds. And as for 
 snoring it's simply out of the question in that resonant 
 chamber. What we want nowadays is a good comfortable 
 religion." The Memsahib had shed the last of her irritation 
 with her rubbers, and now, warmed by the grate fire, was 
 ready for combat on the other side. " It's these tiny thorn- 
 pricks that stand us convicted of revolt at the first crying of 
 the cock," I continued, shoving a hassock beneath her little 
 feet. 
 
 " Nobody's in revolt," she objected. 
 275
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " Half the congregation is now, I'll venture," I con- 
 tended, " as three parts of it was when Neil Munro sat them 
 on the uneasy bench of their own sinfulness. Is it to be won- 
 dered, then, that Jean, tried as she has been, is in full seces- 
 sion?" 
 
 " Jean is not in rebellion against God ; she is only puzzled 
 to a point of questioning; and that generally leads to stronger 
 allegiance in the end. No one can honestly, seriously face the 
 glorious subject of God's omnipotence and power without 
 finally being convinced that it is the only wise guiding force 
 for humanity. As you say, husband, she has been tried, and 
 to a greater extent than either of us know. There is some 
 depth to this mystery more terrible than we imagine, I fear. 
 Both she and Robert carry something on their minds that no 
 suffering, no desolation of present misery brings them to re- 
 veal. But her nature is beautiful, and when it is all past 
 we'll know how extraordinarily beautiful it is, and we'll dis- 
 cover that she is a real Christian at heart." 
 
 " Even Robert's character is much finer than I thought it 
 I saw beneath the surface to-night," I added ; " MacKillop 
 has been here he came to ask the boy's forgiveness." 
 
 The Memsahib could only remain silent in her astonish- 
 ment, and I related what had occurred. 
 
 " It is just marvelous," she said, " how our life here has 
 been drawn out of its simple sweetness into all this tragic liv- 
 ing, with its different phases of crime and devotion and re- 
 pentance. I can almost hear the wings of the Death Angel 
 fluttering about the place where before the rustle of the maple 
 leaves in summer, or the drive of snow against the window 
 in winter, was all we heard. I've always maintained that 
 no man is beyond human feeling." 
 
 276
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " Yes, MacKillop certainly was pretty bad. It's like that 
 song you sing: 
 
 " ' As gold must be tried by fire, 
 So a heart must be tried by pain.' 
 
 And the trying of the human heart gives the most unlooked- 
 for results. Here was a man, fair prototype of the Fallen 
 Angel, and to-night, haunted by remorse at having injured 
 a boy whom he evidently was capable of holding regard 
 for, he comes, humbling himself in confessional, to crave 
 forgiveness. No doubt MacKillop was made sane by the re- 
 tributive justice which the villagers so unsparingly applied. 
 And we also see Robert's character with the poison ivy all 
 burned away in the fire, standing clear and beautiful, like a 
 healthy young tree. On the other hand Jean, of whom one 
 should expect just this condition of mind, is possessed of dan- 
 gerous questionings." 
 
 The Memsahib laid her hand on my arm in a gentle em- 
 phasis as she said earnestly : " Just as MacKillop and Robert 
 have had light thrust into their darkened lives, so will Jean. 
 God is sending her a little saviour. God's ways are mysteri- 
 ous, simply because they are too. great for our weak under- 
 standing. He and He alone can brighten Jean's life, and 
 answer her questionings."
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 |E had all worried considerably over the going 
 of Craig I could feel a sympathetic wrench 
 in my back every time I thought of moving 
 the boy. But practical, methodical Bain 
 had oiled all the wheels. A stretcher had 
 been provided, and strong-armed men to carry Robert to 
 the train. The terrible trial the parting would be to Jean 
 was lessened by the physical ease with which the removal 
 was accomplished. 
 
 We waited in Montreal for Dr. Lupin's diagnosis of 
 Robert's case. The doctor sent us away with a slight hope, 
 which we enlarged upon for Jean's benefit trying to assume 
 the debonair manner of schoolboys home for a holiday. 
 
 Immediately most wonderful letters commenced to arrive 
 from Robert's nurse, Eloise. They contained an astounding 
 knowledge of the pathology of spine diseases, especially of 
 Robert's case. Such roseate pictures of convalescence were 
 rendered that I should not have been surprised to have seen 
 Robert walk in, fit and well, any day. 
 
 When I spoke of these letters to Bain, remarking upon 
 the extraordinary interest Eloise took in the case, giving 
 up a considerable portion of her time to this letter writing, 
 
 278
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 he smiled grimly, saying: "Yes, Mam'selle is keeping to her 
 bargain honestly enough. I was a little uneasy, for I haven't 
 great faith in the French." 
 
 "What bargain?" I asked. 
 
 " Mam'selle has five dollars a week for the clerkship ; 
 I left the money with a friend to give her. I was thinking 
 that it would help Jean bear up. It's the fretting over trou- 
 ble and pain that is worse than the thing itself. It's diffi- 
 cult for a man with much imagination to be brave." 
 
 " But Eloise is rather overdoing it, I'm afraid," I ob- 
 jected. " What if a black letter of despair were suddenly 
 to come to Jean the shock would be terrible." 
 
 " I just thought of that when I was arranging this, and 
 I get a more reliable letter myself from Mam'selle. So far 
 there's no very great difference in the correspondence, I 
 think. Perhaps the nurse is running a few minutes ahead 
 of time in her letters to Jean, but Robert is holding his own. 
 Dr. Lupin has fine hopes." 
 
 " Does he think Robert will get well and strong again? " 
 
 "I think not not strong; he'll be a cripple for life; 
 but at that he'll be a better man than as he was strong of 
 limb but wrecked in mind." 
 
 As Malcolm walked away from me after this conversa- 
 tion, I was conscious of the magnetic power a beautiful men- 
 tality has over a person brought within its sphere of influ- 
 ence, even changing one's perspective of the physical taber- 
 nacle of that mentality. 
 
 Once I had thought Bain awkward in his movements, 
 of too strong a physical contour; now I saw a tigerish cer- 
 tainty of tread in his walk shorter in his stride than a 
 loose-jointed unmuscular man of his height ; his great weight 
 
 279
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 seemed to carry rather on his toes than on his heel, as a prize- 
 fighter walks; his head, outlined against the yellow evening 
 sky, was statuesque. A woman, sitting where I was, and in 
 love with this gentle gladiator, could have pictured him as a 
 Scandinavian hero-god, Odin perhaps. Here was that sim- 
 ple, generous thought of his about the letters. And, going 
 down in the train, Robert had confided to me that Mac- 
 Killop had kept his promise and gone to Bain, and Mal- 
 colm had not only forgiven, but had given him money to go 
 away with for a fresh start in life. 
 
 These days the village was like a boat lying in the trough 
 of the sea, floundering sullenly as though almost water- 
 logged; the only movement of the waters a long ground 
 swell, the sluggish aftermath of the storm that had passed. 
 
 By a process of elimination, a certain quietude of com- 
 ment had supervened ; the busy clatter of envious tongues 
 had almost stilled. MacKillop had gone, Robert was away, 
 and Minister Munro was as if he had ceased to exist. Jean 
 was scarcely seen of the villagers now. 
 
 They were the audience to offer a little of approval and 
 a great deal of condemnation, but the stage was almost de- 
 void of actors, and so they turned to material things at hand. 
 
 In truth the church people now wrangled among them- 
 selves over a tangible something, a something that every- 
 body understood thoroughly, from MacKay down to the 
 printer's devil on the village paper. This something was 
 the rebuilding of the kirk. There were workmen, carpen- 
 ters, masons, painters at work, but they were there to be 
 advised, to be corrected, to be found fault with. The vil- 
 lagers hurried from their daily toil to their homes in the 
 evening, released by the clanging town bell, bolted their 
 
 280
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 suppers, and dashed back to the grassed lawn about the kirk 
 to explain to each other just where the work of reconstruc- 
 tion was faulty. It was chiefly matters of detail that pro- 
 duced the fiercest wrangles. The color scheme for the in- 
 terior, entirely foreign to everyone's conception, naturally 
 evoked the deepest interest. In a way each member of the 
 congregation, knowing his neighbor's weakness in this affair 
 of art, felt safe in taking a strong position on the subject. 
 
 The painter himself was entirely ignored. It was thought 
 that years of brushing at secular edifices, such as barns, 
 fences, and cottages, must have entirely eliminated his artis- 
 tic perceptions. Figuratively he was brushed to one side. 
 For a week the citizens dabbled in color running the" whole 
 gamut of pigments, from the three primaries out through 
 the secondaries, and along the radiating ramifications of the 
 tertiaries. Shades and tones that had never seen the light 
 before, even among the ambitious students of Gerome, or the 
 exuberant colorists who chased the phantom of Monet's jux- 
 taposition of wild hues, now appeared upon the interior walls 
 of the kirk, brushed there by the patient painter at the insti- 
 gation of their inventors. Within, the church looked like a 
 piebald horse, a zebra, a very drunken Alhambra, a Taj 
 Mahal on which the colors had run. 
 
 Something was sure to come of it all, so they squabbled 
 with avidity ; while we of the Hedge sat in rejoicing at their 
 harmless occupation. 
 
 Nobody knew just how it had occurred, but the Biblical 
 inscription, trailing its letters along the arch of the apse, 
 went all awry. It should have read : 
 
 " Blessed be Jehovah, Israel's God," 
 19 28l
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 but something of a juggling nature had occurred in the 
 limning of the sentiment. It was as though a printer's 
 devil, having the line to set up, had used Roman and Arabic 
 characters indiscriminately, with a dash of Old English and 
 a sprinkling of German. God's name stood out rather 
 prominently, and that is all that could be said in its favor. 
 Jehovah certainly read Jonah, or Godown, or a vivid fancy 
 might have even pictured it as Golly. The letters had gone 
 on a spree; they were like a file of bluejackets of different 
 nationalities, very full, coming down a main street arm in 
 arm. They leaned groggily up against each other where 
 they should have dressed in open order; and they turned 
 away in disdain where their natural condition should have 
 been one of affinity. 
 
 Bain had an idea, confided to me, that the painter, tired 
 of the many interferences, had deliberately painted them a 
 text against the sin of meddling. Malcolm maintained that 
 the line carried the sign manual of every elder in the church ; 
 that each groggy letter was meant as a protest to each 
 worthy's officiousness. 
 
 Nothing could escape the interested Scots. The furnace 
 pipe running the full length of the basement with true Celtic 
 economy of heat was not allowed to pursue its peaceful career 
 unchallenged ; it became a huge serpent of insidious discord. 
 Varnish was the medium of contention. Mac Kay was 
 strong on varnishes, so was the Undertaker; and Willie 
 Watson had had great experiences in the same line. But 
 MacKay brought his argument to bear on the subject in 
 the way of a two-gallon can of his favorite adhesive. 
 
 "There!" said he, planking the can emphatically in 
 front of the painter, " gi'e it a coat o' that, an' if anyone 
 
 282
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 objects gi'e it another. I ha'e stovepipes in my house for 
 twelve years coated with that preparation, and the iron's 
 all rusted awa', but the pipes still stand gude as ever 
 just the varnish, mind you, not a trace o' the original 
 iron." 
 
 It was a strong testimony, likewise the varnish was to 
 hand, so on it went. MacKay surveyed the glistening pipe 
 with fatherly pride, saying: " For many a year I've had the 
 stink in my nostrils o' the varnish Willie Watson glued they 
 pipes wi'. Man alive! he near smothered Tommy the sex- 
 ton last fall when the fire was first started. I'll take my 
 religion wi'out smells if I can manage it." 
 
 So they builded away at the kirk, while we at the Hedge 
 lay becalmed in the shadow of the Albatross. 
 
 The first evening after Robert's going away Jean had 
 indulged in a terrible fit of despondency; she had wept her- 
 self into a state of exhaustion. Luckily sleep, erratic agent 
 of solace, had come, carrying on its wings Nirvana, and in 
 the morning hope had touched her soul with courage. 
 
 Then for a time the letters from Nurse Eloise had car- 
 ried Jean along with their interest. 
 
 We never spoke of Munro now; there was no verbal 
 admission that he was dead we just waited in silence. 
 
 The summer, dying gloriously, seemed to drag the earth 
 with it to some huge grave; the Autumn air carried a sense 
 of dissolution ; the earth lay in restful sleep, like a Buddhist 
 priest on a funeral pyre, dressed in robes of tawny gold 
 awaiting a change. The spirit of transition that murked 
 the atmosphere breathed into our hearts, and I saw that 
 Jean, out of the sheer emptiness of a life that held only a 
 desolating silence, was growing morbidly nervous. 
 
 283
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " We must do something," I said to the Memsahib ; 
 " there must be some break in this monotony. Jean is like 
 a fretful child that needs a watch held to its ear, or a clat- 
 tering toy in its hand. Something in this way we must 
 devise a change, even for a day." 
 
 At once the Memsahib threw a hazard, threw it with 
 eyes shut, not knowing the many sixes that rolled from the 
 box. " We'll have Molly out from York, and drive up to 
 see Cousin Beth at Valleyford. The drive will do Jean 
 good, and the sight of Beth in her brave little life is enough 
 to shame one into courage." 
 
 " The very thing," I answered. To me Beth was a 
 dream-lady. I knew her as well; all about her plucky fight 
 against adversity, all about her three boys and Matthew, 
 who was never Mister Anybody, but just Cousin Beth's 
 husband. And yet I had never seen the little body. The 
 sixteen-mile drive to Valleyford was one we were always on 
 the point of taking, but something always interposed bad 
 roads, or storms, or lame horses always something. 
 
 So Molly, who was our children's Auntie, was got out 
 from York, and the next morning the Memsahib and Jean 
 and Auntie and myself started, and, at the last minute, we 
 took Kippie, just as when one is all dressed up in his best 
 he pins a rosebud on the lapel of his coat. 
 
 Tacitly each one of us three, who were consoling servi- 
 tors to Jean, had determined to make the most of the drive; 
 and Nature, knowing of our intent, had draped the gnarled 
 oaks and spreading maples and mighty elms with Titanic 
 design and rainbow coloring. 
 
 Keewatin the Bowman had shot his arrows, which are 
 the North Wind, frost-pointed, into the heart of the forest, 
 
 284
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 and the maple leaves, splashed with its blood, were like red 
 letters of vengeance crying out against their death. 
 
 All that was my fancy, and Jean, interested, said it was 
 very beautiful. 
 
 Then the Memsahib the forest-lined road taking her 
 back to the 'Burma jungles found yellow-robed priests, 
 phoongyis, in the tawny-leaved oaks, oriental Druids; and 
 Molly declared that the dead leaves fluttering to earth like 
 stricken birds were golden sovereigns. 
 
 To Jean the hills in the distance were on fire. That 
 also was the blood-red stretch of crimson maples; and about 
 and over this imaginative conflagration hung the blue haze 
 of autumn that was like a lacework of smoke. 
 
 We topped one hill but to see another; valley succeeded 
 valley, as though in prehistoric times rivers had raced side 
 by side with the eroding continuance of a million years. 
 
 To me it was an awakening. Down in the village, a 
 place of great worth, the tillers of the soil coming to my 
 door with butter and eggs and things of barter were men 
 akin to peddlers; but here, where broad acres stretched 
 forth in majesty to the sky line, and herds rose up from 
 their grassy couch to gaze upon us with eyes of equality, 
 I, transformed, became of the kin of the packman, seeing 
 the master of these lands of production a monarch reign- 
 ing in his own right, his huge barn a fortress stored with 
 ammunition for the battle of life; his dwelling a feudal castle 
 with none to cross the drawbridge but at the pleasure of its 
 lord. 
 
 Presently the Memsahib discovered a border of flowers 
 running the length of two hundred acres of land. The flow- 
 ers were lichens and mosses that had homed for thirty years 
 
 285
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 upon the weathered fence. Gentle gray greens and flesh 
 pink and embossed silver altogether beautiful was the in- 
 tricate witchery of this monogram which was Time's initials 
 engraved upon the boards. 
 
 Youth, five years young, sitting astride Kippie's shoul- 
 ders, touched with the belladonna of ecstasy her big won- 
 dering eyes till they glittered, dark-blue sapphires of de- 
 light. Youth's deft pencil curved imaginative lines of beauty 
 about a ewe-necked, broken-kneed, sway-backed old mare 
 in a clover pasture till the little lady exclaimed with joy, 
 "See the lovely colt!" 
 
 I'm sure that Jean sighed ; and I cried exultantly, " A 
 kingdom for such rose-tinted glasses ! " 
 
 The old sheep were lambs, and a dismal pirate of a cow- 
 bird a robin, to Kippie. 
 
 Slowly we jogged up Silver Brook hill a full mile, and 
 at the top such a panoramic view of hazed valleys and 
 golden-haired hills stretched away that the very horses 
 stopped in admiration. Perhaps in reality they were a little 
 blown, but I allowed them to linger, for there, at the cost 
 of nothing, we had come into the possession of a Turner 
 worth a prince's ransom, or was it a Poussin, or a Claude? 
 Browns, transparent and luminous, pearly grays that softened 
 the rude outline of majestic oaks, and, twining in and out 
 through the olive green of a pine-clothed valley, was the 
 glittering thread of Silver Brook. Away to the right, nes- 
 tling in the golden-brown valley, was a hamlet, its red- 
 brick hostelry and church, dim bloodstones. 
 
 " It is beautiful ! " Jean exclaimed. I could hear her 
 drinking in great drafts of the crisp autumn air, that with 
 unseen fingers had stolen myrrh and frankincense from the 
 
 286
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 resinous pines and the browning buds of the cedar for the 
 anointing of our lungs and the adoration of our souls. 
 
 " See yon little speck ! " I cried, pointing to the hamlet. 
 
 " That's Silvertown," Jean said. 
 
 " Strenuous Scotchmen built that place," I added ; " great 
 men they are in this section; great men among men. And 
 yet it is but a pinhead God made all the rest." 
 
 At the bottom of the hill we dipped into a leaf- 
 roofed tunnel, and the Memsahib, touching my arm, said: 
 " There's the watering trough ; let the horses have a 
 drink." 
 
 From a little pool dappled with curly watercress crystal 
 spring water purled and rippled to a great hollow wooden 
 log beside the road. Stately rushes nodded their brown heads 
 over the cress, and their fairy-winged seeds were now speed- 
 ing away to foreign lands, borne on the autumn wind. A 
 little deeper in the grotto, where the tiny stream sang over 
 green-mossed rocks, grew ferns almost indefinite in the deli- 
 cate tracery of their sepia fronds. 
 
 When I threw loose the checkreins, the horses thrust 
 their muzzles into the beaded champagnelike water, nostril 
 deep. 
 
 We had come leisurely haste, servantlike, waiting upon 
 content among Earth's tapestries we had loitered, so the 
 horses were not too hot to drink. I watched huge balls 
 chase each other down their stretching throats, and soon, 
 with snorting sighs of content, the happy topers shoved back 
 from the bar. 
 
 The Memsahib called down to me as I drew again the 
 check : "If men were as wise as horses " 
 
 " They are in some things," I interrupted. 
 287
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " When horses have had enough to drink they stop," 
 she said ; " but men are not so wise." 
 
 " The horses are lacking in development," I objected. 
 " Baldy, there, if he knew enough to say to Jack, ' Here's to 
 you, Jack,' and the other understood, I've no doubt they'd 
 both drink too much for their good." 
 
 It was a revamped Scotch story I had made use of to 
 refute the Memsahib; but Molly's laugh brought another 
 from Jean, and I felt that we were getting on nicely. 
 
 And so through the land beautiful, gypsies by its hum- 
 bling force, we came to Cousin Beth's village. 
 
 Valleyford stands like a meditative stork upon one leg, 
 its other limb (in truth it never had one) tucked away out 
 of sight; and in the missing limb's place are fields of wheat 
 stubble, and purple-furrowed land showing the brown with- 
 ered foliage of potatoes that nestle in its bosom. For a mile 
 on our right was the urban manifestation of men living 
 shoulder to shoulder, and to our left the suburban solemnity 
 of fecund farm lands. 
 
 " In the name of all grotesque survey, what happened 
 this place in its babyhood ? " I asked. " It's like half a shirt, 
 it's like a sleigh with one runner, it's like half a turkey for 
 a Christmas dinner." 
 
 " It was Rory MacDonald that made the village travel 
 so far," explained Molly. " The others would not build 
 the kirk on the spot he picked out, so he just sat down, 
 dourlike, vowing that he'd ' Gie them the full o' their 
 ain way he'd mak' them foot it a lang road tae wor- 
 ship.' It's all his land on the left, and he wouldn't sell 
 an acre." 
 
 " Worthy descendant of Bruce of the Spider story," I 
 288
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 remarked. " Here's tae you, MacDonald, and your wee bit 
 persistence." 
 
 " He was an obstinate old Scot," the Memsahib de- 
 clared. 
 
 Jean looked at me, an indulgent smile on her lips, for 
 the Memsahib was not of our Highland commonalty. 
 
 Just beyond the potato patch a small broken-backed log- 
 house stared vacantly at us through sashless windows. In 
 that shack the MacDonald had lived and had his being when 
 he cleared the heavy forest from his first acre of tillable 
 soil. 
 
 Pink-topped beets and huge postlike mangels, their red 
 shoulders thrust above the soil, leered through a rail fence 
 at the trim brick house of the banker across the thorough- 
 fare that was half country road and half village street. 
 From opposite the very gate of the tall-spired kirk a lane 
 dove into the MacDonald domain, and thirty yards along 
 its hedged side was a farm mansion, angular, square, impos- 
 ing in its uncompromising architecture. 
 
 I could imagine the MacDonald issuing from the front 
 door each Sabbath morning, a grim smile lighting up his 
 strong features as he saw, up and down the roadway, as far 
 as the eye could stretch either way, the villagers, in their 
 Sunday best, tramping to the kirk that he could have 
 plumped a stone into from his own veranda. Indeed he 
 might have milked his cows in the barnyard each Sabbath 
 evening to the music of the organ had he so wished. 
 
 "There she is, bless her heart!" cried Molly; and to 
 the right I saw the slender figure of a woman proffering 
 the invitation of an open gate, in front of a low-walled cot- 
 tage, the shingles of its roof spaced off into tiny squares, 
 
 289
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 like a checkerboard, by bright green moss that rooted in the 
 cracks. 
 
 As I swayed the carriage to the walk Beth came to a 
 wheel, and, reaching my hand, said : " And you came, Doc- 
 tor this is almost too much happiness for one day." 
 
 There was a touch of unconscious drama in the generous 
 thought, as though unstinted joy must bring an aftermath 
 of calamity. I looked curiously at Beth as my companions 
 tumbled rapturously into her arms. She was small and 
 slender. 
 
 Matthew was working in the shop, Beth said; would I 
 drive there and he would see to the horses. I scanned Mat- 
 thew's face, and considered him curiously as something that 
 affected Beth's life abstractly interesting. 
 
 Matthew sighed when he put on his coat, and, I fancied, 
 looked regretfully at the unfinished carriage wheel over 
 which he had bent his back in toil. 
 
 To the hostler of the hotel we made ever the horses. 
 As we turned the corner a great angular man issued from 
 the bar and solemnly asked, " Are you no' weel the day, 
 Jarvis?" 
 
 " I'm fairly well," Matthew answered meekly. 
 
 " I'm glad o' that I was fearin' when I see you wi' your 
 coat on." 
 
 Beth's husband explained nothing, and we took our way 
 along the board sidewalk that was the very outskirts of the 
 city, the rebuking of civilization against the grassed border 
 of the dour MacDonald's holding. 
 
 Two men stood waiting our approach, gazing with fixed 
 interest upon my companion. 
 
 "What's up, Matt?" one of them asked, as the nar- 
 290
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 row walk blocked by their sturdy frames we were brought 
 to a halt. 
 
 " Nothing," Jarvis answered quite simply, showing nei- 
 ther annoyance nor interest in the query. 
 
 " I'm glad o' that. Dugald, here, w r hen he see it was 
 you wi' your coat on jumped tae the conclusion that Mis- 
 tress Jarvis wad be ailin' agen, an' your friend was a doch- 
 ter fra York, perhaps." 
 
 Now, thought I, Jarvis must needs explain about him- 
 self and who I am. But the quiet little man had gentle 
 ways of reticence. 
 
 " The missus is doing finely, thank you," he answered ; 
 and on the very edge of the sidewalk, skirting the immov- 
 able promontory of the two, we swung on our way again. 
 
 Three times before we reached the little cottage Mat- 
 thew was questioned as to why, in working hours, he donned 
 a coat and idled on the streets. Indirectly I was becom- 
 ing acquainted with Beth's husband. 
 
 "Will you come into the parlor?" Jarvis invited, as 
 with modest courtesy he threw open a door to the right, 
 and stepped back for me to pass. 
 
 The room was small and square, and brushed clean 
 to the polish of a lacquer box. Simple mottoes hung upon 
 the walls against a wondrous intricacy of flower-decorated 
 paper; " Walk in Love," " God is My Shepherd "worked 
 in many-colored worsted. " God Bless Our Home " looked 
 at me from over a clock mantel. 
 
 "Perhaps you'd rather smoke?" Jarvis suggested. "I 
 generally take my pipe to the kitchen," he added hesitatingly. 
 " Beth is much set against tobacco smoke in the curtains; but 
 they are busy now over the dinner, and if you'd like a pipe 
 
 291
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 I'll shut the door and open the window, and I don't think 
 she'll know. You'd not need to mind anyway," he added, 
 " you'll be away." 
 
 There was resignation and, I'm sure, hidden humor in 
 the little man's speech. 
 
 But I didn't wish to smoke, and through the open doors 
 came drifting across the narrow hall a clatter of china as 
 the four women bustled from dining room to kitchen. I 
 heard Molly's voice saying: " Never mind, Beth, the boys 
 will be just as well in the city as though they were here 
 with you." 
 
 Beth in the little kitchen must have expressed a fear, for 
 the Memsahib said : " They are such steady boys, Beth ; 
 they'll be all right you'll see! " 
 
 A little pause, and again the Memsahib's voice : " So 
 lonesome? I know; but that will wear off oh, now, Beth, 
 you silly child ! " 
 
 Then Jean, her rich, soft voice in gentle chiding: "You 
 poor dear, Beth you are just tired out. Come and sit here 
 beside me. There, now, don't cry! You are lonesome! It 
 is so dreary! Of course it is; I know how " Jean's voice 
 stopped abruptly. 
 
 " I guess I'll go and bring in some wood for the missus," 
 Matthew said, rising. " Here's the album if you like to 
 look at pictures. I'll be back in a minute." 
 
 Just once I heard a little sob from the dining room across 
 the hall, and the slow, solemn voice of a man, and I knew 
 that Matthew had deceived me that he was not bringing 
 in wood at all. 
 
 Presently he came back, saying: " Seeing the girls again 
 has sort of upset the missus a bit. She's powerful down- 
 
 292
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 spirited since Jimmie went away. The three of them have 
 gone now; Jimmie went a month ago." 
 
 Presently Beth's voice sounded at our very door : " You 
 must be starved, you poor old dears! But dinner is on the 
 table at last." 
 
 Beth slipped her hand through my arm, and we marched 
 into the little dining room that seemed to bulge with the 
 presence of so many grown-ups. 
 
 At the farther end of the table from Beth, Matthew 
 bowed his head behind a little hillock of roast beef till his 
 gray wisps of thin, dry hair peeped from either side of it 
 like whiskers on a fat-faced Indian. 
 
 " Lord for all thy bountiful gifts we thank thee," Mat- 
 thew said meekly; and then to the soft rustle of lifted nap- 
 kins he piped a shrill accompaniment on a steel with a carv- 
 ing knife. 
 
 And such a sauce there was to the meat! the wonderful 
 necromancy of Molly's optimistic future for Beth and Mat- 
 thew when the boys presently became rich, as they surely 
 would in the great city. 
 
 " It's pretty hard to make money these times," Matthew 
 sighed. 
 
 But Molly scoffed at the idea. Herbert was sure to 
 get on ; he was starting in the way had the very same billet 
 in the Canadian Pacific Railway that the now President of 
 that line had had when he was a boy. 
 
 Beth smiled at this optimistic picture, and, nodding to me, 
 said : " You are sitting in Herbert's place that's where he 
 always sat, at that corner. Jimmie used to sit here beside 
 me. But Herbie writes that he's got very long hours, 
 Molly." 
 
 293
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " Just the thing for a boy ; it keeps him out of 
 Molly hesitated to even hint at the temptations of the city 
 " it keeps him from getting lonesome. I saw him the other 
 day, and he's growing to be such a man ; you wouldn't know 
 him, Matthew." 
 
 Beth's face softened to exquisite beauty ; she reached over 
 and patted the consoler on the arm. 
 
 "The little Mother! eh, Molly? you always got that 
 name, didn't you? " 
 
 " I'll look after Herbie, Beth," Molly comforted; " he'll 
 soon get promotion, then he'll have shorter hours." 
 
 " In my time," interrupted Matthew meekly, " we never 
 looked for shorter hours it was a job we were anxious 
 about." 
 
 Though we had started with a plain roast, and our host- 
 ess was a desolate little mother deprived of her boys, before 
 we had finished it was an uproarious banquet; the teacups 
 clinked like goblets charged with rare wine. We two men 
 of advanced years were rollicking boys that laughed at the 
 pranks of four school girls. Molly, or some one, had lighted 
 Aladdin's lamp, and we walked by its light in the future. 
 The boys were all rich; Matthew had sold his little shop; 
 they had rented the cottage they'd never sell that, never! 
 and they were all living in the city. Matthew was in a 
 large way of business, a great carriage shop. And it was 
 wonderful how cheaply they could live in the city, being 
 altogether in one family that was, of course, before they 
 had become so very wealthy. 
 
 When we had finished the banquet, carried to dizzy 
 heights by Molly's fancy, I am sure Beth proposed that we 
 throw the dishes out of the window instead of bothering to 
 
 wash them. 
 
 294
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 Once in the way of apology Beth said : " It's dreadful 
 to be alone when one has had lovers about one all one's 
 
 "Where do I come in?" Matthew interrupted with a 
 neutral smile ; " I haven't run away yet." 
 
 Apprehensively I looked at Jean. Her eyes met mine, 
 and a flush swept across her forehead, leaving it like a snow 
 mountain from which the sunlight has been clouded. 
 
 "There!" cried the Memsahib in distress; "I have 
 spilled my tea upon your clean tablecloth, Beth." I knew 
 she had sacrificed the linen to the occasion. 
 
 But Beth, with her husband's challenge in mind, oblivi- 
 ous of its attendant bearing, answered: "I've got the old 
 man, of course; but you girls can't understand how dread- 
 ful it is to have your little men go out like birds from the 
 nest Molly here hasn't any, and you, Memsahib, have all 
 yours with you yet; and " Then she stopped. Her con- 
 fusion was so great that providentially her eyes remained on 
 the table, as though fascinated by the Memsahib's little tea 
 lake. 
 
 Psychologically I realized how sorrow makes one self- 
 ishly introspective, and also I knew how remorse had seized 
 upon gentle Beth. 
 
 But Jean got us out of our difficulty by saying: " I sus- 
 pect Matthew is secretly pleased over it all; I am sure he 
 has been quite an outcast with those big boys taking up all 
 the mother's love." 
 
 But, after all, the dishes were not thrown from the 
 window ; they were soon gleaming like pearls on the shelves 
 of a cabinet, a sample of Matthew's handicraft. 
 
 Jean and Beth were sitting in a corner, the latter's hand 
 295
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 on Jean's knee. I could see a letter holding their attention, 
 and knew it was one of Nurse Eloise's. 
 
 "That does read encouraging, doesn't it?" Beth was 
 saying. " I declare, in those big hospitals they'll take a 
 human being nowadays and patch him up just like 
 Matthew does a wagon some new spokes in a wheel, a bolt 
 here and a bolt there, paint it all up, and, gracious! 
 it looks just like new. And even if Robert were un- 
 able to walk as good as ever, I mean he'll still have 
 his glorious voice; and, as you say, Jean, now I mean 
 with all the little foolishness passed you'll be so happy 
 together." 
 
 Wondrous epistle! Perhaps Fate, so compromised by 
 all this optimistic promise, might be inclined to fulfill. 
 
 At Matthew's suggestion we two went for a stroll along 
 the forehead of the lopsided town. 
 
 I think the pioneer questioners of the morning had leav- 
 ened the whole village with their curiosity. 
 
 " I wonder what's happened? " my companion said, nod- 
 ding toward many little knots of people; "there seems a 
 great stir in the village." And when we had walked past 
 two houses, he added : " Must have been a team run away 
 I wonder if anybody is hurt?" Buried in this thought, 
 quite by chance, Matthew stole a march on the first villager 
 who waylaid us. 
 
 "What's up, Donald?" he asked. 
 
 The man stared ; the same question had been on the tip 
 of his own tongue. 
 
 " Aye, I was just wondering. Have the boys come home 
 have they made rich already in the city?" 
 
 "What made you think they were back, man?" 
 296
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " Seein' you walkin' round in the middle of the week 
 with your hands in the pockets of your Sunday pants." 
 
 Then I noticed, for the first time, that Beth's husband 
 had changed his suit. 
 
 " I'm not much for having them in anybody else's 
 pocket," Jarvis answered dryly. His retort filled me with 
 passionate joy; I was coming to know Beth's husband. 
 
 " Yon's a great card, coming in the buggy," Matthew 
 said to me as we walked on. " He's a rich farmer, old 
 John MacBean. They're all rich about here the farm- 
 ers." The last word was sighed. However, the rich Mac- 
 Bean was also curious. 
 
 " Aye, Jarvis, she's a fine day. Had you much insur- 
 ance on the shop ? " 
 
 " Quite a bit." 
 
 "You'll never get it; the insurance companies'll law 
 you out of it. Is yon your brither? " MacBean was lean- 
 ing over the dashboard in my direction, as though he would 
 stretch his big red-haired paw and pull me to the seat at 
 his side. 
 
 "You're a bit forward, MacBean." 
 
 In astonishment I heard Matthew's voice, its combative 
 tones seemed as stiff as a new garment on him. But almost 
 immediately he added: "It's my fault, MacBean I'll in- 
 troduce you. This is the gentleman that wrote the books 
 on Canada you must have read some of them Doctor 
 Cameron." 
 
 " Was it in the Globe? " MacBean asked, eyeing me 
 curiously. 
 
 " No, I haven't the honor of writing for the Globe" I 
 answered stiffly. The Globe was a York daily paper. 
 20 297
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " Oh, you're on the other side a Tory, eh? Well, I've 
 no' read ony o' your writin's in that case." 
 
 I'm sure he laughed in Gaelic as he drove away; it was 
 a harsh, barbarous cackle. 
 
 It was night when we started for home. The long 
 street was like a river that carried on its left bank the green 
 and red jewels of a lighted city, and on its right the shad- 
 owy edge of silent moorland. The swinging tavern sign 
 creaked on its iron hinges, pushed fretfully by the autumn 
 wind. 
 
 The jocund face in the moon tipped groggily, rakishly 
 to one side, leered at us as we topped the last hill ; and for 
 a mile the silver thread of the graveled road lay like a pearl 
 necklace on the breast of earth. Afar, on the outer edge 
 of the world, twinkled lights. 
 
 " Home," half whispered Jean at my side, " how cheery 
 the lights look. I've had such a lovely day. If one could 
 but glide down this long hill, with home waiting at the 
 foot of it, for ever and ever ! " 
 
 But presently we were at the Hedge. The wheels had 
 hardly ceased to crunch the roadway when a shaft of light 
 burst from the door, and, pellmell, tumbled forth children 
 and dog in vociferous welcome ; and silhouetted in the square 
 opening was the sturdy form of Sarah. 
 
 " A great soul panacea to-day," I whispered to the Mem- 
 sahib, as Jean slipped up the stairway to take off her wraps. 
 
 I got the tribute of a kiss in answer, as though it had 
 been all my doing I, who had but driven the horses. 
 
 298
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 IE now put on the storm doors at the Hedge, 
 the actual pine-wood barrier against " chill 
 November's surly blast," and in fancy we 
 hung a mental shield against all outdoor 
 solace the lawn, the hammock, the basking 
 in the sunlight, and the children's picnics at West Branch. 
 The farewell ceremony to these joys of summer had 
 been a Brahmanical rite, a grand cremation of dead leaves. 
 
 The maples lining both sides of the street had gone from 
 deep green to crimson, and from crimson to burnt gold, 
 and then, whispering in fear and trembling at the harsh call 
 of the north wind, the leaves had showered the earth in a 
 blizzard of great golden snowflakes, scurrying up and down 
 the street like frightened sheep. 
 
 Fronting the hand gate grew a maple patriarch that 
 always shed the first drop of blood in the autumn dying; 
 that unfurled the earliest red banner of leaf nudation, and 
 always from the same small limb. The children had come 
 to look, perhaps with apprehension, perhaps with eagerness, 
 for this scarlet letter that spelled " return to school," for 
 its appearance was coincident with the close of the summer 
 holidays. 
 
 299
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 When I passed the word that it was the time of annual 
 bonfires, the children answered with yells of delight, and, 
 armed with rake and broom, gathered the rustling leaves 
 into little mounds like beaver lodges. And soon the village 
 lay draped in blue smoke, and the perfume of it brought 
 inward lamentation for the dead summer. And it was like 
 mimic warfare, for Grandma Murdoch's horse-chestnut trees 
 had showered to earth the glossy brown nuts, and these, 
 gathered with the leaves, burst with detonations as of 
 musketry. 
 
 But at last there were just the blackened rings of ashed 
 leaves, and against the gray canvas of the autumn sky sepia- 
 sketched trees standing asleep. 
 
 In a crotch of one maple was a deserted summer cottage, 
 closed for the season The Honorable Robin Redbreast's 
 northern villa. 
 
 For years the same couple of thrifty robins had homed 
 with us, and once in a mood of verse I had clutched at the 
 skirts of the coy, treacherous muse only to break down 
 halfway on my journey. Perhaps I had attempted too 
 much, or had been overthrown by the incongruity of my 
 tactics, for I had harnessed Mrs. Redbreast and Mrs. Gillis 
 to the same chariot of thought. I had started off fairly 
 bravely with: 
 
 " ' As I rub at my tub in the shadow of the tree, 
 I listen to the song that the robin sings to me ; 
 It is sweet, sweet, sweet, 
 Where the sky and meadow meet, 
 And the daisies flood the valley like a sea. 
 
 300
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " ' The robin with the russet where 'twas cherry red before, 
 Has built her nest for ages in the tree above my door ; 
 It is spring, spring, spring, 
 That's the message that I bring, 
 And ' " 
 
 Alas! I never could get beyond this never find the 
 elusive line of completion. It was like the mislaid fifth 
 finger of a hand ; like a blown-up fort of the Cinque Ports. 
 
 But if the line did not come the robins did, not caring 
 a whit about my muse so long as the Memsahib's garden 
 was like the lid of a pepper box from the boring of angle- 
 worms. 
 
 Like the robins we figuratively took wing to the south- 
 ern warmth of indoors; like beavers we passed to the inner 
 lodge; as disciples of Zoroaster to worship at the grate-fire 
 shrine, and dull our ears to hoarse Winter's knock. 
 
 Life in the village was coming to a time of lull in all 
 things. The church was nearing completion; there were 
 few things left in its construction to wrangle over. 
 
 One day I carried home a letter to Jean, addressed in 
 the upstanding attenuated characters I had come to know 
 as Nurse Eloise's peculiarity. 
 
 I had barely turned on my heel after the morning's 
 greeting, when Jean, who always opened the Nurse's let- 
 ters with feverish haste, called to me to come quickly. 
 
 Startled, knowing that it was something of the letter, 
 yet I noted with acute consciousness that it was not a cry 
 of despair; her voice rang with the joyous clang of hope. 
 
 Jean's big black eyes blazed in a glorious illumination. 
 She thrust the letter into my hand, crying: "Read that, 
 
 301
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 Doctor. My God! I can hardly trust my own eyes. 
 Read it, and tell me that I am not the victim of some 
 strange fancy ! " 
 
 Read the letter? Heavens! I could only filter its 
 Gallic promiscuously through the rigid mesh of an Anglo- 
 Celtic sieve. It had been dictated by Robert and written 
 by Mam'selle Eloise; the dogmatic assertions of a Celt 
 treated, modified, distorted by the vivacious fancy of a 
 parenthetically inclined Frenchwoman. 
 
 Three readings of the epistle developed two distinct con- 
 victions. Robert had seen Neil Munro standing beside his 
 cot for a second one night that was Robert's belief. 
 
 Nurse Eloise intimated that this was possibly a hallu- 
 cination, offering as conclusive evidence for this conviction 
 the fact that she had not seen this strange M'sieu this was 
 Nurse's contradictory opinion. 
 
 Robert had dictated : " I spoke to Neil, but he did not 
 answer; I think he did not hear me but it was Neil." 
 
 Jean sat quietly, her hands crossed in quaint childlike 
 fashion in her lap, while I slowly perused the letter. 
 
 " What do you make of that? " she asked when my eyes 
 turned from the letter to the grate fire in contemplative 
 thought. 
 
 " In this appendix, which Mam'selle has considerately 
 written upon a separate sheet, not troubling Robert for his 
 signature, she infers that Robert is just possessed of a fancy. 
 People who are ill and confined that way to bed, having so 
 much time for introspection, do take their imaginings very 
 seriously." 
 
 " This is not an hallucination, though," Jean said de- 
 cisively. " Robert has seen Neil. My brother had the least 
 
 302
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 imagination of any person I ever knew. That was a great 
 drawback in fighting his weakness. I have tried to picture 
 to him the awful consequences, tried to paint the living hell 
 it would bring to him, but it was always as though I spoke 
 a strange language, not one word of it seemed to sink into 
 his consciousness or understanding." 
 
 " He may have seen some one some other person," I 
 contended. 
 
 " No one who had ever seen Neil could have mistaken 
 another person for him." 
 
 I thought how true this was. Before my eyes flashed a 
 mental picture of Munro's extraordinary head. Strangely 
 enough, it was a Mephistophelean head strong raven-black 
 hair luxuriantly topped a tapering face of ivory paleness; 
 intense, piercing black eyes, rather small, almost glittering, 
 seemed to stab from under black brows delicately penciled 
 in almost straight lines ; the mustache was equally coal black. 
 It was a nervous, sensitive face, carrying always an atmos- 
 phere of combat with pain, either mental or physical, per- 
 haps both. I was forced to admit that it was incomprehen- 
 sible that Robert should be mistaken in Neil, but I said: 
 " Nurse here speaks of some man who occasionally visits the 
 hospital, a M'sieu Mordaunt. She thinks that Robert has 
 seen him, for he answers somewhat the description the boy 
 gave her of the man he saw at his cot-side." 
 
 " Yes, that is Neil," Jean answered quietly. 
 
 "Impossible!" I ejaculated. "If it were Neil, why 
 didn't he stop when Robert called to him? " 
 
 My question threw Jean into a momentary confusion; 
 her calm logical attitude changed to one of trepidation. The 
 sudden look of pain in her eyes reawakened in me the sus- 
 
 303
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 picion almost confirmed it to a certainty that there was 
 an extraordinary something about Neil's going away that 
 both she and Robert had knowledge of, and of which we 
 knew nothing. 
 
 Recovering herself, she answered presently : " Neil may 
 not have recognized Robert he is so changed by his illness. 
 He would be dressed differently, and lying on a cot. Neil 
 would not expect to see him there; the hospital light would 
 be dim." 
 
 " But Robert says the man he saw stood by his cot for 
 a second." 
 
 " Yes, in passing, Neil may have caught a flitting sem- 
 blance in some feature that just appealed momentarily to 
 his memory; then, in an instant, as impressions wing their 
 rapid way across our minds, it was gone, and he passed on, 
 not hearing my brother's voice it would be weak. Per- 
 haps astonished, Robert did not at first open his lips." 
 
 " But Robert writes as though this man must have heard 
 him that's what I gather from his letter." 
 
 " Well, if it had been, as you think, a stranger, one 
 Mordaunt, and he had heard Robert's call, he would have 
 gone back. It was Neil." 
 
 " Well," I said, at the end of a painful silence, " there 
 is but one way to solve this new mystery." 
 
 " Yes, just one way," Jean confirmed. " But who is to 
 undertake it I can't disarrange the lives of my friends? " 
 
 " Nonsense, Jean ! " I answered. " I'll go to Montreal 
 and find this Mr. Mordaunt or disabuse Robert's mind of 
 his fancy or find Neil, if he's there." 
 
 " He is. He is there. And I can't express my thanks 
 to you." 
 
 304
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " Again, nonsense, Jean. I was itching to run down 
 and have a look at Robert anyway it will cheer him up, 
 if nothing else comes of it. You mustn't build too much 
 upon my bringing Neil home with me. Don't let so slight 
 a chance give you a hope that would cause you misery if it 
 were proven false." 
 
 " It isn't a false hope," Jean answered, with utter con- 
 viction. " Robert has seen Neil, and you will bring him 
 back, Doctor; you'll just shut your eyes, and your ears, and 
 your heart, and your lips you'll just close your very soul, 
 and bring Neil back to me ! " 
 
 " I will, Jean," I said earnestly, wondering at her 
 vehemence. 
 
 But, after all, why should I wonder at anything? Was 
 it not all some terrible, inexplicable mystery, so shrouded in 
 suggestive mysticism that I had almost entertained a dread- 
 ful, a horrible suspicion that Neil might have been mur- 
 dered in the Manse, slain my God! in a fit of ungovern- 
 able passion by Robert. And even now, at once there was 
 an evil recoil from half-infected optimism; perhaps the boy, 
 through long brooding, was haunted by a visual reincarna- 
 tion of Neil dead. 
 
 " I will go Monday morning," I said, speaking to hush 
 with my voice the flutter of these evil bat wings of thought. 
 
 Bain called in the afternoon, and now, uninfluenced by 
 Jean's conviction, I was entirely on the side of Nurse Eloise, 
 claiming that the mission to Montreal was predestined to 
 failure, though necessary to lay by the heels this stalking 
 ghost. Malcolm was not so sure that I was right. 
 
 " Do you remember," he asked, " how Mrs. Cameron 
 bowled over the Major's materialistic argument, that if you 
 
 305
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 couldn't see through a stone wall, ergo there was nothing 
 on the other side of it?" 
 
 " You mean the telepathic connection between Twinnies' 
 minds?" 
 
 " It's greater than our accepted idea of telepathy," Mal- 
 colm contended, " for that radiates from minds in active 
 whirl, their owners awake and thinking with tremendous 
 intensity; but whatever it is that governs the little ones in 
 their sleep, it is far more subtle, for they are not, as it were, 
 active agents, either of them; they are almost in an illimit- 
 able Nirvana." 
 
 " You are deeper in this even than I, Bain but how 
 does that effect this question of Neil ? " 
 
 " Just this way. I have noticed that women perhaps 
 they must be of extreme sensibility, of impressionable fiber 
 have a subtle sense that there is no describing, no naming 
 it is so beyond comprehension in its illusive subtlety that 
 one thinks of it as one thinks of eternity. And I should 
 say that Jean Munro, with her highly developed mentality, 
 has this receptivity, and comes by infallible truths in the 
 most inexplicable manner. As you say, she has the most 
 complete faith in Robert's story that he saw Neil Munro. 
 Her simple sincerity even affected you who had the circum- 
 stantial evidence on your side as against this belief." 
 
 "You think, then, that I shall find Minister in Mon- 
 treal?" 
 
 " I think we shall." 
 
 "'We' are you going, too, Malcolm?" 
 
 Bain nodded quite simply. 
 
 " I'm glad of that, it will make our search doubly thor- 
 ough; it's very good of you." 
 
 306
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " Not at all not at all, man ; I'm glad to get away 
 for a bit. MacKay and his varnish, and the others of across 
 the way with their bickerings, are a touch tiresome. I'm 
 wanting a little change; and if we happen upon Munro he 
 might listen to me we were great friends." 
 
 " You think, Bain, that for some reason he might not 
 want to come back ? " 
 
 "Well, he has stayed away, hasn't he? But I'll tell 
 you the truth, Doctor what I'm thinking that his reasons 
 are all in his mind." Bain tapped a forefinger on his fore- 
 head suggestively. " Munro had a temperament too finely 
 strung to stand the strain of intense unavailing effort, and I 
 suspect the chords just went loose with a snap overkeyed 
 they were. I'll be with you Monday anyway. In the mean 
 time, here's the errand that brought me. Doctor MacLean 
 is preaching to-morrow, and he's coming out this evening. 
 I wanted to know if you could roof him I think he'd be 
 quite happy here with the other children, if you wouldn't 
 mind." 
 
 It was the softest kind of sunshine, labeled Doctor Mac- 
 Lean, that bustled in through the front door a second after 
 the bus wheels had ceased their rumble at our gate that 
 evening. 
 
 " A large package of panacea for the patient," I whis- 
 pered to the Memsahib, as Doctor MacLean took Jean by 
 the hand, clinging to the tapering fingers to give them a 
 little occasional shake as he rattled on: " My, my! dear me! 
 how well you're looking! You're just your mother over 
 again. I've been so eager to see you all again. I've been 
 wondering how that robin or was it a sparrow that we 
 fed, got on."
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 Then later, when the early winter night had chilled and 
 gloomed the village, we gathered about the ruddy grate 
 the old boy and the other children, nine of us. Ticked off 
 by numerals first, the veritable juvenile, Doctor MacLean, 
 so full of quaint humor; then the five minors in the cog- 
 nizance of the law, the children; seventh and eighth, the 
 Memsahib and myself, youthed to childishness by the leaven- 
 ing influence of all these little ones; and ninth, Jean, 
 strangely full of suppressed excitement over the new hope. 
 
 Not for such a group theology or literature, which 
 would assuredly run into egoism, but the discussing of some 
 act of prowess by one of us elders. 
 
 In the black-sooted walls of the fireplace a hundred tiny 
 eyes of fire blink at us; they are like meteoric stars in a 
 night sky. I know a storm is brewing for the atmospheric 
 pressure has caused the soot to cling. 
 
 The children gather closer to the hearth, their faces 
 bathed in the rose-light of the fire. A mimic battle of im- 
 agination soldiers is on. Boers creep from their hiding 
 places in the crevices of the bricks and blaze away at lines 
 of British entrenchments. We see the flash of the guns, 
 running from end to end of the trenches; little bright dots 
 of evanescent fire, quick dying in the background of the black 
 soot. The enemy are driven back and retreat up the chim- 
 ney, their formation broken; sullenly they give way, firing 
 spasmodically. Presently all is dark not a rifle spits its 
 venom of red. 
 
 " The battle is over," I say. 
 
 " Look I here they come again ! " shouts Doo-doo. 
 
 Once more the battlefield is lighted up by the rolling 
 fire of musketry. And now the artillery! Shells hurtle 
 
 308
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 through the air; hand grenades are thrown. These are 
 little blurs of soot that drop blazing into the grate. 
 
 All down the length of a long brick the attacking force 
 drives the men from their trenches to the very edge of the 
 Barren Lands alkali plains, which are gray bricks within 
 the grate-fire zone, guiltless of soot. 
 
 The children hold their breath as the struggle waxes 
 fierce. Of course they are all on the side of the British ; even 
 Doctor MacLean, man of peace, becomes a partisan of war. 
 
 " I'm afraid we've lost the battle," he says ; " they've 
 conquered us this time." 
 
 Even as he spreads this evil news there is a most furious 
 onslaught by fresh troops upon the Boer flank, their left 
 wing. 
 
 " Hurrah! " I cry; " that's the Canadian brigade to the 
 rescue!" 
 
 It is a thrilling battle-cry that I have sent forth; the 
 children spring to their feet in eagerness. There are yells of 
 encouragement to the Canadians; alas! there are no en- 
 couraging cheers for the Boers, we are patriotically partisan. 
 
 Again the British soldiers issue from their trenches, and, 
 attacked front and rear, the Boers give way; the line of 
 battle wavers unsteadily back and forth, always up the chim- 
 ney now. The slaughter must be terrific. 
 
 Fresh Boers pour out from redoubts and swarm down 
 the steep escalade of a hill in rescue of their comrades. The 
 gun-flashes of the contending forces mingle as they fight 
 hand to hand. 
 
 It grows so real that Doo-doo shudders; tears come to 
 her eyes when the hill becomes silent in darkness, and I say: 
 " The soldiers are all dead." 
 
 309
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 A solemn hush follows, and I hear the labored breath 
 of a storm that rushes through the village as though cavalry 
 galloped to a battlefield. There is a swirl of snow brushed 
 against our windowpane by the gale-sweeping broom; it 
 sounds like the twisting of a shroud. 
 
 I think Memsahib detects the tears in Doo-doo's eyes, 
 for she says: " I see a castle in the fire, Kippie, and a great 
 blue flower growing out of its turret." 
 
 Immediately our interest returns to the grate, where huge 
 ships go sailing over lakes of fire. There is a black giant 
 who eats up little children. Santa Claus is discovered by 
 one of the Twins, carrying a huge pack ; in the pack is some- 
 thing for everyone. 
 
 For Doctor MacLean it is a horse. 
 
 " Dear me! " cries the Doctor deprecatingly ; " to be sure 
 the very thing for an itinerant preacher. But I haven't 
 been on a horse since I was in the Holy Land two years ago, 
 and he was a little donkey." 
 
 Sly wag, the Doctor ; I expect he also knew of Doo-doo's 
 tears. 
 
 " And the donkey's name was Judas, children," he con- 
 tinued. " Dear me ! yes ; and well named, too, for he 
 dumped me in a pool of mud; less cleansing than the Pool 
 of Siloam, though." 
 
 " Sana Tlaus has a sleigh in his pact for Laddie," Kip- 
 pie says. 
 
 " Oh, bully ! " cries the boy ; " and it's snowing outside. 
 We'll have coasting down Willow Bank hill to-morro\v." 
 
 Kippie's discovery of the mythical sleigh has given us 
 youth's viewpoint of the harsh storm. 
 
 But it is now bedtime for the children. And when they 
 310
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 have gone, swirling up the stairs like a chattering flock of 
 parrakeets, we become elders again, aged to silent retrospect. 
 
 As we sit in reverie, each one busy writing on the tablets 
 of his mind, suddenly Doctor MacLean's voice, sonorous and 
 strong, quite unlike the thin fiber of its conversational qual- 
 ity, breaks the stillness with: 
 
 " God is in his temple. Let us all keep silence pros- 
 trate bow with " 
 
 The poor old Doctor's voice dies away in a squeak of 
 horror; involuntarily and with great ill-breeding we turn 
 our eyes upon his troubled face. He is speechless for a sec- 
 ond, then he says: "Dear me! you must please excuse me. 
 I fell to thinking of my sermon for to-morrow, and I'm 
 afraid in fact, I did speak out. I'm very sorry; dear me 
 dear me\ " 
 
 The sweet old gentleman is showered with forgiveness 
 there is nothing to forgive. His simpleness is lovable. 
 
 But now the grate fire, ashed to a sullen redness, writes 
 lethargy in shadow-letters upon the hearth, and I say: " Doc- 
 tor, whenever you are ready to retire there's a light in your 
 room." 
 
 "Dear me! yes, yes! I will go now. When one talks 
 in his sleep it is time to go to bed. So delightful this even- 
 ing. Dear me yes, yes ! It would be a desolate world with 
 no little children in it, wouldn't it? " 
 
 There is a twinge of regret in his voice, perhaps, for he 
 is a bachelor. 
 
 Jean follows presently, saying, as she leaves us : "I think 
 this is the sweetest evening of my life. I know something 
 good is going to happen ; I feel a strange peace creeping into 
 my heart."
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 |ONDAY night Malcolm and I took the train 
 from New York to Montreal. The next 
 morning I stepped into an atmosphere of un- 
 utterable depression; the huge station, with 
 its myriad of hurrying humans, shrank me to 
 conscious minuteness; I was an ant a seed from a cotton 
 plant, tossed this way and that on the busy winds of life. 
 Dread obtruded its grim dragon's head, and I felt strangely 
 incompetent. On the street the giant gray-stone wall of the 
 terminal, rising like a cliff, dwarfed me to a pigmy. To 
 the right, St. Peter's Cathedral, holding through the cen- 
 turies its row of giant apostles, enhanced this feeling of lit- 
 tleness, of insufficiency. Somehow I measured my capacity 
 for the task in hand by the great dome that blurred, round 
 and gray, against a blue winter's sky emblematic of the 
 immense city we were to search. 
 
 I looked curiously at Malcolm, but he marched bravely 
 at my side, his physical force superior to the influences that, 
 like a chilling wind, crept to my marrow. As if my thoughts 
 had thrown him into a materialistic mood, the very antith- 
 esis of mine, he said: "Man, but I'm hungry, Doctor! 
 
 312
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 We'll go to a hotel, have a proper workman's breakfast, and 
 then roll up our sleeves." 
 
 " Ah, my leviathan of optimism ! " I exclaimed ; " it's 
 just such a matter as putting down a carpet something to 
 be done, eh? " 
 
 " Just that. We'll see Robert the poor lad ! get from 
 him what he knows " 
 
 " You think you'll get that now, Bain you think Rob- 
 ert will tell what he knows now? " 
 
 " I don't. Whatever he kept to himself was because of 
 some promise to his sister." 
 
 I started at Bain's words I had never thought of this. 
 
 " How do you know that? " I asked. 
 
 " By the most reliable way in the world observation 
 and a long season of reasoning. Robert was against Neil 
 he'd keep nothing back on that head. But it doesn't matter, 
 I wasn't thinking of that ; I mean we'll find out what there 
 is to be found out about Neil's appearance in the hospital." 
 
 " You are confident Neil was there? " 
 
 " Quite confident." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " For the same reason that when I have a headache I 
 know I have a headache I feel it." 
 
 " You are like Jean." 
 
 " Nobody is like Jean " This seemed to slip from 
 Malcolm involuntarily, and he added hastily : " Here we 
 are at the place of breakfast." 
 
 In an hour we were toiling up the long snow-glazed 
 street that led to Victoria Hospital. By chance we had come 
 on a day that visitors were admitted. We entered a long 
 ward, w'indowed from both sides, its pink walls mirroring a 
 
 21 313
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 rose light, soft and grateful, over a double row of iron cots 
 that held, in snowy sheets, afflicted humans. 
 
 At a little desk just within the door sat the head nurse 
 of this ward. 
 
 "To see Mr. Craig? Ah, yes; 'the sweet singer/ we 
 call him. You have come from his home?" 
 
 And Robert? Ah! I'm sure tears of sympathy and joy 
 mingled close to my eyes as I looked upon his face. 
 
 A queer simile came to me, that it was as though I 
 looked upon dross gold that had been passed through fire; 
 something had gone in the burning, something of rude 
 strength, of coarse fiber; but the eyes were clear and tem- 
 pered like blue-gray steel. And if in the face was resigna- 
 tion, it was a resigning to joy, to happiness. 
 
 " Ah ! " he cried, breaking the silence in which Bain 
 and I each held a hand, " this is a touch of Heaven to see 
 the old faces ; not but that there are sweet faces here "- 
 and he smiled like a boy at Nurse Eloise " and kind hearts, 
 too." 
 
 "You are getting better, Robert?" I asked. 
 
 " I'm half well," he answered. " Above the kink in my 
 spine, I'm a fraud to be lying here; below that, I might as 
 well be buried." 
 
 The lad was all impatience over the matter of Neil, and 
 he soon launched into this. 
 
 " You see," he began, " one night last week a poor chap 
 was brought into the ward O God! I'll never forget it, 
 never, if I lived a thousand years; it was dreadful! And 
 to think that I might have been like that when I remem- 
 ber it my affliction seems like a blessing." 
 
 "What was it, Robert?" I asked.
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " Drink! The man was a raving maniac; he died like 
 that he was dead in the morning. I think Neil came with 
 that poor fellow." 
 
 " But somebody would have known," I argued. 
 
 " Not of Munro. But a Mr. Mordaunt was seen, and 
 he is Neil. You will find that Neil is here in the city work- 
 ing among the outcasts you will find him in the slums." 
 
 " But, Robert, why should Munro leave his congregation 
 to labor among strangers why should he leave his wife and 
 home? It seems impossible!" 
 
 " It may seem so, but it isn't," Robert answered de- 
 cisively; and his eyes, looking straight into mine, talked on 
 in unvoiced words, telling me that behind them was knowl- 
 edge that I had not. 
 
 " I think it is reasonable," Malcolm said, " to suppose 
 that if Neil is in Montreal, it's in these low places we'll 
 find him. It was that spirit of trying to save the lowest 
 grade that took him to India; and as to his being here, away 
 from home, it's just a case of lost memory. That is not so 
 very uncommon." 
 
 " Well, the question is, Bain, where shall we look first? " 
 
 "Go to the Old Brewery Mission," Robert directed; 
 " I've been asking a few questions from an old wreck of 
 humanity that was here in the ward. The superintendent 
 of the Mission, Mr. Tyler, is the man to help you." 
 
 " We'll find Neil," Bain said as we parted from the 
 boy ; " and we'll take you both home together, I think." 
 
 A smile flitted over the lad's face. " My heart's been 
 thirsting for a sight of the village and Jean. They're kind 
 here, but ' there's no place like home.' I'll not be able to 
 run about again I'd make a poor goal keeper now, I think. 
 
 315
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 But if I could just sit there under the maples when the 
 spring comes, and hear the robins calling ' Cheery cheery 
 cheery!' it would be just like being in Heaven. I'll get 
 more joy out of life now, even with these unwilling limbs of 
 mine, than I got before when I was strong. I never used 
 to hear the robins nor see them; the flowers might as well 
 have bloomed in Greenland I was blind to their beauty. 
 The simple things that I remember now and thirst for, as 
 a man craves for water when he is dying of thirst, were to 
 me nothing then, for the drink had dulled my mind so that 
 I craved for nothing but it and excitement." 
 
 Bain put his hand on Robert's forehead, saying affection- 
 ately: "You're in a good way now, Bob." 
 
 It was the first time I had ever heard Malcolm use the 
 abbreviation. 
 
 " Yes, poor old MacKillop did me a good turn I 
 wouldn't take back." 
 
 " You feel quite safe, Robert you feel strong over the 
 matter?" Bain asked. 
 
 " Quite safe, Malcolm. And I'm quite happy about it." 
 
 " Well, I'm going to see the doctor, and if he thinks 
 you'll get on as well at home now, we'll take you as soon 
 as we've found Neil." 
 
 At the office we learned that the Brewery Mission was 
 in Craig Street. 
 
 As we journeyed there Malcolm was in a communica- 
 tive mood. 
 
 " What's your own idea of all this, Cameron ? " he 
 asked. " Do you see the hand of the Lord in it? I'm ask- 
 ing you because you're somewhat on the fence not as re- 
 gards your own actions, I mean, but analytically. If I had 
 
 316
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 put that question to anyone of the church people at home, 
 he'd at once have answered, ' Yes, it's the Lord's hand ' ; 
 and he'd leave it at that, frowning upon any discussion pro 
 and con" 
 
 " I can't say," I answered. " Robert's misfortune seems 
 so terrible a cripple for life ! " 
 
 " And yet if you'd ask him the same question he'd have 
 no doubt at all. He's just thanking the Lord for his deliv- 
 erance, and he's the real sufferer at that." 
 
 " I see; in a worldy way of speaking, if he's satisfied we 
 ought to be." 
 
 " Just that. There's too much questioning of the Al- 
 mighty on other people's account; we're prone to advise 
 them that He is not treating them right." 
 
 ' This is the number this is the Mission," I exclaimed, 
 facing, as we stopped, a large window in which hung a curi- 
 ous clock, on its dial the letters of the words " Time " and 
 " Eternity " taking the place of the numerals " time " in 
 red letters and " eternity " in black. 
 
 On the door, large written, was the word " Welcome." 
 
 The main entrance was locked, but a smaller door at 
 the side yielded to my hand, and we passed up a stairway to 
 a room in which half a hundred poorly clad men sat at 
 small tables or sauntered aimlessly about. A broad-shoul- 
 dered, sturdy, strong- faced man came forward to meet us. 
 His stern features relaxed into a gentle look of compliance 
 when I told him we were in trouble and needed his assist- 
 ance. 
 
 " I am here to help people," he said quite simply, and 
 led the way downstairs to his office. 
 
 Going, I carried with me a composite picture of all the 
 
 317
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 faces in that room of temporary refuge. As members of a 
 household living together grow to look alike, so these hun- 
 ger-brothers of the tribe of Poverty, their features stippled 
 in the gray apathetic despair, were subdued to a com- 
 monalty of kinship. The red glow of hope was absent from 
 the drawn cheeks; no jewel of desire for achievement spar- 
 kled in the dull eyes ; the springs of their physical mechanism 
 were slackened they were run-down clocks, listlessly quiet. 
 
 " Now, gentlemen," said the Superintendent, indicating 
 chairs as we entered his office, " I am Mr. Tyler, at your 
 service what can I do for you? " 
 
 Malcolm explained our errand, and when he had fin- 
 ished I added : " I am afraid you will think it rather extraor- 
 dinary for us to come looking for a man who is a minister 
 of the Gospel among those who come into your hands." 
 
 Tyler opened a drawer of his desk, and lifting out a 
 large package of photographs, selected one, and passed it 
 to me, saying: "That man was the pastor of a large city 
 church he was an eloquent, cultured, magnetic gentleman." 
 
 The photograph I held was that of a human wreck. 
 
 "I knew him well," Tyler continued; "it was drink 
 that brought him down I might almost add that it is always 
 drink. If the Devil were bound, chained like Prometheus 
 to a rock, and the bottle still held its sway, God and His 
 Word would yet have the same hard battle to save human- 
 ity from itself. Isn't it sad to know that a soulless, devilish, 
 inanimate engine of destruction like alcohol is almost as 
 powerful as He who created worlds, and made man, and 
 gave him a soul, and blessed him with intelligence?" 
 
 Tyler threw the photographs into the drawer with a 
 tragic gesture of despair, adding: "They are like a Dooms- 
 
 318
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 day Book; poor, poor weak humanity! Two in that lot are 
 ministers; and another is of a man who was a leading mer- 
 chant of Montreal at one time, and now he is an inmate of 
 the Rest at Longue Point, landed there by women and wine ; 
 his family are beggars. The man you seek for is not in that 
 lot?" Tyler asked of Malcolm, who had scrutinized each 
 pictured face that was a map of irresponsible weakness. 
 
 " No," Bain answered. 
 
 " Describe him to me, please." 
 
 It was easy to paint in words Munro's unusual face, and 
 when Malcolm had drawn a vivid picture of it, Tyler said : 
 " You have described a man who comes here at irregular 
 intervals. He is indeed an eloquent man ; his soul is on fire 
 with zeal, and when he speaks to my poor people, even their 
 indifference falls from them and they come close to him in 
 understanding. I don't know who he is, I know nothing 
 about him. He is the only man who has ever come here 
 that I could never get close to. Of course I knew there was 
 some tragedy in his life I thought it was drink. I've spoken 
 to him; but he seemed like some timid deer, an approach 
 abrupt, or persistent, 'might drive him away not to return. 
 I was sure of it, so I just let him come and go as he 
 wished." 
 
 " It must be Munro," Malcolm said to me. Then of 
 Tyler he asked: "When do you expect him again?" 
 
 " He usually comes on a Sunday. He hasn't visited us 
 for two weeks now, so it's quite likely he may be here 
 first Sabbath either in the morning or evening." 
 
 " We thank you, Mr. Tyler," Bain said ; " and here's 
 our hotel address if you should happen to see this man. I 
 think we'll just wait till Sunday." 
 
 319
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 Walking back to the hotel Malcolm said : " I feel it in 
 my bones that we'll meet in with Neil Sunday. We can look 
 for him in the meantime, and the wait will give me a chance 
 to arrange with Doctor Lupin to take Robert home, if he's 
 agreeable. We'll be mighty proud men going back with the 
 two of them what do you say, Cameron?" 
 
 " You're counting your chickens, Malcolm," I answered. 
 
 " I like to do that ; I have an idea that sometimes it 
 makes it come about." 
 
 For the remainder of the week we were busy, always 
 patroling the streets watching for Neil, or seeing the doc- 
 tor about Robert. I wanted Bain to employ the detective 
 force to find Munro, but he objected, giving as his reason : 
 
 " We'll just go slow, man. If we apply to the detec- 
 tives it'll all come out in the papers, and the village will 
 ring with it. Man alive! I can hear them in Reid's store 
 telling of our hunt as though we were tracking a bear. 
 We'll just wait till Sunday, and if we can't do any good 
 ourselves, we'll get help from a detective." 
 
 So, our spirits hovering between hope and fear, we 
 waited, and Sunday came with us still living on expectation. 
 
 At nine o'clock we were at the Mission door. We en- 
 tered into an atmosphere of coffee. If a London fog were, 
 just a steam cloud rising from a Titanic coffee pot, it could 
 not have been more pungently odorous than the large Mis- 
 sion hall, with Its row upon row of chairs, each chair pos- 
 sessed of a thin-clad man waiting for his mug of coffee and 
 bread and butter. 
 
 We took seats in the back row, Bain whispering: " Man! 
 but it's a charitable atmosphere. Godliness and giving are 
 twins; it's God's whole manner of manifestation. That's 
 
 320
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 what He is just godliness and giving; it's the humans I'm 
 thinking that tack many other attributes on to His name. 
 This Tyler is a methodical Christian, which is also good. 
 Poor de'ils, poor de'ils! " Bain added softly, scanning the 
 yellow-gray faces; "their shoulders droop with the load of 
 harassing sin that strikes at their physical bodies, even if 
 they managed to tuck away their souls beyond its sting." 
 
 Assistants scurried up and down the aisles with huge 
 coffee pots and great mounds of snowy bread. 
 
 I watched the pathetic faces, lengthened by adversity, 
 soften and round out almost to fullness as the generous 
 warmth of the simple fare relaxed the stricture of their 
 pinched stomachs. 
 
 " It is good to give, Malcolm," I opined. 
 
 " Aye ; there's a quick reward in giving to a fellow-crea- 
 ture. I never hankered much for wealth myself, but it 
 would be great business to have means to double the size 
 of this place." 
 
 The Reverend Tyler, coming to us at that minute said: 
 " We've dispensed fifty-five gallons of coffee and fifty loaves 
 of bread." 
 
 " It's a grand work," commented Malcolm. 
 
 " After the serving of the coffee," Tyler said, " we have 
 a service of song and a few words said in the cause. Will 
 you come up to the platform ? " 
 
 " We'll wait here," Malcolm answered. 
 
 " Very well. If the man I spoke of appears, he'll come 
 in at the back entrance ; he'll take a seat quietly on the plat- 
 form, and when I invite him to speak he'll hold them for 
 about ten minutes. After that he always goes back into the 
 eating room, that is, through that door behind the platform, 
 
 321
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 and has a cup of coffee and bread and butter. That will 
 be your opportunity to meet him." 
 
 Then Tyler went up to the platform, took a seat at a 
 small organ, and said in his strong, resonant voice: " Now, 
 men, let's have a good song service for once. Hymn 
 142 142] Let your neighbor look on with you we're 
 short of books. All sing together now." Tyler's powerful 
 baritone sent the sweet words of the hymn echoing through 
 the packed room, and the men took it up. 
 
 " It is Jesus 
 
 At the end of the first verse Tyler commanded : " Sing 
 it again better. We're not all singing. Let's have the best 
 song-service we ever had. That's good! Now for the sec- 
 ond verse Lift it up! Now we'll sing No. 90." 
 
 One of the assistants repeated the number in French. 
 
 After a prayer Mr. Tyler came forward to the small 
 desk at the front of the platform, saying: " Now I am 
 going to read to you a short story that comes very close into 
 your own lives, and I'm going to tell you about it. It's in 
 the sixth chapter of the book of John, the first thirteen 
 verses." 
 
 " Now," he continued, when he had read of the loaves 
 and the fishes, " there is something you can understand. 
 There were all those people gathered in that place, and 
 nothing to eat. But the Disciple Andrew found one little 
 lad who had five barley loaves, the size of that " holding 
 up his fist " the size of a hot bun same as your mother 
 made. You remember your mothers, some of you " the 
 speaker leaned his broad shoulders over the little desk and 
 the great baritone that had echoed through the hall the 
 sweet hymn, now sank low and pleading " you remember 
 
 322
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 when you were like this little lad, you were going off on 
 a journey, perhaps fishing or to school, and your mother 
 would fill your pockets with cakes or buns or biscuits. 
 Don't you wish you were there now with that mother that 
 never put in your pocket poison to destroy either your body 
 or your soul ? " 
 
 My gaze had been riveted on the blue-gray eyes of the 
 earnest speaker; they had really become violet in their 
 intensity. 
 
 Suddenly I felt Bain's powerful hand on my wrist, and 
 he whispered, without turning his head: "Heavens! Cam- 
 eron, yonder is Neil ! " 
 
 The eating-room door back of the platform stood half 
 open, held by a man who had hesitated on the threshold. 
 
 I saw the pale olive face of Neil Munro; his eyes, once 
 like living stars in their brilliancy, now heavy with weari- 
 ness, rested vacantly upon the sea of faces that fronted him. 
 
 " Now I pray God," I heard Tyler say, " that there is 
 some man here this morning who considers his soul of more 
 value than whisky. Do you hear?" he cried, his powerful 
 voice rising till the heavy air of the room vibrated ; " just 
 one man regenerated to this point is sufficient recompense 
 for all that the Lord has done for you here. Go back, men, 
 to the wives that you've left to starve, and be men again! 
 Go back to the mothers who need your help, and be sons! 
 Go back to the women you married, and the bairns you've 
 brought into the world, and take care of them ! " 
 
 As Munro slipped quietly to a vacant seat on the plat- 
 form, Tyler turned his head at a creaking of the chair; then 
 he continued : " Now, men, may God incline your hearts a 
 little to receive the weak words I have spoken. An old 
 
 323
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 friend of yours has come to offer testimony to God's good- 
 ness and love for His creatures." 
 
 The Superintendent sat down, and Neil stepped forward 
 to the desk with a tired, listless movement. 
 
 " Still working himself to death," Malcolm whispered. 
 
 A solemn hush fell over the room; the men charmed to 
 silence by Neil's clear, flutelike voice soft, cultured, sound- 
 ing strangely beautiful in its tempered modulation; perhaps 
 this exquisite quality accentuated by comparison with the 
 vigorous rhetoric of the preceding speaker. 
 
 " God so loved the world that He gave His only be- 
 gotten Son," Munro began. 
 
 Then he wooed the men, draggled of raiment and soul, 
 with the love of God as told by the lips of Jesus Christ. 
 Munro might have been a lover sent on earth by God to 
 win the hearts and souls of sinners, of men hardened by 
 adversity. 
 
 His audience listened as they might have harkened to 
 words from a wise child ; a sweet simple message of finding 
 their souls through opening their hearts to Divine love. 
 
 Then he went back to Tyler's denunciation of love of 
 the body, saying: "All the warfare with God is because of 
 the body. There are just two things in the world for you 
 to consider the soul, which is God; and the body, which 
 is the devil. When you want to do right, that is your soul 
 guiding you; when you do wrong the still spirit within 
 you which is your soul telling you that it is wrong that 
 is your body with its carnal earthiness. It is one long war- 
 fare, with happiness forever and ever the reward of vic- 
 tory. It is hard. I weep with you in your defeat, for I 
 know how hard it is." 
 
 3 2 4
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 Bain whispered in my ear, " It's almost unorthodox, but 
 it's grand sense. It's like Nicholas of Cusa." 
 
 " There was a man," Neil continued, " who wanted to 
 carry on this soul work of God's; his spirit was strong but 
 his body was weak. And he sinned against his soul to 
 strengthen the body until the body conquered in sin the 
 soul. That you will understand, for you have done the 
 same thing, many of you. And it leads to nothing but 
 despair " 
 
 " I can't follow him," Malcolm whispered ; " it's not 
 clear is he confused? Poor Neil! I'm afraid he's a 
 doomed man." 
 
 " Wait," I answered ; " I understand him." 
 
 Neil had rested weakly for a second, hesitatingly, as 
 though he groped in his mind or was waiting for strength. 
 Now he spoke again his voice was firmer. 
 
 ' The man I spoke of stands before you, brothers ; not as 
 a teacher to lead, but just as one of yourselves, a shattered 
 weakling to plead with you to be strong all for your 
 souls, even to the sacrifice of the body and its desires. There 
 is but one " 
 
 He stopped. I had a fancy that his eyes were fixed 
 upon my face. His hand clutched at the desk and he 
 leaned for a second heavily on his arm ; then he added, and 
 his voice wavered, " The peace of God be with you, and 
 the love of Jesus Christ." 
 
 He turned away and walked brokenly back through the 
 door. 
 
 As he disappeared Tyler rose hurriedly, came to the 
 front of the platform, raised his hands in benediction, 
 and over the bowed heads the simple prayer floated back 
 
 325
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 to where we sat possessed of an impatience to follow 
 Neil. 
 
 As the " Amen " rang sonorously through the hall, Mal- 
 colm, clutching me by the arm, cried, " Come, man, quick! 
 we'll find Minister nicely at his breakfast." 
 
 We hurried up the aisle, and Tyler, waiting, said: " This 
 way, gentlemen; you'll find him at the corner table by the 
 window." 
 
 We passed through the door to a room containing but 
 the two helpers. Neil was not at the window table, nor 
 anywhere within. 
 
 In fear we questioned a waiter. The pale-faced man 
 who had spoken had not stopped for his usual breakfast, 
 but had passed by the side door to the street. 
 
 " Heavens! Malcolm," I moaned; " have we found Neil 
 and lost him ? " 
 
 " He's gone, but we've not lost him," practical Bain 
 answered ; " he can't get away from us now when we 
 know he's here in the flesh. We were fair stupid though. 
 One of us should have gone out the front and come around 
 to this door." 
 
 " I thought of it, Bain, but the front door was locked 
 and I didn't want to disturb the meeting." 
 
 We passed to the street and tramped up and down, back 
 and forth, for an hour without discovering a trace of Munro. 
 
 " I can't make it out," I said. " I saw him looking our 
 way just as he partly broke down; we were in the dark 
 corner by Tyler's office, but still I'm half inclined to think 
 he recognized me." 
 
 " It may have been just that he wasn't feeling very 
 well," Bain suggested ; " he looked ill, goodness knows." 
 
 326
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 "At any rate he's gone again!" I declared. "But 
 seeing him alive has taken a load off my mind. We'll just 
 go back to the hotel and I'll write a letter to the Mem- 
 sahib that we've found Minister at last." 
 
 " Yes that's a grand idea ; it wouldn't do to telegraph, 
 in many ways. But we're near the Mission again, and I'm 
 going in to have a little advice from the Reverend Tyler 
 he's a wise man." 
 
 When we told Tyler of our hopeless search, he said: 
 " Indeed, you might look a year for a man in this city and 
 not find him; it's like a rabbit warren with its narrow, 
 old-fashioned streets and tumble-down rookeries; and the 
 two nationalities, French and English, jealous of each 
 other, unwilling to give information. Why don't you go 
 to Mr. Carter, the head of the detective force he'll find 
 your friend for you in a day ? " 
 
 I told Tyler of our desire for secrecy; but he declared 
 we need have no fear on that head. " Mr. Carter is a 
 friend of mine," he said, " and is one of the finest char- 
 acters I have ever known. Indeed, you'll be surprised to 
 come upon such a man in that occupation. He has the 
 fine susceptibilities of a woman, though he's a terror to 
 the godless. I'll give you a letter of introduction to him 
 better still, I'll make an appointment with him for to- 
 morrow at eleven that's the best time to see him and I'll 
 go to his office with you." 
 
 At eleven o'clock next morning we stood in an ante- 
 room to the detective's private office, having sent in a card. 
 
 " Man, I feel like a criminal," Bain expressed, as we 
 looked curiously into a huge glass-fronted cabinet that stood 
 against one wall. It contained a vast assortment of bur- 
 
 327
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 glar's tools implements of iniquity, each one labeled with 
 its particular association in crime; murderous slungshots, 
 billies, jimmies, iron drills, fuses, dark lanterns, knives, pis- 
 tols an interminable collection. 
 
 Half fascinated by their suggestion of human depravity, 
 my soul revolted against the contaminating association of 
 all these depressing things the depraved fallen ones of the 
 Mission's care, the filthy narrow streets we had traversed 
 yesterday in our search, our appeal to the officer of the 
 law whose occupation was the hunting down of the crim- 
 inal owners of these lawless tools with the name of a 
 minister of the gospel, with Neil Munro, pastor of a quiet 
 village where the greatest crime was perhaps a drunken 
 row on the street. 
 
 It seemed impossible it confused my mind. Somehow I 
 thought of Jean Valjean creeping out of the sewer; there 
 it was, similitude, the sweet-hearted little cure and Jean 
 who stole his silver candlesticks. How closely the two 
 came together at times, purity and hopeless depravity. 
 
 I was roused from this gloomy retrospect by Tyler's 
 voice: " Come, gentlemen, Mr. Carter will see us now." 
 
 As the detective rose to greet us, and listening to his 
 quiet even voice, looking into his steady blue eye, clear 
 and placid, I realized again vividly how, shoulder to shoul- 
 der, moral worth and vicious sinfulness stood; hand upon 
 arm, and yet separated by illimitable distances. Here was 
 the cure, and almost at his elbow the tools of Jean Valjean. 
 
 " Just tell me all about the case as much as you think 
 necessary," he corrected himself, " with a view to accom- 
 plishing your errand." 
 
 When I ended in shamed apology: "It's perhaps un- 
 328
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 usual to ask you to trace a minister, it is incongruous it 
 looks so criminal-like." 
 
 " You are not the first to come on that errand," he 
 answered. " I mustn't talk, you know, but as those who use 
 slang put it, ' there are others ' ; and, though it may sound 
 harsh, we'll trail after your friend just as though we 
 searched for a criminal. It's the only way. When laymen 
 can't find a missing man he's generally in hiding, voluntarily, 
 or by force, or dead. I'll give you the best man on the 
 staff, and all doors must open to his knock. He'll find 
 your friend if he's alive and in the city, and you say he 
 is. That is all I can do, gentlemen it's enough, too, ex- 
 cept, of course, as you wish, see that everything is done 
 quite secretly; I can manage that it's our usual way of 
 working, so it will be quite no trouble. Perhaps Connor 
 may even know just where to put his hand upon your man." 
 
 The Chief touched a button on his desk, and a clerk 
 appeared. 
 
 " Request Mr. Connor to come here, please," Carter said. 
 
 Presently a door opened and a tall handsome young 
 Irishman entered and saluted his Chief. 
 
 "Do you remember that minister, Connor?" Carter 
 asked, in a low, even voice. 
 
 To me the very quietude of his tone, suggesting some- 
 thing of indifference, as though he inquired for a pair of 
 mislaid boots, compared with our intense anxiety, thrilled 
 me unpleasantly. 
 
 And when Connor asked in return, " Which one, sir ? " 
 
 I shivered. Was there indeed no strong broad line of 
 
 demarcation between the horrible wielders of the slung- 
 
 shot and men consecrated to God's work? Was crim- 
 
 22 329
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 inology a huge tentacled devilfish that, reaching out, drew 
 man from the slums or from the pulpit alike. Which 
 minister! which man of sin, under the eye of the de- 
 tective, labeled " minister " ? 
 
 "Were there more than one?" Carter asked in this 
 trilogy of irritating questions. 
 
 " Yes, sir ; I've been observing at least three." 
 
 " Well, the man we want is " Then the Chief de- 
 scribed Munro with intense, crisp splashes of word color; 
 it was marvelous how he had condensed our lengthy de- 
 scription of Neil's person. 
 
 The young officer turned toward me, and searched me 
 through and through. 
 
 The transition in his face was wonderful; the roguish 
 Celtic blue eyes, boyish and frank, hardened, and took on 
 a cunning animal look. I thought the Chief had not no- 
 ticed this, but his words taught me that I was mistaken. 
 
 " It's all right, Connor," he advised; " the missing man 
 is a friend of these two gentlemen; he has disappeared and 
 they are looking for him. They want to take him back 
 to his family; there seems to be something wrong with the 
 poor man." 
 
 " I can find him, sir." 
 
 "When?" the Chief asked. 
 
 " Perhaps to-night ; perhaps to-morrow night." 
 
 Why at night, I wondered. But Malcolm expressed his 
 anxiety. " Couldn't Mr. Connor be spared to-day? " he 
 said ; " we are very anxious and would be willing to pay 
 any charges for time." 
 
 " It isn't that," the Chief answered, and his quiet eyes 
 were raised inquiringly to the detective's face. 
 
 330
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 The latter answered the look, explaining: " I don't 
 know where to look for him in the day." 
 
 " Quite so quite so," remarked the Chief, just as 
 though his assistant had explained everything. " And what 
 hour to-night had these gentlemen better call here for you, 
 Connor? You are at liberty to take your own time, you 
 know, on this case." 
 
 " Nine o'clock, sir." He ran his fingers through his 
 brown curly hair, coughed nervously, and twice his lips 
 framed words which remained unuttered. 
 
 "Anything else, Connor?" the Chief asked. 
 
 " Faith, sir, I'm thinkin' I'd better be askin' for leave 
 off duty for twenty-four hours." 
 
 The Chief drew down his brows in a puzzled manner; 
 then they lifted and his face cleared with enlightenment. 
 " I see yes, it would be as well, Connor." Turning to 
 me, he continued : " He will go with you unofficially ; it 
 will be better. You can trust Mr. Connor absolutely." 
 
 As we made our way back to the hotel, Malcolm said: 
 " I'm thinking I'm asleep, that it's a dream. It's like some- 
 thing one reads in books and never believes." 
 
 " It is just life," I answered. " Presidents come from 
 the log cabin and nobles grovel penniless. You were mean- 
 ing, Malcolm, it seems impossible to conceive of a man 
 of Munro's character under this cloud." 
 
 "Yes, just that. It's impossible to think of Munro as 
 a man to be hunted for with a policeman there's some- 
 thing uncanny about the business. But we must go through 
 to the bitter end; there's no taking the hand from the 
 plow now. We'll find Neil yon Irish lad had no humming 
 and hawing about his part of it." 
 
 331
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " But why did he say that we must search for Neil at 
 night, Malcolm," I asked, " as though he were some 
 prowler of the dark ? " 
 
 " I suppose that a detective works better in the dark 
 like an owl he swoops unseen upon his prey. And, besides, 
 it's very likely that Minister, if he is laboring among these 
 waifs, can also find them better at night." 
 
 " Well, we'll soon know," I answered wearily. " But 
 I tell you, Bain, my soul shrivels before a dread something; 
 an evil foreboding thrusts itself into my mind and I can't 
 shake it off." 
 
 All that day it was in this mood that we waited for the 
 time of search; questionings and misgivings on my part, 
 and Bain buoying me up with his superior physical resil- 
 iency, sending out his optimistic courage to vicariously walk 
 me upon the waters of despond. 
 
 There was a visit to Robert; and when we told him 
 what we had done, he said : " Yes, they'll find Neil for 
 you. And you'll just bear with him when he's found, won't 
 you no matter how it is you'll What am I saying?" 
 he broke off. 
 
 "Of what, Robert?" I queried suspiciously, wonder- 
 ing whether now he wouldn't speak. 
 
 But he turned his head wearily away, saying: " Poor 
 Neil! I wonder how God has arranged it for him." Then 
 he changed, to speak of himself, of his going home with 
 us; for Doctor Lupin thought there was nothing to be 
 done now but wait for Time's remedy and that prom- 
 ising nothing but just the solace of confirmed helplessness 
 a state of safe invalidism. 
 
 It was a little past nine o'clock when we stepped from 
 
 332
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 police headquarters into a night air that bit at our cheeks 
 with stinging teeth and tingled our nerves with its vibrant 
 crispness. Beneath our feet, swinging into the soldier stride 
 of the detective, the frozen snow sang like struck wires; the 
 stars glittered blue-white in a placid sky, and a stillness 
 reigned over the great city as though men hid from a death 
 angel stalking through its ways. 
 
 Following our guide we turned from a wider street 
 through paths that lay crooked and narrow and dark be- 
 tween high embattlements of brick and stone. The dismal 
 gloom of this scarce lighted way thrust me back in mem- 
 ory to the old days of trailing dacoits through Burmese 
 jungles; there was the same oppressive hush as if serpents 
 and sin lurked in hidden places on either side. Perhaps 
 the intensity of my thoughts claimed something of recipro- 
 cal action in our guide's mind, for he put his hand de- 
 tainingly on my arm and said : " That's the worst door- 
 way in the city they slaughtered a poor chap there last 
 week; it wasn't the first, faith, but, indade, it'll be the 
 last. I think we bagged them this trip. Why a land like 
 this, God's garden savin', of course, the ould sod should 
 be overrun with Dagoes, and Chinks, an' Poles is what 
 beats me." 
 
 I did not answer as we passed on; my questioning was 
 of the matter in hand. Why were we traversing the hab- 
 itation of thieves and murderers for a minister of the 
 gospel? Was God asleep was it all a lie that he took 
 note of the sparrow's fall? 
 
 " Easy a minute, sir! " the detective said, tapping lightly 
 with his knuckle on a wooden door, so narrow and darkly 
 let into the blank wall that my eyes failed to outline it. 
 
 333
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 I heard the complaining creak of a reluctant bolt; a 
 square of dim uncertain light cut the darkness from a 
 panel of the door, and a head was silhouetted framed in 
 this square setting. A harsh voice asked, " Huh ! what 
 wantee? " 
 
 The Irishman's broad shoulders cut my vision as he put 
 his face close to the opening and answered : " All right, 
 Ying just want makee look see." 
 
 There was a disapproving grunt the square trap was 
 closed and I heard a " yah-honk " of rasping Chinese speech 
 within. Then a heavier bolt grated in its sockets and the 
 door swung cautiously open; we slipped within and it was 
 closed again behind us. 
 
 My lungs rebelled at the pungent, acrid atmosphere. 
 Again my memory carried me swift to Indian bazaars, with 
 their conglomerate smells of hookah pipe, and burning cow 
 dung, and gnapie. 
 
 Connor tipped his head toward us and whispered: 
 "Don't ask any questions; just put on your holiday face. 
 Them divils is quick as cats." 
 
 We were in a basement as respectably furnished as a 
 stable. On my left was a pile of charcoal which nestled 
 against a stove; partitions cut the room into stalls on either 
 side, and in each division was a raised platform like a 
 wide double bunk. 
 
 As we went down the center a tall, slim, white man, 
 in shirt sleeves, stood adjusting his tie. At sight of us he 
 turned quickly and busied himself in a corner with his 
 face turned to the wall. 
 
 " That's a new duck at the game," Connor whispered ; 
 " he's ashamed of being seen. But there's a couple of old 
 
 334
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 birds," he continued, indicating with a nod a platform upon 
 which two white men reclined. Between them rested a 
 little glass lamp half full of oil in which floated a lighted 
 wick. With a steel needle, one of the men picked a little 
 ball of black sticky substance from the back of a playing 
 card and held it for three seconds in the blaze of the 
 lighted wick; then he rolled and worked it on the stone 
 bowl of a bamboo-stemmed pipe. 
 
 "Man alive! what's he up to?" Malcolm asked in a 
 low voice. 
 
 " Cookin' the opium," Connor answered. " Faith, he's 
 as handy with the damn stuff as a Chink." 
 
 "Opium!" ejaculated Malcolm in an awed whisper; 
 "man alive! are we in an opium shop?" 
 
 Suddenly a little gust of wind somebody had opened 
 a door or a window at the farther end of the room 
 carried a bitter acrid odor from the sizzling, sputtering 
 bead of opium to my nostrils. 
 
 It was like somebody calling to me out of the past. At 
 last I knew what poisonous drug smell I had caught in the 
 manse study opium \ 
 
 "May I look at one of those pipes?" I asked Connor. 
 
 The detective spoke to one of the smokers and he reached 
 his pipe to me. I put it close to my nose, and then knew 
 there could be no doubt it was the opium smell that had 
 clung to Neil's gloves and his pens and the drawer of the 
 desk from which Robert had taken something to hide from 
 my eyes. 
 
 Though I had been in India and had seen the debauched 
 victims of this pernicious drug in hundreds, yet till now 
 I had never known its pestilential breath. 
 
 335
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 Malcolm looked at me and shuddered. " Put that 
 devil's weapon of destruction out of your hand, man," 
 he said ; " let's get out of this it's like being in hell 
 we're wasting time; we're out to look for our friend, not 
 to gaze on this unholy work." 
 
 " I'm lookin' for your friend," Connor answered quietly; 
 " you must leave it to me." 
 
 Bain turned his face to me in perplexity. The dim 
 light showed furrows of care in his forehead and a sigh 
 of impatience escaped him. 
 
 "What does he mean?" Bain asked. "We'll not find 
 Neil among these pagans and their victims." 
 
 I shook my head. 
 
 " Perhaps he's after some one that knows where Neil 
 lives." 
 
 I nodded. 
 
 Connor had gone on down to the lower end of the 
 room where I could see a door. He spoke to a Chinaman 
 who had accompanied him and the latter, opening the door, 
 they passed through it. 
 
 I stood watching curiously the process of preparing the 
 insidious drug. There was a deceitful air of simplicity 
 about the performance that served to accentuate its dread- 
 ful, unapparent fatality. The man who cooked and rolled 
 it with loving care was young; but in his eyes the whites 
 of which were shrouded in blue-gray and in his manner 
 deliberate, monotonous was the solemnity of a thousand 
 years. He fashioned the evil thing till it was like a large 
 black bead on the end of his needle, and as he held it in 
 the blaze again it sputtered viciously with resinous avidity. 
 It was cooked. He forced it into the small hole of the 
 
 336
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 stone bowl and passed it to his friend, who was lying with 
 his shoulders on a cushion. The latter held the pipe to 
 the lighted wick, put the end of the large bamboo stem to 
 his lips, and drew a dozen draughts of the smoke of 
 oblivion. 
 
 "My God! isn't it awful!" Malcolm whispered. 
 " They're fair callous they're past all shame. I've heard 
 of the effrontery of sin, but this is heathenish ! " 
 " It is dreadful ! " I concurred. 
 
 In my soul I shed tears of bitterness for the hopeless 
 fate of these galley-slaves. Unbreakable the chain that ate 
 its links into their hearts. 
 
 The door at the other end of the room reopened and 
 the detective, coming back, stood at my side. 
 
 "Ain't it hell, sir?" he asked, nodding his handsome 
 head toward the smokers. 
 
 His attitude his tall, lithe, sinewy form, topped by 
 
 the well-set-on head, crying aloud of clean living, radiated 
 
 by comparison with the pasty-faced smokers, a moral lesson. 
 
 " I'd like to speak to that young man," I said ; " would 
 
 it matter would they object? " 
 
 " Don't lecture him ; faith, it might kick up a divil of 
 a shindy if you did." 
 
 I approached the man who had prepared the pipe. His 
 dull eyes watched me apathetically, much as a sleepy ani- 
 mal's might have. 
 
 " May I speak to you about the opium ? " I said. 
 " Yes," he answered. 
 
 " How is it sold here? " It was an idle question just 
 born of the intense curiosity that the dramatic situation 
 excited. 
 
 337
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " Twenty-five cents a card." His voice was monot- 
 onous, unmodulated; he spoke in the tones of a man al- 
 most deaf, the dreamy voice of a Lotus Eater. 
 
 On the card beside him was a little pitch lake, the size of 
 a coat button. 
 
 " How much do you smoke? " I asked, with an apology. 
 
 His senses unacute, grasped nothing but the direct query. 
 " Three cards a day," he answered listlessly ; " one in the 
 morning, one in the afternoon, and one at night." 
 
 " Does it make you forget your troubles? " 
 
 " I don't forget my troubles," he answered in the heavy 
 singsong voice. 
 
 The deathly perfume of the smoker's pipe hung repul- 
 sively in my nostrils as he laid it down with a sigh of 
 weariness. I scanned his waxen face for some sign of 
 exhilaration, for some evidence of that blissful repose that 
 is supposed to be the one brief palliation of eternal damna- 
 tion. I detected nothing but unutterable emptiness; his 
 face mirrored from his soul just an unmeaning void. Un- 
 speaking, silent he lay, with his eyes fixed upon the lamp, 
 a slight movement of his fingers, as he tapped idly on his 
 thigh, the only evidence of physical existence; his face was 
 a mental blank. 
 
 "We'll go, gentlemen I've done no good here," Con- 
 nor said, buttoning his warm coat. 
 
 As the heavy smoke-blackened door swung inward when 
 we stepped to the narrow street, Malcolm threw his chest 
 out, filling his great lungs. I, too, drank at the clean air 
 as a thirsty horse revels in clear running water. 
 
 " Man alive! " cried Bain, " but just a lung full of this 
 heavenly air is better than all the damnable drugs in the 
 
 338
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 world. Why did you go into yon sink of iniquity, officer?" 
 he asked, with a touch of imperious command in his voice. 
 " Surely to God, man, you didn't expect to find a minister 
 hobnobbing with those heathen ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir," Connor replied, " there's a minister hits 
 the pipe there the same as any other dope fiend. And, 
 faith, I'm thinking it's the man you're lookin' for, too." 
 
 "Oh, it can't be it can't be! I won't bring myself 
 to believe it, it doesn't stand to reason. A man couldn't 
 no, no, no! a man with a good wife a man who had been 
 brought up a Christian himself a servant of the Lord 
 couldn't sink so low." 
 
 The big Scotchman's anguish was pathetic. I knew as 
 well as though he had said it, that by strong words he 
 was striving to rebuke the doubts that were in his own 
 mind. 
 
 " Faith, he's not there now anyway," Connor said ; " but 
 it's early." 
 
 "What did the Chinaman say did you ask him?" I 
 queried. 
 
 The detective gave a little sniff of amusement. 
 
 " I did not; that would have blown the gaff. Them 
 Chinks have ' the wireless ' beat to a standstill. How they 
 work it, it's meself don't know, but if you let the cat out 
 of the bag in one of their dives as to what your game is 
 they're onto you in all Chinatown. Sure, Ying was all 
 smiles, but that's the heathen Chinee for you. They're 
 not our friends they're the friends of the men that buy 
 the dope; and if I let him know who we were after we'd 
 never catch sight of him." 
 
 "What shall we do now?" I asked. 
 
 339
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " We'll take a look at some of the other places, and come 
 back later on. It's here that the man we're lookin' for 
 hits the pipe." 
 
 We visited half a dozen places similar to Ying's. 
 Caverns of Inferno, peopled, as was his, by slaves of the 
 poppy-blood. I walked in a dream through a maze of 
 narrow streets, our leader sometimes volunteering their 
 names Vitre, La Gauchitiere, Bleury uncanny names. I 
 grew tired, depressed. We searched for a man with a 
 prayer in our hearts that we might not find him 
 not find him in the Satanic haunts to which our guide 
 led us. 
 
 " We'll take a peep into some of the chop suey houses," 
 the detective said at last ; " our man might be havin' some- 
 thing to eat." 
 
 The chop suey places were all alike. Up creaking stairs 
 we climbed and passed through narrow halls off which 
 opened eating rooms that were like large boxes. Sometimes 
 these were occupied, and the eaters of chop suey eyed us 
 curiously, often with apprehension. 
 
 Once Connor checked as we trailed in Indian file 
 through a hallway, saying: "Faith, there's Ba'tiste, I'll ask 
 him. He's the divil on wheels entirely. He's a runner 
 for a sailor's boarding house. Sometimes he runs with the 
 thieves, and sometimes with us." 
 
 Through the half-open door of a room I saw a small, 
 dark man, whose face, sharp-nosed as a weasel's, had been 
 pitted by smallpox till it was like yellow, pebbled Morocco. 
 Across the table from him sat a frayed female, who some- 
 how conveyed the impression of a rich child's doll that had 
 fallen in the gutter and lain there for days. Lace and 
 
 340
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 flamboyant red ribbons nestled incongruously in her hat, on 
 her breast seemingly everywhere. 
 
 " Sit aisy, Ba'tiste," Connor commanded, his white teeth 
 showing in a smile as he shoved the door wide. 
 
 "By Gar! Brian, dat's de big fright you give me. 
 Sacre\ I'm 'fraid for de damn p'lice." 
 
 His thin lips tightened into a snarl that must have been 
 intended for a smile, for his companion gave a short, nerv- 
 ous chuckle. 
 
 "Do you know the Sky Pilot, Ba'tiste ?" 
 
 " De Protestant cure dat pray at de Fo'castle for de 
 sailor?" 
 
 Again the evil pock-marked face was twisted by the 
 smile-snarl. 
 
 "Yes. Have you seen him lately to-night?" 
 
 "What you want, eh damn p'liceman?" 
 
 "Aisy, Ba'tiste nothin' doin'." 
 
 " Say, Brian " the small, narrow-slitted, animal eyes 
 in the dark face were suspicious " If dere's not'ing doin', 
 w'at th' hell you mak' de round for, eh? jus' passer le 
 temps'?" 
 
 " Don't get on yer ear, Ba'tiste perhaps you forget 
 the time the two Greeks were ticklin' your ribs with cold 
 steel." 
 
 I saw the evil face of the runner relax its vicious cun- 
 ning, and the dark yellow skin grew mahogany red as 
 though warm blood chased beneath its shell. 
 
 " Non, non. Brian, you damn Irish! Voila, you save 
 me dat tarn'. Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, pardonnez I forget 
 By hell! I forget. Yes, spik de trut' is it frien' for le 
 Cure? He save my life, too he nurse me." Ba'tiste said 
 
 341
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 something in French to his companion, who raised her hands 
 in an inimitable expression of pious adoration. " See," 
 Ba'tiste continued in English, " Franchette say he is de good 
 man." 
 
 " These are his friends," Connor continued ; " they want 
 to find him." 
 
 Baptiste scanned our faces narrowly. It was difficult 
 for him to disabuse his mind of the idea that when the 
 police searched for anyone, aught but trouble was behind the 
 searching. With a shrug of the shoulders he turned from 
 his sharp scrutiny of our faces to ask " Irish, what you 
 want wit' le Cure you want shanghai him for some damn 
 landlubber Bethel? What you want? Make de sign of 
 de cross, Irish, an' speak de trut'. I know where is M'sieu 
 le Cure, but I'll see de whole damn p'lice force in hell 
 'fore I tell if you goin' make trouble for dat poor man. 
 He's a Christian." 
 
 " If it is the minister we're looking for," I interposed, 
 " we want to take him home to his family ; we are his 
 friends." 
 
 " He's not done not'ing wrong M on Dieu ! why I ask, 
 he can't do not'ing wrong, he's Christian. Tres bienJ allez 
 come wit' me." 
 
 The runner's invitation was comprehensive; it included 
 the gaudy red-ribboned lady of the feast. 
 
 Behind these two we walked through more narrow 
 streets, the sidewalks of which were like furrows plowed 
 in white ice; they were gutters from which at times we 
 climbed over mounds of frozen snow, following our guide 
 who disdained crossings, and, as I fancied, traveled by the 
 instinct of direction. We never came into the broader ways, 
 
 342
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 and the monotony of these paths between silent gloomed 
 walls caused me to wonder if all the streets of the city 
 had suddenly shrunken to the width of alleys. 
 
 At last Ba'tiste stopped at a little building that claimed 
 as approach some snow-covered steps that, unshoveled, were 
 round and slippery. He whispered to his companion, and 
 she tapped lightly an iron knocker that sent a harsh tattoo 
 echoing through the house. 
 
 " Dis is my mudder's house," Ba'tiste said, " an' M'sieu 
 le Cure is lodge here. But he won't lodge nowhere pretty 
 soon. By Gar! he is soon sign pepers for de long voyage. 
 Mon Dieul if all Protestant is goin' to Hell den M'sieu 
 le Cure is damned for sure, but if some Protestant is get 
 to Heaven, by Gar! he is de firs' to get de chance Ah, 
 entrez, M'sieurs. Come, Irish." 
 
 As we entered, a small, bent, little old woman, hold- 
 ing a lamp in her thin hands, eyed us suspiciously. Ba'tiste 
 said something in French, and she gave him the light, 
 leaving us by a door that opened off the hall, and Ba'tiste, 
 bidding us follow, led the way up a winding stairway to 
 an upper room. 
 
 With his hand on the door he whispered, " M'sieu It 
 Cure is seek; I will firs' knock to see if he sleep." 
 
 Ba'tiste knocked gently, but there was no answer; he 
 knocked again and there was no response. 
 
 Perhaps it was all the nervous tension that had un- 
 strung me; a chilling dread crept into my heart what 
 if that now we had found Neil we should find but the 
 frail tenement that had clutched brokenly at the desk of 
 the Mission just the tenement, and the other that was 
 Neil gone forever! It would be like another step in this 
 
 343
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 deepening tragedy; this mystery that never lifted from out 
 the deeper shadows. 
 
 I could hear Malcolm breathe heavily in the suspense 
 of waiting. 
 
 Ba'tiste spread the expressive fingers of his hand in a 
 silent command for us to remain, and, turning the lock, 
 he swung the door and passed into the room, only to re- 
 appear in the doorway and motion us to enter. He held 
 the lamp above a small cot, and its sickly yellow rays fell 
 upon the cold, drawn face of Neil Munro. 
 
 At first I thought he was dead; the eyes were closed, 
 the face itself gleamed yellow-white like wax. 
 
 I saw Malcolm's hand upon Munro's breast, feeling 
 his heart. 
 
 " Is he dead ? " I whispered. 
 
 Bain shook his head. " No, he's not dead, poor Neil ! 
 but he's in a bad way," he said presently. 
 
 "What is it?" I asked "what's the matter with 
 him?" 
 
 " Been hittin' the pipe too much," the detective said, and 
 his answer sounded brutal. 
 
 " Non, non" objected Ba'tiste; "yes, p'rhaps hit de 
 pipe leetle, but he work too much, an* don't eat plenty. 
 He's seek, he's weak. You know hes name?" Ba'tiste 
 continued, his small intense eyes fixed on my face ques- 
 tioningly. 
 
 I nodded. 
 
 " By Gar ! he don't hesself. He don't know not'ing 
 he's lost; just work for le bon Dieu can't find out not'ing 
 from him ; hes frien' he don't know." 
 
 " We must take him to the hospital," Malcolm said ; 
 
 344
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 " he seems to be in a sort of deep stupor, or sleep I don't 
 know what it is." 
 
 " It's the opium, sir," Connor volunteered ; " I've seen 
 'em like that before. They get dopey." 
 
 It was a curious form of limited reasoning the young 
 Irishman had; the apparent subverting everything else of 
 deduction. 
 
 "Can you get a sleigh, Ba'tiste?" the policeman asked. 
 
 " Yes, do," I added ; " I'll pay you for your trouble." 
 
 While Ba'tiste was gone for the sleigh we tried to rouse 
 Neil to consciousness; we chafed his hands, and Malcolm 
 held his big warm palm close-pressed over the sluggish 
 heart. Something of the terrific life force that was in Bain 
 pulsated into the somnolent man, he sighed wearily once or 
 twice, and half turned his head. 
 
 When the sleigh had come, Malcolm took the Minister's 
 thin form in his arms as though he had been a babe and 
 carried him, still wrapped in the bed blankets, down the 
 complaining stairs, and in the sleigh we hurried to the 
 hospital where Robert lay. 
 
 " Collapse," the Doctor said ; grim, comprehensive, em- 
 phatic word, dealing directly w-ith result, not troubling with 
 cause, or why or when. And after a little he added, 
 " There's no immediate danger ; but the man is a wreck. I 
 should say he was doomed. Opium, overwork, insufficient 
 nutrition just one of those terrible fierce-working men- 
 talities that burns up its encasement." 
 
 We went back to our hotel, Malcolm and I, and a big 
 
 cathedral clock perched somewhere on the great shoulders 
 
 of the broad city echoed back to the stars with metal tongue, 
 
 hour after hour, the spaces of night time they chronicled in 
 
 23 345
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 their silent transverse of the dial of the universe, as we 
 two friends of the man of collapse sat sleepless and talked 
 in hushed voice. 
 
 Here was Jean's ship, battered, a derelict, found but to 
 be towed into port and how? What was now to do? And 
 having found Neil, were it not better that we had come 
 upon the memory of a man dead? 
 
 And the silent voices of thought read to us, solved, 
 the riddle of the many months' mystery. The tears of 
 despair that oozed from the flagrant-hued poppy, silent 
 lurking devils of infamy, had caused Neil to disappear. 
 And Jean must have known. Shielding Neil's name this 
 thing she had hidden in her heart, with no word of upbraid- 
 ing for the absent one, even rather reproaching God for 
 His want of sustaining care. And Robert too had known. 
 In all his blatant drunkenness he had remained silent on this 
 point. I cursed myself for my hideous suspicions of the 
 boy. 
 
 And now actuality and knowledge only brought closer 
 the edge of a dark future. Better a thousand times that 
 Neil should die than go back, like a son of Ahab, to sit 
 in the shadow of God's tabernacle, and in the light of 
 his wife's regard, a bondman to this hideous devil-god 
 that was worse than Baal. 
 
 The wintery dawn grayed our frosted window with its 
 limning of ice ferns as we still sat chained to the rock of 
 sleeplessness by these links of bitter memory and hopeless 
 anticipation. There seemed something so heinous in the 
 power of trifles for evil. 
 
 God, wise, omnipotent, creative; and beneath the spread 
 of his hand a woman of glorious quality and a man of God, 
 
 346
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 his soul afire in holiness; a flaunting red-flushed flower a 
 scratch upon its pod, and oozing drops of devil's blood, just 
 trickling tears of iniquity that drags these lives into a mael- 
 strom of misery and sin and death. 
 
 Why should the countless stars through all eternity 
 hold true in their ordainment, and the sun and the moon, to 
 the welfare and the glory of him created in God's image, 
 when this one small black drop of desolation could change 
 the hope of God, man, into a hopeless creature of the Devil? 
 
 Thus we who sorrowed had marveled and despaired 
 had tabulated nebulously these sensations of the mind ; some- 
 times in words, and sometimes but transient clouds and rays 
 of light scurrying across the plain of our understanding. 
 
 From neither of us came a word of reproach for the 
 author of the misery and was he even the author? Un- 
 expressed we both felt this; through him it passed, the 
 misery. 
 
 But for Jean, bearer of a gift from God, we must take 
 thought; and if the truth were helpful we would be glad 
 bearers of the truth; but if solace lay in lies, then fear- 
 lessly, resolutely, I for one would lie, saying that at last 
 Neil was found, and being sick would soon be well 
 again. 
 
 Perhaps I spoke something of this to Malcolm, for 
 I heard him saying: " We must tell Jean that Neil met with 
 an accident, but will soon be back to the pulpit. I'm 
 thinking that when she has her little bairnie dabbing at her 
 checks with his chubby fist she'll stand to be told whatever 
 there is to tell; for when Jean is just herself, a Craig, she 
 has rare pluck a strong heart. We'll talk it over to- 
 gether, Cameron, when we come by whatever the Doctor 
 
 347
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 knows, and we'll fix it up to tide the poor girl over her 
 hour of trial." 
 
 " Yes," I answered, " and the first act in this neces- 
 sary programme is a letter home written on rose-colored 
 paper with the lines all running uphill, which indicates 
 cheerful hope, optimism." 
 
 For three days Neil wandered in the borderland that 
 lies half in the Shadow of the Valley of Death. It was 
 wonderful to me that the machinery of human structure 
 could run so silently, so close to the edge of cessation, and 
 yet not stop. It was like a clock that, inaudible in its 
 escapement, still carries its pendulum over the dead-center. 
 
 On the fourth day the pendulum just whispered Neil's 
 heart beat stronger, and the Doctor, who had answered our 
 queries in a negation of silence, now said : " The patient, 
 with care, will live for a time; how long I cannot say. He 
 is just worn out. More opium will kill him, and without 
 it he will die." 
 
 " The opium will surely kill him, Doctor? " I queried. 
 
 " Yes, he is half atrophied now. But if he had not 
 used it, as he has lived, burning up his life force without 
 sufficient rest and nutriment, he would have died of col- 
 lapse or pneumonia before this. This slow poison has 
 enabled his system to repulse the other agents of disease, 
 the small eaters-up of life." 
 
 " But does no one ever recover if they give up the 
 opium ? " I asked. 
 
 " Few ever give it up, and when they do they generally 
 die. There have been cases of dearly bought victory such 
 as De Quincy's but our patient has not the stamina, I 
 think. In India in the jails the officials recognize the fact 
 
 348
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 that the confirmed opium users lean their lives upon this 
 devil-shadow, and they are allowed a daily portion of the 
 drug. I have deemed it necessary to give this man a little 
 since he has come to the hospital he would have died 
 otherwise." 
 
 " How long do you think he might possibly live if he 
 succeeded in breaking off the habit took no opium?" I 
 asked. 
 
 " My answer to that must be almost a guess. He might 
 die within a month, he might live even two or three years, 
 with tender care. He's like a man with an incurable dis- 
 ease; the works will gradually run slower and slower until 
 they stop." 
 
 Another two days and Neil was able to converse with 
 us. At first he recognized Malcolm and myself dimly; 
 our faces were like faces that appeared to him in a dream. 
 Gradually his true condition became known to us. He had 
 forgotten many things. Strangely enough, periods in his 
 existence deeper down in the annals of the past were more 
 vivid than incidents of later time. It was as though he 
 had come out of India a month ago; and yet to him it 
 was a thousand years since he labored in the Lord's vine- 
 yard there. The church at lona meant just a tabernacle 
 of God standing in the world; the trials, the hopes, and 
 the fears had obliterated themselves, and he spoke of hav- 
 ing labored unavailingly, vainly, that he had been a weak 
 vessel shattered by the strength of predominant sin. 
 
 We had hesitated fearfully at first to speak of Jean; a 
 foreboding of something held the name unuttered on our 
 lips. He was like a child to be led into the paths of 
 memory by the sight of familiar signs. 
 
 349
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 It was Malcolm who said at last: "Jean is waiting 
 at home for you, Neil, and when you are stronger \vc 
 are to take you back to your wife." 
 
 For a day the words " Jean," and " wife," and " home " 
 came and went fitfully in his mind, sometimes finding mo- 
 mentary life on his lips. 
 
 Of his going away from lona, of his coming to Mon- 
 treal, of the life there, all was a blank; it was something 
 sealed and in the keeping of another. The slow tortuous 
 unraveling of the frayed ends of the past, the smoothing 
 out of the wrinkled intellect, was a soul-trying, almost hope- 
 less, endeavor. 
 
 Neil's faint grasp of reality grew stronger so imper- 
 ceptibly that we scarce noticed it. But at last he began to 
 understand, though as yet weakly. Our faces gradually 
 found their counterpart registered in the long ago of his 
 mind; the words Jean and home and the others beat at 
 the barriers of forgetfulness, shattering the walls of ob- 
 livion, until they entered deeper into the citadel of his 
 understanding, and he talked of all these things, the dearest 
 on earth, in the monotonous voice of a man who discusses 
 the trivial commonplaces of life. 
 
 " This state will pass," the Doctor said ; " time will 
 brush the cobwebs away. His mentality will clear." 
 
 "And after that" I asked, "what?" 
 
 "He will die. His mental force is the stronger; un- 
 drugged it will work smoothly, but the shattered machinery 
 of his physical force will stop." 
 
 "And of the drug," I asked " the fearful opium?" 
 
 " He is getting none of it now; something else? yes. 
 And when he is a little stronger he must decide for him- 
 
 350
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 self opium and a little longer of life, with a death in 
 sin, or no opium, and perhaps to leave a little sooner." 
 
 There came the day we were to take Neil back to the 
 village, for it now rested altogether with himself and God. 
 His mind had grown almost strong; he could walk feebly, 
 like a child. 
 
 And Robert was going, too, a helpless cripple, to be 
 carried. 
 
 Neil was in a private ward, and we were allowed to be 
 with him at will. It was the night before the homegoing 
 that Munro told Malcolm and me of the coming of his 
 shame, of drifting into the land of the Lotus Eaters. It 
 was a sad, bitter tale of unsought sin. 
 
 In India it had begun, this carrying of the yoke of 
 damnation. A famine had come to the district in which 
 Neil labored, and he had worked night and day to save not 
 only the souls, but the bodies of his people. He had over- 
 taxed his strength a thousandfold, living on his will when 
 his body was starved by insufficient food and his blood 
 scorched by the fierce heat. 
 
 A faithful servant, Rammia, had given him without 
 his knowing it at first the black essence of sustainment, 
 and when he did come to know the price of his own sacri- 
 fice, it seemed nothing if he accomplished good for his 
 people; if he could save them body and soul. 
 
 Neil told the sad story without abhorrence. That it 
 had wrecked his life seemed to carry nothing of remorse. 
 It was a curious phase of Christianity, and yet that is what 
 it was, Christianity; not out of physical desire, but just for 
 a little sustaining to carry on the work of his Master. 
 
 But when Neil left India he had given up the drug. 
 
 351
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 He told us of the horrible fight he had made to conquer, 
 and he had conquered. He only thought he had really, for 
 when brought weak again by overwork and mental strain 
 in the village, the Devil, who had been waiting, held to his 
 soul the allurement of false strength, and he fell. 
 
 Then Robert had discovered Neil's secret sin. There 
 had been a torrent of recrimination from the boy, smart- 
 ing under Neil's monitorship over his weakness. Neil, 
 hovering on the brink of physical collapse, struck by the 
 tragic awfulness of his position, was hurled into an abyss 
 of mental darkness. He had wandered forth in the early 
 morning, following an impulse to flee from his shame, and, 
 from that time until lifted into reason in the hospital, he 
 had wandered in a dim cavern of forgetfulness, his in- 
 tellect working like a clock with the present, the past al- 
 most a dead thing of the past. It was something akin 
 to instinct that had held him in the field of his life's work, 
 the service of God. 
 
 Neil himself explained it very simply as the guidance 
 of God, but to me it held an unfathomable depth of 
 psychology, even of physiology. 
 
 Such phases of the mystery as this would never be 
 solved, I knew; but, how simple the unraveling of the 
 mystifying actualities, Neil's disappearance and its cause, 
 now was. How simple, and yet how terrible, the shadow 
 of despair and inevitable death thrown ineffaceably across 
 Neil's life and Jean's. 
 
 And now Robert, the secret he had carried locked in 
 his heart known to us, admitted that Jean had also known. 
 He had gone to Jean with the horrible story, and she had 
 made him swear never to divulge it; that was why his 
 
 352
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 lips had been sealed. It was an opium pipe he had thrust 
 in his pocket from the drawer, and fearing that I, who had 
 been in India, might discover the telltale odor of opium, 
 he had gone back to the study and destroyed every taint. 
 Even the jade-handled knife had carried on its sharp point 
 the sickly smell, for Neil must have used it to cut the 
 opium into little pellets. 
 
 It seemed a lifetime that we had been away when we 
 once more, creeping through the evening shadows, came to 
 the Hedge. No one in the village knew we were coming 
 except the Memsahib and Jean. 
 
 It was a crowded hallway that we pushed into. Mal- 
 colm carrying Robert in his arms from the bus. It was 
 like a flower stall, five little rose bushes that dodged about, 
 or stood against the wall to make room, and the curious 
 white weed, crazy with delight, that whined and leaped 
 against my legs. 
 
 For me there was a clasp of warm arms; and for Neil 
 the Memsahib's hand that led him to the big armchair by 
 the grate. 
 
 On the sofa, gently laid by Malcolm, Robert was soon 
 quite hidden by the rose bushes that transplanted themselves 
 into a hedge at his side. 
 
 I knew that Jean was in her room, for the Memsahib's 
 letters had prepared me for this. 
 
 Presently the bustle of our coming died to a little hush, 
 and suddenly a small wavering fretful voice the voice of 
 a babe, came in a tiny treble down the stairway, and rang 
 in our ears like the sweet music of silver bells. 
 
 I saw Malcolm start and his big solemn eyes grew soft 
 and luminous. 
 
 353
 
 The Lone Furrow 
 
 Something of thankfulness surged from my heart and 
 crept its choking way upward, and my voice was thick as, 
 putting my hand in Munro's, I said: " Neil, that's the voice 
 of your child." 
 
 His lip trembled as he essayed to speak. Tears coursed 
 down his pale cheeks; he rose to his feet, and going over 
 to where the Memsahib sat, kissed her on the forehead. 
 
 The Memsahib took Munro's hand, saying: "God has 
 been good to Jean, Neil; you can go up to see her and 
 the boy presently when the first joy of your coming has 
 quieted a little." 
 
 Then she led Munro back to the chair. He raised his 
 tired eyes upward and said solemnly: "Thank God 
 for all His goodness, and His mercy to me, a poor, re- 
 pentant sinner! " 
 
 (i) 
 
 354
 
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 '15577