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Title: The Stumbling Shepherd
Date of first publication: 1929
Author: H. A. Cody (1872-1948)
Date first posted: October 22 2012
Date last updated: October 22 2012
Faded Page eBook #20121036

This eBook was produced by: David T. Jones, Mary Meehan, Al Haines
& the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net




                      THE STUMBLING SHEPHERD

                           By H. A. CODY

AUTHOR OR "THE KING'S ARROW," "THE TRAIL OF THE GOLDEN HORN," "THE TOUCH
OF ABNER," ETC., ETC.


    McCLELLAND & STEWART, LIMITED
    PUBLISHERS      TORONTO

    COPYRIGHT, CANADA, 1929
    BY MCCLELLAND & STEWART LIMITED
    TORONTO

    PRINTED IN CANADA

    T. H. BEST PRINTING CO., LIMITED
    TORONTO, ONT.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "_That was the true Light which lighteth every man that cometh into
    the world._"

       *       *       *       *       *

    To all who have found the Light;
    To all who see the Light;
    And to all who are groping through
        the mists toward the Light
              This Book
       Is Affectionately Dedicated.

       *       *       *       *       *

    "_As many as are led by the Spirit of God, they are the sons of
    God._"




CONTENTS


    CHAPTER                                         PAGE

        I. THE NIGHT CALL                              3

       II. AFTER MANY YEARS                            9

      III. THE STRUGGLE                               18

       IV. THE STRENGTH OF LOVE                       25

        V. UNDER COVER OF NIGHT                       32

       VI. A MORNING CALL                             42

      VII. HIS FIRST EXPERIENCE                       51

     VIII. A BRUTE OF A MAN                           59

       IX. THE BISHOP'S LETTER                        69

        X. BY THE WAYSIDE                             78

       XI. A DAY'S OUTING                             87

      XII. THE PARSON'S DELEMMA                       95

     XIII. COMPANY FOR TEA                           104

      XIV. REVISING VALUES                           112

       XV. THE STREET PREACHER                       121

      XVI. A CHILD IN THE MIDST                      130

     XVII. STARTLING NEWS                            137

    XVIII. CROWDING GROWTH                           145

      XIX. THE TOAD AND THE EAGLE                    153

       XX. A MOTHERLY SOUL                           163

      XXI. JIMMY'S THREAT                            171

     XXII. WITHIN THE LITTLE ROOM                    180

    XXIII. UPON THE LAKE                             189

     XXIV. "A'NT HANNER"                             198

      XXV. DESPAIR                                   208

     XXVI. NIGHT AND STORM                           218

    XXVII. "CRAZY" PAUL                              227

   XXVIII. GOOD NEWS                                 237

     XXIX. REVENGE                                   247

      XXX. WAITING                                   256

     XXXI. RETRIBUTION                               266

    XXXII. A MODERN MIRACLE                          274

   XXXIII. THE BISHOP                                282

    XXXIV. THE WEDDING                               293




THE STUMBLING SHEPHERD




CHAPTER I

THE NIGHT CALL


His trouble seemed to begin the evening he found that book out of its
place. It startled him as he sat before the bright wood-fire. He had not
noticed it at first, so intent was he upon watching the flames and
enjoying the big comfortable chair after his long drive. But as his eyes
turned at length to his beloved books, and he noticed that one of them
was out of its usual position, he rose to his feet and stepped swiftly
forward.

The other volumes stood like perfectly-trained soldiers on dress-parade.
They were a goodly collection, chosen through long years with
considerable care. Writings of the early Fathers of the Church in their
sombre bindings occupied the lowest shelf. Above them, rank upon rank,
were marshalled Church histories, ancient, modern, and medieval, with
homiletics, apologetics, dogmatics, and liturgics. There was nothing
light or frivolous in the entire array. They were all grim and stern
weapons in the armory of him whose hands had placed them there, and
whose eyes had studied their pages with the master's keen interest and
delight.

But one was askew, and the man wondered as he pushed it back until it
was in line with its companions. He was worried.

"I am getting careless. I must have left it that way while preparing my
sermon last night. I am certain that no one else here would have
occasion to use my Greek dictionary. Yes, I must have done it myself. It
is most unusual."

He glanced about the room as if to find any other sign of his
carelessness. But everything in that study was in its proper place. All
the articles on his writing-table were arranged according to his liking.
Paper, pens and ink were in mathematical order. The few books on the
centre-table were lying just as he had left them. Nothing could be
observed to cause him the least worry. He gave a sigh of relief as he
once again sat down before the fire. The tongs and poker immediately
attracted his attention. Rachel must have moved them while lighting the
fire. When he had straightened them up he felt more satisfied. But not
entirely, for the thought of that book was still in his mind, and
several times his brow wrinkled in annoyance.

Complete system and order were vital factors to the Reverend Daniel
Landrose, Rector of Green Mount. They formed part of his nature, and
after forty years in the Ministry they were most deeply rooted.

"Order is one of God's great laws," he always argued. "He delights in
it, and sets us the example. If the inanimate things around us obey His
behest, should not we who are made in His image?"

And this idea he applied not only to his own life but to his dealings
with the members of his flock, and in his instructions concerning the
one great Cause in which he was so earnestly engaged.

At the sound of a small bell he left the fire and went to the
dining-room. The table was neatly set, and his eyes shone with
pleasurable anticipation at the supper his housekeeper had prepared.

"This is very nice," he praised, after he had bent his head in a silent
grace and taken his seat at the table. "It is good of you, Rachel, to
light that fire for me in the study. It is unusually raw for this time
of the year, and I was quite chilled after my long drive."

A slight smile of amusement overspread the woman's face at these words
of commendation. They were most familiar to her, as she had heard them
so often before. There had not been an evening for months past that she
had not had the fire lighted for him upon his return home. She always
heard him as he drove into the stable, and knew almost to the minute
when he would enter the house after he had stabled his horse. It was his
systematic habit of years.

As the parson ate his supper, Rachel busied herself in the kitchen,
coming in occasionally to attend to his wants.

"By the way, Rachel," he said as she came back for the third time, "was
anybody in the study to-day besides yourself?"

"Why, no, sir, not to my knowledge. What makes you think there was?"

"Because I found one of my books, my Greek dictionary, to be more exact,
removed from its accustomed place. Are you sure you did not do it?"

Rachel thought for a minute, and then her face brightened to a smile as
she noticed the worried expression in the parson's eyes and surmised its
meaning.

"I believe I did move several of those books this morning," she at
length acknowledged.

"You did!" There was an eagerness in the old man's voice, and the
anxious look vanished. "Are you sure?"

"I am, sir. I was chasing a moth and it alighted on top of one of those
books, and I had to take down several before I could catch it. I may
have left one somewhat out of place."

Parson Dan gave a deep sigh of relief as he folded his napkin and placed
it in its ring.

"You have lifted a weight from my mind, Rachel. Forgetfulness in little
things has always given me much worry, as you well know. It not only
tells of negligence, but it is sometimes a sign of mental decay. I would
not like to think that the latter condition applies to me. Although I
have been a long time in the Ministry I feel physically as strong as
ever. I also believe that my mental faculties are unimpaired, and, in
fact, are in their prime. I have heard that old men are not wanted in
the Ministry, and that only young men can do effective work. That is
wrong. I am sure that I can give better service to-day than forty years
ago. Surely my long experience, knowledge and study should far outweigh
the advantages of youth about which so many prate. I never had the least
doubt until I found that book partly removed from its place. I then
feared that I had been laboring under a delusion, and that mental decay
had already set in. Your explanation has lifted a weight from my mind. I
was not forgetful, after all."

"If you were not, then I am," Rachel replied. "I have forgotten to
deliver the message which came for you this evening. How stupid of me!
You are wanted at the hotel as soon as possible. A sick woman is anxious
to see you."

"At the hotel!" the parson exclaimed in surprise. "I did not know it was
open yet for visitors, as it is too early for them to come here."

"I know it is, but an old woman and her daughter came there a few days
ago. Mrs. Wickham told me about them when she brought the message. Susie
Wickham is working at the hotel, so she told her mother about the old
woman."

"What is her name, Rachel?"

"I cannot remember, although Mrs. Wickham told me. I am getting very
forgetful."

"Never mind about her name, Rachel. I suppose it wouldn't mean anything
to me if I did hear it. What did Susie say about her? I like to be
somewhat prepared when I call upon a stranger."

"She is very odd and worries her grand-daughter almost to death, so
Susie said. Until she was taken suddenly ill yesterday, she asked many
questions about this parish. She seems greatly interested in you, too."

"In me!" the parson gasped. "Why should she be interested in me? What
did she want to know about an old parson?"

"How long you have been here, and what you look like."

"Ho, ho! She must think I am a curiosity. Perhaps that is why she wishes
to see me. Does she expect to find me a dried up fossil or a curio of
some sort such as tourists are always seeking? Is it possible that my
long years here have made me a special attraction? I have half a mind
not to go."

"But she is very ill now, so Mrs. Wickham said," Rachel reminded. "Our
own doctor has been to see her, and another has been up from the city
for special consultation. She is very wealthy, so Susie told her
mother."

"Well, if she is ill it is my duty to go, Rachel. I have never refused
such a request yet, and I am too old to begin now. But I do not like to
go merely to satisfy a morbid curiosity."

The clergyman rose slowly from the table, and Rachel noticed that he was
very weary.

"It is too bad that you have to go out again to-night, sir."

"Do not say that, Rachel. Although I am somewhat tired, and the study is
very alluring, yet I must let nothing interfere with my duty. I cannot
consider anything 'too bad' in my Master's service. I have learned
through long years of experience that there is a purpose in everything.
What we consider a nuisance, or 'too bad' as you say, often turns out
for the best. I have never known it to fail yet, and I am sure it will
not to-night."

Rachel helped him on with his overcoat and handed him his cane. After
she had closed the door behind him, she went back into the dining-room
and began to clear off the table. She was in a thoughtful mood and twice
she paused in her work.

"I wonder how much longer that good man can go on like this?" she asked
herself. "He has aged greatly during the last year, and he tires so
easily. He never spares himself, but is at the beck and call of every
one. And yet his people are not satisfied, but want a young man. They
are only waiting for some excuse to get rid of him. He knows nothing
about this, and it will almost break his heart when he does hear. Poor
man! I pity him."




CHAPTER II

AFTER MANY YEARS


The Maples was situated upon a gentle elevation overlooking the broad
and noble Saint John River. It was one in a chain of hotels about to be
built for tourists during the summer months. Its location was ideal.
Excellent boating and bathing, trout fishing in the many lakes and
brooks back in the hills, and an expansive golf course which had been
laid out brought people of wealth to the place. Three years had passed
since the building had been opened, and the prospects for this season
were better than ever.

Parson Dan looked upon the hotel as a menace to his work in the
community. The presence of so many strangers at Green Mount proved most
disturbing. The seclusion of the village as he had known it for so many
years was gone. The indifference of most of the people to the sacredness
of the Day of Rest was hard for him to endure. Many of his flock,
especially the young, were strongly affected and influenced by the new
and careless mode of living, and the attendance at the church services
was steadily declining. He was no longer able to hold his people
together as in former days. Although he tried his best to win the
wandering ones back during the winter months, he met with but scanty
success. And now another summer was here when more harm would be done.

He sighed as he thought of all this while walking along the road through
a fine grove of maples from which the hotel had received its name. The
place was almost deserted now, but soon it would be teeming with life,
with the quietness and mystic charm gone. He felt unusually weary and
discouraged this night. He had worked hard through long years, but all
his efforts now seemed in vain. The changing conditions of the parish
made his task more difficult, and he did not feel equal to the burden of
responsibility. Perhaps he should retire and allow another to take his
place, a young man who would be more in touch with modern thought and
ways.

These gloomy ideas vanished, however, as he reached the hotel and was
ushered by Susie Wickham up a winding stairway. The girl had been
awaiting his arrival with considerable interest. She longed to know more
about the sick woman and her grand-daughter, and why the former had
asked so many questions about the Rector of Green Mount.

"Are you working here all the time, Susie?" Mr. Landrose asked as he
followed her slowly up the stairs.

"I have been on night duty, sir, since the old woman took sick," the
girl replied. "She needs a lot of attention, and I seem to be the only
one who can suit her. She won't have anyone else."

"That speaks well for you, Susie. You were always very capable."

"Oh, it's not that, sir, that makes her want me. It's because I know so
much about this place, and can answer most of her questions. Until she
took to her bed she was a terrible nuisance."

Susie did not like to confess that nearly all of the invalid's questions
had been about the clergyman himself and his work in the parish. But she
had told her mother, and they had often discussed it together. So now
with the rector's arrival, she was hoping to learn something to satisfy
her steadily-increasing curiosity.

"This is the room," she whispered, when they had ascended the stairs and
walked a short distance along the hallway and stopped at one of the
doors.

Giving a gentle tap, the door was almost immediately opened by a young
woman who evidently had been waiting for them.

"Here he is at last, Miss," Susie announced. "I thought he would never
come."

"And so did I," was the low reply. "Granny is very impatient. Come in,
Mr. Landrose," she invited. "Thank you, Susie. You may go now."

This dismissal was not altogether to Susie's liking. She was very
anxious to learn more about the sick woman and her grand-daughter. That
there was some mystery connected with their presence at the hotel she
felt certain. She stood for a few minutes outside the door hoping to
hear something of importance. She even listened for a while at the
key-hole. But hearing nothing, she reluctantly left and went downstairs.

Parson Dan found himself in a comfortably-furnished room. A large shaded
lamp, suspended from the ceiling, cast its soft glow around the room.
Pictures adorned the walls, while a profusion of photographs, mostly of
young people, were displayed on the mantlepiece over the fireplace. All
this the parson noted in one swift glance while the girl was dismissing
the maid. Then when she stood before him, erect and defiant, he became
somewhat embarrassed. He never felt at ease in the presence of young
women, notwithstanding his long years in the Ministry. They always
seemed to him to be creatures apart from his world of knowledge and
experience. With men and elderly women he was on more familiar ground,
and felt perfectly at home. He could enter readily into conversation
with them, being more in harmony with their thoughts and feelings. But
with the young women it was different. He had often endeavored to
overcome his diffidence when in their presence, but all in vain. Long
ago he had come to the conclusion that he did not understand them and
that they did not understand him.

And he felt this now more than ever before as he stood there, hat in
hand, waiting for the girl to speak. He would have been more than human
had his heart not quickened at the fascinating picture she presented
with the light falling upon her dark wavy hair, and touching with a soft
gentle radiance her face of more than ordinary beauty. Her present
attitude of defiance seemed foreign and unnatural to her. Such eyes as
she possessed were intended to sparkle with joy and animation, and those
compressed lips were made to part in happy wreathing smiles. What was
the cause of her hostile attitude toward him? he wondered. And as he
waited those lips parted.

"You have come to see my grandmother, I suppose, Mr. Landrose?"

Her voice was low and musical, but icily formal.

"She sent for me, I understand," the clergyman replied.

"This way, please," and the girl moved toward a door on the right.

She paused, however, when part way across the room, and turned to the
clergyman.

"Granny is very low," she whispered. "I am sure she is dying. You must
be very careful not to overtax--"

"Doris, Doris," a wailing voice interrupted from the adjoining room.

"Yes, Granny," the girl replied, hurrying forward. "What is it?"

"What are you talking so much about, Doris? Has Mr. Landrose come? He is
so late."

"He is here now, Granny, so don't worry."

Parson Dan was again the parish priest, intent only upon ministering to
the sick woman. Intuitively his hand moved to his pocket for his "Pastor
In Parochia", the little manual of prayers and comforting words of
Scripture which for years had been his constant companion. At once an
expression of consternation passed over his face. The book was not
there! Forgotten was everything else as he tried to think what had
become of it. He had used it that very afternoon while praying by the
side of bed-ridden old Mrs. Brown. He must have left it there. What
carelessness! His mind turned to that misplaced book in his study. Had
Rachel really moved it? Perhaps he had left it that way himself. Was
this second lapse of memory, then, another proof of his failing mental
powers?

These thoughts passed through his mind with lightning rapidity as he
stood just outside the bed-room. How could he minister to the sick woman
without his manual of devotions? He had never done so before, and how
could he do it now? He was groping for some way out of his perplexity
when he felt a light touch upon his arm. He started from his reverie
and looked absent-mindedly at the girl.

"Granny is waiting for you, sir," she reminded, wondering somewhat at
the clergyman's peculiar manner.

"Excuse me," he apologized, "but I have forgotten my 'Pastor In
Parochia.' Have you a Prayer Book? It will have to do instead."

"Granny has one. I shall get it for you."

With a sigh of relief, Parson Dan followed his fair guide. As he entered
the little chamber his eyes rested at once upon the white and shrunken
face of the sick woman. Her hair, too, was white, as white as the pillow
upon which her head reposed. Her wide staring eyes were turned toward
the door in a mute appeal. Seeing the clergyman, she made a faint effort
to rise, but sank back again exhausted.

"You must not do that, Granny," the girl reproved. "You are too weak."

"But I want to see him, Doris. Is it really Mr. Landrose? Are you sure.
My sight is poor. What is the matter with the light?"

"Hush, hush, dear. You must not talk so much. Yes, it is Mr. Landrose,
and he will have prayers with you."

"Oh, I am so glad. You can go now, Doris, for I wish to see him alone.
You need some fresh air. But mind, do not stay too long."

The girl, however, hesitated. But seeing that the invalid was becoming
agitated, she did as she was ordered. The sick woman listened with
strained attention, and when at last she heard the outer door close, she
turned her eyes full upon the clergyman's face.

"Daniel, don't you know me?"

"Startled beyond measure, Parson Dan took a quick step forward and
peered down keenly upon the woman lying before him.

"Martha!" He merely gasped the word, so great was his agitation.

"Ah, you know me now. I have changed greatly, and so have you."

Taking her thin outstretched hand in his, the clergyman knelt by her
side. Emotions which had been hidden in his heart for years were
strongly stirred, and memories of other days came in like a flooding
tide.

"And you forgive me, Daniel?" the woman asked in a low voice.

"Yes, yes, I forgave you long ago. But what are you doing here, Martha?"

"I came to be near you, and to look upon your face once more before I
die."

"Why, I thought you had forgotten all about me."

"No, no. You have been in my mind ever since that last--"

She ceased abruptly, and a slight expression of fear came into her eyes.

"Daniel, I am a great sinner. Can I ever hope for forgiveness?"

"Certainly. The Lord is ever ready to forgive. He can save even to the
uttermost."

"But will He, do you think?"

"I am sure of it."

"Why, then, doesn't the Church forgive me? Why has it hounded me for so
many years?"

"In what way?"

"Don't you know? Wasn't I excommunicated by the Bishop? Didn't you and
all the other clergymen receive orders not to give me the Holy
Communion?"

"Yes, yes, Martha, I remember now. I had almost forgotten."

"But I have never forgotten. I did wrong, I admit, in divorcing my first
husband and marrying another man whose wife was living. Oh, my life has
been a terrible failure, and the Church will not help me now."

"Have you ever asked to be forgiven, Martha? I am sure that the Bishop
would be willing to consider your request."

"No, I have never asked him."

"Why not do it, then?"

"It is too late, Daniel. I am a dying woman, and have but a short time
to live."

"Suppose I write to the Bishop on your behalf?"

"The time is too short, I tell you, and I want the Communion now. Will
you give it to me?"

The clergyman started at these words, and his face turned pale. This the
woman noticed, and again made an effort to rise.

"Daniel! Daniel!" she cried. "Don't refuse me! For old times' sake, for
Martha Benson's sake, do not deny my dying request!"

Parson Dan was in a great quandary. He rose to his feet and stood
looking down upon the troubled woman. The years vanished and they were
both together again, dreaming and planning of the future. How fair
Martha Benson was then, and what love had filled their hearts. He had
often thought of this during the years of his Ministry, but the vision
had never been so real as now. And this was Martha lying before him. How
could he refuse her dying request? But what would the Bishop say should
he give her the Communion? Would he be true to his sacred Office? A
spirit of rebellion welled suddenly up in his heart. Why should he not
give this woman the Communion? What right had he to refuse? Christ was
always merciful when on earth to the sinning ones who repented. But what
about the Church's command? The perspiration came out upon his forehead
as he stood there fighting his lone battle.

"Daniel, will you do it?"

The weak voice aroused him. How white and frail Martha looked. Suppose
she should die while thus pleading with him? Could he ever forgive
himself?

"For my sake, Daniel, won't you do it? For the love that you once had
for me. Give me the Journey Food."

"Martha, I must think this over. I shall go home now, and come again
with my answer."

"Don't go! Don't!"

"But I must. If I give you the Communion, I shall need my robes and the
sacred vessels. I shall return as soon as possible."

He turned abruptly and left the room. Following him was the sound of the
invalid's voice, weakly pleading for him to make haste.




CHAPTER III

THE STRUGGLE


When once outside the hotel Parson Dan regained his former
self-possession. The night air cooled his hot brow, enabling him to
think more calmly. He then realized the full force of the temptation
that had come to him, and how he had almost given way to the pleading of
the sick woman. Why had he been so weak? he asked himself. Not for a
second should he have hesitated in the line of rectitude. Martha had
been excommunicated. The Church had given the order, and it was his duty
to obey. All through his long Ministry not a shadow of a doubt
concerning the rightness of the Church had ever entered his mind. His
trust had been complete. She was the body of Christ, and when she spoke
through the Apostolic line of Bishops it was with divine authority. This
had always been a great comfort and a tower of strength in his daily
tasks.

As he walked slowly along the road this night he did not feel altogether
contented. His former trust was not so strong now. That doubt which had
come to him while standing by Martha's side was subtly affecting his
soul. It came to him again. Was it right for the Church to forbid a
dying woman the Holy Communion, no matter how great had been her sin? He
tried to banish the idea, to force himself to feel that the Church was
right in what she did. But the more he reasoned so much more the doubt
grew.

Pausing beneath a large tree, he took off his hat and wiped his brow
upon which beads of perspiration had again gathered. He was fighting his
fierce battle alone there in the darkness with silence all around him.

"God help me!" he murmured. "What am I to do? How can I refuse to give
Martha the Journey Food? And yet I must be true to the vows I took at my
ordination. I must obey the Bishop."

And as he stood there, two young people, a man and a woman, came toward
him, walking slowly side by side. Their voices were low, and so intent
were they with their talk that they did not notice the dim silent form
beneath the tree until they were almost at his side. Then they gave a
slight start and quickened their steps toward the hotel. At length they
paused and looked back, but the clergyman was no longer visible.

"It must be Mr. Landrose," the girl whispered. "He is the man I was
telling you about. I wonder why he is standing there, John?"

"Planning, no doubt, how he is going to manage you, Doris," was the
laughing reply. "He will have some job ahead of him, if I am not
mistaken."

"Indeed he will if he agrees to Granny's crazy plan. I can't understand
her at all. She has talked so much to me about that old clergyman that I
almost hate him. I found it hard to be civil to him when he came to see
Granny to-night."

"But you must be civil, Doris. There is a great deal at stake, remember.
If you annoy the old fellow, it is hard to tell what might happen. Get
on the good side of him, and be extra nice until we have tried out our
scheme. If it works, as I think it will, he will be only too glad to
get you off his hands in a short time."

"I shall do the best I can, John. But I am sure it is going to be most
difficult as I have taken such a strong dislike to him already."

Leaving the dark shade of the tree, Mr. Landrose again moved homeward,
utterly unconscious that he was the subject of the earnest conversation
but a short distance away. He had hardly noticed the young people as
they passed, so engrossed was he with his own worry. And this worry
instead of lessening, increased. He could not get Martha out of his
mind. No matter how much he thought about his duty, a vision of her as
he had known her years before would return clearer than ever.

In the midst of this perplexity he came to the store at the corner of
the main highway and the road leading to the hotel. The storekeeper's
house was nearby, and from the open window came the sound of a
gramophone. At first the clergyman paid little heed to the music so
intent was he with his serious thoughts. But presently he stopped
abruptly as a singer's voice welled forth in the opening verse of a
familiar hymn.

    "There were ninety and nine that safely lay
    In the shelter of the fold,
    But one was out on the hills away
    Far off from the gates of gold;
    Away on the mountains wild and bare,
    Away from the Shepherd's tender care."

Never before had Mr. Landrose been so stirred by any words. He had
always disapproved of hymns of this nature, considering them too
sentimental and savoring of revival meetings. He favored the dignified
hymns, especially the ones with a distinctly Church tone and teaching.
But now it was different, and he stood silently on the road listening
eagerly until the singing ended. It was his thought of Martha that
caused this change. She was like that sheep, away from the fold. Surely
the Good Shepherd had such a one in His mind when He spoke that
beautiful parable. And what would Christ do now were He on earth? Would
He refuse to grant a dying woman's request? No, certainly not. Would He
not have gone to seek her long ago to bring her back to the fold? Would
He not heed her pleadings for mercy and gladly take her back to Himself?

These thoughts brought a new thrill to the clergyman's heart. He
quickened his steps and hurried along the road. He had the Great
Master's words and example, and he would follow Him, no matter what the
cost.

Reaching at last the rectory, he opened the door and entered. His
housekeeper was nowhere to be seen, and for this he was most thankful.
He was in no mood for any questions she might ask about the sick woman
at the hotel. And, besides, he could not altogether suppress the guilty
feeling that stole into his heart, and he was afraid that Rachel's keen
eyes might detect something amiss. The glamor of that hymn was not so
strong upon him now, and he did not feel so sure of himself. After many
years of strict rectitude in the line of duty, it was not easy for him
to remain long under the power of a sudden emotion.

As he passed into his study he began to waver in his resolution.
Everything there was in accord with his firm settled mode of life and
thought. The atmosphere of the room was in harmony with his habits of
years and affected him now most strongly. He stood in the middle of the
room and gazed around with a strange bewildering sense. It did not seem
possible that he was the same man who had left it barely two hours
before. Yet in that space of time a new force had taken possession of
him which was on the verge of causing him to be disloyal to his Church.
He glanced toward his writing-desk and saw lying there the first page of
his sermon he had been preparing for next Sunday. Quickly he stepped
forward and peered down upon the text he had chosen: "Rejoice with me,
for I have found the sheep which I had lost." His body trembled as he
read these words, and a feeling of awe swept upon him. How strange that
his text should be the same theme as the hymn which had affected him so
strongly that night. Was not this more than a coincidence? he asked
himself. Was it not divinely ordered? He had chosen the text that he
might prove to his people the great joy of the Father over the wandering
ones, such as heretics and others, when brought into the fold of the
Church. The sin of heresy and schism was what he had in his mind then.
This was a favorite subject upon which he had preached many sermons in
the past. But now he had a revulsion of feeling. Reaching swiftly out,
he seized the sheet of paper in his hands, tore it into several pieces
and threw them into the waste-basket at the side of the table. Furtively
he glanced around, and his face flushed. He then sank down into his
chair and buried his face in his hands.

"What is the matter with me?" he whispered in a hoarse voice. "I am
beside myself. But I could not finish that sermon as I began. I have
seen Martha since, and have listened to her voice pleading for the
Sacrament of the Body and Blood of Christ. She has sinned, and for such
a one Christ gave that parable. I see things in a new light."

For a few minutes he remained silently there with his white head bowed
upon his hands. At length he rose to his feet, looked around the room,
and carefully drew down the window-blinds. This done, he returned to the
table, brought forth a bunch of keys from his pocket, and selecting one,
unlocked a drawer on the right. With trembling hands he lifted out a
small black tin box and laid it upon his writing-pad. This he unlocked,
and as he raised the cover, he paused and gazed thoughtfully upon the
contents. They were merely a little package of old letters tied together
with a string, and a folded envelope lying by itself. Again he glanced
around the room, especially at the windows. Feeling sure that no prying
eyes could see, he drew forth a small photograph of a girl in the full
flush and beauty of radiant youth. For years he had not looked upon that
picture, although he had often been tempted to do so. Memories crowded
thick and fast upon him as he sat there. Forgotten was everything else
as he thought of Martha Benson as he had known and loved her in olden
days.

At length he closed, locked the box and replaced it in the drawer. He
then rose to his feet, crossed the room and opened the door of a little
closet. Here hung his robes, and on a shelf was a small private
Communion case. It took him but a minute to fold up his surplice and
stole and place them in a grip nearby. He then opened the case, lifted
out the little round silver bread-box and carried it with him to the
pantry off the kitchen. Here he cut a small portion from a loaf of
bread, prepared it to his liking, and deposited it into the box.
Although he had often done this before, he now listened somewhat
nervously lest Rachel should be near. He did not wish her to see him
just then, as he did not want to explain where he was going. He felt
unusually guilty and his hands trembled as he placed the box back into
the case and closed the cover. Never before had he experienced such a
feeling. It had always been a joy to prepare the bread and wine, and the
fair white linen cloth ere hastening off to some sick or dying person.
Now, however, it was different. He knew that he should be loyal to the
command of his Church. And yet there was something drawing him
irresistibly in another direction. It was the plant of love, deeply
rooted in the past, which, although kept under subjection through the
years, had at last enmeshed his heart with its subtle, tendril-like
influence. Through ever-recurring thought of Martha Benson, and through
countless prayers on her behalf, he had steadily nourished his love for
her which only needed an occasion such as this to test its overmastering
power.




CHAPTER IV

THE STRENGTH OF LOVE


"Drink this in remembrance that Christ's blood was shed for thee."
Slowly and impressively Mr. Landrose uttered these words as he held the
chalice to the lips of the invalid woman. He knew that he had now
crossed the Rubicon and that there could be no turning back. Calmly and
in a low voice he continued the service to the end. After he had
pronounced the benediction, he knelt and remained longer than usual upon
his knees, so long, in fact, that he was at last aroused by the touch of
a hand upon his shoulder. Looking quickly up, he saw the woman leaning
toward him with a new expression in her eyes.

"Daniel," she whispered, "why don't you speak?"

Rising to his feet, he removed his surplice and stole, carefully folded
them up, drew a chair close to the bed and sat down.

"Why should I speak, Martha? Has not this deed of mine spoken louder
than words?"

"That you care for me--love me still?"

"Have you any doubt of it now?"

"No, no." The woman gave a deep sigh of contentment as she sank back
upon the pillow. "It is wonderful."

"In what way?"

"That you should do this for me. It is a certain proof of your love."

"But it has caused me to commit a great sin, Martha. How can I ever face
my Bishop after what I have done to-night?"

"Oh, don't worry about that, Daniel. You need not tell him."

"I must, and just as soon as possible. My conscience would give me no
peace if I keep this from him."

"And what will that mean?"

"That remains to be seen. However, the deed is done, so I must bear my
punishment no matter what that may be."

The clergyman rose from his chair, lifted his surplice and placed it
back into the grip.

"Daniel!"

He started and looked around, so intense was the sound of the woman's
voice.

"What is it, Martha?"

"Don't leave me yet, Daniel. I have something to say to you."

"But you are too weak, Martha. You have tired yourself too much already.
You must rest."

"No, no, I cannot rest. I am stronger than I have been for days, and I
must speak to you now. Will you listen?"

Mr. Landrose felt that he could not refuse this request. He was quite
sure that this sudden animation was but temporary owing to the woman's
excited condition. If she did not tell him now what was on her mind, she
might never have sufficient strength again. That it was something of
considerable importance there could be no doubt. Once more he drew
forward the chair and sat down by her side.

"Very well, Martha, I shall listen to what you have to say. But be as
brief as possible lest you exhaust your strength."

A slight smile, almost of triumph, overspread the woman's face. For
about half a minute she lay very still, as if thinking deeply. Then she
turned her eyes full upon the clergyman's face.

"You have been wondering, I suppose, Daniel, why I came here?"

"Didn't you tell me? You wished to be near me."

"Did you think that was the only reason?"

"Was there anything else?"

"There was, and a very important one. Doris thinks that I came here for
my health."

"Does she know anything about the--the past?"

"Nothing. She only knows that I have appointed you as her guardian when
I am gone."

"Guardian!" Mr. Landrose gasped the word, and his face turned pale.
"Guardian to your grand-daughter!"

"That's just it. Who else should undertake the charge but you? I know
you will not refuse."

"But I must, Martha. I am not a suitable person to look after your
grand-daughter. What do I know about the ways of young women?"

"You will have no trouble, Daniel. Doris is a good girl, though a little
headstrong at times. She doesn't like the idea of my appointing you as
her guardian. But she will get over that in time."

"So that is the reason, I suppose, for her coolness to me when I came
here this evening. She has evidently taken a dislike to me which will
make my task all the more difficult."

"So you agree, then?" the invalid eagerly asked.

"Oh, no, not yet. I must have time to think this over."

"But there is no time, Daniel. I am a very sick woman, and I must know
before I die that Doris will have someone I can trust to look after her
when I am dead. Surely you will not refuse my request."

"And was it for this that you came here, Martha?"

"It was, and that I might see you again."

"So you did not forget me, then?"

"Forget you! Why, you have been seldom out of my mind since that night
we parted--oh, you remember, do you not?"

"Indeed I do. Please say nothing more about it."

"I cannot help it, Daniel. What a difference it would have made to both
of us if I had not been such an idiot. I thought only of money then, and
position in society. What a wreck I have made of my life."

"You obtained your heart's desire, though."

"I did, and found it nothing but gall and worm-wood. You know what my
life has been, don't you?"

"I have not been altogether ignorant of it, for the newspapers have kept
you well in the lime-light. I always hoped that you were happy with so
much attention."

"Happy! It was unhappiness which drove me on. It was the demon of unrest
which forced me from place to place always seeking for some new
excitement. I have been flattered and fawned upon everywhere. And why?
Simply because of my money. People cared nothing for me, but for what I
had in worldly goods."

"And so you came at last to this quiet spot after your many adventures.
You must have found it lonely here."

"I have found it a haven of rest. I envy you, Daniel, for the good you
have been doing in this parish while I was wasting my life."

"How do you know of my work?"

"Oh, I know something, but not all. Susie, my maid, has told me much,
and I have imagined the rest. You are loved by everyone, and your good
influence is felt far and near."

"I am afraid Susie has been exaggerating," and the clergyman sighed.
"She is a good girl, and I am fond of her. But she does not know how I
have failed, and now that this place has been turned into a summer
resort, I am losing my hold over my flock. It is very sad, and I am too
old now to cope with the problem. People are becoming very indifferent
to religious matters."

"I know they are, Daniel, and for that reason I want Doris to be brought
under your influence and have the benefit of your instruction. She is
almost entirely ignorant of religious things, although she attends
church because I compel her to go."

"But suppose she should refuse to obey me, if I agree to act as her
guardian?"

"Then she will not get a cent of my money. It is all arranged for in my
will. Everything is in the hands of The Golden Trust Company, and they
are to take their instructions from you. Any money that Doris receives
until she is of age must be upon your order."

"And what will become of your money if your grand-daughter disobeys me?"

"I have arranged for that. It will go to several charitable
institutions, and to you."

"To me!"

"That is my wish, Daniel. It may atone somewhat for the past. I have
specified that you are to receive a certain amount as long as you live."

"Martha, I cannot--"

"Just a minute, Daniel. Please do not interrupt me. My strength is
failing rapidly, and I have something more I wish to say. But first
promise that you will act as Doris's guardian. The papers are all made
out, so you will have little or no trouble."

"Let me consider this just for to-night, Martha."

"No, no, it will be too late. Promise me now. Take my hand, Daniel, like
you used to do, and promise me. Don't refuse."

Quietly the clergyman took her cold right hand in his. His heart was
stirred, and a mistiness came into his eyes. The glamor of her influence
was still strong upon him, and he could no longer resist her pleading.

"I promise, Martha," he at length murmured in a trembling voice. "May
God help me to do my duty whatever that may be."

"Thank you, oh, thank you, Daniel. My mind is now at rest."

Gently the clergyman withdrew his hand from hers and rose to his feet.

"I must go now, Martha. You are very weary."

"Just a minute, Daniel. I have one more request to make. When I am dead,
I want you to bury me at night."

These words caused Mr. Landrose to stare at the woman in amazement.

"Martha, what do you mean?"

"Just what I said, Daniel. I want to be buried at night. It will be in
keeping with the darkness of my life. And, besides, I cannot bear the
thought of my body going into the cold ground when the sun is shining.
And I do not want people to come just for curiosity to see me buried.
Promise me, Daniel, that you will do this for me."

"I suppose I must, Martha. You have forced me already to agree to
several things against my will. This, anyway, will be no offense against
the Church. But it is a strange request, for all that."

To these words the invalid made no reply, and as the clergyman looked
upon her he was deeply impressed by the stern dignity of her face.
Although time had wrought great changes, yet there remained the evidence
of the beauty that once was hers. Her hair, formerly as black as the
raven's wing, was now as white as the driven snow, and in harmony with
the pallor of her face.

"Good-night, Martha, I must go now."

"Kiss me, Daniel, and I shall be happy."

It was her last request, and for the rest of his life he was thankful
that he did not refuse her dying wish.




CHAPTER V

UNDER COVER OF NIGHT


Mr. Landrose was at breakfast the next morning when he received word of
Martha's death. It was an unusually late breakfast for him, but the
excitement of the night had kept him awake for hours after his return
from the hotel, so he did not sleep any until near morning. Rachel
answered the door-bell, and when she returned to the dining-room she
told him the news.

The clergyman started, and with a trembling hand set down the cup of
coffee he was in the act of lifting to his lips.

"Who told you this?"

"Mrs. Wickham, sir. She stopped on her way to the store, thinking we
might like to know."

"When did--did the woman die?"

"At midnight, so Mrs. Wickham told me. Susie was with her to the last."

Mr. Landrose said nothing more, but sat very erect and still, staring
straight before him. The food on his plate remained untouched, and his
coffee became lukewarm. Rachel moved to and fro between the kitchen and
the dining-room, not knowing what to say or do. She was puzzled at her
master's strange absent-minded manner, and also a little frightened at
the peculiar expression in his eyes.

At length the clergyman rose slowly to his feet, unconsciously bent his
head, and then walked wearily toward his study. Rachel heard him close
the door behind him and then all was still.

"I wonder what is the meaning of all this?" she asked herself. "I never
knew the parson to act in such a strange way before. Who is that woman,
anyway? I hope Mrs. Wickham calls here on her way home."

But Mrs. Wickham did not call, and all through the morning Rachel kept
listening for the clergyman to come from his study. She prepared his
dinner as usual, but with little hope that he would eat anything.

To Mr. Landrose, seated at his writing-table, the passing of time was
unnoticed as he filled page after page of his sermon paper. Lying before
him was the little package of faded envelopes. He had read every letter
that morning, and had then remained for some time in thought. After a
while he began to re-write the sermon he had been working upon the first
of the week. It was the parable of the Lost Sheep, but what a change had
come over him since he had first begun it. In this he was putting
nothing of the doctrine of the Church, but only ideas which came flaming
from his heart. It was in this manner that he could best give expression
to the thoughts that were surging within him. For long years they had
been held sternly in check. But now an opening had been made, the
barrier had been rent, and they poured forth in tumultuous order.

"When that sheep went astray," so he wrote, "the Good Shepherd did not
condemn it to eternal perdition. He did not give orders that henceforth
it would be beyond the pale of the fold. He did not pronounce the ban of
excommunication and say that it should no longer be given the food and
water which nourished the ninety and nine which went not astray. He did
nothing of the kind. Instead, he went forth to search for the wandering
one, and did not cease for darkness, cold, flooded streams, nor
dangerous mountain steeps until he found it and brought it home
rejoicing. And when He reached home, nothing is recorded of any
punishment meted out to the erring one. And why? Because of the love of
the Good Shepherd. His heart was overflowing with pity and sympathy.
Surely the Master meant that story for every one who goes astray."

Thus on and on he wrote. There seemed to be no end to the ideas which
flooded his mind. Just as soon as one was developed, he was off on
another, now the love of the Father, now the lost sheep, now the duty of
seeking and finding, now the simplicity of the search, with no mention
of special forms and ceremonies.

He was at last aroused by Rachel's gentle tap upon the door. Like a
guilty person caught in the act of some crime, Mr. Landrose hurriedly
gathered up the many sheets of paper and thrust them into a drawer of
his desk. He felt safer now, and much relieved. He had poured out his
soul upon paper, although he knew that he would never deliver that
sermon. But how could he henceforth preach as he had in the past? What
he had formerly considered of the greatest importance seemed now to be
nothing but mere skeletons. The teaching of the Master must have life.
"The Word was made flesh and dwelt among us, and we beheld His glory."
This text flashed into his mind with a new meaning, stripped of all
theological bias. He had been preaching the Word for many years, so he
thought. But now he knew that he had missed the mark, and instead of
giving his people the true food of life, he had been meteing out to
them nothing but hard cold stones.

Mr. Landrose ate but little at dinner, and Rachel was worried.

"You will starve, sir, unless you eat more than you have to-day."

"I do not feel hungry, Rachel. The death of--of that woman at the hotel
has been a shock to me, coming so soon after my visit to her last
night."

"When will the funeral take place?"

"Funeral! Why, I have forgotten all about it. But I suppose I shall have
to bury her."

A slight shiver shook his body, and he looked very pale. This Rachel
noticed, and she felt a sudden alarm.

"You are not well, sir. You should see the doctor."

"No, no. I am all right. But the thought of burying that woman in the
cold ground, away from God's beautiful sunshine, has unnerved me.
Although I know it is only her body that will be buried, yet somehow it
seems terrible to me to-day."

"Did you know the woman, sir?"

"No, I never did. I thought I knew her, but I was mistaken. I never
really knew Martha Benson."

Parson Dan was not lying intentionally. He was thinking of other things
of which Rachel knew nothing. In fact, he did not realize the meaning
his housekeeper might take from his words until an hour later as he was
walking toward the hotel. It came upon him with a startling suddeness,
causing him to stop right in the middle of the road.

"Rachel asked me if I knew the woman," he whispered. "I told her I never
did. What will she think of me if she ever knows the truth? I did not
intend to deceive her. But how can I explain? What shall I say to her?"
He was much worried, and thought about it as he continued on his way.

When he reached the hotel, he was shown at once to the room where the
dead woman was lying. There was no one present, and the blinds were
partly lowered. But there was light enough for him to see the face of
the woman lying in the casket. He gave a slight start as he looked upon
it. In the repose of death all traces of care and suffering were gone,
and what he saw was a face calm and serene with the semblance of a smile
lurking about the corners of the mouth. He beheld there the Martha
Benson as he had known her years before. She seemed about to speak to
him, to utter his name.

"Martha," he whispered, "tell me something about your life now. Are you
asleep, or are you living joyously and free in that land where pain and
sorrow are unknown?"

The sound of some one approaching aroused him. Glancing quickly and
nervously around, he saw the grand-daughter standing near. She was very
calm and formal.

"Excuse me, sir. I hope I am not intruding. I did not know that you were
here."

"No, no, it's all right," and the clergyman sighed. "I was merely
waiting for you. Please accept my sincere sympathy. I would have been
here sooner had I known of your grandmother's death. Is there anything I
can do?"

"You will conduct the service, of course."

"Yes, if it is your wish, Miss Randall."

"It was Granny's, so that settles it."

"I suppose so."

"And the grave must be dug. Will you arrange about that, sir?"

"I shall attend to it. But perhaps you would like to go with me and
select a spot."

"No, thank you. I shall leave that to you. And the funeral is to be in
the evening, I understand."

"So your grandmother wished."

"Very well, then, to-night. How will that do?"

"But why so soon, Miss Randall? Why not wait until to-morrow night?"

"It will make no difference to Granny, Mr. Landrose. And, besides, the
undertaker thinks we should not wait so long. That is all, I think.
Thank you, sir. Good day."

Surprised and bewildered, the parson left the hotel and made his way
back along the road. He had expected to find the girl somewhat softened
by her grandmother's death. Instead, she was more rigidly formal than
ever. She had not exhibited the least sign of emotion, but had discussed
the funeral arrangements in a matter of fact manner and as briefly as
possible. And he was now her guardian! A slight groan escaped his lips.
What was he to do with such a creature? But he had promised Martha, and
he must be true to his word. He would do his duty to the letter. But why
did the girl act so strangely toward him? He had done nothing to her,
and it was not his fault that he had been appointed her guardian. A
feeling of anger welled up in his heart. He was a mild, peace-loving
man. But when necessity demanded he could be very firm. And he was
determined now that he would use a firm hand in dealing with the girl.
She was under his control, and if she did not wish to obey him, she
would have to abide by the consequences. Did Martha know of her
grand-daughter's strong and wilful nature which caused her to make such
provisions in her will? It seemed so. Perhaps the girl had given her
much trouble in the past, and she had thus endeavored to provide for her
future welfare.

Reaching at length the grave-yard, he went at once to a large maple tree
standing in the north east corner.

"Martha would like this spot. There is no grave near, and here the
flowers will bloom and the birds will sing. This tree will shade the
grave in summer and shelter it from the fierce winds of winter. Dear me!
how little I thought that I should be doing this for Martha Benson. And
when I die I want to be buried right by her side. It cannot be long now,
and the sooner the better. But, there, I must go at once and get Joe
Blake to dig the grave. He will have little enough time."

Joe was not at home, but his wife explained that he was at the
undertaker's getting the right measurements.

"It's a queer thing, I call it," she declared, "to have a funeral after
dark. Joe's been diggin' graves for the last twenty years, an' he never
had to attend a buryin' by night. It doesn't seem at all right, to my
way of thinkin'. Why that woman should want to be put in the ground at
night is more'n I kin understand."

"No doubt it is, Mrs. Blake," the clergyman quietly replied. "There are
many things we cannot understand."

"I hear strange stories, too, about that grand-daughter of hers. She's a
flighty one, all right, that's what she is, goin' about so much while
her grandmother is lyin' dead."

"What stories have you heard, Mrs. Blake?" There was a note of sternness
in the clergyman's voice which caused the woman to hesitate.

"Oh, nuthin' in particular, parson. But I hear she goes off to dances
with the manager of the granite works. She was away last night, too."

"To a dance!"

"Oh, no, I wouldn't like to say that. But it doesn't look right, as I
said, with her grandmother--"

"There, that will do, Mrs. Blake. It is only hearsay, after all, and I
know very well how people will talk, especially in this place. I wish
they would attend to their own affairs, and not bother about what other
people are doing. But, there, I must get along. Be sure to tell Joe to
dig the grave right under that big maple tree in the north east corner.
I hope he will get it done in time."

"Oh, Joe'll have it ready, parson. He hasn't dug many graves of late,
more's the pity. Times are hard these days, an' we are in need of money.
I suppose the pay'll be all right, sir?"

"It will. I shall see to that, so don't worry."

Mrs. Blake stood watching the clergyman as he walked toward the rectory.

"I wonder what's comin' over the parson? I never saw him so solemn an'
stern. I believe he knows something about that dead woman accordin' to
what Susie Wickham told her ma. He was with her the night she died, an'
had Communion. I'm goin' to that funeral even though it is at night. I
wouldn't miss it fer anything."

And more than Mrs. Blake decided to attend the funeral, and some
gathered at the grave-yard before dark. When Mr. Landrose arrived he
was surprised to find so many people present.

"What are all these folks doing here?" he asked Joe.

"Jist waitin' to see the funeral, parson. It isn't every day we have a
funeral at night."

Mr. Landrose robed in the little vestry by the light of an oil lamp, and
went to the churchyard gate, holding his book in his hand. Slowly he
walked before the casket which was borne by several men. In a clear
voice he read the opening sentences of the Burial Service, and as the
words "I am the resurrection and the life" sounded forth the voices of
all were hushed in an awed silence. By the clergyman's side walked Joe,
with a lighted lantern to illuminate the narrow path. When the grave had
been reached, the people drew close and watched everything that was
taking place. At the head of the grave stood Doris Randall with a young
man by her side. Calmly she watched as the casket was lowered into the
ground, apparently unmoved. But at the words "Earth to earth, ashes to
ashes, dust to dust," she gave a low moan and leaned somewhat for
support against her companion. But no other sound did she make, and as
soon as the service was ended she left the grave.

Mr. Landrose remained until the last shovelful of gravel had been placed
upon the mound. The crowd had dispersed, so he and Joe were alone.

"Good job, that, sir."

The clergyman started at these words, and looked around.

"Have they all gone, Joe?"

"Why, yes. We've been alone here fer some time. Guess we can't do no
more now. Say, parson, I don't want a job like this ag'in."

"Why, Joe?"

"Oh, I can't very well explain, sir. But I had a creepy feelin' all the
time I was shovelin' in the earth. It seemed as if that dead woman was
standin' by my side watchin' to see that I done the work right."

"Nonsense, Joe."

"It may be so, that's a fact. But I had the feelin', anyway, an' who kin
reason ag'inst a feelin'? I can't."

"Let us go home, Joe. Come to me in the morning and I shall pay you for
your work."

"A'right, parson. But I hope t'goodness that woman doesn't appear to me
ag'in when I go to bed. I done a good job, now didn't I, sir?"

"You certainly did, so don't worry any more. Your conscience should be
clear. Good-night."




CHAPTER VI

A MORNING CALL


The morning sun gleamed down pleasantly upon the garden at the back of
the rectory. It was a garden good to look upon, for Parson Dan attended
to it himself. He was proud of the straight rows of vegetables which he
had planted with his own hands. Potatoes, beets, carrots, onions,
radishes, peas, beans, corn, cucumbers, were all there in their proper
places. Nothing was out of line, and order was as much the rule here as
in the study. It was a sheltered spot, surrounded by a growth of young
birch trees, interspersed with pines and firs, which formed a striking
contrast to the silver color of their more numerous companions. Where
these trees stood the ground had once been tilled. But steadily they had
encroached upon the clearing as the clergyman's strength decreased
through advancing years. For a time he had fought bravely against this
crowding growth, but he was at last forced to yield to the inevitable
and content himself with a smaller space for his garden. He might have
hired help, but he did not want careless and indifferent workers among
his beloved vegetables. Here he liked to be alone to think out his
sermons, free from all interruption. He was happier in this place than
anywhere else, except in church.

And so on the morning after the funeral it was but natural that he
should seek the quiet solace of his garden. He had not slept well, and
had been restless through the night. Recent events had greatly
disturbed the hitherto even tenor of his ways. The discovery of Martha
at the hotel, her death and burial, together with his sin against the
Church, bore heavily upon his soul. And in addition, there was his
responsibility as guardian to Martha's grand-daughter. Over and over
again during the night he had chided himself for his weakness, and the
betrayal of his sacred trust. And what fitness had he to be the guardian
of a girl not yet out of her teens? But he could not retrace the false
step he had made in giving Martha the Communion, neither could he go
back on his word of honor. He gave a deep sigh as he cut the weeds in
the row and hilled up the potatoes. His one desire was to be left in
peace with his parochial work and his garden. He was too old, so he
believed, to be worried about matters which were foreign to his nature.
But these troubles had been forced upon him, and he wondered if they
were intended for his good.

He paused and leaned upon his hoe as this thought came into his mind. He
looked toward the rectory in an absent-minded manner for a few seconds.
Then he became conscious of two persons standing near the building.
Immediately he recognized them as Rachel and Doris Randall. They were
talking and apparently waiting for him to finish the row. This was an
awkward predicament, as he did not wish the visitor to see him in his
rough working clothes. He longed to hurry into the house that he might
make himself more presentable. There was no opportunity for this,
however, so continuing his hoeing, he at length came to the end of the
row.

"Do you need any help?"

The question caused him to look quickly up, and his eyes met the smiling
face of the girl. A great change had come over her since he had last
seen her. For a few seconds he made no reply, but stood very still
looking at her in undisguised admiration. She was so fresh and neat,
akin to the flowers blooming around the building. He was visibly
embarrassed, and this the girl noted. Again she smiled, and stepping
forward, held out her hand.

"I hope you do not mind my coming to see you this morning. I want you to
give me something to do."

The clergyman looked at her clean hands, and then at his own soiled
ones.

"I cannot very well shake hands with you. Mine are too dirty. I must
wash them first."

"I like them that way, Mr. Landrose. They are much nicer than so many
soft white ones; mine, for instance."

Mr. Landrose was surprised at these words. He was pleased, as well, and
looked keenly into the girl's bright face. He lifted his hat and wiped
his forehead with his handkerchief.

"Suppose we sit down, Miss Randall. Rachel, please bring out a couple of
chairs. Ah, I see she has gone back to her work."

"You sit on that nice rustic chair," Doris suggested. "The grass at your
feet is just the place for me. There, that is nice," she continued when
the parson had complied with her request. "Everything is lovely around
here. I did not know you had such a wonderful garden. Do you do all the
work yourself?"

"Why, yes. This is where I am so happy. I like my vegetables and
flowers. I suppose you have seen my garden in front of the house."

"Indeed I have. Your housekeeper told me how beautiful it will be in a
few weeks. I hope I shall be here to see it then."

"And so do I, Miss Randall, for I want you to see my roses when they are
in bloom. I am very proud of them."

There was such a youthful eagerness in the old man's voice and such a
glow in his eyes that the girl was agreeably surprised, for she had
expected to find him little more than a dry ecclesiastical fossil. It
had meant a great struggle to overcome her dislike of him, and to visit
him this morning with the outward appearance of cheerfulness.

"Why do you not speak of flowers sometimes in your sermons, Mr.
Landrose?"

"Flowers in my sermons, Miss Randall! Why, how could I do that? What
have flowers to do with Church doctrine?"

"A great deal, I should say. They are beautiful, and didn't Christ tell
the people to 'consider the lilies'?"

"Yes, yes, I know He did. But what would my people think if I talked to
them about flowers?"

"Perhaps they would like it for a change. I know I should, anyway. And I
believe you could do it so well, for you love flowers so much."

"But I must give my people solid food, Miss Randall. There is too much
sentiment preached to-day, and it is a very poor substitute for real
substantial truth."

"Perhaps you know better than I do," and the girl gave a slight sigh as
she gazed thoughtfully out over the garden. "But I have often wished
that clergymen would speak more about the bright beautiful things of
life, and less about the sad, and the dry bones of doctrine."

"But we must have doctrine, remember," Mr. Landrose defended. "Didn't
the Apostle Paul say 'Take heed to the doctrine'?"

"Did he? I never heard that before. But I want to know more about the
love of God. That touches my heart. But, there, I must not argue with
you who know so much while I am very ignorant."

"But I like to talk with you, Miss Randall. Your words are refreshing. I
have never known any of my people to talk to me so candidly. I wish they
would."

"Perhaps you would resent it if they did. I am not of your flock, so can
say what I think."

She paused abruptly, and a peculiar expression came into her eyes.

"Oh, I forgot for the moment that you are my guardian, and have full
control over me." There was a tinge of bitterness in her voice, which
the clergyman noticed.

"That should make no difference."

"But it does make a difference. I want to be free and happy, to think my
own thoughts, and to follow the dictates of my heart. But all my life I
have been bound down to hard rigid rules."

"Why, wasn't your grandmother good to you, Miss Randall?"

"Yes, good in a way, in supplying me with food, clothes and shelter.
But, oh, how she kept me under her thumb. Why, I was allowed hardly any
freedom at all, and scarcely knew that my soul was my own."

Her flushed face and flashing eyes told something of her emotion. Mr.
Landrose was much embarrassed. What should he say to this girl so
anxious to be free from all restraint? How could he ever control her?

"No doubt your grandmother did it all for the best."

"Perhaps so. Most likely she did not want me to follow her example."

"You know about her life, then?"

"Something, but not all. There was a mystery in her life at which she
used to hint, but would never explain. Something must have happened
years ago, I am sure, which affected her whole life. I have often
wondered what it was. It caused her to do queer things at times such
as--"

She paused abruptly, slightly confused.

"Appointing me as your guardian? Is that what you mean?"

"Yes, you have guessed correctly."

"And it made you rebellious?"

"It certainly did. I hated you, although I had never seen you until I
met you at the hotel. It was hard for me to be civil to you."

"You feel differently now, I hope, Miss Randall."

"Somewhat. But, please, call me 'Doris'. I am not used to 'Miss
Randall'. It makes me feel too old."

"Very well, I shall comply with your request. But as I am your guardian
I must have your help, for I am very ignorant about my duties."

An expression of triumph appeared in the girl's eyes which the clergyman
did not notice. Her task was going to be easier than she had imagined.
This old man would be as clay in her hands. This was at once succeeded
by a feeling of sympathy for the man she disliked but a short time
before. Why should she worry and trouble his heart? But she was not sure
how far she could go with him. Susie Wickham had told her of his strong
will in the discharge of his duties, and she partly surmised that his
quiet manner might cover a surprising firmness.

"I am afraid that I can do very little, sir. Granny always did
everything for me, and I feel perfectly helpless now. As you are my
guardian you will have to take her place."

"And what is the first step?"

"To do some shopping for me. There are several things I need right away.
Here is the list," and she handed forth a piece of paper she had been
holding in her left hand.

The clergyman slowly unfolded the paper and looked intently at the
writing. Then his face became very serious.

"And you want me to buy these things!"

"Certainly. Granny always did, and who else but you should do it now?"

"But, Miss Rand--Doris, I should say, I never did such a thing in my
life. Buy a girl's clothes! Why, it's ridiculous."

"No, it is not, Mr. Landrose. It is a very simple matter. You have only
to go to Reed & Langton's and purchase the things. You will have no
trouble, I am sure. Granny never did. She always liked shopping."

"But this is a woman's work, and not a man's. Why can't you do this
yourself?"

"Because I have never done it, and as my guardian I expect you to do it
for me. You promised Granny that you would take her place, didn't you?"

"I did, I know I did. But never for an instant did I imagine that I
should be called upon to buy your clothes."

Again the parson brought forth his handkerchief and wiped the
perspiration from his forehead. Once more he stared at the paper he was
holding in his hand. The expression upon his face almost caused the girl
to relent. She did not explain that she had always gone with her
grandmother when shopping, and had really chosen the things she needed.
She was strongly tempted to offer to go with her guardian or to release
him altogether of the responsibility. She dismissed this, however, as it
might spoil the plan which had been so carefully thought out the evening
before. No, he must go through with it alone, and find out by bitter
experience into what a net he had allowed himself to become enmeshed.

She rose to her feet and brushed several blades of grass from her dress.

"I must go now. It is too bad I have disturbed you in your work."

"I don't mind that at all. But this," and the parson tapped the paper
with his finger, "is what troubles me. I am sorely puzzled. However, I
shall see what can be done."

"Oh, thank you so much, Mr. Landrose. I am sure you will do all you
can."

The clergyman rose from his chair and looked earnestly into the girl's
brown eyes.

"Listen, you are the only woman, except one, who made me do something
against my will and judgment. But as you have so strangely influenced
me, you will have to abide by the results. I bid you good-morning."

There was something about these words which deeply impressed Doris
Randall. Her former feeling of triumph vanished, and a sense of
humiliation and defeat pervaded her soul. As she made her way slowly
from the rectory she felt ashamed of the mean trick she was playing upon
an innocent old man, and a clergyman, at that. What would he think of
her should he ever know the truth? The scheme had really seemed amusing
at first, for by means of it she would attain her purpose and get rid of
the fossil of a guardian. Now, however, she viewed it differently. She
had been mistaken in him, and so had John. The thought of the young man
brought the glow back to her cheeks. He would laugh her out of the
notion, she felt sure. Yet deep in her heart she knew that no words
could change the favorable impression she had that morning received of
Parson Dan.




CHAPTER VII

HIS FIRST EXPERIENCE


Mr. Landrose sat down again upon the rustic seat after Doris had gone
and remained for some time in deep thought. He looked out over the
garden, but his mind was not upon the vegetables. He was in no mood for
further hoeing just then. The quiet tenor of his morning's work had been
disturbed, and the zest had vanished.

At length he arose and went into the house where he found Rachel in the
kitchen preparing dinner. He glanced at the clock and was surprised to
find that it was near noon.

"Dear me, how the morning has gone! I had no idea it was so late."

"Miss Randall must have been a pleasant companion, sir. She was so
charming that I fell in love with her at once. What a host of admirers
she will have this summer when the young men arrive. She will need some
older one to look after her."

The clergyman started at these words. He had never thought of this
before. It was a new problem which now confronted him. How could he do
his duty in watching her and protecting her from undesirable suitors?

"Rachel, I am that girl's guardian," he confessed in a low voice.

"You are!" The housekeeper paused in her work and looked at her master.
"You Miss Randall's guardian!"

"Yes, Rachel, I am. I gave her grandmother my solemn word that I would
do my duty to the best of my ability. I was very weak to make such a
promise."

"I don't envy you your job, sir. You are not a suitable person to be the
guardian of such a girl. She needs a capable, steady woman instead of an
old man who knows nothing about the ways of a young woman left alone at
a summer hotel. Excuse me, sir, if I have spoken too plainly."

"I like to hear your opinion, Rachel, for I am in a great quandary. Now,
look at this," and he showed her the paper he was holding in his hand.
"Here is a list of things Miss Randall wishes me to purchase for her."

The housekeeper took the paper, and as her eyes rested upon the contents
an amused expression overspread her face.

"This is really funny, sir."

"It isn't funny to me. It is a most serious matter. I never bought such
things in my life."

"And do you intend to buy them?"

"What else can I do? The girl knows nothing about shopping, so she told
me. Her grandmother did all that for her. I suppose I might as well go
to the city this afternoon and get it over with as soon as possible."

"But this is not a man's job," Rachel reminded. "A woman should do it."

"I know that. But I am Miss Randall's guardian, you see, so how could I
entrust the task to another? No, I must do it myself, and not shirk my
duty. I have promised, and that promise must be fulfilled."

"But--"

"That will do, Rachel. I know you wish to turn me aside from my
purpose. But it must not be. Please keep this a secret, for there are
many in this parish only too ready to make my guardianship of a young
girl a matter of vulgar gossip. Have dinner ready as soon as possible,
for I must catch the 2.30 train."

Rachel smiled to herself as she went about her work. She knew far better
than her master what it would mean for him to buy the articles mentioned
in that list, especially to an inexperienced old clergyman.

"I would really like to see him in the store," she said to herself.
"Poor man! I pity him. But he is so determined to go and do what he
thinks is his duty that he will have to find out for himself. He will
not listen to reason."

And only too truly did Mr. Landrose learn that afternoon what it meant
to do a girl's shopping. As soon as he reached the city he went at once
to the office of the Golden Trust Company and spent some time with the
manager going carefully over a number of details connected with Martha's
will, and learning about the duties which devolved upon him as guardian
of her grand-daughter. All this was not difficult, for the Trust Company
would look after the estate, allowing Doris such money as the clergyman
considered sufficient for her needs, and would pay all bills which had
his initialled signature of approval. If these were his only duties his
task as guardian would be easy. How he wished that the Trust Company
could manage the personal care of the girl in such a clear and
business-like manner as they did the money.

This he realized more fully as he entered Reed & Langton's big store. He
had often been here before, but had not the slightest knowledge of the
Women's Department. It seemed to him that the store was full of women
and that they were all looking at him as he spoke to a clerk. He was
directed to the elevator, and this, too, happened to be crowded with
women and girls. As he told the elevator girl where he wished to go, he
felt the eyes of all fixed upon him. And truly the old clergyman from
the country with his shovel-hat, faded clothes, worn and wrinkled face,
did present a striking contrast to the well-dressed persons around him.
He longed to get away from his crowded position. Although the day was
not hot, he felt it very warm here, and his one desire was to be back to
the quietness of his own parish.

And this desire was increased ten-fold when at last he reached the
fourth floor and entered the Women's Department. If there were many
women downstairs, their number seemed much larger to him here. They were
everywhere, some walking around, and others sitting placidly at the
counters. Timidly he walked forward, and then stopped. His courage was
rapidly disappearing. He did not know what to do. The women were all
looking at him, so he thought. The perspiration came out in beads upon
his forehead, and his knees trembled.

And as he stood there, a young woman appeared before him and courteously
asked what she could do for him. He looked at her, and then glanced once
more fearfully around the room.

"P-please show me the way to the street," he gasped.

"Take the elevator. It is just over there."

And back to the elevator he hurried, and not until he was out again on
the street did he feel safe. He stopped and mopped his hot forehead.
Never again would he undergo such an ordeal, so he decided. One
experience such as that was enough.

He looked at his watch, and found that he had an hour and a half before
the next train left the city. Across the street was his favorite
book-store, and hither he made his way. Among the books he was at home
and his calmness returned. But his nerves had been severely shaken, and
more than once he glanced through the window at the store across the
street from which he had so fearfully escaped. This soon passed,
however, as his attention became fixed upon the books before him. Only
works of a theological nature appealed to him. Fiction he passed by as
unworthy of consideration.

At last he bought one book, "The Golden Ministry," which name was most
attractive and suggestive. The author, unknown to him, had set down in a
fascinating manner the story of his fifty years in the Ministry. He
began the first chapter with the words uttered by the famous Dr.
Johnson, and recorded by his faithful Boswell:

     "I would rather have Chancery suits upon my hands than the care of
     souls. No, sir, I do not envy a clergyman's life as an easy life,
     nor do I envy the clergyman who makes it an easy life."

Mr. Landrose liked these words which were new to him, and he believed
that in this book he had found a treasure of considerable value. Neither
was he mistaken, for on his homeward journey he read several chapters
with a great deal of pleasure. The writer had come into close contact
with life, especially among humble, hard-working people. He wrote with
deep sympathy and understanding, and in chapters such as "Harnessed
Souls" and "The Sacrament of Dust" he gave full expression to his
thoughts about the beauty and dignity of common toil. In one chapter,
"Commanding the Morning", he wrote about youth, its freshness and
opportunity. His work among the young had been the most inspiring part
of his ministry, and his love for children was unmistakable. But he was
forced to sound a word of serious warning. Looking upon developing youth
from the elevated position of age and experience, he saw a menace which
threatened the young people of to-day. He believed that too much was
being done for them, and that they were not depending enough upon
themselves. He admired the zealous spirit of workers on behalf of the
young, but questioned whether their efforts would prove effective of the
most lasting good. He believed that it was better for the young to be
trained to work and make their own way in life rather than have
everything done for them. Struggle and difficulties developed character.
The tendency of youth to-day was to seek for ease and luxury. Instead of
commanding the freshness of the morning of life, making good use of its
glorious opportunities, so many were wasting their years in profitless
rounds of giddy pleasure.

To all this Mr. Landrose agreed, and as he finished the chapter he
closed the book, and gave himself up to meditation. He thought of Doris
Randall and his responsibility as her guardian. With all the money that
would be eventually hers, what would her future life be like if she were
not properly trained now? And as he thus mused, a plan gradually took
shape in his mind. He would take her in hand at once, so he decided. She
must learn to work, to be able to do something useful, so that she could
earn her own living, if necessary. A mere smattering of learning would
not do. He wondered if she understood anything about house-hold affairs.
It was hardly likely, as her manner of living had no doubt prevented her
from acquiring such knowledge. But she should learn, and while under his
care he would provide that she should not be ignorant of the practical
and helpful things a woman ought to know.

Supper was ready by the time he reached the rectory. He was tired after
the trying visit to the city, and he gave a sigh of relief as he took
his seat at the table. Several letters were lying by his plate, but he
left them unopened.

"I hope you made out all right this afternoon," Rachel remarked after
she had brought in his supper. "Miss Randall left another list of things
she needs, which she overlooked. Here it is," and she laid the paper
upon the table by his side.

"You keep it, Rachel. And you may have the other one, too. I have no
more use for it. To tell you the truth, I made a dismal failure this
afternoon. The purchasing of a young woman's clothes is no business for
a man, especially an old bachelor. You must arrange to go to the city
with Doris when she is ready."

"You found it a difficult undertaking, then, sir?"

"Too difficult for me, Rachel. And, by the way, I did not know that only
women patronized Reed & Langton's."

"Neither did I. Men go there, too, do they not?"

"I thought so until this afternoon. But I only saw women. And there was
something else that seemed very remarkable to me. Perhaps you can
explain why they have such large sales-ladies in the Women's
Department?"

"Do they? I never noticed that they were extra large."

"But they are, Rachel. The ones I saw this afternoon were exceptionally
large, almost like Amazons, in fact."

Rachel was about to express her surprise, when she paused. Then an
expression of amusement appeared in her eyes as the light of
understanding dawned upon her mind. She wanted to laugh outright, and
afraid lest she should do so, she went quickly out into the kitchen. It
was easy for her to picture her master in the Women's Department, and
how in his confusion he had seen everything in a distorted light.

"Poor man! What a terrible time he must have had. But, oh, it is funny
about the women."




CHAPTER VIII

A BRUTE OF A MAN


In the morning Doris Randall came again to the rectory. Mr. Landrose was
in his study preparing his Sunday's sermon, so Rachel informed her. She
then told the girl of the clergyman's visit to the city the day before
and of his failure.

"I thought it very amusing at first, but it seems pathetic to me now.
That dear man is so anxious to do what is right, that it is really wrong
for anyone to laugh at him. He is very headstrong, though, and hard to
convince. I never saw him so badly defeated before. He was much downcast
when he came home, and from the look in his eyes this morning I am sure
he did not sleep well last night. His new duties are worrying him a
great deal. He knows so little about the ways of women that he feels
perfectly helpless with such a charge as you on his hands."

"So he has told you, then, that he is my guardian?"

"Yes he has. And he has asked me to help him."

"Oh, I am so glad. I know that we shall get along splendidly together. I
can talk to you much better than to a man. And you will help me buy my
clothes?"

"That is what Mr. Landrose asked me to do. We shall go to the city
whenever you are ready."

Doris was silent for a few minutes while Rachel went on with her work.
Her mind was very active. What would John say to this new arrangement?
she asked herself. Would it not interfere with the plan they had worked
out so carefully? Anyway, for the present she was glad that Rachel was
going with her to the city.

All through the morning Mr. Landrose sat at his desk trying to work out
his sermon. But most of the time he remained lost in thought, gazing
through the window on his left. He had not slept well during the night,
as Rachel had truly surmised. He was feeling more and more the burden of
responsibility that had been so suddenly placed upon him. He could not
get the thought of Martha out of his mind, and the sin he had committed
in giving her the Communion. Parson Dan looked upon his office as did
the ones in ancient days who bore the Ark of the Covenant. His was a
most sacred trust, and he had tried to be worthy of it in the past. But
he had fallen. He had been untrue to his high and holy calling. And for
this he was now being punished. He recalled what had happened to the man
who had touched the Ark and had been smitten with death. It had seemed
right to him to do so to keep it from falling. Surely that man must have
felt justified in what he did. Yet he was stricken down. Did the Lord
intend to teach that although He wanted the assistance of men in His
work, yet there was a limit beyond which they must not go, and that He
was able to protect His own? Had he, Daniel Landrose, overlooked that,
and had been too presumptuous in taking matters into his own hands? But
the ancient Law had passed away, and Christ had come bringing mercy and
not sacrifice. And had Christ ever forbidden anyone from giving the Holy
Communion to a dying woman? Martha had been excommunicated. But who had
spoken the words which barred her from the Sacred Feast? Was it Christ?
No, it was a Bishop of the Church. Would Christ have done that?

This thought agitated him, and he tried to banish the idea from his mind
as another temptation of the evil one. But over and over again there
came to him Christ's own words, "I will have mercy and not sacrifice. I
came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance."

As usual the clergyman went for his mail just before dinner. There were
only two letters, one for himself and the other for Rachel. As he
glanced at the one for him, he recognized the handwriting. It was from
his Bishop! At once his heart sank within him, and his hands trembled.
There could be but one meaning to that letter. It had been months since
he had heard from the Bishop, and then in connection with his
Confirmation visit. It must, therefore, be something of considerable
importance which would cause him to write to him now, for the Bishop was
a very busy man and had no time to write mere friendly letters. This one
he felt was in connection with Martha, the excommunicated woman. The
Bishop must have heard what had taken place, and had written for an
explanation from the rector himself. He was anxious to know what the
Bishop had to say, and yet he dreaded to open the letter. He would wait
until he reached home, so he decided. He preferred the seclusion of his
study where he could best bear whatever the message might be.

Placing the letters in his pocket, he walked slowly homeward. His heart
was heavy, for he felt that he had at last come to the parting of the
ways. He had committed a grievous offence against the Church, and
nothing but shameful disgrace awaited him. He would be an outcast for
the rest of his life, and branded in his old age as a man who had fallen
in the discharge of his sacred office. He met several people, but hardly
noticed their words of greeting, so intent was he upon his own worries.

No sooner had he reached the rectory than he found there Mrs. Tim
Bendle, who had been anxiously awaiting his coming. Of all the women in
his parish she was the last one he desired to meet just then, for her
visit was a certain sign of trouble in her home.

"Tim's broke out ag'in, parson," she announced, as the clergyman drew
near and bade her "good-day". "He's jist awful this time an' is breakin'
up the furniture and threatenin' to kill me. He threw a dish at me which
jist missed my head. Oh! oh! I don't know what to do with sich a
turrible man."

"What started the trouble, anyway, Mrs. Bendle?" the rector asked, while
an expression of sternness came into his eyes.

"It's all on account of Tim's laziness, Parson. He hasn't done a tap of
work fer weeks, so when I told him to git a hustle on, he got mad an'
started on his rampage. I can't live with that man no longer. I am goin'
to Bob. I wish he was here now, fer he's the only one who kin handle
Tim. But Bob's too fer away, so I've come to you."

"Suppose I go home with you, Mrs. Bendle. Tim took my advice the last
time he was in a tantrum, didn't he?"

"Yes, sir, he did. But that won't work on him ag'in. He's very
superstitious, Tim is, an' he thought that you might bring a curse upon
him if he didn't do as you told him. But he's changed durin' the last
year, an' talks awful ag'inst parsons an' churches. It makes my blood
run cold to hear him."

"He does! What is the reason of that?"

"Oh, he's been readin' books that are all ag'inst the Church an'
religion. An' he says the Bible is all bosh, full of mistakes, an' that
there is no hell an' no devil. Jist think of that!"

The clergyman's face grew very grave and he drew a long breath as he
straightened somewhat his stooped shoulders. Although a timid man when
trying to buy a woman's clothes, he had the courage of a lion in defence
of the Faith.

"Come, Mrs. Bendle, I want to have a talk with Tim."

"But he won't listen to ye, parson. He might kill ye, he's so
desp'rate."

"Let him kill me, then. But I don't think he will go that far with his
rashness."

It was not far to the Bendle house, which they reached in about fifteen
minutes. The building was a poor ramshackle affair, unpainted, and with
a clutter of rubbish about the dooryard. As they drew near, Mrs. Bendle
paused and clutched the clergyman's arm.

"He's at it yit," she whispered. "Can't ye hear him smashin' things an'
swearin' awful? It isn't safe fer you to go in."

Paying no heed to the woman's words, Mr. Landrose moved swiftly forward,
and only stopped when he had reached the open door. And in truth, the
sight which met his eyes was enough to deter the boldest. Like an
infuriated demon Tim was smashing the stove with an axe. Everything
else in the house had been demolished. Chairs, tables, cupboard and
dishes were scattered around in the wildest confusion. Not thinking of
the risk he was running, the parson sprang forward and caught Tim's
right arm as it was raised for another blow. The axe came down with a
bang upon the battered stove, and with a startled and savage oath, Tim
wheeled fiercely around. Seeing the clergyman, he raised his clenched
fist as if he would knock the intruder down. But before Mr. Landrose's
steady and reproving gaze, he drew back a step and his arm dropped to
his side.

"What is the meaning of this, Tim?" the parson asked.

"It's none of yer d---- bizness. You git out of this house or I'll smash
every bone in yer body."

"Tim!"

A complete silence followed this one stern word. It caused the angry man
to look up into the clergyman's face. But his eyes again dropped and he
shuffled uneasily on his feet.

"Well, what is it?" he growled.

"Do you call yourself a man or a beast?"

"Aw, none of that stuff. You git along out of this before I hurt ye. I
don't want nuthin' to do with parsons."

"But you will need one some day, Tim, and very soon at that if you allow
your passions to get the better of you like this. Your heart can't stand
such a rage much longer. Stronger men than you have dropped dead in wild
tantrums."

"Aw, I'm strong as a moose. Ye needn't think ye kin scare me with sich
twaddle."

"If you are so strong, then, why don't you go to work?"

"Work! me work! I can't git a job."

"Yes, you can. The Norton Company wants men in their quarries. There has
been a notice in the post office for several days."

"Huh, I wouldn't work in a hole like that. It's not safe with them d----
blasts. They might kill a feller."

"You'd rather stay home, it seems, smash things up here and threaten to
kill your wife."

"Well, that's my bizness, not yours. You git along before I throw ye out
of the door."

"No, you won't."

"Yes, I will. I won't have a sneak of a parson orderin' me around in me
own house. Ye can't frighten me. I'm not under yer thumb, an' ye can't
cram any of yer silly Gospel pap down my throat. Git off about yer
bizness of scarin' people about the devil an' hell-fire."

Tim paused for breath and glared fiercely at the clergyman.

"Ye know there's no devil an' no hell-fire. Ye only preach that to
frighten people into goin' to church. But ye can't fool me. I've had me
eyes opened to sich nonsense."

"If I ever had any doubt about the devil and hell-fire it would be
entirely removed by watching you," Mr. Landrose quietly replied. "Your
actions are all the proof I would need. But I see it is hopeless to talk
to you any longer. There is only one thing left for me now."

"An' what is that?"

"To have you arrested. The Law must step in to protect your wife and
save you from yourself."

At this announcement Tim's face grew livid with rage and he took a quick
step toward the clergyman. He lifted his right arm to strike, but ere
the blow could fall he uttered a shriek of pain, clutched his left side,
and fell heavily to the floor. In an instant his wife was by his side,
bending over him.

"I knew it would come," she cried. "I knew if ye laid hands on the
Lord's anointed something dreadful would happen."

"It's his heart, no doubt. Let me feel his pulse," and the clergyman
stooped over the prostrate man. "Bring some water, quick."

After Tim's face had been bathed, he opened his eyes and stared blankly
around.

"What's the matter? Who hit me?"

"The Lord hit ye, Tim Bendle," his wife replied. "An' it's a wonder he
didn't strike ye dead fer attemptin' to lay hands on the Lord's
anointed. Ye'll be all right in a jiffy, so jist lay still. Guess he'll
pull through," she continued, turning to the clergyman. "This'll learn
him a lesson he won't soon fergit."

"Did he ever have an attack like this before, Mrs. Bendle?"

"Never like that, sir. But often when he's had his tantrums I've seen
his face turn suddenly pale an' he had to set down. But he soon fergot
all about it."

"And so he will this."

"'Deed he won't, sir. This is the Lord's doin's, an' it's a sign of His
anger ag'inst him fer the way he's been goin' on about religion an' the
Church."

"It's his heart, Mrs. Bendle, which could not stand such a violent rage.
See what Tim's done to this house. How will you ever get it cleared up?
You will need new furniture, too."

"Oh, I'm done with Tim, parson. He kin go his way an' I'll go mine. D'ye
think I'd live with him any longer after the way he's acted to-day?"

"Oh, no, you must not leave him, Mrs. Bendle. He will need you now more
than ever. You must take care of him."

"Me take care of Tim! Ye might ask me to take care of a ragin' tager
right from the jungle an' I'd undertake the job quicker'n I would take
care of Tim. I'd put the tager in a cage an' keep it there. But I can't
do that with Tim. No, I'm goin', so that's the end of it."

At these emphatic words Tim opened his eyes, and attempted to rise.

"Don't go, Becky!" he pleaded. "Don't leave me! I'm dyin'!"

"Now, jist listen to him, parson. He doesn't want me to leave him. What
in the world am I to do?"

"Stay with him, of course."

"But he won't behave himself. Jist as soon as he gits well, he'll act
the same as before."

"I swear I won't, Becky," Tim declared. "I'll never raise sich ructions
ag'in."

"Will ye swear that, then, before the parson, Tim?"

"'Deed I will, Becky. I'll swear right now that I'll never git into sich
a tantrum ag'in. Ye kin bring the Bible an' I'll kiss it."

"That will do," the clergyman ordered. "Don't go too far. You're a very
much frightened man now, and willing to do and say anything. But I
haven't much confidence in that kind of repentance. It isn't fear the
Lord wants, but faith and love. You need a new heart, Tim."

"Yer quite right, parson. I sartinly do need a new heart. But as that is
out of the question, I'll have to see the doctor an' git this old one
patched up."

"That's not what I mean, Tim. It's not a new heart of flesh you need,
but a spiritual heart which the Lord will give if you ask Him."

"Will He, now! Well, I must 'tend to that. In the meantime, I must see
the doctor."




CHAPTER IX

THE BISHOP'S LETTER


Mr. Landrose walked slowly home, lost in deep thought. He was not the
least encouraged by Tim's sudden repentance. During his ministry he had
seen too many people turn very religious when they were sick, and then
they became sick of their religion when they were well again. And he
felt the same would be true of Tim. The man was a brute by nature, and
such a person was not likely to be changed in a short time. Had there
been any solid foundation it would have been different. But Mr. Landrose
had known Tim for so many years that he believed he was hopeless.

There was something else that troubled him. For forty years he had been
rector of Green Mount, and after that long period it was most
discouraging and humiliating to have a man like Tim Bendle so close to
the very church in which he had served and had given such careful
instruction in the Faith. How often he had preached about the heathen in
far-off lands, and the importance of giving to Missions. And yet right
at home there were men, and women, too, for that matter, right in his
very parish who were worse than the heathen. And whose fault was it? He
had often soothed his conscience in the past by the thought that they
themselves were to blame. The call went forth, but they closed their
ears and would not heed. They had no desire for spiritual things, but
were content with their low manner of living.

But now he did not receive any comfort from these ideas. What was he, a
minister of the Church, doing for such people? Was not his message
divine? Yet it had not affected Tim Bendle and others like him. Why? He
paused abruptly in the road as something flashed into his mind. Had he
been giving them the true Bread of Life? Had he been dealing out husks
instead of food? He recalled some of his sermons which he had prepared
with such care. How ineffective they seemed to him now. They had failed,
and so had he. His work in the Ministry had been in vain.

"Woe! woe to me!" he murmured. "The sheep have looked to me for food,
and I have not fed them. They are spiritually starved."

Reaching at length the rectory, he entered his study and sank down
wearily into his desk-chair. Rachel presently entered and informed him
that dinner was ready. He ate in silence, and the woman wondered what
was troubling him.

"Miss Randall was here this morning, sir," she told him as he finished
his meal.

"Was she? I had forgotten all about her. What did she want?"

"To talk with you on a matter of business, so she said. I am going with
her to the city this afternoon to do some shopping. You asked me to do
so, did you not?"

"I did. So you are going to-day?"

"Miss Randall is quite anxious to get some clothes as soon as possible,
so if you do not mind--"

"No, no, go whenever you are ready. I shall be away all the afternoon
myself. I must go to Mapledale to see poor old Mrs. Wedder, who is ill.
Help Miss Randall all you can."

"Did you get the mail this morning, sir?"

"Why, yes. There was a letter for you which I forgot all about." He
thrust his hand into his pocket, and as he brought forth the two letters
a worried expression overspread his face.

"Dear me! what is coming over me? Here is your letter, Rachel, and mine,
too. I forgot all about them."

Hurrying back to the study, he closed the door and again sat down at his
desk. He laid the Bishop's letter unopened before him, and gazed
thoughtfully upon it. Strange that he should have forgotten all about
it. But that encounter with Tim Bendle had driven everything else out of
his mind.

And what did that letter contain? Had the Bishop heard what had taken
place at the hotel, and had written a letter of inquiry? He picked up
the letter and held it in his hand. Yes, he must open it. There was no
sense in delaying the suspense any longer. He might as well know the
truth at once. But what a difference that letter might make in his life.

Slowly he tore open the envelope and drew out the neatly-folded paper.
Then as his eyes rested upon the words written therein, they grew wide
with intense astonishment. At first he thought that he had not seen
aright, or that there had been some mistake. But, no, it was from the
Bishop, and addressed to him.

     "My dear Landrose," so the letter began,

     "I am writing to inform you that a Canonry in our Cathedral Church
     has become vacant through the removal of Canon R. J. Westrang from
     this Diocese. As it is desirable that his place should be filled by
     a fit and proper person, and having full confidence in your
     integrity, morals, and dutifulness to the Church, as well as your
     long and faithful service as Rector of Green Mount, I would like to
     nominate and appoint you a Canon of the Cathedral. If you decide to
     accept this position, let me know as soon as possible, and I shall
     have the proper forms drawn up at once, and arrangements will be
     made for your installation.

     "With kindest regards,
     "Affectionately yours,
     "Charles Nottingham."

Mr. Landrose read this letter through twice, and then laid it upon the
desk. He was in a great quandary. If that message had come to him a week
or so ago what pleasure it would have brought him. For years he had
cherished the hope that one day such an honor would come to him. But he
had long since given up the idea. He had seen other men receive honors
in the Church, and had written them letters of congratulation. That he
had been passed by caused no bitterness to rankle in his heart. He was
content to go on his quiet way and let others receive preferments. He
knew that a high position meant a greater responsibility and no little
jealousy from some. And, besides, he was rector of a country parish
where the main current of life passed him by. He had never been in the
public eye, and his name had seldom appeared in the newspapers. This was
to his liking, and as a humble parish priest, tending to his flock, he
found the greatest happiness. But he was human, for all that, and as he
thought over the Bishop's letter, he sighed. He longed to accept the
Canonry, and a week ago he would have written an immediate acceptance.
But how could he do so now? He had proven untrue to his holy office, and
he had disobeyed his Bishop, as well. He had not been "dutiful and
faithful", as the letter stated. He longed to write and explain
everything. But he shrank from doing so. He would wait until he saw the
Bishop, and then he could more easily tell him the truth. What that
would mean he could only guess. And yet deep in his heart he felt that
he had done right in giving Martha the Communion. What were all the
positions the Church had to bestow compared with his undying love for
her? Had he not acceded to her request, his conscience would have given
him no peace for the rest of his life.

But he must write to the Bishop, and what was he to say? He must refuse
the Canonry, of course, but how could he explain? What reason could he
give? Anyway, he would wait and consider the matter. In a day or two he
might see things in a different light.

A light knock sounded upon the door, and Rachel entered.

"Excuse me, sir. Miss Randall is outside, and would like to see you for
a few minutes."

Mr. Landrose found Doris standing near the flowers at the front door.
She presented a most pleasing appearance, and as he looked at her he saw
again Martha Benson as he had known her in her youth. So striking was
the resemblance that the girl became a little embarrassed at his
searching scrutiny.

"I am sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Landrose," she apologized. "But I want
to ask your advice about our shopping expedition."

"You have not interrupted me," the clergyman replied. "But when I saw
you standing here I was reminded of someone I knew years ago. So you are
going to the city this afternoon?"

"Yes, and Rachel is going with me. Will you give me an order? I have
never bought anything in my own name, and as I have no money, everything
will have to be charged."

"Yes, yes, I suppose so." The parson placed his hand to his head, a sure
sign of his perplexity. "I had forgotten all about that. I shall write
it at once. Please excuse me for a few minutes. And you must have
spending money, as well."

When he returned he handed Doris a letter.

"Perhaps this will serve your purpose. I think that is all I can do for
you at present."

"Oh, thank you so much," Doris replied, and there was such a grateful
note in the girl's voice that a peculiar thrill smote the clergyman's
heart.

He stood watching her as she walked along by Rachel's side after they
had left the house for the station. Suppose she were his own
grand-daughter! And in reality she might be but for what had happened so
long ago. Anyway, he was her guardian, and the thought brought a glow to
his face. And she was not proving so intractible as he had been led to
believe from what Martha had told him about her. In fact, she was a most
agreeable young person, unaffected, beautiful, and easily pleased. He
wondered how it would be when he began her religious education. Martha
had told him that she was sadly ignorant about Church doctrine. But he
would wait until he knew her better and had won her confidence which
would, no doubt, make his task much easier.

He was about to go to the stable to harness his horse, Pedro, when he
saw Mrs. Bendle coming toward him. He frowned slightly, for he was in no
mood to see the woman who only came to him when she was in trouble. He
noticed that she was carrying something in her hand wrapped in a
newspaper.

"Well, Mrs. Bendle, any more trouble with Tim?" he inquired.

"Nuthin' as bad as that last one, Parson. But Tim thinks his heart's so
bad that he can't work. We haven't a bite in the house to eat, an' all
Tim does is to read them books I told ye about. I've brought this one
over, so ye kin see fer yerself."

She unwrapped the book, and handed it to the clergyman.

"Jist look at that, sir. The awful things inside are enough to make
one's blood run cold."

Mr. Landrose took the book and looked at the title, "Broken Fetters." He
then opened it and glanced at the table of contents. His face grew stern
as he read some of the chapter headings, "The Myth of Religion," "The
Pulpit the Coward's Castle," "Priestcraft," "The Church the Trail of the
Serpent," and others of a like nature.

"So this is Tim's mental food, is it?"

"It is, sir. That's all he reads, an' he keeps his nose stuck into sich
books most of the time."

"Since he had that heart attack?"

"He reads more'n ever."

"He soon got over his fright, then?"

"Oh, no, he'll never git over that. But he's tryin' to find out in his
books that there's no God an' no hell, an' that what the Church says
about sich things is all wrong. He's so bad himself that he reads them
fer comfort."

"Very poor comfort, I should say, Mrs. Bendle. Does he ever read the
Bible?"

"Only when he wants to find mistakes which them books say are there. Oh,
I don't know what I'm goin' to do!"

"May I keep this book for a while?" the parson asked.

"Sure ye kin keep it. An' I hope ye'll burn it when yer through with it.
It'll burn great, fer there's enough brimstone in it to make a wonderful
blaze."

"But what will Tim say if he knows I have it?"

"He'll say a hull lot. But I don't care. I guess he won't dare to go too
far, as I'll leave him in a jiffy, an' he knows it. He'll have to depend
upon me fer his grub after this, so he'll have to strut mighty careful."

"Have you any work in view, Mrs. Bendle?"

"I'm to go to the hotel the first of the week. They pay purty well
there. But to git enough to eat in the meantime is my worry now."

"And you have nothing in the house you say?"

"Not a scrap of anything."

"Well, then, here's something to tide you over," and Mr. Landrose handed
her some money he had brought forth from his pocket. "I don't mind
helping you, remember, but I do dislike giving anything to Tim. This
isn't the first time you have turned to me for aid. Why doesn't your
husband go to the ones who rail so much against the Church and
religion?"

"Ugh! they wouldn't give us a cent. An' they talk awful ag'inst people
who do help. I've told Tim so time an' time ag'in, though it makes no
difference. But God bless ye, sir. Ye've allus been good to us, an' I
shan't fergit it, if Tim does."

When Mrs. Bendle had gone, the parson walked to the stable in a most
thoughtful mood. His responsibilities were daily increasing, and he felt
quite unequal to the burden. He longed to get away, anywhere, that he
might rest. But there was no chance for that now. And, besides, there
was the Bishop's letter waiting to be answered.




CHAPTER X

BY THE WAYSIDE


It was evening when Mr. Landrose returned from Mapledale. When a short
distance from the rectory he stopped to water Pedro at an overflowing
barrel at the side of the road. It was a beautiful spot, with a rich
background of young cedars and firs. Luxuriant ferns grew in abundance,
owing to the moisture of the soil.

As the horse was about to lower his head to the water, he started
suddenly back in afright.

"Come, come, Pedro! What's wrong?"

At once a young man, who had been reclining among the ferns, rose to his
feet and stepped forward.

"Excuse me, sir," he apologized. "I am the cause of the trouble, so it
seems."

"Oh, it's you, Mr. Norton," and the clergyman held out his hand.
"Resting, eh?"

"Yes, and studying the Imperial Kingdom at the same time. Look at that,"
and he waved his right hand off toward the placid river and smiling
meadows. "Where can you find anything finer!"

"It is beautiful," the parson agreed, as his eyes viewed the magnificent
scene. "But it is not the real Imperial Kingdom. It is the world, earth
earthy, so to speak. There is another, young man, which surpasses that."

"So you said in your sermon a few Sundays ago."

"Ah, you heard my sermon about the Church?"

"I did, and I wish that I could agree with you in all you said."

"Why, why, did I not state the exact truth?"

John Norton hesitated a little before replying. He was a manly young
fellow and did not wish to say anything to displease the clergyman for
whom he had considerable respect. His tall straight figure was drawn to
its full height as he stood by the carriage. His hatless head was
crowned with a wealth of dark tousled hair, and his clothes and rough
boots showed signs of much wear. His steady gray eyes contained a
serious expression as he thought over the parson's words.

"I did not intend any offense, Mr. Landrose. We only see things from a
different point of view, that is all."

"But there can be only one point of view, young man, when it comes to
the question of the Church as the Kingdom of God."

"You may be right, sir, and I shall not dispute what you say. But don't
you think that you limit the Kingdom of God too much?"

"Limit it, man! Why, who can place any limit to the Church! Did not
Christ Himself say that it was to extend throughout the world?"

"Quite true. But isn't that a part of His Kingdom?" and he motioned
toward the river and fields. "Didn't Christ live much in the open? And
how He loved the birds and flowers."

"Ah, but they are material things; not spiritual."

"The Church, then, considers spiritual things only?"

"Certainly. She is the body of Christ in a spiritual sense."

"Do you look upon human beings in the same way, sir? Are they spiritual
or material?"

"Both. They have material bodies, but living souls in which dwells the
spirit of God."

"But does not the Bible say that 'the temple of God is holy,' and by
'the temple' is meant the body?"

"True, true. The body is a sacred thing, of course, but only in relation
to what it contains."

"And may not that be the same of the world of nature around us? In the
trees and flowers can we not see the handiwork of the Master, His love,
beauty, and strength? It is a wonder to me that you do not sometimes
mention such things in your sermons. I am sure that your people would be
greatly inspired by an occasional reference to the marvellous works of
the Creator."

"I have never done so, Mr. Norton, and do not consider it advisable to
begin now. There is too much of the flowery and sentimental preached
to-day. What people need is solid food."

"But do you give them that, sir?"

The clergyman started slightly at these words, for he had asked himself
the same question that very morning.

"W-why, don't you think I do?"

"I should say not, judging by the sermons I have heard you deliver. You
dwelt mostly upon the history of the Church, its doctrine, authority,
and obedience. Do you think such subjects are inspiring?"

"But the people must be taught. They must know the reason for the faith
that is in them."

"I am aware of that, sir. But they need something more. When I am hungry
and go to the table, suppose I am forced to listen to a long address
about the history of food, its value, and what the ancient Fathers said
about it? Would that satisfy me? No. It is food I need more than a
lecture about food."

"Is that what I have been doing. Mr. Norton?"

The expression of concern that appeared in the clergyman's eyes was
pathetic. Norton was strangely affected by the earnestness and
child-like simplicity of this old man.

"Is there not something wrong, Mr. Landrose?" he asked in reply. "I
notice how few people attend church. If they obtained what they desire,
would they not come?"

"Ah, but do they desire instruction?"

"Perhaps not. But suppose they desire food, and do not get it?"

"What kind do you suggest, young man?"

"Spiritual food. They need the True Bread to strengthen them in the
battle of life. Some, no doubt, do not care for such things. But there
are many who do, and I am one of them. I have my trials and temptations,
and seek God's House for help. Do you really know the needs of your
people, Mr. Landrose? I have a number of men working for me, and
sometimes I overhear what they say, and judge accordingly. I hope you
will pardon me for speaking so plainly. But I am much interested in the
deep serious things of life, and I am glad of this opportunity of
talking with you."

"And so am I, Mr. Norton. Your words are stimulating. You have given me
much to think about. I confess that I do not know my people as I should.
I administer to the best of my ability, but I find it difficult to get
close to them in friendly and intimate conversation."

"Perhaps they are not as much interested as you are in deep theological
matters. Their minds are so filled with their daily affairs that they
can think of little else. Now, what do you talk about, sir, when you
visit a house?"

"Why, that which concerns us all, of course. I try to impress upon the
members of the family the great truths of the Church, and catechise the
children. I would not be true to my sacred calling if I neglected any
opportunity that offered."

"I thought so. And all the time the people were dreading your visit, and
longing for you to go."

"You astonish me, Mr. Norton."

"No doubt I do. But it is the truth, so far as I can learn. Suppose you
leave the Church and religious matters alone the next time you make a
visit. Find out about the cares of the family, enter into their
interests, and discuss farm work. I feel sure that you will get to their
hearts in that manner better than in any other way."

"Do you speak from experience, Mr. Norton? You are a young man yet, and
how have you been able to understand things of which I am ignorant?"

"Because I have lived and worked with men. And there is something else
which might interest you. I was destined from my youth for the Ministry.
My parents desired it, and I entered college with that aim in view. But
the sudden death of my father made it imperative that I should take his
place. He had several large contracts on hand, and it was my duty to see
that they were carried out. I, accordingly, left college three years ago
with my course unfinished."

"But you will go back, will you not?" the clergyman eagerly asked, more
interested now than ever in the young man. "You will not throw aside the
work you began for mere worldly gain?"

John Norton smiled as he gazed thoughtfully out over the fields upon
which the shades of evening were deepening.

"I am afraid that I cannot go back," he quietly replied. "There are
circumstances which compel me to carry on my father's business."

"Is it money, Mr. Norton? Think of the rich young ruler and his great
refusal. Remember the Master's words, 'What is a man profited if he gain
the whole world and lose his own soul'."

"But I have not gained the whole world, Mr. Landrose, and I do not see
why I should lose my soul. I firmly believe that in some ways a man can
do more good outside the Ministry than in it."

"You do! Why?"

"Because he has more freedom. He can work among men as one of them, but
just as soon as he becomes a clergyman a gulf is fixed. He belongs to a
class apart from men in general, and they either avoid him or are uneasy
and restrained in his presence. They do not show their real selves in
his company, but act parts which are not natural. Oh, I know from
experience."

"But Christ lived among men, and drew them to him," the parson defended.

"I know He did. But He was one of them, a carpenter by trade. And
besides, there was no ecclesiastical system in His Kingdom such as we
have to-day. And Christ understood men, their many sorrows and
temptations. He drew all to Him by love and sympathy. And it is Christ,
with all that He can give, what men need to-day. They may not say so in
words, but there is a longing, a hunger in their hearts which He alone
can satisfy."

"But people do not seem to act as if they desire spiritual food, Mr.
Norton."

"You think so? But if you study men as I have you might think
differently. They are restless, dissatisfied. I see it on every hand.
Notice the expression in the eyes of most people, and what do you find
there? A mute, pathetic appeal for something they cannot find. Watch a
crowd on our city streets, see them moving restlessly to and fro,
seeking for something they cannot find. It is the soul urging them on,
driving them here and there. They work, but under compulsion. They play,
but there is something lacking in their pleasure. The truth is, that not
until they find Christ will they find rest and satisfaction for their
souls' needs. It is only waste effort to talk to such people about the
Church, its history and doctrine. It is something else they want, and
until that great want is supplied, little can be accomplished."

"How do you understand all this?" Mr. Landrose asked in surprise.

"Because I know my own needs, sir. During the last few years I have
experienced what I have tried to describe. I was restless, seeking for
something I could not find. When I began to study for the Ministry I
thought I should find what I needed. At college the studies did not
satisfy me. Church history, patristics, and the various books on
theology, while filling my mind with a certain amount of information,
did not give me what I desired. A dull despair settled upon me, and at
one time I felt that religion was all a hollow sham, pretending to give
what it could not really supply. To tell you the truth, faith had almost
left me until--"

"Until what?" the clergyman asked, leaning forward, his eyes fixed
intently upon the young man's earnest face.

"Until I happened to hear some burning words uttered by a
street-preacher. I was about to pass by in disgust, but stopped to
listen out of amused curiosity. To my surprise I became strangely moved.
The man had something I did not have. I cannot remember now what he
said. But it was his manner, the intense earnestness of his voice, and
the wonderful glow in his eyes which affected me so strongly. As I left
the place I knew that I had found something which I had been seeking.
But, there, I must not weary you any more."

"And you have cast aside the Church, I suppose?" the parson queried, and
there was a note of sadness in his voice.

"Indeed I have not, sir. The Church is all right, but in my humble
opinion she is being wrongly interpreted. Too much emphasis has been
placed upon outward things, and not enough upon the great truths she
contains. Forms and ceremonies, history, and such things, are helpful.
But to consider them as all-important is a serious mistake. I like to
have all things done decently and in order, but too often the spirit is
sacrificed to the letter. I believe that the Church is the greatest
organization in the world to do the Master's work. But it must have the
life-giving spirit burning freely within."

"I am glad to know that you have not cast off the Church," and Mr.
Landrose breathed a sigh of relief. "Have you found it difficult to
reconcile the letter and the spirit?"

"Not at all. My vision has become much enlarged, and I am learning
something new and wonderful every day. Only this evening while resting
here and meditating upon the Imperial Kingdom I have received new light
and strength. All is beauty, and yet all is law and order. Say, Mr.
Landrose, I wish you would spend an afternoon with me in the woods. You
have not had a holiday for years, so I understand."

"Only when I go to the Synod. But I cannot call that a holiday, as it
always wearies me."

"Well, come with me to-morrow, and I feel sure you will not regret it.
And besides, there are many things I wish to talk about. It has been a
long time since I have had such an interesting conversation as this."

The clergyman hesitated about acceding to this unusual request. And
while he was thinking it over, a motor truck drove up and stopped
nearby.

"This is the truck I have been waiting for," Norton explained. "But you
will go with me, will you not, sir? Go for my sake, at least."

"Very well, I suppose I must," was the somewhat reluctant reply. "I
think I can spare the time."

"Thank you so much, sir. I shall come for you, and we shall have the
time of our lives together. Good-bye, and forgive me for keeping you
here so long."




CHAPTER XI

A DAY'S OUTING


Mr. Landrose drove home in a most thoughtful mood. His conversation with
John Norton had been quite disturbing, and yet interesting. He liked the
young man for his straightforward talk, and he had to acknowledge that
there was considerable truth in what he said. He felt that it was so
with himself, anyway, and it saddened him to recall that during the
whole of his ministry he had laid such stress upon externals.

After he had stabled and fed Pedro he went into his study. Rachel was
nowhere to be seen, and he wondered if she had returned from the city.
Seating himself at his desk, he began to work upon his sermon. He was
tired after his drive that day, but Sunday was drawing near, so he could
not afford to rest. And, besides, he would be off upon that tramp with
Norton the next day.

With his sermon before him and pen in hand he found it very difficult to
write. Formerly it had been no trouble to set down on paper the weekly
message he had to give his people. He had always been so sure of what he
should say and what they needed that he had never hesitated. Now,
however, it was different. His views were undergoing a radical change
and he was seeing things in a new light. But he could not relinquish the
old without a struggle. What he had taught for forty years was not
easily laid aside. With an effort he aroused himself and tried to write
as in the past. But all in vain. While the pen was forming the
customary words and sentences, his heart was pleading for something
else. "Tell your people about the Master," it urged. "Speak to them of
His love, purity and truth. Present to them a winning picture of the Man
who came to save from sin, and to lead them to higher things. Show them
that religion is not in mere observance of certain rules, but it is life
and is as vital to the soul as air, food, and water to the body. Teach
them that worship should not be considered as a mere duty, but as an act
of love. Instil in them a desire for communion with the Master, and then
prayer and worship will become a joy."

"God help me!" he groaned, laying aside his pen, and bowing his head
upon his hands. "How can I do all this when I have it not in myself? How
can I give them what they need when I do not possess it? Oh, for a
vision such as that young man Norton had?"

He was aroused by the arrival of Rachel and Doris. The latter came at
once into the study to see him. She had no idea that she was disturbing
him in his mental struggle. Had Rachel, or anyone else, in fact, done so
he would have resented the intrusion. But he was pleased to see the
girl, for her presence brushed away the clouds that had settled so
heavily upon him. She was very animated, and as she stood before him he
thought that he had never beheld such a beautiful type of radiant
womanhood.

"Oh, Mr. Landrose, we have had such a wonderful afternoon!" she
exclaimed. "Rachel is a dear, and helped me so much with my shopping.
She has such nice ideas."

"I am glad you enjoyed yourself," the clergyman replied. "But you must
be tired after all your excitement. Won't you sit down and rest awhile?"

"Oh, no, thank you. Rachel is preparing tea, and I want to help her. She
was so worried about you. But we missed the early train, so that is why
we are late. You must be nearly starved. I know I am."

"I had my tea out in the country, so I am not hungry. But may I come and
sit at the table while you eat?"

"Oh, that will be splendid! I shall go at once and tell Rachel."

With a light buoyant step she left him, and soon he heard her cheery
voice talking with Rachel in the dining-room. What a change her presence
made in that quiet house. She was the sunshine flooding the rooms with a
bright gladness. And yet she was wofully ignorant in religious matters,
so Martha had told him. And he had intended to teach her. But could he
do so? What could he add to what she already possessed? He might teach
her Church history, and Church doctrine, but would not that be giving of
his poverty? Would such things enrich her young life? Once, such a doubt
would have seemed to him like the rankest heresy. But now he saw
otherwise, and realised that she could teach him better than he could
teach her.

He sat in his accustomed place at the head of the table, but ate little.
He was content to watch Doris, and listen as she told about her
experiences that afternoon. It really had been a wonderful adventure to
her, as it had been the first time she had ever been allowed to do her
own shopping.

"I hope you will like my new dresses," she said. "You must see them when
they come."

"I am a very poor judge of such things," Mr. Landrose smilingly replied.

"But you like for women to wear nice clothes, do you not?"

"I have never thought much about it. But as I am your guardian, I want
you to be well-dressed, that is, neatly and decently. However, I shall
wait and see how you look in your new finery before I give my judgment."

The next day John Norton came for the clergyman. He had a man with him
to take the car home.

"I am sorry I am somewhat late," he apologized. "But I could not get
away any sooner."

In another minute they were speeding on their way out into the country.
Mr. Landrose enjoyed the drive in the big high-powered car and compared
it with his slow-moving horse.

"This is very pleasant, Mr. Norton," he remarked as they were moving
over a fine level piece of road. "It is quite a luxury after my old
waggon."

"You need a car, sir. It would be a great help in your work."

"I suppose I do, though I fear I could not learn to drive one. It is
difficult for me to accustom myself to new things. That is one of the
penalties of old age."

"Why, it would make you young again, Mr. Landrose. I wish--"

Before he could finish the sentence the car stopped at a place where a
winter road led off into the woods.

"We shall get out here," John explained. "I think you will enjoy the
walk along the woodland way."

"It does look pleasant," the parson replied as he alighted from the car
and entered the cool retreat. "It is nice to get away from the highway
with its dust and heat."

"Nature is always soothing to the nerves," Norton remarked as he walked
along by the clergyman's side. "See how the trees bend as if to protect
us from all prying eyes. I often come this way and find it good for
quiet meditation."

"I have never been here before, Mr. Norton."

"And you have lived here for forty years, and passed this way every
week!"

"Yes, and more often than that at times."

"There are other such roads which lead to wild meadows, brooks, and
lakes. I have been over quite a number already, and always find
something new and inspiring. It is better than any tonic, and it keeps a
man young."

"You said the same thing about driving a car, Mr. Norton. You were about
to express a wish when we stopped at this road."

"Oh, I was going to say how I wish that you could enter into the spirit
of driving a car. I am always thrilled when at the wheel by the thought
of the great power that is under my control, and obedient to my will. At
a touch all the force in the engine is aroused to mighty action. Then at
another touch that force is stayed and the car becomes as gentle as a
child. It is really a God-like thing, for only God in man could dare
conceive and fashion like to God."

"You have a keen perception, I see," the clergyman remarked. "It is a
valuable faculty."

"But all have it, sir, if they will only make use of it. If we see
merely with the outward eyes how much better are we than the animals
around us? But to have the inward vision, ah, that is what makes life
valuable and worth while. I like to develop the ideas which come to me.
For instance, I spoke about the power and gentleness of a motor engine.
But do we not see the same around us? Behold the greatness of the
Almighty, His power shown in all the tremendous forces of Nature, and
His gentleness in fashioning the tender leaf or the delicate flower. And
I like to believe that in the heart of each one of us there is a
God-like power if we will only make use of it--a power to give us
strength, and yet as gentle as the falling of a beam of light upon the
eye of a little child. We are but instruments to be touched by the
Master like that engine, for example. Did not St. Paul say, 'I can do
all things through Christ who strengthenth me?' And it is true."

Norton seemed to be talking to himself as he moved forward. In fact, he
had almost forgotten his companion, who was struggling to keep up with
him. Presently he realised his speed, and a smile illumined his face as
he looked around at the panting clergyman.

"Excuse me, sir. I became lost in meditation and was walking too fast.
But here we are at this beautiful little lake. Did you ever see anything
more entrancing than that?"

They stood for a few minutes looking across the water lying like a
burnished mirror amidst its setting of dark green trees which lined the
banks and were reflected in the clear depths beneath.

"That is worth coming to see, is it not?" Norton questioned as he lifted
his hat. "I always uncover my head in the presence of such peace and
beauty."

"And well you may, young man. And I shall follow your example. Suppose
we rest here a while, for I am quite tired."

Beneath the shade of a large spruce tree they sat down and watched the
water before them. Both were silent, wrapped in thought. To Mr. Landrose
it was a novel experience to be away in the woods, free from all
parochial cares, and he enjoyed it. He knew now that he had missed much
during his life by not living more in God's great open spaces, holding
communion with the beautiful and helpful things of Nature.

For some time they remained in this quiet spot ere continuing their
journey. But all along the way they found much of interest, sometimes a
fern or flower, and again a brook bubbling down through its canopy of
leafy boughs. Time sped by unheeded. They were like children who had
wandered away into fairyland, rejoicing in their wonderful discoveries.

"This has been a great afternoon to me," Mr. Landrose declared as he at
length paused on the top of a wooded hill and looked down upon a valley
below. "I am sorry it is drawing to a close. Perhaps we had better go
back."

"Not yet, sir. The Quarries are quite near, and you must have supper
there with me. I know you will like to meet the men. I shall drive you
home this evening in my car."

"But I am not properly dressed," Mr. Landrose protested. "Why, look at
my hands. See how dirty they are. And so are my clothes and boots. It
would never do for me to go this way."

The young man laughed at his companion's worry.

"Oh, you're all right, sir. You will not find the men critical about
your appearance. I believe that they will be pleased to see you just as
you are, that is, like themselves."

It did not take them long to reach the Quarries, where they found the
men at supper in the big mess-house. They took their places among them,
and it was a novel experience to the clergyman. He watched the men
curiously as if they were beings from another world. Their rough manners
did not appeal to him. But they were orderly, and after the meal was
over, they went outside for their after-supper smoke.

"Say, Mr. Landrose," Norton suggested, "this is the first time a
clergyman ever came here to my knowledge. Suppose you have a short
service. I know the men would enjoy it, for they are a fine lot of
fellows."

"A service here, and now!" the parson gasped. "Why, I am not prepared. I
have no Prayer Book."

"I have one which you could use."

"But I have no sermon or robes, and I could not think of conducting a
service without them. It would be most undignified to do."

"Very well, sir. It was merely a suggestion. It seems too good an
opportunity to miss."

"You will have to excuse me now, Mr. Norton. But I will come again
prepared and conduct a service in a proper manner. How will that do?"

"Very well, sir, do as you think best. If you are ready now I shall take
you home. You must be tired after your long tramp."




CHAPTER XII

THE PARSON'S DELEMMA


The next day, being Saturday, Mr. Landrose spent part of the day at his
sermon. But as he wrote, an uneasy feeling possessed him. He thought of
the men at the Quarries, and his refusal to hold a service for them. Had
he been right? Should he not have had a few prayers and given them a
short address? But he had never done such a thing without his robes of
office and a written sermon. He had always disapproved of carelessness
in praying and preaching, considering set forms and written sermons as
alone proper. There were too many men going about leading people astray
by sensational methods, so he believed, and he had ever endeavored to
warn his people against such interlopers, as he termed them. But now he
was not altogether sure that he was right. He knew that all things
should be done decently and in order, but might there not be exceptions,
such as at the Quarries, for instance? Had he really become so enslaved
to an ironbound system that he could not escape? He sighed as he mused
upon all this, and once more centred his attention upon his sermon.

But all day Sunday his mind would return to those men at the Quarries.
His conscience gave him no rest. On Monday, about noon, he was more
disturbed than ever. He had just returned from the post office, when
John Norton arrived at the rectory, who informed him that a man had
been killed at the Quarries that morning.

"It was a premature blast," he explained, "and Tom Hidson was caught,
while several others narrowly escaped."

"My! my!" the parson exclaimed. "This is very unfortunate."

"Indeed it is, sir, and the first serious accident we had had for some
time. There was carelessness somewhere, and there must be a thorough
investigation. An inquest will be held to-night, and the funeral will be
to-morrow at St. Alban's Church, if you have no objection. Hidson was
one of your flock, was he not?"

"He was, and a very decent man, but somewhat careless about attending
church."

"He was one of my best workmen, and he never gave me any trouble. I feel
sorry for his family."

"I shall have to give a sermon, I suppose, Mr. Norton. It is the custom
in country parishes, although I consider it quite unnecessary. It is not
done, as a rule, in cities. A funeral is considered an event of
outstanding importance here. And, by the way, we shall need someone to
play, as our organist, Miss Needbury, is away from home at present."

"I think that I can get someone to take her place, Mr. Landrose, so you
can leave that to me. But I must get on my way now, as I have much to do
to-day. The funeral will be at three o'clock to-morrow afternoon, if
that will suit you. I shall come for you in my car. So you will have an
opportunity of speaking to my men, after all, and sooner than you
expected."

A troubled expression came into the clergyman's eyes as he glanced up
into the young man's face.

"I shall never forgive myself for missing that chance last Friday," he
solemnly declared. "Perhaps a few prayers and some words might have done
much good for poor Hidson. And now it is too late. But, there, I must
not detain you any longer."

Mr. Landrose shut himself up in his study, and after he had chosen a
suitable text he began to write out his sermon. He knew that there would
be many people at the funeral, and he wished to make most of the
opportunity that would be thus afforded to speak strong words of warning
about the shortness and uncertainty of life. He knew that all would be
deeply affected by the accident and would listen to advice on such an
occasion better than at any other time. Men would be there, too, who
very seldom attended church, so it would be a good chance to speak to
them. He put special care upon his sermon, and the next morning he read
it over most critically, revising and polishing up the rough uneven
places.

"I like this sermon," he told himself, as he at last laid the manuscript
upon the desk and leaned back in his chair. "I do hope and pray that it
will have the desired effect. I am somewhat doubtful, though, about the
sentiment, and I trust it does not savor too much of the popular
religious cant of modern times. I suppose people like it, though they
should not always get what they like, but what they need."

When John Norton arrived at the rectory that afternoon he had Doris with
him in his car. The clergyman was surprised as he was not aware that
they knew each other.

"I have an organist, you see," Norton remarked.

"I didn't know that you are a musician," he said to Doris, as he stepped
into the car.

"John says I am," was the smiling reply, "so he has dragged me off
to-day. I never played at a funeral and I am certain that I shall be
very nervous."

"Oh, you'll make out all right," Norton assured, as he speeded up the
car. "I have heard you play and am not one bit worried as to how you
will make out."

"But that was on the piano, John. I am not accustomed to an organ. It's
not a pipe-organ, I hope, Mr. Landrose."

"Dear me, no. It is merely a small harmonium. We have no pipe-organs
here."

Doris was with John in the front seat, so the clergyman was alone
behind. He leaned comfortably back and watched the two in front of him.
They seemed to be on excellent terms, and called each other by their
Christian names. They must have been acquainted for some time, he
thought. It was strange that neither had mentioned the fact to him.

Thus Mr. Landrose mused as the car sped on its way. When they reached
the church they found many people gathered about the door waiting for
the service to begin. The funeral procession was just arriving, so the
clergyman hurried into the vestry to robe. This did not take him long,
and when he was through he put his hand into his grip for his sermon. To
his surprise and consternation it was not there. He had left it on his
study desk! What was he to do? Never before had he made such a blunder.
How stupid he had been to forget it, and on such an important occasion
as this. For a minute he was stricken with a nameless fear. He felt
helpless. But there was no time to go back for the sermon, and without
it the funeral service would be a dismal failure, according to the idea
which prevailed in the parish. Not to have a sermon would be considered
a slight by the relatives of the dead man. All the apologies and
explanations he might make would be of no avail. The family would look
upon it as a disgrace, and the news would spread far and wide.

And as he stood waiting, wondering what he should do, Norton came into
the vestry to inform him that the people were waiting for him to begin
the service. With trembling hands he seized his Prayer Book and walked
to the church door. Then up the aisle he slowly moved, reading the
opening sentences of the Burial Service. But he hardly knew what he was
saying, for his mind was greatly perturbed. Doris was at the organ, and
while the first hymn was being sung, he racked his brain for some
solution of his difficulty. But none came, and he went through the
Service and read the Lesson like a man in a dream. Never in the many
years of his ministry had he ever undergone such agony of soul at any
service. The church was filled to the door, and many were standing. The
day was moderately warm, but to the unhappy man that crowded building
seemed oppressively hot. The perspiration stood out in beads upon his
forehead, and as he gave out the second hymn a feeling of faintness came
upon him. With a great effort he aroused himself and glanced down at the
open door. How he longed to be out in the fresh air under the shade of
the friendly trees, away from that place of torture.

And as he looked he noted the earnest expression upon the faces of the
men and women before him. They were all hard-working people, grinding
out their daily tasks, some on the farms and others in the Quarries.
They were now deeply affected by the hymn, and the eyes of some were
misty with tears. A feeling of deep compassion for these people came
into his heart. He was their leader, the one appointed to minister to
them in spiritual things. And what had he to give them? Nothing now
because he had left his carefully-prepared written sermon at home. A
sense of shame and humiliation swept upon him at the thought. Here was
an opportunity to speak words of comfort and warning, and he was not
equal to the occasion. Suddenly a voice seemed to whisper to him,
"Speak, and it shall be given unto you what to say."

The last verse of the hymn was now being sung, and he had to do
something. From force of habit he moved toward the pulpit, climbed the
few steps, and stood before the people. The singing ceased and the organ
died softly down to the closing notes. After Mr. Landrose had uttered
the brief words of the Invocation, the congregation settled down into
their seats with their faces turned expectantly up to the white-haired
man in the pulpit. Quietly the clergyman announced his text: "Be ye also
ready." He paused and looked around the church. An intense silence
ensued, for all were surprised at the expression upon his face. Instead
of fumbling with a sermon, and keeping his eyes fixed upon the written
words, he was looking at the people before him. This was so unusual
that those who had listened to him for years stared in amazement. But
when he began to speak, at first in a somewhat faltering manner, they
were thrilled by the words which fell from his lips. Eagerly they leaned
forward, held spell-bound not only by what he said but by the remarkable
glow in his eyes and the earnestness upon his face. He truly seemed
inspired that afternoon, and the impression that he made upon his
hearers was profound. There was nothing of a sensational nature about
what he said, but every word he uttered was vital and laden with a deep
spiritual meaning.

The sermon was not long, and as he drew near the close, he hesitated and
then paused for a few seconds.

"Brethren," he continued, "I am an old man now and cannot expect to have
many more years to speak to you. Now is the time for us to get ready,
for the Great Call may come sooner than we believe. And the getting
ready should be a true growth and a matter of joy. We all know how the
preparing for a journey to some distant place occupies our hearts and
minds for days, and sometimes for months. And there is joy in the
preparation. How foolish it would be for anyone to start upon a journey
without due preparation. And yet many never think of getting ready for
the future, but live carelessly from day to day as if this life were to
be always their home. Therefore, 'Be ye ready, for we know not the day
nor the hour when the Son of man may come'."

Slowly the clergyman left the pulpit, went back to the reading desk and
gave out the closing hymn. While preaching, a strange power and
exhilaration had possessed him such as he had never experienced before.
But now there came a reaction, and he felt very weak and wretched. From
the heights of glory he had suddenly descended to the valley of
humiliation. He had departed from the custom of a life-time, and had
spoken without a written sermon before him. And words had come easily,
without any apparent effort on his part. Perhaps it was the work of the
evil one, seeking his downfall. He tried to recall what he had said, but
everything seemed like a mere jumble to him now. This worried him, and
caused him considerable embarrassment as he walked down the aisle at the
close of the singing. Had he made a fool of himself? he wondered. Was
that the reason why the people watched him so intently while he was
preaching? Were they so surprised at what he said that they could only
stare at him in amasement? But after the service at the grave, his mind
was somewhat relieved when several men and women came and thanked him
for his sermon. One woman, especially, told how much help she had
received. People had never done that before, so far as he could
remember. Perhaps there was something of value in what he had said,
after all.

"That was a fine sermon you gave us to-day," John Norton remarked as
they drove away from the church.

"I am glad you liked it," the parson replied.

"I enjoyed it very much," Doris declared. "It was wonderful. Why don't
you preach like that all the time?"

"W--why, I never did such a thing before, and I am really ashamed of
myself. I am afraid I made many sad blunders. But I wish to congratulate
you upon your playing. It was excellent."

"It certainly was," John agreed. "With exceptionally good music and
sermon the funeral went off well. That was what old Mrs. Spicer told me,
and she is an authority, if anyone is."

"Yes, poor Mrs. Spicer attends every funeral, and so does her husband.
It's about the only time he ever goes to church, and he boasts that he
hasn't missed a funeral in the parish for fifty years."

This amused the young couple and they laughed heartily. The parson
noticed how happy they were together, and as he crouched back wearily in
his seat, he became much interested in watching them talking to each
other.

"How good it is to be young and full of abounding health," he mused.

His mind went back to other days when he and Martha were young with the
future all before them. But how little did they know what the years held
in store for them both. And now her grand-daughter was sitting before
him, while he himself was an old man, worn out and lonely.

He was aroused at last from his reverie by the stopping of the car at
the rectory door. He thanked them both for their great assistance, and
then stood and watched them as they drove away.

"They are a fine couple," he murmured, "and so happy. It is the old old
story, I see. God grant, it may turn out more happily than----"

He did not finish the sentence, but his eyes were misty as he turned and
entered the house.




CHAPTER XIII

COMPANY FOR TEA


Breakfast was over at the Rectory and Parson Dan was seated at his desk,
writing. It was a beautiful morning with scarcely a breath of wind
stirring the air. Through the open window on his left came the incessant
buzz of bees wallowing among the grape vines over the porch, and the
twitter of birds in the branches of the maples and elms. The delicate
harmonizing perfume from dew-washed fields and smiling gardens drifted
softly into the room. Nature was employing her most alluring charms to
stir the soul of the silent man and draw him forth from his quiet
retreat.

But such enticements had no effect upon Parson Dan. He was not at all
devoid of the sense of beauty, but through long years of training he had
steeled himself to resist all influences of the world when they
interfered with his Church duties. And his duty now was the making out
of his report to be presented the coming week at the meeting of the
Synod. In it he summed up the work in his parish for the past year, the
money that had been raised, the number of families under his care, the
visits he had made, the services he had held, and the activities of the
various societies. For many years he had performed this task, using
almost the identical phrases, and making his report always the same
length. It was a dry matter-of-fact record, unillumined by any touch of
imagination or the rosy touch of sentiment.

When this had been completed to his satisfaction, he carefully folded
the paper, wrote the name of the parish across the top, and laid it upon
the desk. He then turned his attention to his sermon lying unfinished
before him. It was for next Sunday, and the subject was "Church
Authority." He had it partly completed, and in it he had set forth some
of the arguments he had used in many former addresses. He was preparing
this now as a matter of duty, with none of his old-time spirit and
enthusiasm. He had written about half the sermon the middle of the
preceding week, and before the funeral. Carefully now he read over what
he had written, and as he did so, a repellant spirit swept upon him, for
into his mind came the funeral sermon he had delivered the day before.
He thought of the eager upturned faces of the men and women in the
little church as he talked to them so earnestly about the eternal things
of life, and pointed them to Him who is their only refuge and hope of
salvation. What connection had the cold facts of history and doctrine
such as he had been teaching in the past with the needs of human souls
and the spiritual life of the Great Master? He shuffled uneasily in his
chair. Was it the voice of the evil one, to be resisted at all cost?
Were all his long years of teaching of no avail? Had he been in the
wrong? Surely not. He would repel the temptation and continue his
sermon. He must not give way to such a sentimental mood.

Turning again to his manuscript, he tried to write. But words would not
come, so he was at length forced to lay down his pen in despair. It was
no use; he lacked the fervor that had animated his soul in the past. He
leaned back in his chair and tried to reason out the strange mood that
had come upon him.

He was suddenly aroused by a ripple of joyous laughter from out of
doors. Startled, he turned and glanced through the window on his left.
And what he saw there held him spell-bound. It was Doris Randall
standing by the bird-cage which Rachel had hung outside the dining-room
window. The forefinger of her left hand was thrust through the bars,
thus disturbing the canary within. Her face was aglow with animation as
she talked and chirped to the little feathered creature. Parson Dan was
certain that he had never beheld such a scene of loveliness, and his
heart thrilled with pleasure. He noted the charm of her face and form,
the rich tinge of health in her cheeks, and the wealth of her dark-brown
hair, becomingly trimmed, leaving her full-rounded neck exposed above
the white collar of her neat, cream-colored dress. The unconscious and
unstudied simplicity of her attitude appealed strongly to the silent
watcher. She made him long to be young again, and brought back memories
of far-off days. And he was the guardian of this radiant being! To him
she had been committed for instruction and guidance along the paths of
rectitude. He had planned to fulfil his promise, and had only been
awaiting a favorable opportunity to begin his teaching in the history
and the doctrine of the Church. But now his resolution suddenly
weakened. In fact, a spirit of rebellion welled up in his heart at the
idea. Why should he try to force such a joyous nature to conform to his
dry-as-dust doctrines? It seemed more proper that she should teach him,
and breathe into his soul something of her own healthful and life-giving
spirit. The next minute, however, he crushed back this thought and rose
abruptly from his chair. It was the voice of the evil one again tempting
and luring him from his path of duty. He would atone for his weakness by
going to the girl and endeavoring to lead her thoughts away from the
attractions of the world to higher and nobler things.

Crossing the room, he stood looking up thoughtfully at the volumes
arranged so neatly upon their various shelves. Presently he brought down
a little book and looked at the title. Ah, it was just the thing, "Plain
Instructions on the Church," with a sub-title, "A Manual of Doctrine for
Young People." He would give her that to read. It would be a start in
the right direction, at any rate.

With the book in his hand, he went to the front door and stepped
outside. But Doris was not there. She was with Rachel who was peeling
potatoes under the shade of a big apple tree a short distance from the
kitchen door. Parson Dan gave a sigh, more of relief than of regret, as
he returned to his study and replaced the book upon the shelf. He then
put on his hat, picked up his cane and left the house. He would go to
the post-office for his mail. With such an excuse he tried to soothe his
conscience. But he felt uncomfortable. The tempter had come to him that
morning, and he had yielded. He was a coward, and as a priest of the
Church he had shirked his duty. But never again would he be so weak, he
decided, as he strode rapidly forward.

The next day Doris made an afternoon visit to the rectory. She played
for a while with the canary, and then chatted with Rachel of whom she
was becoming very fond. Parson Dan had been called to visit a sick
parishioner, a duty he never neglected. He was caught in a thunder storm
on his way home, and when he entered the house he found Doris in the
dining-room arranging some flowers in a vase upon the table. She looked
up from her task, and a smile overspread her face when she saw the
clergyman.

"You are to have company for tea, sir," she announced. "I am to be your
guest, and you may thank the storm for that."

The parson smiled, although he was somewhat taken aback by such words.
It was not the way young girls behaved when he was young. Anyway, it was
good to see the girl standing by the table, and her presence added a
refreshing charm to the room.

"It will be a great pleasure, I assure you," he replied. "I shall be
ready for tea in a few minutes."

In less than half an hour both were seated at the table, the clergyman
in his customary place at the head, with Doris opposite where she
insisted upon sitting.

"I like this," she declared, after Grace had been said, and Rachel had
served them with fresh fried salmon and warmed-up potatoes. "It is much
nicer than at the hotel. They never say Grace there, and there is always
such a confusion and senseless chatter. It is so peaceful here."

"I am glad that you enjoy it, Doris. It is surprising, though, that you
can find any pleasure in the company of old people."

"You do not seem old to me, Mr. Landrose. You are always so bright and
pleasant. And as for Rachel, she is a darling, and talks so much about
her life, especially when she was a girl. It is wonderful how she keeps
so cheerful when she has had so much trouble."

"Yes, she is a faithful soul and has done her best to take the place of
my dear sister."

"Your sister! Did she live here?"

"This was my first and only parish, and my sister came with me. She died
ten years ago. She was a rare musician, and that is her piano in the
parlor. The young people often came here in the evenings for practice,
and what a pleasant time they always had. There is no music here now,
and the piano has been closed ever since she went away. She was a dear
good sister to me, and was such a wonderful assistance in my work. The
people loved her, for she was ever doing some deed of kindness."

The parson's eyes were misty and his voice low. As Doris noticed his
emotion, a strange sympathy for this lonely man came into her heart. He
seemed grayer and more wrinkled than ever as he sat there with his head
bent forward. He needed to be cheered up, and she wondered what she
could do.

"I understand now why you never married," she at length said. "You had
your sister with you, and she took the place of a wife."

"She did. But I often longed for a home with children of my own to be a
comfort to me in my old age."

"Let me be a grand-daughter to you, then, Mr. Landrose," Doris
impulsively suggested. "Since Granny left me I have no one to look
after, and I feel certain that I can be of some comfort to you."

The parson looked at the animated face before him, and his heart was
deeply touched. What would he not give to have such a girl as his
grand-daughter. And she might truly be that now but for what happened
years ago. But it could not be. It would only cause people to talk.

"I am afraid that is impossible, Doris. I could not very well announce
that you are my grand-daughter. I can easily imagine what people would
think and say."

"I do not care one bit what they say. It is none of their business."

"But they would make it their business, my dear. So while I am rector
here I must put no stumbling-block in the way of the Lord's work."

"You are my guardian, though, and if people want to talk, they can do so
about that. Isn't it strange that Granny should have chosen you, of all
men, to look after me. I had no idea why she was so anxious to come to
this little place. But she often talked about it and was so happy when
we at last arrived. And to think that she lived such a short time. I
knew she was not well, but I never for a moment imagined she was going
to die so soon."

"Did your grandmother ever speak about me?" the clergyman asked as
indifferently as possible.

"Oh, yes, she often told me that she knew you well, and that she went to
school with you. Perhaps that was the reason why she wished to come here
that she might see you again. Anyway, she took it for granted that you
would be my guardian."

Parson Dan made no reply. He folded up his napkin, and pushed his chair
back a little from the table. He was certain now that Doris had no
knowledge of her grandmother's early life so far as he was concerned. In
a way he was glad, and yet if she only knew he could talk to her
somewhat about what was so near to his heart. The past to him was as
fresh as ever. Time had made no difference in his love for Martha
Benson. He had always thought of her as she appeared that night they had
parted, not to meet again for many long years. But he had never lost
track of her from the time she was separated from her first husband. She
had become prominent in the world of Society, and he had followed her
doings in the newspapers and from the gossip which he occasionally
overheard. But she had turned to her first lover, and had placed her
only grandchild in his keeping. Of all the friends she had made in her
gay career there was none she could trust with the child's welfare as
the man she had so heartlessly cast aside years before. It was strange,
and as he mused upon it all he became oblivious to time and place.

He was aroused by the sound of music, and looking quickly around, he saw
Doris seated at the piano in the adjoining room. She was playing an old
familiar tune, in keeping with the thoughts that had been occupying his
mind. Slowly he rose from his chair, bent his head in a silent Grace,
and went into his study. Here he sat down by his desk, closed his eyes,
and gave himself up to the joy of the music. Piece after piece Doris
played, sometimes singing the words in her sweet soprano voice. After a
while he heard someone singing with her, a man's voice, strong and
vibrant, which he recognized as John Norton's.




CHAPTER XIV

REVISING VALUES


Next morning Parson Dan was early at work in his garden. This was a
great relief as it gave him an opportunity to consider several things
that were uppermost in his mind. Chief of these was the Bishop's letter.
It had not been answered, and he knew that he could not put it off any
longer. He would write that very day. But first of all he wished to be
sure of what he should say, so out among the rows of beets, carrots,
beans, and other vegetable friends, he could think more clearly than
anywhere else.

Since the funeral he had never been in any doubt as to the reply he
should make to the Bishop. He saw matters in a new light now, and he
still felt the exhilaration of that sermon in the little church. Honors
seemed very trifling compared with the strange thrill that possessed his
soul. No longer did he believe it to be the work of the evil one trying
to effect his ruin. He was surprised that his eyes had not been opened
before to the quickening power of the spiritual life.

Before noon he went for his mail, and on his way home he stopped at the
store to order some groceries needed at the rectory. Jerry Crumples, his
old friend, was seated at his desk behind the counter working at his
accounts. He was a patriarchal-looking man, with long beard, white hair,
and kind twinkling eyes. He looked up as the clergyman entered.

"Busy as usual, I see," Mr. Landrose accosted, as he stepped forward and
leaned against the counter for support.

"Oh, doing a little, parson. It's necessary to keep the rust from
forming, you know."

"Well, the rust will never settle where you are, Jerry. I wish I could
say the same of all in this parish."

"So do I, so do I," Jerry agreed, laying down his pen. This was a
favorite subject of his, and one in which he knew his visitor was also
interested. "If all the people would keep busy and pay their bills I
would not have to be working so hard all the time. You would be
astonished if I told you how many people owe me, and some will never pay
one cent."

"Can't you collect it?"

"Humph! How could I collect it, when there's nothing to collect? Some of
those accounts in that book have been running on for years. I suppose I
should revise my whole system as I do my price-lists at times. My wife
keeps at me to start in, but I haven't done so yet. When people get as
old as we are, parson, it's mighty hard to change our ways of working."

"Indeed it is, Jerry. But if it's for the best why shouldn't we do it?"

"That's just what my wife is always saying. But now look here, parson,
you've been working according to a certain system ever since you came to
this parish forty years ago. Could you change now, even though you
wanted to?"

There was no chance for further conversation, as Jerry's attention was
taken up with two customers who had entered. Mr. Landrose left the list
of groceries to be sent to the rectory, and walked slowly homeward. But
in his study after dinner he thought over what the storekeeper had said.
It was hard to revise the price-list of life and to make a decided
change. At one time, and only a short while before, he would have
considered it impossible. But now it was different. It was that very
thing he himself was trying to do.

He leaned back in his chair as this current of thought swept upon him.
He recalled St. Paul's words, "What things were gain to me I counted but
loss for Christ." Ah, that great and noble champion of the Faith knew
whereof he spoke. He, too, had been fast bound by the cords of formalism
and the mere letter of the Law. But the new life, the revivifying spirit
coming into his soul had rent them asunder, and St. Paul had come forth
to a new and glorious freedom. For him old things were done away, and
all things had become new. He thought, too, of the Apostles, St.
Matthew, the tax-gatherer, St. Peter, the man of impulse, changed so
wonderfully when Christ entered into their lives. They had revised the
value of the things of life. What once had meant so much to them seemed
of little importance when filled with the spirit of the Master. They
were born again into a new life of freedom, peace, and joy.

This was much in his mind that afternoon as he called upon several of
his parishioners. He preferred to walk, as the houses were quite near.
On his way he passed the school house just as the children were enjoying
recess. Some were running about, engaged in various games, while the
boys were wrestling and tumbling over one another in great delight. The
parson stopped to watch them for a few minutes, and spoke to several
who were seated in a grassy spot. As he continued on his way he
meditated upon what he had seen. How necessary it would be for those
children to revise their value of life in the future. What gave them
such keen enjoyment now would seem stale years hence. New and larger
interests would occupy their hearts and minds. St. Paul's words came to
his mind, "When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a
child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man I put away childish
things."

"How truly St. Paul understood life," he mused. "What an experience he
must have had."

Coming to a wooded portion of the road, he sat down under the spreading
shade of a large maple tree. With such thoughts in his mind he was not
anxious to reach the next house where he would have to listen to Mrs.
Betson's complaining chatter about the petty things which filled her
mind. This was far more congenial, and in such a restful spot, with the
birds twittering among the branches he could think to his heart's
content.

He meditated upon the Apostle's words. "The putting away of childish
things is not a hardship. The child outgrows them gradually and
naturally. He enters upon a fuller life where there are so many real
things to take the place of his toys and little games. And it is so with
education. As the mind expands, the simple primary lessons are no longer
interesting or necessary, for the student has reached those expansive
fields of knowledge where he partakes of the thoughts of the wise and
great. This is no hardship, but a privilege and a joy. He has put away
childish things for richer and more enduring possessions. And should not
the same be true of spiritual things? Why should one cling always to
the rudiments of the alphabet of religion? Was it not intended that the
soul should develop and expand as naturally as the body and the mind?"

Mr. Landrose paused and an expression of deep concern came into his
eyes. "Is it possible that I have been devoting all my ministry to mere
rudiments? And have I been dwelling upon the importance of the letter to
the neglect of the spirit? Have I been so blind that I have overlooked
what St. Paul says, that 'The letter killeth, but the spirit giveth
life'? What a stumbling shepherd I have been."

Gradually the reason dawned upon his mind why he had not been more
successful as a clergyman. He had been too much taken up with
instructing people in head knowledge about church matters, that he had
neglected the supreme importance of the heart. He had laid great
emphasis upon duty, but not enough upon love. He had urged the duty of
attending church, but had not inspired his people with a desire to go.
If he had stressed more of the spirit and less of the letter, that
desire might now animate their souls. Attendance, then, at church would
be a joy and an inspiration instead of a disagreeable task which must be
done, and a relief when the service was over. Suppose his people were
all like that, what comfort and happiness it would be.

At once he thought of himself, and the truth which he was forced to
acknowledge was startling. Had he always found the services a joy? Had
they not, as a rule, been performed in a perfunctory manner, as a mere
duty? He recalled how often he had wearied of the same prayers he had
repeated Sunday after Sunday for forty years. Had he not said them in a
parrot-like fashion? Where was the desire in his own heart which had
caused him to attend the services with gladness and come away inspired
and strengthened? He knew that such was not the case. And if he had not
the living fire of the Master in himself, how could he impart it to
others?

For some time Mr. Landrose remained under the tree, unheeding the cars
which sped along the road. He was too much concerned with vital matters
to pay any attention to worldly things. He was searching the depths of
his own soul, and what he discovered was not at all satisfying.

At length he rose to his feet and walked thoughtfully homeward. He was
in no mood for any more visiting that afternoon. No longer did he wish
to make his calls a matter of duty alone. He desired to go in the spirit
of the Master with an ardent longing for the spiritual welfare of his
flock. That he had not fully done this in the past he was well aware. He
now saw the shallowness of his work. He had visited in season and out,
but it had all been done in a mechanical manner, a routine which he had
followed as a priest of the Church. But he had given no inspiration, and
he now realised how glad his people had been when his visits were ended.

He was aroused from his reverie by a pleasant voice accosting him.
Looking quickly up, he saw Jerry Crumples standing in the door of his
store.

"You startled me, Jerry," the parson remarked. "I did not notice you."

"Lost in thought, eh?"

"I certainly was," Mr. Landrose acknowledged as he stepped upon the
platform.

"Sins of commission or omission?" the storekeeper queried, while an
amused twinkle shone in his eyes.

"Both, Jerry. And they are worrying me a great deal. I am revising my
price-list of life. It was suggested by our conversation this morning."

"Not satisfied with the old one, eh?"

"I am not. But at my age it is difficult to make a change. Yet it must
be done if I am to remain here any longer."

Jerry looked keenly at the clergyman, and wondered what was troubling
him.

"Not thinking of leaving us, are you, parson?"

"It has not come to that yet. But I feel that my work here has been in
vain. You know as well as I do how indifferent many are to religious
matters. So many never attend church, and I have lost my hold upon the
young. My influence is almost gone."

"I am sorry you think that way, parson. But it is the times, and not
you. There are so many attractions these days to draw people away from
religion and church attendance."

"But why should not religion be attractive, Jerry? It is the most vital
thing in life, and which alone can give real satisfaction. Yet people
throw it aside for some passing fancy or amusement which can give no
lasting pleasure."

"But how can it be made more attractive, parson? What do you suggest?
Would something of an exciting nature help, such as moving-pictures
instead of sermons? I believe such things are being tried to-day in some
places."

"No, no. It is not religion that is at fault. It is ever the same, and
its attraction rests with the individual. The attraction of food, for
instance, depends upon the desire for food. There must be a hunger, a
longing, or else the most daintily-cooked meal will have no appeal. And
so with spiritual food. There must be first of all a desire in the soul
of people to be drawn to religion. I see it all now as I never saw it
before."

"But how can that desire be obtained, parson?"

"There is only one way, Jerry. 'They that are whole need not a
physician, but they that are sick'. Yes, it is the Great Physician of
souls who alone can give the desire. And that is just where I have
failed. I have not brought my people to the Physician."

Mr. Landrose sighed as he uttered these words, and Jerry noticed that he
was very worn and weary.

"Come in, parson, and sit down," he invited. "You are tired."

"I know I am, but I must get on my way now, as I have considerable work
to do to-night. I am not concerned about my bodily welfare, but how I
have neglected my flock. The Master Himself said, 'If I be lifted up, I
will draw all men unto Me'. Now, I have not lifted Him up before my
people. I have lifted up everything else instead of Him. That is, I have
placed more importance upon forms and ceremonies. I have held up before
them the fact of Church history and the reason why they belong to the
Church. Such things are important, I admit, but to me they were the
great essentials. Oh, how blind I have been! I see my mistake now when
it is too late."

"Why too late, parson? You have years ahead of you yet for good work.
Don't give up, man."

"Perhaps I shouldn't. But, Jerry----" The clergyman paused for a few
seconds and looked intently into the eyes of his companion. "Jerry, I
have nothing to give to my flock. My own soul is dried up, so how can I
impart to others what I do not possess myself? That is the tragedy of it
all."

He stood very still for a minute, and then without another word he
walked slowly and wearily away, leaving Jerry staring after him in
amazement.

"What in the world has come over the parson?" he muttered. "I never saw
him in such a state before. Hope to goodness he's not sick."




CHAPTER XV

THE STREET PREACHER


Attending the annual meeting of the Diocesan Synod had always been a joy
to Mr. Landrose all through his ministry. He had never missed one
session, and on each occasion he had returned home refreshed and
inspired. The uplifting services, and the companionship of his brethren
brought him great pleasure. It was a welcome change in his routine of
parochial work.

This year, however, it was different. There was no pleasurable
anticipation as in the past. In the first place, he dreaded the meeting
with his Bishop. He had not written the letter as he had planned, but
had decided to wait and speak to him while at Synod. But as the time
drew near he became more worried than ever. What could he say to the
Bishop? How could he explain his refusal of the Canonry? If he did, it
would mean the telling the story of his past life and what Martha Benson
meant to him. No, no, that could not be. It was too sacred a thing, and
he shrank from speaking about it to anyone. But he must tell of the sin
he had committed in giving an excommunicated woman the Holy Communion.
The Bishop might forgive him if he understood all the circumstances
connected with the affair. But that could not be. He sighed as he
thought of this, and his heart was very heavy, for he knew that he could
not bring himself to the point of telling even the Bishop why he had
committed the sin.

And besides this, he was not so anxious now to attend the services of
the Synod and meet his old friends owing to the change that had come
over him. Would there be the same sense of confidence as in the past?
Would he not feel guilty when among the clergy? They were all men who
held no doubts about the Church, so he imagined, and should he express
his own views they might look upon him with marked disapproval. He would
be generally discussed and deemed weak in the Faith.

He thought of all these things the morning he made ready for his
departure. Rachel was very careful about his clothes, and had his
surplice washed and ironed. It was a big event at the rectory, and Doris
was on hand to help. She was to stay with Rachel during the rector's
absence, and this gave her much pleasure.

"Rachel and I are going to have such a happy time together," she
declared. "We have planned several little picnics out to the brook and
down by the sandy shore."

The girl looked very becoming, so the clergyman thought, as she stood
before him at the door of the rectory. There was such a glow of youthful
health in her cheeks, and her eyes were bright with animation.

To Mr. Landrose's surprise John Norton was waiting outside with his car.

"Like a lift to the station, sir? I happened to be passing, so you might
as well drive as walk."

"This is certainly kind of you, Mr. Norton. I expected to walk to the
station."

"And carry that, heavy grip, sir!"

"I have done it for many years, though I must confess that it seems
heavier now than it used to."

Doris went along, too, and in a few minutes they reached their
destination. The train was late, so Mr. Landrose told the young couple
not to wait. He bade them good-bye, and watched them as they sped away.
How happy they were in each other's company. He sighed and a feeling of
great loneliness came upon him. Once he was young and happy, too, with
the future lying golden before him. But how little he realised what the
years held in store for him. Now he was an old man, worn out, and a
great sinner against his Church.

The evening of the main Synod service Mr. Landrose was wending his way
toward the Cathedral. He was ahead of time, but it was always his habit
to be early that he might robe before too many of the clergy arrived.
There was generally much confusion at the last minute which was not at
all to his liking. He could not understand why some men were always
late, arriving breathlessly, and scrambling into their robes. To such a
methodical mind as his it was inexcusable.

He was about half way to the Cathedral and was in sight of a small
public park, when he saw a crowd of people gathered around something of
special interest. As he drew nearer he discovered that a man was giving
an address. He could hear his voice although he could not distinguish
what he was saying. As he approached closer he saw that the man was a
street-preacher. He had heard about him, and had read accounts of his
doings in the newspapers. He had often feared lest he should come to
Green Mount and excite his people and draw them away from the Church.
He could never see any good in such a person holding forth in public
places and elsewhere. He had not been properly ordained and had received
no commission from the Church. And why was it necessary for him to
preach on the streets? There were churches where people could go, where
all things were done decently and in order. It was not right that any
man should make a burlesque of religion, so he believed.

He was of this opinion now, and he was about to cross the street that he
might evade the crowd, when something in the speaker's manner arrested
his attention. It caused him to advance until he could see the man's
face quite distinctly and hear every word he uttered. He was a man of
medium height, poorly dressed, and bearded. But the clergyman could only
notice his eyes, and the wonderful glow he saw there made him forget
everything else. They held him spell-bound, and he listened attentively
to the words which fell from his lips. There was nothing new about what
he was saying, for he simply appealed to his hearers to take heed while
there was time, to follow the Master, and to make their lives worthy of
Him. There was no wild ranting, and very seldom did the speaker make any
gesture with his hands. Like John the Baptist of old he simply called
upon all to repent and lead new lives. Such he seemed to Mr. Landrose as
he stood listening.

For a few minutes he remained there, and then glanced quickly and
furtively around, afraid lest some of his parishioners might be near. If
they should know that he had been listening to a street-preacher what
would they think and say? A guilty feeling stole into his heart as he
moved away from the crowd. The influence of years of thought could not
be shaken off in a short time, and he wondered if he had done right in
stopping there even for a few minutes. Should he not have closed his
ears and hurried along?

Presently he saw a clergyman just ahead of him, whether a Bishop, a
Dean, or an Archdeacon he could not tell. But he was some dignitary of
the Church, judging by his hat and gaitered legs. Evidently he, too, had
been listening to the street-preacher, and the thought gave Mr. Landrose
much comfort. Had he also been impressed by the speaker, and was now
ashamed of himself? Perhaps so, and he wondered if there were others in
the Ministry whose hearts were yearning for more of the real spiritual
life, more of the Christ of experience, and less of the Christ of
history? Were they earnestly seeking for something they did not possess?
He had a great desire to overtake the man ahead that he might question
him and learn the truth from his own lips. But his timidity restrained
him, and, besides, there was no time for the Cathedral was right near.

There was a large congregation at the service, and the procession up the
aisle was a long one. The choir led with the clergy following, singing
one of the Church's triumphant hymns. Yet to Parson Dan, walking well to
the rear with several of his old clerical brothers, it did not bring the
same thrill as formerly to his soul. That white-robed advancing throng
seemed too precise. Everything was in perfect order, with nothing to jar
the aesthetic sense. And the same was true of the service. It was
intoned by a man with a clear strong voice and one of the best workers
in the Diocese. But it did not appeal to Mr. Landrose, and over and
over again as the service proceeded there came to his mind that scene in
the street where the shabbily-dressed man was speaking to the crowd. He
tried to banish the picture, thinking that it must be a temptation of
the evil one trying to draw him away from the wonderful service. But all
in vain. He glanced around at the other clergy and noted their rapt
attention. It was not the fault of the service but his own that he was
not in harmony with what was taking place, so he believed. What was the
reason? Ah, he knew. It came to him like a flash. It was his great sin
in giving Martha the Communion which was disturbing his peace of soul.
It could be nothing else, for since that night he had become greatly
changed. Even now in this fine Cathedral, and at such a grand service he
could find no rest. He bowed his head in distress and deep humiliation.
He himself was the cause of his mental agony. He had done what was
wrong, and now he was paying the price.

He was aroused from his meditation by a deep silence which followed the
hymn that had just been sung. He glanced toward the pulpit, and saw the
special Synod preacher standing there. The eyes of all were fixed upon
him. And in fact, he was worthy of more than a passing notice, for
besides being one of the outstanding Bishops of the Church, he was noted
for his great saintliness of life. Well advanced in years, with hair as
white as snow, and possessed of a commanding stature, he presented an
attractive appearance as he faced the people, and announced his brief
text, "He could not be hid."

Mr. Landrose leaned forward so as not to miss a single word. He had read
much about Bishop Strathroy, and now he had the opportunity of hearing
him. In the past, as a rule, the Synod sermon had been a masterly
exposition of the teaching and history of the Church, more in the form
of an essay than a sermon. It had always appealed to Mr. Landrose, for
it had been along his line of thought. Now, however, he longed for an
address of a different nature, something that would appeal to his heart
and be in harmony with the state of his mind. The text led him to
believe that such would be the case, and in this hope he was not
disappointed. It was of the Master of life that the Bishop spoke, not in
profound theological terms, but in simple language as if he were
speaking to children. His unaffected words went straight to the hearts
of his hearers.

"Christ cannot really be hidden for long," he said after his opening
remarks. "When He comes into a heart His influence shines forth in
Christ-like words and actions. When He comes into a house His influence
is felt in the changed tone of that house. Love, peace, purity, and
harmony abound there which all will notice. When Christ comes into a
community His presence is at once apparent by the manner of life the
citizens lead. You cannot hide the light of the sun nor the perfume of a
flower for any length of time. Neither can you hide the light and
fragrance of the Master of life. At times in the history of the Church
He has been hidden for a while under a mass of rubbish, tradition,
superstition, and a burden of forms and ceremonies. The latter are
important, but they must never be allowed to interfere with Christ. The
history of the Church is important, but it must be subservient to the
great message we have to deliver. It must not take the place of Him,
and of Him we must constantly speak. An historic Christ can never take
the place of the Christ of personal experience."

Mr. Landrose started at these words for they expressed exactly what had
been in his own mind that evening.

"I may study and know a great deal about the history of poetry, its
technique, and various forms," the Bishop continued. "But what do all
such things amount to unless there is the true spirit of poetry in the
soul? The same is true of love. A man may compile a history of love, and
write a great deal about its symptoms, and how it affects different
people. But what does he know about love if he has never experienced it
in his own life? Parents and young lovers need no long treatise about
love. They have love in their hearts, and that is all-sufficient. And so
with our religion. To have Christ dwelling in us is more important than
anything else. To experience His love and power in our hearts will
transform our lives and make our tasks a joy beyond measure. Think of
what St. Paul said, 'Though I speak with the tongues of men and of
angels, and have not love, I am become as a sounding brass or a tinkling
cymbal.' Brethren, let us be very careful lest we hide the Master under
mere perfunctory service and a multitude of forms. Let Christ be all and
in all, and then He cannot be hidden."

Then to Mr. Landrose's surprise the Bishop told how he had listened to
the street-preacher on his way to the Cathedral that evening.

"I was not ashamed to stand there and hearken to the words which fell
from that man's lips, for they were the outpouring of a noble soul
afire with the spirit of Christ. In a way, I envied that man, for he
felt that he had a wonderful message to deliver. He was not hampered by
theological views, but spoke from the depth of his soul that he might
uplift and save others. His methods of working are not ours. But it is
well to remember the Lord's words, 'Forbid him not; he that is not
against us is for us.' I love the Church to which I have always
belonged, and I believe in her divine commission. But I want to see her
doing a more effective work than in the past. And this will only be done
when clergy and laity alike become filled with the spirit of Christ. I
am an old man now, and cannot expect to work much longer. But if I had
to live my life over again I should place less emphasis upon outward
things, and give more attention to the great essentials, especially to
the all-transforming power of Christ in the soul. All else pales into
insignificance before this. Our religion must be vital, a joy, a power.
It will only be that when Christ is all and in all."

In this manner the Bishop spoke to the end, and Mr. Landrose paid rapt
attention to every word. At times he imagined that he must be dreaming,
as he had never before heard such a Synod sermon. It filled his heart
with a sense of joy, so much in harmony was it with his own state of
mind. The Bishop's views were his. That was a great comfort. He could go
back to his parish with a renewed spirit, and teach as he had never
taught before about the wonderful transforming power of the Master of
life.




CHAPTER XVI

A CHILD IN THE MIDST


Mr. Landrose did not remain to the end of the Synod. The long sessions,
with the reading and the discussion of many reports, wearied him. So
much time was also taken up with financial matters, dealing largely with
the efforts of a number of parishes to raise their assessments. Some of
the querulous statements and petty reasons which were given annoyed him.
After he had listened during an entire morning, he decided that what was
needed was more spiritual life. He had come to the conclusion that when
hearts are stirred with the spirit of the living God, offerings are then
made freely and gladly. Lack of money to carry on the Lord's work was a
want of His spirit in the hearts of the people. This had come to him
gradually during the last few days, and it became overwhelmingly strong
as he sat and listened to what was being said. Several times he felt
like rising to his feet and expressing his thoughts. But his diffidence
restrained him. He had always remained silent at the Synod sessions,
preferring to let others do the talking. And now when he desired to
speak his courage failed him. He knew that he would hesitate, and his
words would not come freely. If he had his ideas written out, he would
have no trouble. But to speak for any length of time without proper
preparation would involve him in disaster and make him appear
ridiculous. He almost envied the ability of the younger clergy to
express their opinions so fluently and without any apparent
embarrassment. He knew that he was a failure, and he felt very much
humiliated as he sat and listened to the weary discussions.

There was something else that worried him. He had not explained to the
Bishop his reason for not accepting the Canonry. Twice he had been on
the point of doing so when he had met the Bishop. But the latter had
been so busy that he hesitated each time. He knew that he should have
gone up boldly and spoken to him, but again his cowardly spirit
restrained him, so he left the Synod with his duty undone. He would
write, so he decided, and perhaps that would be better, after all.

The train was late, and it was dark by the time he alighted at Green
Mount station. There was no team or car going his way, so he was forced
to walk and carry his grip. There was a short-cut from the main highway
to the rectory, across an open field and through a grove of trees. He
had often travelled this path, so he was quite familiar with every foot
of the way. He walked slowly, and when he at length came to his own
garden he stopped to rest. Glancing over at the rectory he saw a bright
light shining from the kitchen window. The night was dark, and a keen
wind was sweeping over the land, presaging a storm. He was glad to be so
near home, for he was tired, and his own cosy study would be a very
pleasant place after the excitement of the last two days.

He made his way along the side of the garden, and was but a short
distance from the house when he suddenly stopped in surprise. At the
brightly-lighted window he saw the face of a man peering into the room.
Mr. Landrose was greatly puzzled. He was alarmed, as well, for what
business had any man there? That he had some evil design in his mind he
was certain, and this made the parson angry. No sense of fear came into
his heart, and he stepped quickly forward to catch the man ere he could
escape. But a twig snapped under his foot which caused the intruder to
start and look around. As he did so, the light fell full upon his face,
and at once Mr. Landrose recognized the man. It was Tim Bendle!
Instantly he darted back and disappeared in the darkness. The parson
could hear his retreating footsteps, and knew that he was running at
full speed. He waited until the last faint sounds had died down, and
then walked cautiously up to the window to learn the cause of Tim's
presence there. At the first glance he started back in astonishment at
what he beheld. In the kitchen, near the table, he saw Rachel kneeling
on the floor by a small bath-tub, holding a towel in her hands. Before
her sat Doris, with a small baby on her lap, which had just been bathed.
The clergyman was puzzled at what he saw, and stood for a few minutes
staring into the room. He stepped back a little from the window lest he
should be observed. What was that baby doing there? he asked himself.
And why had Tim Bendle been peering through the window? There seemed to
be something sinister about this, and a feeling of apprehension stole
into his heart. The wind howling around the house and shaking the trees,
caused him to glance somewhat fearfully around. But nothing could he see
in the intense blackness of the night.

Leaving at length the window, he walked around to the front door, which
he opened and entered. Placing his grip upon the floor, and hanging up
his hat and overcoat, he went into the kitchen. His sudden and
unexpected appearance startled Rachel, and she became a little confused.
Doris, however, was not the least embarrassed. As soon as she saw the
clergyman, she held up the baby for his inspection.

"Isn't he a darling!" she exclaimed. "And we are so fond of him."

"B-but where did it come from?" the parson asked, looking keenly at the
child.

"He was left here this afternoon," Rachel explained. "A young woman who
came from the city by the steamer asked me if I would look after the
child for a little while. She said that she had a call to make up the
road, and the baby was so heavy to carry. She did, indeed, look tired,
worn out, in fact, and so haggard. I could not very well refuse such a
simple request, so I took the child. It was asleep when it came here,
and only awoke about half an hour ago."

"But where is the woman who brought it here?" the parson demanded.

"I do not know. She has not come back, so Doris suggested that we give
the baby a bath, which he really needed."

"It certainly did," Doris agreed. "And now that he is clean, he is so
sweet and lovely. I wish we could keep him, for I love babies. Look what
wonderful eyes he has, and such plump cheeks, and his hair is just like
silk."

Doris was so enthusiastic about the child that Mr. Landrose was loth to
say anything that would mar her happiness. Her eyes were bright, and her
cheeks were aglow with animation. He thought that he had never beheld a
more beautiful scene. How charming she looked sitting there with the
little one on her lap. To his mind came another woman with a babe in her
arms, surrounded by rude shepherds, drawn from the fields, to pay their
tribute to the Christ child. And here was this little babe, an outcast,
from all appearance, who needed help. He must be looked after. And yet
it was necessary that careful inquiries should be made for the woman who
had left him there.

"There is something strange about this," he at length remarked. "I must
go over to the store to see if I can learn anything about that woman.
Some one must have seen her when she landed from the steamer. She was
very weak, and looked worn out, so you told me, Rachel. Perhaps she has
fallen by the roadside."

"That may be so, sir. But you must have something to eat before you go.
You look very tired yourself. It will not take me long to make a cup of
tea, as the water is hot. I did not expect you home this evening."

"I left early, Rachel, and I am glad now that I did. A cup of tea will
refresh me, I am sure. But I must go and try to find that woman. She may
be lying out there in the night and the cold. In the meantime, we must
keep the child and do what we can for it."

Doris was delighted at the idea of having the baby with them that night.
While the clergyman ate his hasty meal, she dressed the little one, and
then took it into the dining-room for the parson's inspection.

"What do you think of him now?" she asked. "Did you ever see anything so
beautiful?"

"He is certainly a fine child," and Mr. Landrose patted the little fat
cheeks. "I wonder how old he is?"

"Rachel thinks he is about eight or nine months old. But he seems older
than that to me. Look how he is smiling at you. He has taken a fancy to
you already. He does not miss his mother one bit."

"But we must find her, Doris. Something must have happened to her or she
would have been back before now."

"But if she cannot be found, suppose we keep the baby. It would be such
a pleasure looking after him."

"We shall think about that later," the parson replied as he rose from
the table. "Anyway, it seems as if you will have him for to-night, so
that will be something."

Leaving the rectory, he went at once to the store. As he opened the door
and entered, he found several men gathered there who suddenly ceased
their conversation at his appearance. An awkward silence ensued, and the
clergyman had the feeling that their talk had been about something which
they did not wish him to hear.

"I am afraid that I have interrupted you," he began. "But I am much
worried about a woman who left a baby at the rectory this afternoon.
Rachel told me that she looked very weak and haggard, so I fear she may
have fainted on the road. Have you men heard anything about her?"

"We were just talking about her when you arrived," Jerry explained. "It
seems that Tim Bendle saw her. She stopped at his place, and his wife
gave her a bite to eat."

"I am glad to hear that, Jerry. But did Tim say what happened to her?"

"I think that he did say she went up the road. I was busy when Tim was
here, so cannot remember all he said."

"But did he learn her name, and where she came from?"

"I did not ask him, parson, being very busy, as I told you."

One by one the men rose to their feet and sauntered out of the store
until only Jerry and the clergyman were left. This the latter noticed
and it surprised him.

"Don't they like my company, Jerry?" he asked.

The storekeeper smiled, and felt somewhat relieved at the clergyman's
interpretation of the men's departure.

"I am glad that your presence chased them out, parson. It is hard to get
rid of them. They never know when to go home."

"A clergyman is of some use in the world, then, Jerry. I might drop in
more often at night if it would help you out any. But I am in a quandary
about that woman. We have her baby, so she must be found."

"Oh, she'll turn up, all right, parson, never fear."

"I hope so. But if you hear anything, let me know. Good-night, Jerry."

The storekeeper stood for a while lost in thought after Mr. Landrose had
gone.

"I hope he doesn't hear what those men were talking about," he mused.
"Tim had no business starting such a report as that. I believe he made
the story up out of his own head. And if he has, it won't be well for
him. He hates the parson for some reason or other, and this is one way
he's trying to knife him. The villain! He deserves to be horse-whipped,
and I'd like to do it myself."




CHAPTER XVII

STARTLING NEWS


The next day startling news spread throughout the parish. It passed from
person to person, increasing in interest each time it was repeated. At
first it was only cautiously whispered by a few, but ere long it became
common property and was discussed openly. It was a choice morsel, the
most delicious that had come to the place in many years. In homes,
fields, along the road, at the blacksmith shop, and in the store it
formed the one main topic of conversation.

"Have you heard the news?" Mrs. Rundle asked Mrs. Wright, her next-door
neighbor. She was bubbling over with excitement as she sat in the
kitchen where Mrs. Wright was at work.

"I have," was the reply. "It's all over the parish. But there may be
some mistake. Perhaps Tim was lying. He's noted for that."

"But he swears this is the Gospel truth. The girl who left that baby at
the rectory told him that Doris Randall is its mother."

"Has the girl heard Tim's story?"

"Not likely. She'll be the last one to hear. I wouldn't mention it to
her for the world."

"She has always seemed a nice quiet girl," Mrs. Wright defended. "She
goes to church regularly, and minds her own business."

"Ah, that may be only a put-on. Still water runs deep, remember. Anyway,
she is treating the baby as her very own."

"How do you know that?"

"Tim saw her giving it a bath last night. He was watching through the
kitchen window, and he saw her dancing it on her lap. She hugged and
kissed it, too. Now, would any girl do that to a strange baby? Indeed
she wouldn't. Mark my word, there may be more truth than fiction in
Tim's story, judging by all appearance. And, then, what about that
girl's grandmother? There's some mystery about her. And why was she
buried at night? I believe the parson could tell a great deal, if he had
a mind to."

"No doubt he could," Mrs. Wright agreed. "But he has sense enough to
hold his tongue. He can keep a secret, which is more than most people
can do."

"But why shouldn't he explain about that night burial?" Mrs. Rundle
demanded.

"Has anyone asked him?"

"Why, no, not to my knowledge. But surely he has heard what folks are
saying."

"It is hardly likely he has heard a word. Who would say anything to him?
I am sure I wouldn't, and I guess all in this parish are of the same
mind."

And while the women talked, the men did their share. It was remarkable
how many of them had errands to the store that day. Joe Steffins needed
a file to sharpen his buck-saw. Henry Marks was short of nails to mend
his barnyard gate, and Jerry Finch suddenly found that he had lost a
bolt out of his whiffle-tree. And others came for something else, and
stayed after their simple purchases had been made. They were not
quarrelsome men, and were considered good neighbors. But their curiosity
had been aroused, and they were anxious to hear the latest bit of news.
Ever since that burial by night they had puzzled their brains as to its
meaning, and had often discussed it among themselves. And now new fuel
had been added to the mystery, and the baby left at the rectory greatly
increased their interest.

Parson Dan was almost the last to hear the report that was in
circulation. He reached home that evening, tired after his visitation to
an outlying portion of his parish. Supper was ready, and as he entered
the dining-room he noticed that his housekeeper's face was unusually
grave.

"What is the trouble, Rachel?" he asked as he seated himself at the
table. "There is nothing wrong with the baby, I hope."

"Not with the baby, sir. But I am afraid something has happened to
Doris."

The clergyman dropped his partly-unfolded napkin, and looked keenly at
the woman.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, sir, I hear that she has disappeared from the hotel, and no one
knows where she has gone."

"Disappeared from the hotel! Who told you that?"

"Oh, everyone knows about it. But it was Mrs. Wickham who told me this
afternoon."

"And Doris hasn't been here to-day, Rachel?"

"No. I was wondering what was the matter until Mrs. Wickham came."

"But I do not understand the meaning of all this," Mr. Landrose
declared. "Why should Doris go away without saying a word to anyone? Has
Mrs. Wickham any suspicion?"

There were tears in Rachel's eyes, and she was much agitated. This the
parson noticed.

"What is really back of all this? You are keeping something from me.
Tell me what you have heard."

"I don't believe the story, and no one can make me," Rachel cried. "It
is a base lie. Doris is as innocent as a child. It is terrible for
people to say that the baby we have here is hers."

At these words the clergyman rose from the table. His face was pale, and
his eyes shone with anger.

"Who said that?" he demanded. "Who spread such a report?"

"Tim, of course. He said that the woman who left the baby here told him
so herself."

"And who is the woman?"

"Tim won't tell."

"Ah, he cannot. He's made up that lie to hit back at me. And he's
willing to blacken the character of an innocent girl to do so. May the
Lord help us!"

He slumped down into his chair and buried his face in his hands. Rachel
went out into the kitchen, her heart very heavy. She pitied her master,
for she realised how keenly he resented Tim's story. She wondered what
she could do. Ah, there was his supper. When he had eaten something,
perhaps he would feel better.

The parson lifted his head as she returned to the dining-room.

"Do you think that was the reason why Doris left?" he asked. "She may
have heard Tim's lie."

"Perhaps she did. What else would have caused her to leave without
saying a word to us?"

"Quite true, Rachel. And yet I am not satisfied. If Doris is innocent,
and I am sure she is, why has she gone away? I am her guardian, so why
didn't she come to me? It is all very strange. But, there, I must think
it all over, and see what can be done."

He ate but little supper, and when he at length went into his study, he
sat down by his desk. He was more depressed than he had been for years.
His whole life's work seemed to him an utter failure. He thought of Tim
and his contemptible revenge. The man was a brute. The evil in him had
been growing stronger year by year. The law should have laid hands upon
him long ago and compelled him to behave himself. Now he was worse than
ever, and in addition to his other misdeeds he had circulated an evil
report about an innocent girl. He must be taught a lesson. He would go
to the magistrate, lodge a complaint, and have him arrested. There was
no other way, so far as he could see. And it would be for the welfare of
the community to have such a man checked. It would be a lesson to
others, and teach them to be more careful about what they said. There
was too much injurious gossip in the parish, anyway.

As he thought of this, there came suddenly into his mind the Bible story
of the man possessed with a legion of devils. He wondered why he should
think about that now. Was there any special message in it? Opening his
Bible, he read the old familiar story of the madman among the tombs. The
chapter ended, he leaned back and remained for some time in deep
thought. He had found a meaning there he had never noticed before. It
was so applicable to his own case as to be most startling. Men had tried
in various ways to control that demon-possessed man. They had tied and
shackled him in vain. Not until he had met Christ was he cured and
restored to his right mind. It was only the Master Himself who could
help him.

Mr. Landrose saw it all now. Tim was possessed with evil spirits. He was
a devil in human form. The law might restrain him for a time, tie and
shackle him, but it could not change his heart and make a new man out of
him. It was only Christ who could do that. And what had he, Christ's
minister, done to bring such a thing to pass? Nothing. He had scolded
and threatened Tim, but he had not brought to him the living message of
the Master. He had met violence with violence, like the people in the
Bible story. And what he had done to Tim, he had done all through his
ministry. Instead of bringing the Olivet message of love and peace, he
had brought the Sinai law with its thunder and wrath. He had taught
about the Church, its history, Apostolic succession, and such like. He
had given his people the cold terms of the law, but he had overlooked
the constraining love of Christ. His message had been of fear and duty,
instead of love.

Parson Dan was compelled to face the stern truth of his failure, and he
did not spare himself. He had meant well, but he had been mistaken. He
might have won Tim and changed his entire life. Now it was too late. He
sighed and looked out of the window before him. The western sky was
radiant with departing day, and the whole land was hushed in a calm
repose. Gradually the darkness deepened, and the colors in the sky
changed and softened. Between him and the window stood his study lamp.
The glow of the fading evening rested upon it. As the light faded, only
the stark form of the lamp could be seen. Of what use was it now? It
was intended for the night, to illumine and interpret. But it could do
this only when it was glowing with a light from within.

This truth came to him with a startling intensity. For many years he had
been more concerned with the outward form of the Church than with the
light. He had taught the doctrine, its beauty, and history, but he had
omitted the vital part, the personal illumination. His people had been
taught the reasons for their faith, but of the comforting and
life-giving power of Christ they were ignorant. He had given them the
letter instead of the spirit.

Tremblingly he rose to his feet and lighted the lamp. At once the large
globe became glorified, and the figures upon it stood out clear and
distinct. It was due to the light from within. So only by the inner
light in the souls of men and women could the Church become beautiful
and a blessing to the world. In his younger days in the Ministry he had
been fond of arguing, bringing forth proof after proof of the divine
claims of the Church and its Apostolic Order of Ministry. But the
greatest proof of all he had left almost untouched. He saw it all now.
Christ did not say, "Be careful about the outward form of the Church."
But He did say, "Let your light shine before men." And the shining light
of pure lives and loving service was the best and only proof needed. And
all this he had neglected. He had given his people outward things, husks
instead of the life-giving spirit. No wonder they had become indifferent
to religious things. Religion had become to most of them a matter of
mere outward observance. It did not mean life to them, something to
satisfy the longing of the soul. If he had held up Christ, the light of
the world, what a difference it might have made. How the hearts of all
would have been touched, and what an effect it might have had upon Tim
Bendle.

He thought, too, of how much he himself had missed. He recalled the
wonderful thrill that had come upon him the day he had forgotten his
sermon. What a freedom and joy had been his as he had looked into the
upturned faces before him. He had spoken to them from the depth of his
heart. He had not been bound by the restraining letter, but had been
guided by the spirit alone.

At once there came into his mind the street preacher he had heard in the
city a few days before. How earnest the man had seemed, and what a joy
had illuminated his rugged face as he addressed the people around him.
To him Christ was a living presence, and not a mere historical figure.

For a long time Mr. Landrose sat there. His heart was deeply stirred. A
mystic presence seemed to surround him. A new peace possessed his soul,
and a new vision of life opened up before him.




CHAPTER XVIII

CROWDING GROWTH


After breakfast next morning Mr. Landrose went out to his garden behind
the rectory. He had passed a restless night for many things had
disturbed his mind, and had driven sleep from his eyes. Among his
vegetables, working in the soft mellow soil, he had always found relief
and refreshment. And so he did this morning. Here his worries slipped
away, and in his care for the plants he found much comfort. A verse of
Holy Scripture kept running through his mind, "Yea, as a father pitieth
his own children, even so is the Lord merciful unto them that fear Him."
He was stooping to support a feeble plant by strengthening it with an
extra supply of earth when this text came into his mind. "Yea, as a
father pitieth--" He paused in his work and lifted his head. The thought
was encouraging. "God will be merciful to us, His children," he
murmured, "although we cannot always understand now the way He is
leading. But I feel sure that 'all things will work together for good to
them that love Him.' That is His promise, and it is very inspiring."

After he had hoed for about an hour, he felt unusually weary. The
morning was hot, and he was glad to seek refuge in the shade of a large
maple tree. Here upon the ground he rested. The birds sang and twittered
around him, and a noisy squirrel scolded on the bough of an adjoining
tree. Butterflies zig-zagged through the air, and the hum of innumerable
insects sounded on all sides. Abounding life was everywhere. All of
nature's creatures were full of activity, keenly interested in their
various tasks. They seemed tireless, while he was so easily wearied.
Years ago he was able to work for hours at a time without resting. What
a garden he had then! And how small now his plot of ground. Once it was
the pride of the people for miles around. His vegetables had been the
finest raised in the parish, and he had carried off many prizes at the
annual exhibition held in the city. But he had not the strength now as
of old, so year by year his garden had become smaller. This had been
humiliating to him at first, but there was no remedy, so far as he could
see.

And as his garden decreased, the bushes began to grow upon the neglected
land. At first they were small birches, firs, and pines. Now they were
good-sized trees, standing like an army at the back of his garden.
Steadily they kept crowding up, just waiting for an opportunity to
spread out over the cultivated patch. There was something sinister in
their appearance this day. They were so silent, and in their silence
there was a sense of awe. Never before had they affected him so
strongly.

"They are certainly crowding me," he mused. "It is crowding growth, and
if I am not careful they will crowd me out completely. But what else can
I expect? I am getting old. If I were young again I would soon beat them
back and clear the whole land."

He paused and stared hard at the trees as a new idea came into his mind.
What was taking place in his garden was happening in his life. It was
crowding growth. But what kind of a growth? Was it a form of lawlessness
like the forest? This was startling. He knew that barbarism is only a
few steps away, ready to sweep in when civilization abandons her task.

"I see it in my own life," he uttered aloud. "The younger generation is
only waiting to undo the work of cultivation which has been made, and
set up a reign of indifference and lawlessness. The patient work of men
and women through the centuries is in danger of being overthrown. I see
it in this parish, and I am unable to prevent it. It is the crowding
growth similar to what is taking place in this garden. A younger man is
needed here who has strength of body and mind to influence the young
people. It is quite evident that my work is done. And what a failure it
has been!"

He rose to his feet, picked up his hoe, and walked slowly toward the
house. At the back door he stopped, looked at his garden, and then off
at the menacing trees. Warm though the morning was, a slight shiver
passed through his body.

"The wild things are crowding me out here," he murmured. "And they are
also crowding me out of my parish."

As he entered the house, he came face to face with John Norton. The
young man was greatly excited. His hair was dishevelled, his clothes
were torn, and there was blood upon his face. The clergyman was startled
by his wild appearance.

"Why, Mr. Norton, what is the matter?" he asked.

"Everything," was the terse bitter reply. "Doris is lost!"

"Come into the study," Mr. Landrose invited. "We can talk better there."

After he had closed the door, he turned toward the distracted visitor.

"When did you hear the news?"

"Only this morning. I had been to the city on business, and when I
arrived on the early train, I was told about the disappearance of
Doris."

"But what have you been doing since your arrival? You look as if you
have been fighting."

"And so I have. When I learned that Tim Bendle had started that base lie
about Doris, I drove to his place and we had it out right in front of
his house. He's in a mighty bad shape now, for I nearly killed him."

"My! my! this is serious," the parson exclaimed. "You should have let
the law deal with Tim. You may get into trouble over this."

"How could the law punish a thing like Tim? He would be tried, perhaps,
and let go with a warning. No, Tim needed a different dose, and he got
it. And as for getting into trouble, I am not worrying one bit. But what
has happened to Doris, is what I want to know. And where is that woman
who left the baby here?"

"Didn't Tim tell you?"

"No. The thing just laughed at me, and told me to go to h--. Excuse me,
sir, but you might as well know what he said. That was more than I could
stand, so I landed upon him. He will think twice after this before he
starts another lie about an innocent girl."

"But does he think he is lying, Mr. Norton? He declared that the woman
who left the baby here told him the story, so I understand."

"Yes, he told me that, and swore it was the truth. But why does he
refuse to tell me what he knows about that woman? If I knew, I could go
to her and find out what she has to say. I believe Tim is afraid of
that. He has some scheme in his mind, I feel sure."

"There is no doubt about it, Mr. Norton. He wants to injure me because I
have opposed him in his villainy for years. And he has hit at me by
injuring Doris's character."

"He can never injure her, sir," Norton stoutly declared. "She is as
innocent as a child, and I shall prove it. Nothing can make me believe
such a lie as that. But I must find Doris. What have you heard, sir?
Tell me everything. The smallest information might help me in my search.
Oh, if I had only known about this yesterday!"

"I know nothing more than you do, Mr. Norton. Doris was here that
evening she and Rachel had such a happy time with the baby. It was dark
when she left for the hotel, and no one has seen her since."

"But where could she go and no one would see her, Mr. Landrose? The news
of her disappearance is all over the parish now, and if anyone had seen
her he would surely mention it."

"That is what is puzzling me. No one saw her at the hotel after she left
here, so Rachel told me. She did not go by train, neither was she seen
along the road."

"She must be lost, then. Perhaps she wandered off into the woods and has
not been able to find her way out. That heavy forest extends all the
way from the rectory grounds ten miles to the back settlement. I have
cruised through it several times, and once I was lost there for a whole
night. Now, what could Doris do in a region like that? Yes, I fear she
is out there. We must get search-parties off at once to scour the
forest. What a pity some one didn't think of this yesterday. It may be
too late now. There is no telling what might have happened to Doris.
Just think of her wandering helplessly around, bewildered and calling in
vain for help."

"Yes, I have thought of all that," Mr. Landrose replied. "But perhaps
she is safer there than here. How often I myself have longed to be
hidden among those great silent trees where the trials and criticisms of
the world of men would not trouble me. If Doris is there, she does not
know what people are saying about her. How strange it is that one is
often safer among the creatures of the wild than with his own kind. And
it is only too true of this place. After my long ministry here it is
humiliating to be forced to make such a confession. How often I have
wished for a little cabin away in the depths of the forest where I could
withdraw for a time from the busy and cruel tongues of men and women.
And when my life's work is done to be laid to rest out there, with those
grand old trees chanting their requiem over my resting-place. I hope
that will come to pass some day."

John Norton hardly heard these closing words, for another great fear had
come into his mind. It was almost too terrible to think about. He ceased
his pacing up and down the room, and turned impulsively toward the
clergyman.

"Do you suppose Doris heard that lie Tim told?" he asked.

"I do not know. If she did, she never mentioned it to Rachel. It is not
likely that she knew anything about it when she left here that night."

"Then somebody must have met her between the rectory and the hotel and
told her. Tim is contemptible enough to do a thing like that. And if he
did tell her--"

He paused, his hands clenched hard together, and his eyes blazed with
fire. Mr. Landrose laid a hand upon his shoulder.

"Keep calm. Do not lose control of yourself. I think I know what is in
your mind. But I do not believe that Doris would make away with herself.
She is too sensible a girl for that."

"I know she is very sensible, sir. But she is so innocent of the vile
ways of the world that such a story would break her heart. She is most
sensitive, and the thought of meeting people who believe Tim's lies
would be unbearable to her. She would rather die than do so. Oh, the
thought is almost more than I can stand. We must end this uncertainty.
Tim must be made to tell what he knows. I shall go at once to the
magistrate and arrange to have him arrested. That is the only way, so
far as I can see, to bring him to his senses."

"I have heard of girls being kidnapped," the parson replied. "Doris is
very attractive, and in beauty such as hers lies her danger. No doubt
longing eyes have been cast upon her, and it must have been known of her
visits here and how she often went back to the hotel alone after dark.
In these days when so many cars are on the roads what an easy thing it
would be for villains to carry off a girl alone at night. I can hardly
bear to think of such a thing, and yet it is done at times, so I see by
the papers."

"It has never happened here, though it has elsewhere," Norton replied.
"But I am only wasting time now. Talking will not find Doris. I love her
with all my heart, and don't mind telling you, sir. There is no other
girl like her in all the world."

At any other time Mr. Landrose would have smiled at such a sweeping
statement. All he did now was to grasp the young man by the hand.

"I sympathize with you," he quietly said, "for Doris means a great deal
to me, too. I hope you will succeed in finding her. May God guide and
direct you."




CHAPTER XIX

THE TOAD AND THE EAGLE


Mr. Landrose walked slowly down the road for his mail. His mind was
greatly disturbed. He was worried about Doris and his own helplessness.
His only hope was in John Norton. He would find her if anyone could. He
liked the young man now more than ever. But he felt that he had been
remiss in his duty toward him. He should have checked and reproved him
for his anger and what he had done to Tim Bendle. But what else was
there to do with a fellow like that? There came to his mind the story of
the maniac among the tombs, and how Christ had cured him. What would
Christ do with a man like Tim? he wondered. The madman of long ago
wished to be freed of the evil spirits. But Tim gloried in his devilish
deeds. Ah, there was the difference. But Christ would have found a way
to overcome Tim's antagonism, he was certain. But what could he do? He
felt his own inability to do anything. As a professed minister of the
Gospel, and a teacher of his people, he had no remedy to change the
heart of one who had gone astray. And there were others who also needed
to be renewed. What was he to do to win his flock, and to draw souls to
the only One who could supply them with things worth while? It was life
more abundant they needed, the life that could come only from the Master
Himself. And he had miserably failed. He had been holding up the dry
bones of religion in place of the living Bread. He saw it all now, and
it filled his soul with an agony of remorse. Oh, to live his life over
again! If he could only go back and begin his ministry again how
differently he would teach and work. Now it was too late.

There were two letters for him at the post-office. One was from the
Bishop in reference to the Canonry that had been offered and not
accepted. The Bishop asked for a reply as soon as possible.

"He shall have it at once," the clergyman decided. "I have no hesitation
now about the course I should take. I could not very well accept the
Canonry with a clear conscience. And, besides, such an honor appeals to
me no longer. What good would a title like that be to a man who has made
a failure of his life's work? Had it come sooner it might have been a
great inspiration. But it is too late now. Yes, I shall write to the
Bishop to-day."

The other letter caused him to stare in amazement. It was merely signed
"A Friend." It had been dropped into the office box during the night, so
the postmaster informed him. He had found it there that morning.

     "Dear Sir," so the letter began, "I feel that you should be advised
     that some people in this parish are scheming to injure you. A nasty
     report is now in circulation about your connection with that woman
     who died at the hotel and was buried by you at night. Since the
     strange disappearance of the woman's grand-daughter the whole
     parish is much excited. It is even said that you and the girl had
     something to do with the woman's sudden death that you two might
     get her money. This is just a note of warning from one of your few
     true friends who do not believe what is being said. We do hope that
     you will speak out and silence these rumors, and explain,
     especially, about that night burial."

Mr. Landrose could hardly believe his eyes. Twice he read the letter,
the second time very slowly. He felt that it must be all a horrible
dream. Could it be possible that people were telling such a story about
him and Doris! That they had something to do with Martha's sudden death!
And to get her money! And he was asked to explain about the burial. His
brain reeled as he thought of all that was involved in such a request.
How could he unveil the past and tell about Martha Benson? No, he would
not do so. It was too sacred a thing to be bandied about from person to
person, to be joked about wherever people assembled together. And that
report about the money. How had it started? Some evil-minded person must
have done it to injure him and Doris. This was a serious matter, and the
thought of what it might mean made him weak. He lifted his shovel-hat
and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. Why was this burden placed
upon him? What had he done to incur it? Could it be possible that he was
being punished for disobeying his Church and giving Martha the
Communion? He traced his troubles back to that very night. Before that
his life had moved on in peace and harmony. Now it was agitated like a
storm-tossed sea, and he could see no haven in sight.

He made his way back toward the rectory along the dusty road. He did not
know what to do. He longed to flee away from it all, and hide somewhere
in the wilderness. He felt that he could not face his people with such
reports abroad. What would they think of him if he made no word of
explanation? His silence would be a sure sign to them that he was
guilty.

He had reached the store, and was about to pass when a voice hailed him.
Looking quickly to the right, he saw Jerry Crumples standing at the
door.

"What's your hurry, parson?" he accosted. "Come in for a minute. I have
something to tell you."

Mr. Landrose was in no mood for conversation just then. But he could not
very well refuse this friendly invitation.

"What is it, Jerry?" he asked, as he walked to the door.

"Come inside, parson. I can speak to you better there. And it's cooler,
too."

The clergyman at once did as he was bidden, and sat down wearily upon
the only chair the store contained. Jerry drew up an empty box and sat
down by his side.

"You have heard the reports, I suppose, parson?" he began.

"I have, Jerry, and my heart is well nigh broken. Miss Randall is
perfectly innocent, and so am I. Why will people say such things about
us?"

"But you will explain everything, parson, so that will set things
right."

"I can't explain, Jerry. I must remain silent."

The storekeeper looked at the clergyman in amazement. He felt that he
had not heard aright.

"But you must explain," he insisted. "The charges are very serious."

"I know they are. But that makes no difference."

"Then all will think you are guilty, your friends as well as your
enemies. Have you considered that?"

"I have, Jerry, I have. But how can I reveal the secret of a life-time?
It concerns no one but myself now."

"But how about that night burial? Can't you say something that will
explain that?"

"Nothing that would satisfy people. I merely followed that woman's dying
request. It is nobody's business, anyway. If she wished to be buried by
night, why should so much fuss be made about it?"

"People have made it their business, though, parson. It was such an
unusual thing that it aroused some suspicion from the first. Now that
the matter is being investigated the suspicion has greatly increased."

The clergyman started and looked keenly into his companion's face.

"What do you mean, Jerry?" he asked. "Who is investigating?"

"I don't know for sure, sir. But there was a stranger around here
yesterday making inquiries. He asked a whole lot of questions,
especially about that dead woman."

"Is he a detective, Jerry?"

"I can't say, parson. I only met him once, and he was mighty mysterious.
He did let drop a few words, though, about being a friend of that dead
woman's son. He said something, too, about having the grave fixed up
and a tombstone erected. But I think he is here for some other reason."

"And so do I, Jerry. But it is news to me about that woman's son. I
never heard of him before. It's a wonder he didn't come to the funeral."

"I believe the man did say that the son has been away in some foreign
country for years, and did not hear of his mother's death until sometime
later."

Mr. Landrose sat staring straight before him, lost in thought. Why had
not Martha said something to him about her son? What was the cause of
her silence? Perhaps he was the son of her first marriage. No doubt he
had sent the detective to make a thorough investigation. He sighed as he
thought of the troubles that were confronting him.

"It looks to me as if you're in for a lot of worry, parson," the
storekeeper remarked.

"It certainly does, Jerry. I never expected anything like this in my old
age. But surely my people know me well enough not to believe the reports
that are in circulation. My life has been blameless so far."

"Indeed it has, sir. We all know how you have lived and worked among us,
and have been as one of us for forty years. But it does not take much to
make people change. They are as fickle as the wind. Think what they did
to the Master Himself. One day they cried 'Hosanna', and the next
shouted 'Crucify Him'! I guess human nature hasn't changed much since
then. If they did it to Him, you must expect that they will do it to
you."

"I know it, Jerry, I know it. You and I have been friends for long
years, and it is a comfort to talk with you. But my heart is very
heavy, and I feel ashamed of my lack of faith. For years I have preached
it to others, and now when I need it so sorely myself I do not have it.
But, there, I must get on my way home."

The sound of a car stopping outside caused the storekeeper to rise to
his feet and look out of the window.

"It's the detective!" he exclaimed. "He's coming in here."

Mr. Landrose also rose from his chair, his face paler than usual. He
felt that an ordeal was now before him. He had never faced a detective,
although he had read about interviews with such men. He longed to be
away in the seclusion of his own study. But in another minute the door
opened, and the visitor entered. Mr. Landrose observed him closely. He
was a slight young man, self-confident, with a parrot-like nose, and
eyes like a hawk. So he seemed to the clergyman, and he aroused in him a
feeling of dislike, akin to disgust. When Jerry introduced him, he found
it difficult to be civil. He merely inclined his head, but uttered no
word.

"Ah, Mr. Landrose, I am delighted to meet you," the visitor began. "I am
Peter McPrentiss, and I am anxious to have a talk with you. You are the
rector of this parish, so I believe."

"I am," was the quiet reply.

"Then you can give me some information about the cemetery near your
church. You have a record, I suppose, of all the burials that have taken
place there?"

"I have, Mr. McPrentiss. Why do you wish to know?"

"You buried a Mrs. Martha Strowbridge there, so I believe, and I wish to
be sure of her grave."

"And why do you wish this information?" There was a sternness in the
parson's voice which McPrentiss noticed.

"Oh, merely that I might have the grave put in good order, and a
suitable tombstone erected."

"Are you a relative, sir? By what authority are you undertaking this
work?"

"Mrs. Strowbridge's only son gave me orders to come here and attend to
the job."

"Why did he not come himself?"

"He is away from home at present, so he sent me in his stead."

"And how long have you been here, Mr. McPrentiss?"

"About two days."

"Are you charging for your service by the day?"

"Why, what do you mean, sir?"

"Two days seems a long time to find out about the grave. Why did you not
come to me at once? You must know that I keep the records."

This was something for which McPrentiss was not prepared, and it annoyed
him. The storekeeper was delighted, and only with difficulty repressed
an audible chuckle. He was surprised at the stand the parson was taking.

"I see you are silent," the clergyman continued. "You do not care to
explain the reason for your presence here. Neither is it necessary, for
to me it is quite evident. You are a spy sent here to find out something
about that woman's death and burial. But you will learn nothing from me.
Had you come to me like a man at first, it might have been different.
You have been sneaking around the parish trying to find out from my
people something upon which to base a charge against me. And as for the
grave, that has been already attended to. I have looked after it myself.
You will find it well sodded, with fresh flowers placed daily upon it. A
suitable tombstone is now being made in the city, which should be here
shortly. Good-day, sir."

Before the astonished McPrentiss could reply, Mr. Landrose had left the
store. The parson was much excited, and the surge of battle thrilled his
soul. He was determined now to stand his ground and defeat whatever plot
might be formed against him. He stepped aside to avoid a toad that had
been crushed by an auto. Then he stopped and looked down upon the
mangled creature.

"Poor little thing," he murmured. "You were innocent, and harmed no one,
yet you have been cruelly treated. Such is the way of the indifferent
world. And I, too, shall be destroyed if I simply permit people to ride
over me. But they shall not do it. I am innocent, and right will prevail
every time."

He lifted his head, and off in the distance he saw a large bird cleaving
the air on strong wings. It fascinated him.

"It is an eagle!" he exclaimed. "The Lord must have sent it for my
special benefit, to arouse me, and to teach me a much-needed lesson. I
am to be like that eagle, and not like the toad. I must rise on wings of
faith and prayer, and be strong. And there is the promise, 'They that
wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with
wings as eagles; they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and
not faint.' Ah, I see it all now. I must put more dependance in Him,
wait upon Him, and He will sustain me, and give me strength."

Greatly encouraged by what he had seen, he moved on his way. As he
entered the rectory, he met Rachel, who handed him a letter.

"A boy left it here this morning," she explained. "He said it is very
important. I do believe it's from Doris."




CHAPTER XX

A MOTHERLY SOUL


When Doris left the rectory that night after the baby had been bathed
and put to bed, she walked slowly along the road toward the hotel. Her
heart was filled with a new feeling of happiness. The little child had
come into her life just when she needed it the most. Ever since her
grandmother's death there had been so little for her to do. Her days had
been spent in idleness when she longed for activity. Around her she saw
people busy at their various tasks, women in the houses, and men in the
fields, while she was doing nothing. And in another week the hotel would
be full of people as idle as herself. And this would continue all
through the summer. She had thought much about this and dreaded the idea
of meeting so many strangers and mingling with them. Her one hope now
was in the baby. She could spend the days at the rectory caring for it,
and need only come back to the hotel at night. Thus in having something
to occupy her hands and mind she would be happy.

Then she thought of John, and longed to see him again and tell him about
the baby. She knew that he would be greatly interested in the little
waif, and sometimes they would take it out in his car. What a joy that
would be. So guileless was her heart, and so pure her life, that never
for an instant did she imagine how people would misconstrue her acts of
loving care. She missed John this evening and wondered when he would
return from the city. It was easy to talk to him, and she always felt so
strong when he was with her. To her John was the true ideal of manhood.
She knew that he loved her, and she loved him. But she did not wish to
be married for a while. She wanted to be free for a year or two, at
least, to go her own way and to do as she liked. But she had no definite
plan in life, and that worried her. She did not have to work to make a
living like most people. But she was anxious to be doing something to
benefit others. She had seen too much of people with more money than was
good for them, wasting their lives in idleness, and always seeking for
some new thrill to satisfy their cravings for pleasure. She knew how
sick and disgusted they were with life, simply because they thought only
of themselves and what would give them the greatest amount of happiness.
She did not wish to be like them. Her grandmother had been like that,
and Doris shuddered at the thought of the last few years of her life,
the futility and staleness of it all, moving from place to place,
seeking and never finding rest for her soul and mind. And yet thousands
were doing the same, with little or no thought of anything else. No, she
would not be like her grandmother. She would be of some use in the
world.

Thinking thus, she was about half way from the main road to the hotel,
when she heard the rattle of a car behind her. Then a gleam of light
illumined the gravelly way, and she stepped aside to let the car pass.
To her surprise it stopped when near, and a woman spoke to her.

"Excuse me, Miss, but is this the way to the hotel?"

"Yes, keep right on," Doris explained. "It's only a short distance."

"Thank ye kindly, Miss. But would ye mind tellin' me if Miss Randall is
livin' at the hotel yit?"

"I am Miss Randall. What can I do for you?"

"Well, bless my heart!" the stranger exclaimed. "Did ye ever know the
beat of that, Jimmy? We've run across the very one we're lookin' fer at
the first slap."

"Looking for me?" Doris asked in surprise.

"Sure. We've come all the way from Glen Hollow to git ye. Poor Christie
Rixton is breakin' her heart to see ye."

At these words Doris started, and then stepped forward to the side of
the car. Owing to the darkness she could not see the woman's face. But
that did not matter.

"Did you say Christie Rixton?" she asked.

"Ay, Miss, that's what I said, an' I'm mighty glad ye remember her.
It'll save a lot of explainin'."

"But she can't be the same Christie Rixton I knew," Doris protested.
"She is not living here."

"She is now, Miss, an' no mistake, fer she's at my house an' wants to
see you. How could she be anyone else?"

"How far is it to your place?"

"Oh, about twelve miles, though it doesn't seem that fer now since we've
got the car. It was a mighty long jant when we had to come with horse
an' waggon. Now we kin do it in a jiffy."

"And you want me to go back with you?"

"It's you we're after, Miss. It'll be mighty hard on poor Christie if ye
don't go with us. Jimmy'll bring ye home in the mornin' if ye want to
come. He won't mind the run in. Guess he'd spend the hull time in the
car if I'd let him."

"I'll go, then," Doris declared. "There is really nothing to keep me."

"I'm glad to hear ye say that, Miss. It'll mean a great deal to Christie
to see ye. So climb in here by me. Jimmy likes to have the front seat
all to himself when he's drivin' so he kin have plenty of room fer his
elbows. It's a caution how they do stick out when he has his hands on
the wheel."

Doris acted upon the impulse of the moment. She took her place in the
back seat, and listened to the mother giving instructions to her son
about turning the car.

"Be keerful, Jimmy," she warned. "We don't want to be upsot."

When the turn had been safely made, and they were speeding down toward
the main road, the mother leaned back and gave a deep sigh of relief.

"Jimmy does handle this car well, if I do say it myself. I was scart
most t' death to drive with him at first, but now I don't mind one bit.
He's stubborn as a mule, jist like his pa was, but he's got his good
pints, fer all that. I don't know how in the world I'd git along without
him. He's my mainstay now since his poor pa left me."

"Where is your husband now?" Doris asked, as she struggled to maintain
an upright position as the car bumped on its way. They were now on the
rough road leading to Glen Hollow.

"I'm not jist sure where Sam is, Miss," the woman replied. "He wasn't
very religious as fer as church goin' was consarned. But the Lord is
merciful, so mebbe He won't be too hard on him now."

"Oh, your husband is dead! I did not understand that."

"Yes, Miss, he's been dead fer three years now, an' me an' Jimmy have
kept the place goin' ever since. The neighbors thought we couldn't run
the farm, but we've shown 'em what we kin do. It was only last week that
Pete Morrison sez to me, 'Mrs. Bristol,' sez he, 'you an' Jimmy have
done fine, better, in fact, than when Sam was livin'.' That's what he
said, an' it was the----"

Another bump caused the woman to leave her words unfinished. She
clutched the side of the car in a frantic effort to keep in the seat,
while Doris was thrown over against her.

"Fer pity's sake, Jimmy, be more keerful!" she cried. "Ye'll have us all
killed if ye don't go slower. It's no wonder Christie is laid up in bed
if this is the way ye treated her."

Jimmy made no reply to his mother's remonstrance. In fact, Doris had not
heard a word from his lips. She longed to see her companions, and she
wondered what they looked like. She knew that Mrs. Bristol was a large
woman judging by the amount of seat she occupied. She enjoyed her talk,
and believed that she was a motherly soul.

"Is Christie related to you?" she asked.

"No, Miss, Christie is no blood relation of mine. But I've done more fer
her than them who are. She's had a hard life of it, poor dear, an' was
banged around from place to place until I took her under my wing an'
made a home for her with us. Then she went out into the world to make a
livin' on her own account, so that's where I s'pose ye met her, Miss.
She often wrote to me an' said how kind ye was to her."

"Yes, Christie was with us for two years, and I became very fond of her.
She was a good girl and looked well after my grandmother. She left us
when we went abroad for a trip and I did not know what had become of
her. What is the matter with her, anyway?"

"I do not know, Miss, fer she won't tell me. Jimmy was comin' home one
evenin' this week from the shore an' he found her settin' by the road
right near that old waterin' trough we passed a little way back. She was
all fagged out an' could hardly git into the car. I put her to bed as
soon as she got home, but she couldn't sleep, an' wouldn't eat a thing.
She jist lay there, with wide-starin' eyes as if she saw something
awful. Why, she's failed to a shadder, an' not one bit like the Christie
she used to be. I'm at me wit's end to know what's troublin' her. She'll
die if she don't eat something. An' she can't last long without
sleepin'."

While Mrs. Bristol was speaking a sudden idea flashed into Doris's mind,
which caused her heart to beat fast. She tried to banish it as
improbable, but it persisted in returning, each time stronger than
before.

"When did Christie come to you?" she asked as calmly as possible.

"Only night before last, Miss. Ye see, it was when Jimmy was comin' home
from the wharf."

"Did Christie come on the steamer?"

"I don't know. Jimmy didn't see her until he picked her up on his way
home. But she might have come ashore without Jimmy seein' her. He was on
the lookout fer a butter tub, an' when he's got his mind sot on one
object he can't think of anything else. He's jist like his pa fer all
the world. Sam, poor soul, had only room in his brain fer one thing at a
time, an' it was generally a mighty small thing at that. It's the way
with some men, I guess."

Doris was thinking hard. She felt sure now that it was Christie who had
left the baby at the rectory. And was it her own? The thought of this
made her suddenly weak. Was it possible that Christie, bright happy
Christie, had been cruelly betrayed? She longed to ask Mrs. Bristol if
the girl had told her anything. She desisted, however, hoping to find
out later from Christie herself. Her heart felt unusually heavy, and she
shivered.

"Are ye cold, Miss?" Mrs. Bristol inquired. "I felt yer body tremble.
Here, let me put this shawl around ye. It was stupid of me not to think
of it before."

"I am not cold," Doris replied. "I was merely thinking about Christie,
and wondering what could have happened to her."

"That's what I'd like to know. It's not like Christie to be all run down
to a shadder an' so sad. She was allus chipper an' happy. She's got
something on her mind, mark my word. A suspicion will keep poppin' up,
no matter how hard I try to keep it down. May the Good Lord fergive me
fer even thinkin' of that about her."

"But suppose your suspicion proves to be true, Mrs. Bristol, what would
you do?"

Doris felt the woman by her side start at this question, and heard her
give a slight gasp of dismay.

"Do! What would I do, Miss? Jist the same as I've allus done, of course.
I took her in when she had no real home, an' my house will be home to
her still as long as I'm in charge. She'll be Christie to me, no matter
what has happened."

"I am glad to hear you say that, Mrs. Bristol. And I shall help you all
I can. We must help Christie."

Mrs. Bristol's only reply was to seize her companion's hand in hers and
press it firmly. It was a big hand, and it gave Doris the assurance that
the woman's heart was big, too. She was anxious to see the face of this
motherly soul who had done so much, and was willing to do more for an
unfortunate girl.

And thus they sat with their hands clasped while the car lurched on its
way. Their hearts were deeply touched, and on the common ground of
loving sympathy these two women, in many ways so different from each
other, were as one.




CHAPTER XXI

JIMMY'S THREAT


Lying upon a little cot in the parlor Christie Rixton was fast asleep. A
shaded lamp on a nearby table cast its faint light upon the girl's white
face and jet-black hair. Her hand pressed her heart, and the silent
watchers at the door knew that it was there her great trouble lay.
Quietly they turned and went back to the kitchen. Doris could not
restrain her tears, and Mrs. Bristol was visibly moved.

"It's the first sleep she's had since she came home," she whispered. "It
will do her good, an' we must not disturb her."

"I hardly knew her, she has failed so much," Doris replied. "Do you
suppose she will tell us what is the trouble?"

"I hope she will, Miss. That made me anxious to go after you when she
wanted to see ye. But ye look tired yerself, me dear. I'm goin' to make
a cup of tea. That'll freshen us all up. Jimmy, bring in some good dry
wood, an' I'll have the water bilin' in a jiffy."

Mrs. Bristol was all that Doris had expected her to be. She was a stout
middle-aged woman, of medium height, with a full beaming face and
sparkling dark eyes. She radiated health and strength by her very
presence and cheery manner. She was a new type to Doris, who seated by
the table watched her as she stirred up the fire and then poured water
into the kettle. What an active life she must lead, the girl thought.
She noticed her hands, so toil-worn and rough from working in the house
and out-of-doors. Furtively she glanced down at her own soft ones. She
felt rebuked for her selfish life of indolence and ease. She could not
help recalling the many women she had met, weary and languid, with
nothing to do, humored in every whim, and yet not satisfied. But here
was a woman in a back settlement, pulsing with energy, working hard
early and late, and yet bright and happy through it all.

She glanced around the kitchen. Everything was spotless, and the stove
shining like a burnished mirror. And how comfortable and homelike Mrs.
Bristol made the room seem. She had donned her big apron and was
replenishing the fire with some of the wood Jimmy had dumped into the
wood-box. The boy was altogether different in appearance from his
mother. He was about seventeen years old, tall and lanky, with a
generous shock of light-brown hair. He had a bright open face, and his
eyes, like his mother's, were dark. He was visibly embarrassed by the
girl's presence, and kept as close to the door as possible.

"Come, Jimmy, git washed, an' yer hair brushed," his mother ordered.
"We're goin' to have a bite to eat as soon as the water biles."

The boy gave a quick furtive glance toward Doris, and then shuffled over
to the wash-stand.

"You are a good driver, Jimmy," Doris complimented, anxious to force him
to speak. But Mrs. Bristol forestalled him.

"Isn't he, now? Why, he took to drivin' like a duck to water. When
Christie gits around, we're goin' off on a picnic. But I'm afraid it'll
be some time before the poor girl feels like goin' anywhere. I hope t'
goodness she'll tell ye what's the matter. If she doesn't, I don't know
what in the world to do."

"Perhaps Mr. Landrose might be of some help," Doris suggested. "She was
always fond of going to church when she was with us."

Mrs. Bristol stood for a while lost in thought. This seemed to be a new
idea to her. Then she slowly shook her head.

"No, I don't think Parson Dan had better see her jist now, Miss. He's as
good a man as ever walked, but----" She paused and turned toward the
stove.

"Wouldn't Christie confide in him, Mrs. Bristol? It might give her great
relief, and he would be able to comfort her."

"I have me doubts, Miss. Ye see, what that poor girl needs is real
spiritual help. The parson would begin with the Church, an' ask her no
end of questions, if she had done this an' that. He was allus at her
when she was livin' with me, an' she used to git frightened whenever he
came to the house, so kept out of his way if she could. It was the same
all over the parish, I guess. The parson never spares himself, an' is on
the go mornin', noon, an' night. He visits the sick like clock-work, an'
as fer helpin' folks who are in need, why he'd give his last cent an'
the very clothes off his back, I do believe. But fer all that, he
doesn't seem to have the hearts of his people, an' I hear rumors about
gittin' another man in his place."

"What is the reason?" Doris asked. "I am sure that Mr. Landrose is a
good man. He has been very kind to me, anyway."

"Oh, there's no doubt about his goodness, Miss. He is deadly in earnest,
as all know. But sometimes I think he doesn't really understand the
needs of poor hard-workin' people. When we go to church we like to hear
somethin' right from the heart, a word of cheer an' comfort, the same as
the Great Master Himself gave when He was on earth. Now, I believe in
the Church to which I belong an' love, but it does git on me nerves to
hear Sunday after Sunday nuthin' but docternal things about what the
Church teaches concernin' Baptism, Confirmation, Holy Orders, an' sich
like. It's all right, I s'pose, to teach about 'em at times so our young
people will know what to believe, but a steady diet of that gits rather
tiresome. We have a purty little church jist up the road, but dear me,
only a handful of people goes. The young folks stay away, an' I have an
awful time on Sunday to git Jimmy to go with me."

"Doesn't Mr. Landrose feel badly about the small attendance?" Doris
asked.

"He does, Miss, but somehow he can't git his eyes opened to the truth.
He thinks the fallin' off is due to the times, an' the giddy ways of the
world. I have talked to him as plain as I'm talkin' to you, but he won't
heed a word I say. He's mighty stubborn when it comes to what he
considers Church principles."

"But surely all that wouldn't interfere with Mr. Landrose coming to see
Christie," Doris persisted. "A man of his long experience must know what
to do and say."

Mrs. Bristol turned her attention to the stove as if she had not heard
the girl's words. She prepared the tea, and then went into the pantry
and brought forth a piece of frosted cake. This she placed upon the
table, and cut off several generous pieces.

"Come, now, Miss, an' help yerself," she invited. "An' Jimmy, pull up a
chair an' be sociable. My lands! some young fellers I know wouldn't have
to be asked to come to the table, 'specially when a purty girl is
settin' there. But Jimmy is much like his pa in that respect, so
bashful, an' not one bit like me. Hope yer tea's all right, Miss? Help
yerself to the cream. It's right from our Jersey cow, Blossom. Ye must
see her t'morrow, fer she's a fine critter, an' so gentle. An' oh,
Jimmy, did ye fasten the barnyard gate good an' solid? I don't want the
cows to git out like they did last night."

Jimmy merely nodded and went on quietly with his eating. The girl's eyes
twinkled as she noticed his embarrassment. She felt sorry for him, as
well, for he did look so uncomfortable. She wondered if he ever replied
to his mother's flow of words, or was he so accustomed to her that he
paid little attention to what she said? She did long, though, to make
him speak.

Suddenly a change overspread Jimmy's face. The hand that was lifting a
piece of cake to his mouth was arrested. He straightened himself up in
his chair, and looking toward the parlor, listened attentively.

"What's the matter Jimmy?" his mother asked.

"Christie's callin'. Guess she wants ye."

Dropping the knife she was holding in her hand, Mrs. Bristol hurried out
of the kitchen. At once Jimmy hitched his chair closer to Doris. His
bashfulness had vanished, and he seemed an altogether different person.

"Is Christie goin' to die?" he whispered.

"Oh, I hope not," Doris replied.

"So do I. But she ain't Christie no more. She's changed awful."

"I know she has. But what can we do?"

"Dunno."

Into the boy's eyes came an expression of anger, and his face clouded.
He leaned over toward Doris.

"If she does die, I'll kill somebody."

This fierce declaration was startling. Instead of the long lank and
embarrassed lad who had slouched up to the table a few minutes before,
Doris beheld a youth aroused to wild passion. What was the cause of it?
she asked herself. She noticed his white strained face, and the
tenseness of his doubled fists lying motionless upon the table.
Something had aroused him, and she wondered what he knew. Before she
could reply, his body relaxed, and he jerked away his chair as his
mother came back into the kitchen.

"Christie was jist talkin' in her sleep," Mrs. Bristol explained. "I
hope t' goodness she won't wake until mornin'."

"May I watch by her side to-night?" Doris requested. "I should like to
do it."

"No, no, you mustn't, dear. I'll sleep in the little bed-room off the
parlor, so will be handy if she wakes. You need a good night's rest, so
you're goin' to have Christie's room upstairs. It's all fitted up jist
as she left it. I've allus kept it fer her so she could have it whenever
she came home. But now as she's not well, it's better fer her to be in
the parlor where I kin keep an eye on her. An' besides, it saves me from
so much runin' up an' downstairs."

"But I did not come prepared to sleep here," Doris protested. "I
expected to be with Christie all night, and go home in the morning."

"I know ye did, me dear. But as she's asleep, there's no sense in you
stayin' up. Ye want to feel fresh an' chipper in the mornin' when ye go
in to see Christie. Come, now, an' let's go up to the room. Her things
are all there, so ye kin use 'em."

Half an hour later Doris stood alone in the little room and looked out
of the window facing the east. She was fascinated by the scene before
her. A small lake lay like a gem among the hills not far from the back
of the house. The moon riding over the tall trees in the distance cast
its bright beams in a long silvery path across the surface of the placid
water. On the farther side of the lake a valley could be dimly
discerned, reaching back among the wooded hills. Through the
partly-raised window came the chorus of croaking frogs. Insects of the
night, especially the beligerent mosquitoes, hummed outside, vainly
trying to find an entrance through the close-meshed window screen. All
this was a new experience to the girl standing there, and she enjoyed
it. She thought of how often Christie must have looked forth from that
same window, and dreamed of the great world beyond. Perhaps she had
considered her life dull in this quiet place, and longed for the lights
and stir of the city. With what hopes she must have gone forth, and now
she had come back ruined and heart-broken. She sighed as she mused upon
this. Would the lake, the hills, and the trees be the same to her now?
Not likely. Something had gone from her life which could never be
restored.

Then suddenly there came into her mind the story of the Garden of Eden
and the Fall. How often she had heard that read in church, but had never
comprehended its meaning. It had been a wonderful tale to her, and she
had felt that Adam and Eve had been unjustly treated by their expulsion
from the Garden. But now she understood, and it caused her heart to
quicken. It was really the story of life, and in poor Christie she had a
good example. Never again could the girl return to the same life of
innocency and joy. It was closed to her forever. And who was the serpent
that had betrayed her? Was he going on his way careless and indifferent
to the sorrow he had caused? She thought of Jimmy's fierce words, "If
she does die, I'll kill somebody." What did he mean by that? Did he have
any suspicion? It did seem so. And standing there, she wondered what
Christie really meant to Jimmy. They had known each other in the bright
happy days before the dark shadow of trouble had fallen. They had been
like brother and sister, and no doubt had often played on the shore of
the lake, and had wandered through the fields and the woods. And how
much he must have missed her when she had left home, and looked eagerly
forward to her return when they would be together again as in the past.
And now she had come, but not as he had expected. Her life had been
wrecked. Little wonder, then, that the lad should be roused to fury at
the thought of the harm that had befallen the girl he loved with all the
intensity of his being. She, too, could sympathize somewhat with him,
but at the same time she knew that he must be restrained from any wild
deed of rashness.

As she at length drew down the blind, and turned away from the window,
she wondered what she could do to help Christie, and also prevent Jimmy
from committing any crime.




CHAPTER XXII

WITHIN THE LITTLE ROOM


When Doris awoke in the morning the sun was shining brightly into the
room, and the birds were chirping and singing cheerily in the trees
outside. Hurrying to the window she looked out, and gave a little
exclamation of delight at the scene which met her eyes. The lake was
like glass, and the trees and hills were mirrored in its quiet depths. A
few wreathes of land fog were hanging tremulously over the surface, and
gradually vanishing beneath the rays of the mounting sun. To the left
was a large field, partly tilled, and nearby was an orchard. Down to the
right was a swamp, covered with a thick growth of alders. It was the
lake, however, which held her attention. How she longed to be out upon
it in the small boat she saw drawn up on the shore. If she could induce
Christie to go, she would take her for a row, for surely the charm of
that quiet water would soothe the girl's troubled heart.

Quickly she dressed, then made her way downstairs and out the back door
into the open. How fresh and invigorating was the air, and how like
fairyland everything seemed. Mrs. Bristol was feeding the chickens,
which were clustered around her. When she saw Doris, she made her escape
from the little clamoring creatures and came toward the house.

"Good mornin', Miss," she accosted. "I'm afraid the noise of them
chickens woke ye. But it's impossible to keep 'em quiet when they're
hungry. They're jist like many other two-legged critters that wear
clothes instead of feathers."

"Oh, the chickens didn't disturb me," Doris smilingly assured her. "But
I am afraid I slept too long as it is. I never saw such a wonderful
morning. And isn't the lake beautiful? Perhaps I can induce Christie to
go for a row with me. How is she, anyway?"

"Jist about the same. She's all fixed up, an' has had her breakfast,
sich as it was, fer she didn't eat more'n a mouthful, an' took only a
sip of tea."

"I must see her," Doris declared. "Perhaps she will tell me what is
troubling her, and that will relieve her mind."

"But ye must have yer breakfast first," Mrs. Bristol insisted. "It's all
ready an' waitin'. Jimmy had his over an hour ago, an' he's gone to the
shore. He said he had to git the car fixed. But I don't believe it was
that which took him this mornin'. There's somethin' on his mind which is
worryin' him. He's not been one bit like himself since Christie came
home. He's mighty fond of her, he surely is, an' he's taken her trouble
very much to heart. But, come, Miss, an' have a bite to eat."

Breakfast ended, Doris went at once to Christie. She found her lying
with eyes staring straight before her. Going to her side, she took her
right hand in hers.

"Don't you know me, Christie?"

"Yes, I know you, all right," was the low response. "You are Miss
Randall."

"Don't call me that, Christie. Call me 'Doris' like you used to do when
you lived with us."

Very intently Christie looked into the girl's eyes as if trying to
recall something she had forgotten. She then withdrew her hand, and hid
her face in the pillow.

"What is the matter, dear?" Doris asked, seating herself on the side of
the bed. "Call me anything you like. But talk to me. I want to hear your
voice."

For a few minutes there was no response. Doris was puzzled, not knowing
what to say or do. At length Christie turned her face toward her, and
reached out her hand.

"I am glad you have come, Doris. It is good to see you. But, oh, how can
I talk to you?"

"You wanted to see me, didn't you?"

"I did. I wished to tell you something, but now I am afraid."

"Do not be afraid to tell me everything, Christie. I want to help you,
remember."

"I know you do. But if I tell you what I have done, you will have
nothing more to do with me. I have been so bad."

"Now, look here, Christie, don't talk that way. Won't you trust me?"

"I want to, and yet I am afraid."

Doris rose to her feet, walked to the window, and drew back the
curtains.

"There, that lets in more light and makes the room brighter. It is so
beautiful out of doors this morning, I wish you could be there."

"I know what it is all like, Doris. The lake is like that mirror over
there, isn't it? And the trees are reflected in the water, and
everything is calm and peaceful. I have often seen it that way."

"Wouldn't you like to be out there, Christie? The boat is on the shore,
so suppose we go. It will do you good."

"Yes, I'd like to be out there. It's the only place where I want to be.
I would be at rest, then."

"I am glad to hear you say that, dear. Get up, and I will help you to
dress."

Christie, however, shrank back, and again turned away her eyes. Doris,
watching her, was deeply touched by the expression of agony that was
depicted upon her face.

She wondered what she could do.

"So you won't go with me?" she at length asked.

"No, not now. When I go, I must go alone. I want no one with me. It will
be better."

Even then Doris did not understand the meaning of these words. So
unaccustomed was she to life's tragedies that she had no idea of the
desperate plan that was lying hidden in Christie's mind.

"Well, never mind now," she replied, again taking the girl's limp hand
in hers. "We can talk just as well here. Tell me everything. What is
troubling you so much?"

"My great sin," was the low reply. "When I left you, I fell, and now I
am paying the penalty. I went astray, and am lost. I am very bad."

"No, no, you are not, Christie. No one can make me believe that."

"But what about my baby, Doris? Doesn't it prove how bad I am?"

This unexpected confession was startling, but Doris remained calm. She
knew now that her suspicion had been correct.

"What baby?" she asked, desirous that Christie should explain
everything.

"Why, the one I left at the rectory, of course. You surely have seen
it."

"I have, Christie, and a dear little fellow he is. I love him so much.
How you must miss him."

"I do, I do. It nearly broke my heart when I had to leave him there. But
I was desperate, and there was no other way."

"Why didn't you bring him with you here? I am sure Mrs. Bristol would
have given him a hearty welcome."

"Hush, don't talk so loud, Doris. Mrs. Bristol doesn't know. Neither
does Jimmy. If they did, I believe they would turn me out. That is the
way with the world, and that is why I left the baby at the rectory.
People don't want an unmarried woman with a baby. She is disgraced, and
no one will have pity on her. Oh, I know, for I was turned out on the
street, and had no where to go."

"But why did you leave the baby at the rectory, Christie? Did you go
there on purpose?"

"No, I didn't."

The girl paused and stared straight before her, evidently lost in
thought. Doris believed that she had something more to tell, and longed
to know what it was.

"Were you planning to bring the baby here, Christie?"

"No, I never intended to do that. But there was one place where I
decided to take him, hoping that he would be well cared for. But I was
turned away with curses, and told to take the 'brat' to the rectory.
Yes, that was what my dear baby was called, a 'brat', and I was called
something worse than that."

"You were!" Doris could hardly credit such words. Her face flushed with
anger. "Who was it?"

"I must not tell you, Doris. It would do no good, but only make matters
worse."

"It might do a great deal of good, Christie, if you tell me. Anyway, it
would make matters worse for such a brutal person."

"What could you do?"

"I do not know for sure. But I would do something."

"And get yourself in trouble."

"Oh, I wouldn't mind that kind of trouble one bit. I am really in a
fighting mood, though perhaps I do not look like it. When I think of the
way you have been treated it makes me angry. I am only a woman, and have
not had much experience of the rough side of life. But I have done
considerable thinking, and am far from satisfied. There is something
wrong with society in general which will cast out women who have made
mistakes, and condone the crimes of men who are often more to blame.
Isn't that so?"

"It is, it is, Doris. I know it is so from sad experience."

"Why don't you do something, then?"

"What can I do? I am helpless."

"Who is the man who betrayed you?"

"I do not care to tell you. And, besides, it would do no good."

"But it might. I would like to try, anyway. Has he helped you?"

"Helped me! No. He cleared out and left me. I begged him to marry me,
and wrote him several letters."

"What did he say?"

"He never answered them."

"Where is he now?"

"I do not know."

"And would you marry him should he be willing?"

"I would, for I love him. I have loved him for years, and he is the only
man I ever did love."

"And you love him so much that you will not expose him now? Is that it?"

"It is."

This was something Doris could not understand. But she knew Christie
meant what she said. The expression in her eyes, and the fixed
determination upon her face showed that she would die rather than betray
her faithless lover.

"Did he promise that he would marry you?" she at length asked.

"Oh, yes. We were engaged for over a year."

During this conversation Christie had been plucking most of the time at
the edge of the quilt. She was nervous and restless, and her words
lacked animation. More than once she turned her eyes toward the door as
if expecting some one. Not wishing to question her any more at present,
Doris rose to her feet.

"I am going to leave you now," she told her. "You look tired. But before
I go, I want to ask you a question."

"What is it, Doris?"

"How did you know that I was at the hotel, and spent much of my time at
the rectory?"

"I was told so. That was my only hope, for I knew you would be good to
my baby."

"Thank you, Christie, for your trust in me. You need not worry about the
baby. He is well looked after, and Rachel loves him as much as I do. I
am going to leave you now, so you can sleep. When you feel stronger I
shall take you for a row on the lake. That will brighten you up."

Christie at once reached out and caught Doris by the hand with a firm
grip.

"Don't go just yet," she pleaded. "There is something I must tell you. I
can endure it no longer, and you must know."

"Suppose you wait until you feel stronger," Doris suggested.

"No, no. I must tell you now, no matter what happens. You will never
forgive me, I know. But I must speak. I lied about you. I said that the
baby is yours, and that I had been looking after it for you. There, now,
I have told you."

Christie had nerved herself for this confession, and expected to see
Doris greatly shocked. There was also defiance in her eyes as she
watched intently the face of the girl standing before her.

But instead of words of reproach and indignation, she was surprised at
her companion's merry ripple of laughter. Mrs. Bristol heard it in the
kitchen, and was curious to know its meaning. She came to the door and
looked in.

"Well! well!" she exclaimed, "what a great time you two are havin'."

"Indeed we are," Doris smilingly replied. "Christie has just told me a
wonderful joke."

"Is that so! I'm mighty glad of that, an' it lifts a big load from me
heart. Keep up yer fun, me dears."

As she turned back to her work, Christie looked earnestly into Doris's
face.

"And you are not mad at me?" she asked.

"Mad! No."

"Not for telling that lie about you? Just think what an awful thing it
was, and what people will say."

"Oh, I am not worrying about that, Christie. What harm can it do me?"

"You don't know, Doris. You can't understand, for you are so innocent.
But all will hear about it, and it will be a blot upon your character.
That is what troubles me so much."

"Why did you tell that lie about me, Christie?"

"Because I was crazy, I guess. I did not know what to do, for a poor
girl with a baby is helpless. Nobody would have anything to do with her.
She would starve, and the baby, too. But I knew you had plenty of money,
so could get along all right, no matter what people might say. So when I
was told to take the baby to the rectory and say it was yours, I did so
without thinking what it would mean to you."

"So you were told to do that, were you?" Doris asked in surprise. "Who
was it? Surely there is no one who wants to injure me."

"I must not tell you, Doris."

"But I have a right to know. There must be some evil design back of
this, and I am anxious to know what it is. You must tell me."

"No, no, I dare not. Please don't urge me, Doris."

"Why did you tell me this, then?"

For a while Christie remained silent. Then her right hand moved slowly
to her bosom, and she brought forth a piece of paper, and gave it to
Doris.

"That is the reason," she said. "Take it away and read it. But don't
show it to anyone. I am tired now and want to sleep."




CHAPTER XXIII

UPON THE LAKE


Doris was glad to be once more in the fresh air, away from Christie's
depressing influence. Her heart was heavy at the girl's mental suffering
and she could do nothing to help her. Mrs. Bristol was busy in the
kitchen, but Doris did not wish to talk to her just then. She wanted to
be alone that she might think over all that Christie had told her.

Slowly she moved toward the lake, with the piece of paper in her hand.
The boat was drawn up a little on the shore, and a pair of rough oars
were within. She was accustomed to the water, and knew how to row. It
took her but a minute to push off the boat and step in. Laying the paper
on the seat by her side, she seized the oars and soon she was speeding
over the placid surface straight for the opposite shore. The exercise
exhilarated her, and sent the blood mantling to her cheeks. What a joy
it was to be out in the open with the fresh morning air surrounding her
instead of in that stuffy room. She thought of Christie and how often
the girl must have revelled in such a pleasure. But she would never do
so again. The peace and harmony of the quiet lake were lost to her for
ever.

At length she stopped rowing and gazed thoughtfully before her. Why was
such a shadow allowed to fall upon Christie? she asked herself. The
question startled her, for never before had such a thought come into
her mind. So protected had been her own life, with all the comforts that
money could provide, she knew nothing of the great tragedies of the
world. Now she was beginning to learn, and it worried her. Everything
around her was so full of peace and beauty, with joy abounding, that she
wondered why sin and sorrow should be like a terrible blot upon it all.
Did Mr. Landrose know the meaning? He was an old man and had seen much
of life, so surely he could explain the mystery. But how could she ask
him? What would he think of her ignorance? Then she remembered what Mrs.
Bristol had said about the clergyman. His people were drifting away from
him, and did not attend church. He had evidently lost their sympathy.
Why was that?

She was about to resume her rowing, when her right hand touched the
paper lying on the seat. Annoyed at her forgetfulness, she quickly
picked it up. It was merely a tract, about the size of many she had seen
before in churches. They had never interested her, for they had all been
about Church doctrine, such as Apostolic Succession, and similar
subjects. At one time her grandmother had made a hobby of collecting
tracts in the various churches she attended. She had never read them
herself, but had always insisted upon Doris doing so, especially on
Sundays. This had antagonized the girl until she hated the sight of a
tract. This one, however, aroused her curiosity, simply because of its
connection with Christie. It was much soiled, showing considerable
handling.

The heading at once attracted her attention, "Redeeming Blood," and
underneath was the text, "The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from
all sin." With quickened heart, Doris read the tract from the beginning
to the end. It was a message told in simple language of the need of all
for the redeeming blood of Christ to wash away sin and to cleanse from
all unrighteousness. She had never thought about that before, but now it
came to her with a startling intensity as she thought of Christie. Where
had the girl obtained the tract, and what did it mean to her? That she
treasured it, was quite evident. Had she learned those words by heart,
and had their meaning gone deep into her soul? That was what Doris
longed to know, and she was anxious to hear the story from Christie
herself.

With something new to think about now, she again picked up the oars and
rowed swiftly toward the woods beyond. This took but a few minutes, and
here in a shady spot where the branches of the trees almost touched the
water she ran the bow of the boat upon the sandy shore. How restful was
the place, and what peace surrounded her. But her heart was strangely
disturbed. The thought of Christie and that piece of paper occupied her
mind. She wanted to know more. Again she read the tract and began to
understand something of what it would mean to a girl who had sinned. It
must have affected her deeply, otherwise she would not have kept it. But
she had asked Doris not to say anything about it. Surely she was not
ashamed to have such a paper in her possession. Had the tract given her
comfort, or had it added to her sorrow?

As she thus sat thinking, a splash in the water on her left startled
her. Looking quickly around, she saw Jimmy leaving the other shore
riding upon a single log. He was a little distance beyond where the
lake narrowed into a creek leading to the valley down which the brook
flowed. Straight as an arrow the log shot forward impelled by the long
pole in the hands of the boy. Skilfully he balanced himself upon his
precarious craft, and Doris watched him spell-bound. Never before had
she seen anyone ride a log, and her heart thrilled and her eyes sparkled
with interest and pleasure. Barefooted, light of clothing, and head
bare, he seemed the very embodiment of suppleness and grace. She was
fascinated by what she saw. Then when Jimmy paused for an instant in his
poling and waved his hand to her, she sprang to her feet and waved back
to him. When near the shore, Jimmy turned the log downstream and headed
straight for her. On it came, cleaving the glassy water like a thing of
life, and leaving in its wake two long rows of sparkling ripples.

As the log grounded, Jimmy sprang nimbly ashore, and his mouth parted in
a grin at the girl's look of admiration.

"My! you did that well," she complimented. "How in the world did you
manage to stay on that log?"

"Aw, that's nuthin'," the boy replied, digging his right foot into the
sand. "Ye should've seen me ridin' logs down the brook last spring when
the Sanson drive came out. Why, this is nuthin' to that."

"I suppose not, Jimmy. But it's wonderful to me, for I never saw such a
thing before. Do you think I could do it?"

Jimmy laughed outright. Then his face sobered.

"Ye'd better not try it with them fine duds on," he advised. "That log
is as slippery as an eel an' rolls purty lively. Ye'd git a duckin' in
no time. It takes practice."

"I am sure it does," Doris replied. "But I should like to try it. You
must teach me some day."

"Gee! ye don't mean it, do ye, Miss Randall?"

"Indeed, I do. And look, Jimmy, I want you to call me 'Doris'. You and I
are to be great friends, and I like to be called by my first name."

"A'right, I don't mind. 'Doris' is easier to say than 'Miss Randall'. I
only git 'Jimmy'. Wouldn't it sound funny to hear me called 'Mr.
Bristol'?"

"How old are you, Jimmy?"

"Me? Oh, I'm only sixteen, but I kin do the work of a man any day, an'
I'm as strong as a moose. Why, I do most of the farmin', besides cuttin'
cordwood an' logs in the winter. Last spring I helped bring out the
Sanson drive, an' the boss said I done fine. So did A'nt Hanner. She
praised me a lot."

"Who is she?"

"She's Mrs. Rosher, an' lives up the road. She's not me a'nt, but
everybody calls her 'A'nt Hanner'. She's a wonder, a'right, though she
can't walk a step. She knows a lot, too, all about poetry, an' sich
stuff. Her an' the parson went to school together, an' she knows all
about him. She's not one bit afraid of him, an' they talk jist like you
an' me are talkin' now."

"Why, you are not afraid of the parson, are you, Jimmy?"

"No, I'm not 'xactly afraid of him, but I like to keep out of his way.
Ye see, he is allus askin' me questions about the Catechism, an' I allus
fergit 'cept the first one about me name. I know that, of course, but
he allus asks it every time he sees me. Now, A'nt Hanner's not like
that. She talks to me about things I'm interested in, sich as huntin',
fishin', an' shootin'. Then on Sundays she reads an' tells me great
stories from the Bible an' other books. Yep, she's a fine woman. She's
human, a'right, an' understands boys."

"My, what a great time you must have here in the country, Jimmy. I
should like to live here all the time. It is so quiet and beautiful."

"Mebbe ye'd git tired if ye had to live here twelve months in the year.
I do, anyway, 'specially since Christie went away from home. Things
ain't what they used to be now."

The sad tone in Jimmy's voice caused Doris to look up quickly into his
face. He was staring straight before him out across the water. She felt
sorry for him.

"But Christie has come back," she reminded. "Are you not glad?"

"Oh, yep, she's come back, a'right. But she is not Christie as she used
to be. Something's happened to her."

The angry expression that suddenly appeared upon his face caused Doris
to shrink back in fear. His eyes blazed with wrath, and his hands
clenched hard.

"If I could git hold of the man that harmed Christie, I'd shoot him," he
cried.

"Jimmy! Jimmy! do you know what you're saying?" Doris demanded. "That is
terrible."

"I know 'tis. But it's terrible the way Christie's been treated. An' the
brute who done the harm has left her. That's what makes me bilin' mad."

"Suppose you sit down and let us talk this over," Doris suggested.
"There, that's better," she continued, when he had complied with her
request. "Now, tell me what you know."

"I only know that Christie has a baby which she has no right to have."

"Who told you that?"

"Oh, it's all around. Everybody knows it. Didn't you hear it?"

"No, I didn't."

"Ye didn't! What did ye hear, then?"

"That it is my baby. Christie said so herself."

"Huh, that's one of Tim Bendle's lies, but no one believes it. Anyway,
Tim's stopped his gabbin' since he had his mouth shet good an' tight,
an' says nuthin' now. I tell ye, his face is a fright."

"Why, what happened to him?"

"Oh, Mr. Norton, the man who owns the Quarries, landed on him. It must
have been some fight, an' I wish I'd been there. Tim's no lamb when it
comes to fightin', so Mr. Norton must be some hustler."

At these words Doris started, and her face flushed. She was eager to
hear more.

"What was the cause of the trouble?" she asked as calmly as possible.

"It was the lie Tim told about you, of course. When Mr. Norton heard it
he landed upon Tim right in front of his house, an' they had it out
there an' then. That stopped Tim's gabbin', a'right, an' everybody
else's, too, fer no one wants to git Mr. Norton after him. He must be a
holy terror to fight if he kin lick Tim."

The girl's mind was not upon what Jimmy was saying. She was thinking of
John and his nobleness in defending her honor. She longed to see him
that she might thank him for what he had done for her. A feeling of
pleasure came into her heart as she mused upon his action on her behalf.
Presently she noticed that Jimmy was standing before her.

"Ma's wavin' to us," he announced. "Dinner must be ready. But before we
go, I want to ask ye something."

"What is it?"

Jimmy, however, did not at once reply. He became suddenly embarrassed
and rubbed his bare feet together and dug them into the sand. Doris
waited for him to speak. At length he looked up into her face.

"Say, ye didn't do it, did ye?" he asked.

"Do what?"

"Make away with yer grandmother, so you an' the parson could git her
money?"

At this question the girl's face became white and her body weak. Her
appearance frightened Jimmy, and he laid his right hand timidly upon her
arm.

"I didn't mean to make ye feel bad," he apologized. "But I wanted to
know, that's all."

"And did you really hear that about me, Jimmy?" Doris asked in a low
voice.

"Yep, I sure did. It's the rumor in at the shore, an' the detective's
there now investigatin'."

"The detective! Investigating! Oh, there must be some mistake. Who in
the world could have started such a lie as that?"

"I knew it was a lie," Jimmy declared, as his face brightened. "But I
wanted to hear ye say so yerself. I'm satisfied now. I was sartin you
an' the parson wouldn't do sich a thing."

"But who started the lie, Jimmy?"

"Dunno fer sure, though I have me s'picion."

"What reason could anyone have for saying such a thing?"

"Some folks don't need no reason, I guess, Doris, 'specially one skunk I
know. Remember the lie that was told about you an' Christie's baby."

"But there was some foundation for that. She told it herself."

"Yep, mebbe she did, an' mebbe she didn't. But, ye see, people have been
wonderin' a lot why yer gran'mother was buried at night. That started
'em gabbin', I guess, an' it jist needed some cuss to start the blaze."

"I have been wondering about that, too, Jimmy. I could never understand
it."

"Couldn't ye! An' her yer gran'mother! Well, that's queer. D'ye s'pose
Parson Dan knows anything about it?"

"I do not know. If he does, he never told me."

"Why didn't ye ask him?"

"I didn't like to."

"So yer afraid of him, then, the same as most of us. But A'nt Hanner's
not, anyway, so she might ask him."

Doris made no reply, but stooping, picked up the oars. Jimmy pushed off
the boat, and sprang lightly aboard. Then out across the water they
moved straight toward the opposite shore. With long steady strokes Doris
sent the boat forward. She needed this work as a relief to her agitated
heart and mind.




CHAPTER XXIV

"A'NT HANNER"


Doris ate very little dinner, and this worried Mrs. Bristol.

"Why, I thought ye'd have a great appetite after yer row on the lake,"
she declared. "But dear me, ye haven't eaten enough to keep a bird
alive. Jist look at Jimmy how he's stowin' the food away. He kin eat,
a'right, an' it's some sense cookin' fer him."

"I had a late breakfast," Doris smilingly reminded. "But I am sure when
I have been here for a few days my appetite will be like Jimmy's. I am
going to take a walk right after dinner. That should do me good."

"Indeed it will, me dear. An' would ye mind doin' an errand fer me? I
want to send a little basket of things to A'nt Hanner. She likes my
cookin', an' I generally share some of me cookies, an' doughnuts with
her. Jimmy was goin' to take 'em, but that would mean most of the
afternoon fer him, an' he's got his hoein' to do. He lost the hull
mornin', so he's got to make up fer it. People who live on a farm can't
afford to waste much time."

Doris was pleased at this request, for she did want to meet Mrs. Rosher,
and she had been wondering what excuse she could find in order to call
upon her. The opportunity had come in a most unexpected manner. She did
not wish to talk with Christie just then, as she had something of a
very serious nature to consider. She was not so curious now about the
tract, so it could wait until she returned.

As she walked slowly up the road, carrying the basket in her hand, she
was lost in thought. The news Jimmy had imparted gave her deep concern.
How could people say that she and Mr. Landrose had killed her
grandmother in order to get her money? It was terrible, and the thought
made her heart beat fast. And what would be the outcome? Would they be
arrested and tried for murder? Who had sent the detective, and what had
he learned? And what could she say in her own defence? And what could
she tell about the night burial when she could give no satisfactory
explanation? Did Mr. Landrose know anything? she wondered. And if he
did, why had he not said something to her?

The more she thought of this, the more puzzled she became. Why had her
grandmother come to Green Mount, anyway? She had often thought about
this, and believed it was not altogether for the sake of her health.
What had Mr. Landrose meant to her? She remembered how very much
interested her grandmother had been about the clergyman and his work in
the parish. Several times she had found her seated by the north window
looking over at the church and the rectory. Doris had thought nothing
about it at the time, although she had mused over it a great deal since
then. And why had Mr. Landrose been chosen as her guardian? Surely her
grandmother must have had a definite reason when she made her will and
planned everything before her death. And, then, the burial by night.
That was the climax to the mystery, which now was likely to cause very
serious trouble. Would Mr. Landrose be able to explain?

The road she was travelling wound its way through a beautiful wooded
region. Sturdy maples, birches, and other trees crowded close to the
ditches and shaded the road from the hot sun. Birds flitted and chirped
among the branches, while butterflies zig-zagged through the air. There
was much to charm the eye and give peace to the soul, and at any other
time Doris would have been delighted at the scene around her. Now,
however, she was too much occupied with other things.

As she thought about the clergyman a feeling of rebellion rose in her
heart, the same as she had experienced the first time she had met him at
the hotel. What right had he to be her guardian? He was an old man, and
although he had been kind to her, how could he understand the ways of
youth? And why had he accepted the responsibility of looking after her?
She almost wished that she had acceded to John's suggestion about making
the office of guardianship so unbearable that Mr. Landrose would be
forced to give up in despair. Anyway, she longed to be free, and to do
as she liked with her own money. It was galling to think that she would
be forced to wait almost two years before she would be at liberty. How
could Mr. Landrose sympathize with the plans she had already made for
helping Christie and Mrs. Bristol? But if she had possession of her own
money she could do as she liked.

At length the forest thinned, and soon Doris noticed cleared land ahead.
In a few minutes she reached the end of the woods and saw green fields
on both sides of the road. Beyond was an orchard and nearby a house
close to the highway. This she knew must be where Mrs. Rosher lived, for
it was the first house on the left, so Mrs. Bristol had told her.
Presently she was able to see clearly. It was an old fashioned building,
gray and weather-beaten. It was a cosy place, and seemed very homelike
to the girl as she drew near.

In front of the house was a garden full of flowers, carefully tended.
Through this was a gravel walk which led to a vine-covered porch. Here
in an easy chair sat a woman, busily knitting, with an open book on her
lap. She did not see Doris until she was part way from the road. As she
lifted her head and beheld the girl approaching, a smile of welcome
overspread her face. It was a face of singular beauty, and although time
had stamped furrows of care and suffering upon it, yet it was devoid of
the slightest sign of fretfulness or rebellion. Strength and repose were
strongly stamped there, and her faded eyes were expressive of tender
sympathy and love. Her head, covered with thin white hair, was adorned
with a neat cap, and over her shoulders a light shawl had been spread.
Doris paused when part way from the road, somewhat awed by the scene
before her. It seemed almost sacrilege to intrude into that little
sanctuary of peace and break the charming spell surrounding it. Why
should such a woman be disturbed with the troubles of others? she asked
herself.

It was while she hesitated that Mrs. Rosher looked up, saw her, and
smiled.

"Come right in, my dear," she invited. "I have been expecting you. There
is a chair all ready."

Too surprised to speak, Doris stepped forward, and took the hand of
welcome held out to her. Eagerly and longingly the old woman looked into
her eyes, and what she saw there seemed to satisfy her.

"Sit right down, now," she said. "You must be tired after your walk. It
is good of you to come to see me."

"How did you know about me?" the girl asked, as she seated herself in
the comfortable chair.

"Oh, I have heard about you quite often, for the parson has told me.
And, my dear, I am not 'Mrs. Rosher', but 'A'nt Hanner'. That is what
everybody calls me, and I like it."

"But how did you know that I am at Glen Hollow?"

"I hear everything that goes on in this place," the old woman smilingly
replied. "You can't keep anything from the people here, and they always
tell me what they hear."

"You know about Christie, then."

"Not all." Mrs. Rosher's eyes grew sad. "But what I do know worries me
very much. I am longing to see the parson. Perhaps he knows."

"So Mr. Landrose comes to see you?"

"Yes, nearly every week. We were children together, and we have been
great friends ever since. He has been so good to me. A brother, in fact,
could not have been better. Look at my garden. He attends to that, and I
wish you could see him working out there. He always seems so happy when
digging in the ground and fussing with the plants. He is so much
interested then that I believe he forgets for the time that he is a
clergyman. The people in this parish would not stand in such awe of him
if they knew him as I do."

"I can hardly imagine Mr. Landrose as a boy," Doris replied. "Did he
play and laugh like other children?"

"Why, certainly. We had such great times together at school, and Daniel
was always so full of mischief. Didn't your grandmother tell you
something about those days?"

"She never did. But did you know my grandmother? Was she a playmate of
yours?"

Mrs. Rosher was not surprised at the girl's astonishment, as she had
surmised the truth from what Mr. Landrose had told her.

"Yes, Martha Benson, your grandmother, and I were close friends until
she married and went away. I never saw her afterwards."

"But she wrote to you, of course."

"Oh, no. She lived in a different world from mine, among big people in
society. My! what a gay life she led. The parson and I always kept track
of her as much as possible through the newspapers. But she forgot all
about me, I guess."

"She never said anything to me about her childhood days, Mrs. Rosher. I
wonder why. Where was her home, anyway?"

"At Riddle Creek, a little country place, nestling among the hills a
long way from here. I go there very often in imagination while I sit
alone day after day. They were happy times. The parson went away to
college, and I married and came here. I was delighted when he was
appointed to this parish. But poor man, he was heart-broken when he
first came here, and for a while he was so depressed that I was afraid
he would give up the Ministry."

"What was the cause of that?"

Mrs. Rosher did not at once reply. She let her knitting fall into her
lap, and looked out over the fields and the woods. Her eyes grew misty,
and her hands trembled. Doris felt that she had made a mistake in asking
the question.

"Forgive me," she said. "I did not wish to make you feel badly. There is
something you do not want to tell me."

"I am not thinking of myself, dear, but of you," was the quiet reply.
"There is a secret I think you should know. The parson will not tell
you, as he is so diffident. You have often wondered, no doubt, why your
grandmother made him your guardian."

"Indeed I have. I have thought so much about it, but could never
understand."

"Ah, I thought so. It is too bad your grandmother didn't tell you that
she and the parson were once engaged to be married."

At these words Doris rose from her chair and stood erect, with eyes
aglow and cheeks burning. But not a word did she say.

"Sit down, my dear," Mrs. Rosher advised. "I knew it would astonish you.
But it is all over now, and your grandmother is gone."

"But was it her fault?" Doris asked.

"It was. She was fond of life, and the thought of being a country
parson's wife never appealed to her. She wanted to travel and live in
fashionable places. She got her desire, poor soul, but she left a
heart-broken man behind her. He never really recovered from the blow. I
did what I could to comfort him. I can see him now in that room in
there, overcome with grief."

"I suppose he loved her."

"He certainly did, and I know that she loved him. There was no doubt
about that. But the attraction of the world was too much for her, and
she sacrificed her love. It is a sad story."

"And grandmother's life was a sad one. I know something about that. She
was never happy, and she was always hurrying from place to place for
some new excitement. I could not understand her then, and I have often
wondered why she came at last to this quiet parish. But I know now. It
was to be near Mr. Landrose. I remember how she asked questions about
him, and at times I found her seated at the window looking over at the
church and the rectory. And she sent for the clergyman just before her
death, and he gave her the Communion. I was very rebellious at the time,
and could hardly be civil to him. I thought he had no right to be my
guardian. I see things in a different light now."

"I am glad you do, dear," and Mrs. Rosher reached out and took the
girl's hand in hers. "But it was for the best, I am sure, and the parson
sees it now. Martha Benson would never have made a suitable parson's
wife, and she would have given him a great deal of worry. He could not
see it, however, at the first, and it nearly broke him down. But he
recovered from the blow and threw himself into his work. He lived for
the Church and the people in his parish. He never spared himself in
ministering to his flock. But he needed a wife, if any man ever did. He
became very much set in his way, and could not bear any interference
with his work and teaching. When it came to the question of Church
doctrine he was unyielding, and I really think he was unreasonable, as I
often told him. But his heart was tender, and he was ever helping
others. He thought nothing of himself, and visited houses where
contagious diseases prevailed, and stayed sometimes days to help when
the neighbors would not go near. And he gave most of his small salary to
relieve the needy. I do not know what we should have done but for him
when my husband was sick. And now he supplies me with many comforts
which my son Tom cannot afford. He and Mr. Norton have both been so kind
to us."

"You know Mr. Norton, then?" Doris asked as casually as possible.

"Indeed I do. He is a special friend of mine. We met for the first time
last fall. He was hunting and stopped here to inquire the way to Square
Lake where there is always excellent duck hunting. We became acquainted
then, and he often comes to see me. He supplied me with books, and this
is one of his I was reading when you arrived. It is 'The Roadmender' by
Michael Fairless, although her real name was Margaret Fairless Barber,
and an invalid. Perhaps you have read it."

"No, I have not," Doris acknowledged, as she picked up the book. "I am
afraid that my reading has been neglected. But I am glad that Mr. Norton
comes to see you. It must be nice to have visitors."

"It is, and I always like to see them. They are all so good to me. But
Mr. Norton is somehow different from most. He has a fine mind and talks
about things in which I am interested. Now, I like to hear the news, and
a bit of gossip doesn't come amiss to an old woman like me. But, then,
one gets tired of too much of that, so a change is very welcome. And Mr.
Norton provides it. He likes to talk about the beautiful things of
Nature, and of helpful books he has read. I always feel inspired after
he has been here."

To hear John praised was pleasant to Doris. She had the suspicion,
however, that Mrs. Rosher was saying these things for her special
benefit. But the kind old woman showed no sign that she had heard any of
the rumors that were afloat concerning the young couple. As the girl
looked upon the sweet withered face she understood why everybody loved
her and called her affectionately "A'nt Hanner". She loved her already,
and there were several questions she wished to ask her. But just then
the sound of an auto down the road arrested her attention. She looked
and saw a car approaching at a rapid pace. In another minute it had
stopped before the house, and John stepped out. From his movement she
knew that something out of the ordinary had happened, and her heart beat
fast as she rose to meet him.




CHAPTER XXV

DESPAIR


Christie was lying in her room with eyes closed as if asleep when Mr.
Landrose arrived. But she was not asleep, neither was she unaware of his
presence. She heard him talking with Mrs. Bristol outside and knew that
he would soon be in to see her. A great desire came upon her to run
away, for she did not want to meet him. The habit of childhood was still
strong upon her. Then she had always shrunk from meeting the clergyman.
His many questions about the Catechism had annoyed her. "My Duty towards
God, and my Duty towards my Neighbor," "The Ten Commandments," and other
instructions contained in the little manual had been like a night-mare
to her. She had never learned them to the parson's satisfaction, and
more than once he had scolded her. If he had been severe upon her then,
would he not be full of wrath now over her great sin? He would sternly
reprimand her, she was certain, and she felt that she could endure no
more. Her cup of agony was already full to overflowing, and now the
parson had come to increase, if such a thing were possible, her misery.
Almost intuitively she fumbled for the little tract, and at once
remembered that she had given it to Doris. She was sorry, for if she had
it now it might give her some comfort and support.

She did not see the clergyman as he entered the room, but she heard
every step he made to her side. She shivered slightly when he at length
stopped near the bed.

"Christie."

The tone of the clergyman's voice caused the girl to open her eyes in
spite of herself. She could not believe it was the parson she had known
who was speaking to her. Surely it must be someone else. She had never
heard him speak like that before.

"I hope I am not disturbing you, my child. I was very anxious to see
you. How are you feeling now?"

Christie, however, made no reply. She kept her eyes fixed intently upon
the parson's face. He could not understand the meaning of that look, so
strange did it seem to him. It made him nervous, and he was at a loss
what to do and say. If she would but speak, it would be different. But
to see her staring up at him in such a peculiar manner was hard to bear.
Drawing a chair up close to her bed he sat down and gently took one of
her hands in his.

"What is troubling you, Christie?" he asked. "Tell me. You need not be
afraid."

For a minute he waited for a reply. The silence was intense, almost
unbearable. He was about to give up in despair and leave the room, when
Christie's lips moved.

"Why have you come to torment me?" she asked in a low voice.

"Torment you, Christie! Why, what have I said and done that you should
say that?"

"But you are looking at me, and that is more than I can stand. You are
so good, while I am so bad. Your eyes burn my very soul. Oh, please go
away. Don't come near me again or you will drive me mad."

"But I have come to comfort you, my child, and not to torment you.
Surely you will believe that I am your friend and want to help you."

"How can you help me? You have never sinned and suffered. No, no, you
can't understand. Please go away."

"You are wrong, Christie. I have sinned and suffered, so I can
sympathize with you. Won't you believe me?"

"You have sinned!" The girl's eyes grew wide with amazement. "Are you
telling me the truth?"

"The very truth. I have done wrong many times, but there is one sin, the
greatest of all, which tortures me night and day. For it there is no
forgiveness. I have been untrue to my sacred vows as a clergyman. I have
disobeyed my Bishop."

Totally unprepared was Mr. Landrose for the result of his words. Instead
of being horrified at such a confession, Christie laughed outright. It
was a laugh of mingled scorn and amusement, which caused the clergyman
to wince as from a blow. He knew at once that his sin meant nothing to
this girl, and he regretted that he had mentioned it to her. A laugh
such as that was unanswerable. And while he hesitated as to what he
should say in reply, Christie spoke.

"What does your sin amount to? No one will think anything of that. But
mine will disgrace me for life, and all will despise me. You are a man,
and men can sin and people think little of it. But I am a woman, and
when women make mistakes there is no excuse for them. They are
disgraced forever. Oh, no, you can't compare your sin with mine. You
don't understand."

There was such a tone of bitterness and misery in Christie's voice that
Mr. Landrose was almost in despair. Never before had he met with such a
problem in dealing with his parishioners.

"Remember, Christie, that the Lord is merciful, and He will forgive even
if people will not. That should give you some comfort."

"Comfort! It is now that I want comfort and mercy. But do I get them?
No. I was turned out on the street because of my sin. And who did it?
People who call themselves Christians and are great Church workers. Oh,
I know. And it will be the same with your good Church people here. They
will shun and despise me."

"You are wrong, Christie," the parson quietly replied. "All will not
despise and condemn you. Mrs. Bristol and Doris will not. Neither will
I. We shall do all in our power to help you. But, there, I must not tire
you any longer with my presence. Only before I go, I am going to have a
prayer."

Dropping upon his knees, Mr. Landrose offered up a simple prayer. He
used no book, and the words he uttered came from a heart full of loving
concern for the troubled girl. He had never done the like before, and he
was surprised at the sense of strength that possessed his soul as he
knelt there. He seemed to be endued with power from on high, and when he
at length rose to his feet, the radiance upon his face caused Christie
to tremble and avert her eyes. With a word of encouragement, and a
sympathetic pressure of her hand, he quietly left the room.

For some time Christie lay very still, lost in thought. She could not
account for the expression upon the parson's face. But she was annoyed
at herself for the bitter words she had uttered. And the clergyman had
not rebuked her! He had merely talked to her as a father would talk to
his child. Why did he do that? she wondered. It was not like the Parson
Dan she had known all her life.

As she thus mused, Doris entered the room and came at once to her side.
Christie did not notice how tired the girl looked, nor how pale was her
face.

"How are you feeling now?" Doris asked, as she sank wearily down upon
the chair by the bed.

"Just the same," was the low reply. "The parson was here. Did you see
him?"

"Yes, I was talking with him for a few minutes outside. Poor man, he is
much worried, and so am I."

"What has he to worry about?" Christie contemptuously asked. "He's
afraid of the Bishop, that's all."

"So he was telling you, then?"

"Yes, he said something about disobeying his Bishop. He thinks that is a
great sin. But he doesn't know what sin means."

"But did he tell you that he is suspected of murder?"

With a startled cry Christie sat suddenly up in bed and clutched her
companion's arm.

"Suspected of murder!" she cried. "Not Parson Dan! It can't be true.
There must be some mistake. That man would never commit murder."

"I know it, Christie. But people are talking a great deal, and a
detective has been sent to investigate. And I am suspected, too. It has
been reported that we murdered my grandmother to get her money."

"Doris!" It was all Christie could say, so overcome was she. Her face
which had been so pale, was now deeply flushed. She was breathing hard,
and her hands were clenched firmly together.

"And didn't Mr. Landrose say anything to you about his trouble?" Doris
asked.

"Not that one. Oh, if I had only known I would not have treated him as I
did. But it is too late now. And he was so kind, and prayed for me as I
never heard anyone pray before. God forgive me!"

Then she turned her eyes upon Doris's face.

"Have you that paper about the blood?" she asked.

"Yes, it is right here. Tell me about it, and what it means to you.
Where did you get it, anyway?"

"From 'Crazy' Paul. You know about him, don't you?"

"Why, no, I never heard of him before. Who is he?"

"A street preacher. He goes everywhere, but always preaches in the open,
generally on street corners. I have heard him often, and used to think
it great fun to listen to him. He is a wild looking man, with long hair
and beard. Crowds go to hear him, and one night when I was listening
with several girl friends, I laughed at what he said about sin and the
Judgment. He stopped at once and looked hard at me. Then he stepped
forward and gave me that piece of paper, and went on with his talk. I
nearly dropped from fright and left at once with that paper clutched in
my hand. When I got home I read it, but it meant nothing to me then. I
kept it, though, and when my trouble came I thought of 'Crazy' Paul and
the paper. I read it over and over again until the words, 'Redeeming
Blood', fairly burned in my mind. There, I have told you all about it."

Christie's face was as pale as death, and her eyes were staring straight
before her. She was breathing heavily, and Doris realized something of
what the confession had meant to her. She was moved with a deep
compassion, and taking the girl's hand in hers she pressed it in loving
sympathy.

"Thank you, Christie, for telling me your story," she said. "But you
have not told all. What has that tract meant to you?"

"I cannot say, so please do not ask me. All I know is that it torments
me night and day just like the parson's eyes when he looked at me. I am
such a terrible sinner that goodness nearly drives me mad."

"Don't say that, Christie," Doris pleaded. "I can't bear to hear you
talk that way. Isn't there something I can do for you? Remember, I want
to help you."

For a full minute the unhappy girl lay very still with her eyes closed
as if she had not heard. Then she aroused herself, and reaching out,
caught Doris by the hand.

"Take care of my baby, please. I give him to you. Don't let his father
have him. Promise me."

"But you will want your baby yourself, Christie, when you get well."

"Maybe so. But promise, anyway."

"Yes, I promise that I shall do the best I can. But nothing is going to
happen to you. What makes you talk that way?"

"Oh, I've been thinking, that's all. I don't want to live, and I often
wish that the baby would die, too."

"Christie! You must not say that. It is terrible."

"I suppose it is," and the girl gave a deep sigh. "But just think what
the darling will have to endure, and through no fault of his. Wouldn't
it be better for him to die now than grow up and learn that he is
a--a--. Oh, I can't bear to say the word. But he will bear the stain all
through life. People will never forget it, and it will hound him to the
grave. My darling, darling laddie! How you will suffer for my sin!"

Christie's face was tense with mental agony, and her eyes glowed with a
strange wild light. Doris had never seen her like that before, and she
became alarmed.

"There, there, don't worry now," she soothed. "You must get well for the
baby's sake. You have him to think of, remember, and you must be strong
to protect him. And, perhaps, some day he will take care of you when you
need him most. And who knows, his father may come some day and provide
for you both."

"He'll never come back," was the hopeless reply. "He's too much taken up
with other girls. They're crazy about him."

"Do they know what kind of a man he is?"

"Know? Certainly they know. But what difference does that make to them?
A man can sin as much as he likes and people think nothing of it. But
let a woman sin, and God help her! She is disgraced and an outcast
forever. It is true."

"I am afraid it is, Christie. But suppose that man did come back would
you be willing to marry him? Do you love him still?"

"Love him! I love him more than ever. He is the only man I ever did
love."

"And after the way he has treated you?"

"Yes. I can't help it. I have tried to put him out of my heart and mind,
but I can't."

"Won't you tell me his name, Christie? I might be able to do something
to help you."

"No, I must not. It would do no good. Please don't urge me."

Despairing of being able to help the unfortunate girl, Doris left her.
She had a long talk with Mrs. Bristol that night as they sat together in
the kitchen. They were both greatly puzzled and worried over the
invalid's condition. Before going to bed they went in to see Christie
and found her much brighter, and almost cheerful. Some color had come
back into her cheeks, and she asked several questions about Jimmy and
the car. She even spoke of A'nt Hanner, and said that she was going to
visit her as soon as she was able. Much encouraged, Doris and Mrs.
Bristol left her and went to their rooms, feeling confident that
Christie had taken a turn for the better.

Just before midnight the roll of thunder was heard off in the west. It
grew louder as it swept toward them. Ere long it was crashing right
overhead. The lightning was incessant, blinding. And with the thunder
came the rain. It dashed against the windows and beat in fury upon the
roof. It was one of those swift sudden storms which at times follow a
day of intense heat.

In her room Christie heard it. Formerly such a storm had always
terrified her. She welcomed it now, for it was in harmony with the
agitated state of her mind. The raging of the heavens seemed to her like
the wild outburst of long pent up emotion. And for this reason the storm
appealed to her. For weeks, and even months, she, too, had been holding
sternly in check the wild passions of her soul. No tears had brought a
blessed relief, and in all her suffering, bodily and mentally, she had
never given vent to her feelings. But now with the confusion reigning
around her, the depths of her soul were stirred, deep responded to deep,
and the long-restrained energy at last burst its barriers. With a wild
shriek she leaped from her bed, rushed to the door, sped through the
kitchen and out into the open. It took her but a minute to reach the
lake, push the boat from the shore, and spring on board. Seizing an oar,
she drove the craft reeling through the water. Never once did she
hesitate in her movements. One idea only seemed to possess her mind, and
unwaveringly she pursued it. The rain beat upon her and drenched her to
the skin. But of this she paid no heed. She was now beyond all sense of
feeling.

Reaching at length the deepest part of the lake, she dropped the oar,
and stood for a few seconds like a statue. Then with another wild
shriek, she hurled herself into the water, and sank beneath the
surface.




CHAPTER XXVI

NIGHT AND STORM


Alone in her room that night Doris had much to think about. So disturbed
was her mind that she knew she could not sleep. Moreover, the sun which
had been beating upon the roof all day made the room very warm. It was a
relief to sit at the open window and feel the cool refreshing air
drifting in from lake, meadow, and forest. She thought over all that had
happened during the day, of the startling news Jimmy had told her about
herself and the parson, of her visit to A'nt Hanner's, of John's
unexpected arrival, and of her talk with Christie. Never before had so
much been crowded into one day of her young life, and she felt almost
bewildered. The hope of what John would do was her only comfort. He
would help her if any man could. A pleasurable and assuring feeling came
into her heart as she thought of him. She recalled, too, what Mrs.
Rosher had told her about John, and of his kindness to her in her
loneliness. It revealed more of the nobleness of his nature, and she was
glad of the discovery she had made.

Closing her eyes, she leaned comfortably back in her chair and remained
for a while lost in thought. Why should she fear when she had such a
defender as John? she asked herself. And the parson, too, was her
guardian, so he would be in duty bound to protect her. She thought of
what Mrs. Rosher had told her about the clergyman, and his life-long
sorrow. And to think that her grandmother had been the cause of it! How
much that good man had suffered so patiently through the years. She felt
a great sympathy for him, and longed to do all in her power for him. It
was not his fault that he had been appointed her guardian. It was due to
her grandmother, and on account of his love for her the clergyman had
undertaken the responsibility. She was sorry now that she had so
unjustly judged him, and her face flushed with shame as she remembered
the morning she had asked him to buy her clothes. He had tried and
failed. It had seemed amusing to her then, but it brought only remorse
to her heart now.

And since then Christie had come with her burden of sorrow. What could
she do for the unfortunate girl! An idea which she had been thinking
about that day again came into her mind. Why could she not get a snug
little cottage near the river and live there with Christie? They could
have the baby with them, and what a pleasure it would be to care for the
little fellow. There need be no worry about money, so their lives could
be happy.

Then John again came into her mind. Just why she should think of him
then she did not altogether know. But a little cottage without him did
not seem so fascinating. Her heart beat somewhat faster as she imagined
living without the man who now meant so much to her. More and more was
she coming to realize that life without him would be unbearable. She
needed him, and she believed that he needed her. She had always liked
John as a friend and a pleasant companion, but never before had she
considered him as anything else. Now he was vital to her happiness. She
was learning at last the meaning of a great love, and it thrilled her
entire being. She could sympathize with poor Christie, whose love for
the man who had deserted her was like an unquenchable fire. She would go
to the girl in the morning and have a long talk with her.

She was at length aroused by a bright flash of lightning, followed by
the rumble of thunder away to the west. She had never been greatly
alarmed by a thunderstorm, but when it presently broke in all its fury
she shrank back in dismay. Rising to close the window through which the
rain was beating, she caught a glimpse of the lake as it was illuminated
for a fleeting instant by a streak of lightning. The scene was of
surpassing grandeur, and awe-inspiring. Not only the water, but the
hills and woods stood forth etched for a flaming second across the
blackness of night.

And as she stood there, Mrs. Bristol entered the room, and came close to
her side. The presence of this woman comforted her. She looked so calm
and strong.

"Are you afraid?" she asked, putting her arms around the elder woman,
and clinging to her. "What a terrible storm!"

"It is, me dear, an' it does make the shivers run up an' down me spine.
But it'll soon be over. My! this rain is great. The crops needed it in
the worst way."

"What a comfort you are, Mrs. Bristol," Doris replied. "I do not feel so
frightened now with you here. But I wonder how Christie is making out.
Does she mind a storm like this?"

"Oh, she's all right. I peeked in at her before coming upstairs, an' she
seemed asleep. Anyway, her eyes were closed an' she was as quiet as a
mouse. Poor child! I really wish that something would arouse her. I
can't bear to see her layin' there with no interest in anything. I did
hope that the parson might be able to do something to comfort an' cheer
her. But he told me himself that he was helpless an' did not know what
to do. He was feelin' very down-hearted when he went away."

"We all are helpless, Mrs. Bristol."

"We'll have to leave it to the Lord, I guess. He's the only one who kin
help Christie now."

"Can't we find the name of the man Christie loves, and try to bring him
back to her?"

"H'm, that's easier said than done. Christie won't tell who he is, and
if we did know what could we do? No, I guess it's only the Lord who kin
work sich a miracle as that, an' it looks to me as if He doesn't intend
to do it this time. Oh! what's that? It's Christie!"

Rushing to the door, she hurried downstairs. Doris followed her, her
face very white, and her heart beating fast. The wild shriek she had
heard, mingled with the crashing of the thunder, almost unnerved her.
Yet she kept on her way and hastened after Mrs. Bristol. The rain was
sweeping over the land in great sheets, driven by the wind. But Doris
never thought of it as she stepped out into the night. By the incessant
flashes of lightning she could see Mrs. Bristol running to the lake. At
the shore she stopped, and as Doris reached her side the two peered out
over the water. At every flash they could see Christie standing in the
boat, and a short distance behind a strong young swimmer, which Doris
knew could be none other than Jimmy. She clutched her companion by the
arm as she watched, although neither uttered a word. But when Christie
at length threw down the oar and leaped overboard, they cried out in
dismay.

"Oh! oh! oh!" Mrs. Bristol wailed. "Christie is drownin' herself! What
kin we do?"

"Jimmy will save her. Look, he is almost to the place now."

At once Mrs. Bristol rushed into the lake, her arms stretched out over
the water in a mute appeal to her son battling for the life of the
drowning woman. The horror of the situation overwhelmed Doris as she
stood motionless upon the shore. It all seemed to her like a terrible
dream. She felt helpless, unable to move hand or foot. She saw Mrs.
Bristol standing waist-deep in the water, and the little boat in the
distance, empty now. The thunder rolled, the lightning flashed, and the
rain fell. Inky darkness and vivid gleams followed one another in rapid
succession. Her brain reeled. Her body grew weak and limp. She dropped
upon the ground and buried her face in her hands to shut out the
bewildering sight. But not for long. Some irresistible force compelled
her to look again. As she did so, she saw the boat coming slowly toward
her, and some one was clinging to the side. Could it be Jimmy? But where
was Christie? Had he saved her? The flashes dazzled her eyes so she
could not see distinctly. Mrs. Bristol was still standing in the water.
What a wonderful woman she was to remain there so long. How strong she
must be. Then she saw her reach out and lay her hands upon something and
drag it toward the shore. It looked like the boat, but she was not sure.
Then she noticed that Mrs. Bristol was coming out of the water carrying
something in her arms. Could it be Christie! With a cry of joy she
sprang to her feet, and as the woman reached the land, Doris clutched
her by the arm.

"Is it Christie? Is she alive?"

"Out of the way," was the stern order, as Mrs. Bristol staggered along
with her burden.

Doris shrank back as from a blow. Never before had she been spoken to in
such a manner, and a feeling of resentment rose in her heart. This was
followed immediately by a sense of humiliation at her own weakness.
While she had been crouching on the shore Mrs. Bristol had been alert
and ready to help as soon as possible. Her admiration for this woman
increased as she followed her to the house. No longer was she the
garrulous person of an hour before. She was now face to face with a big
problem. The life of an unfortunate girl was at stake and there was no
time for useless talk. Doris was beginning to learn something of her
real character which had been tested for more than a score of years in
her stern battle for existence on her stubborn farm. Her's was the heart
of a heroine, and she proved it this night. And she proved her skill,
too. Doris watched her as she laid Christie upon the kitchen floor and
bent to the task of restoration. Her face was almost severe as she
worked over the unconscious girl. She seemed to know just what to do,
and Doris watched her in amazement. Where and when had this woman
learned all this? she asked herself.

After a few minutes of steady work, Mrs. Bristol glanced up at Doris.

"Land's sake, child, ye'r shiverin'! Go an' change yer clothes."

"But I should stay here. You might need me."

"Oh, Jimmy'll be back in a minute. He's gittin' into some dry duds.
He'll be more use than you."

Doris hesitated, her cheeks aflame. Yes, she was well aware that Jimmy
would be of more use, and the thought humiliated her. She wanted to
help, and yet she did not know what to do. Slowly she made her way
upstairs, feeling how insignificant she was and of no account. Mrs.
Bristol was but an ordinary country woman, and how brave and capable she
was. And Jimmy was a hero. How many had received medals for doing far
less than he had done that night. And he must be rewarded for his noble
rescue. She would make his deed known just as soon as possible.

When she had changed her clothes, she hurried downstairs and entered the
kitchen. But Christie was not there. Instead, she saw Jimmy sitting on a
chair with his mother kneeling before him bandaging his right foot. She
crossed the room and stood before them.

"What has happened to Jimmy?"

"Oh, he's hurt his foot," Mrs. Bristol explained. "I've warned him time
an' time ag'in to be keerful where he puts his feet. He's allus hurtin'
'em."

"But, ma, I couldn't see when I went down after Christie. I didn't know
there was a snag at the bottom of the lake. An' I didn't know I hurt me
foot 'till I got t'shore. An' I skinned me shin ag'inst the boat, too.
Christie was mighty heavy, an' you jist caught her in yer arms in the
nick of time. I was all in, I guess, when ye grabbed her."

"Indeed ye was, Jimmy. An' so was Christie. But she's a'right now, thank
the Lord."

"And Jimmy, too," Doris reminded. "It was wonderful what he did. He's a
hero."

Jimmy suddenly became embarrassed, and his face colored.

"Aw, that was nuthin'. I could swim all day without any trouble. But I
don't know the bottom of the lake as well as the top or I would have
kept clear of that snag. Gee, ma! ye're tyin' that too tight."

"Am I, Jimmy? Well, I'll loose it a bit. I'm all rattled, I guess."

"Let me do it," Doris offered. "I want to be of some use. You are tired
out, Mrs. Bristol. And you have not changed your clothes!"

"I know I haven't, so I'll slip right away an' do it this minute. But
keep an ear open fer Christie. When she wakes I want to give her a hot
drink."

Jimmy was pleased to have Doris finish the bandaging, and his eyes shone
with pleasure as he watched her.

"Say, ye'r hands are mighty soft an' gentle. Ma's are awful rough."

"But her hands are nicer than mine, Jimmy."

"Nicer than yours! What d'ye mean?"

"Your mother's hands are rough through hard honest work to make a
living. Mine are soft because they have been idle. I like your mother's
hands."

"Guess ye'r right. Ma has wonderful hands, an' no mistake. She kin do
a'most anything with 'em. Gee, ye should see her workin' out in the
field. She's better'n a man any day. Yep, I guess her hands are a'right.
I thought so, anyway, when she grabbed Christie."

"Don't you feel tired, Jimmy, after your trying experience in the
water?"

"Tired! Me tired? Why, that was nuthin'. I'm used to swimmin'."

"I suppose so. But it was different going out there at night with such a
storm raging. Weren't you afraid?"

"Not of the water. I'm used to that. But the thunder an' lightnin' did
give me the creeps."

"But you went, for all that."

"What else was there fer me to do? I couldn't let Christie drown
herself, could I?"

Doris made no reply. Her heart quickened at the unconscious heroism of
this lad. He was afraid of the thunder and lightning, yet he did his
duty, nevertheless. She went on quietly with her work, and in a few
minutes the bandaging was done.

Just then Christie's voice was heard. Doris rose quickly to her feet,
and listened intently. She then went to the door and looked in. The girl
was lying on the bed with her right hand on her breast.

"Bob, when are you coming?" she asked. "Oh, there you are. I knew you
wouldn't leave me. The baby is all right."

A smile overspread her face, and at that smile tears came into Doris's
eyes. She turned hastily away and met Mrs. Bristol.

"What's the matter with Christie?"

"She is dreaming and calling for Bob. She thinks he is with her. She
also spoke about the baby."

"Poor dear! I wish her dream'd come true, but I'm afraid it never will.
Now, who is Bob? That's the first time she's mentioned his name. Oh, I
wonder--"

She ceased abruptly and turned away her head. What she was thinking
about Doris did not know. Perhaps she would explain later.




CHAPTER XXVII

"CRAZY" PAUL


Mr. Landrose returned home from his visit to Christie very much
discouraged. He believed that he had accomplished nothing, and that he
was unable to do anything to bring comfort to the troubled girl. His
heart was exceedingly heavy, and several times he sighed as he sat at
the table and made a pretence at eating his supper. This worried Rachel,
so thinking to cheer him up, she brought the baby into the dining-room
for him to see.

"I thought you might like to see him, sir. Isn't he a bright happy
little fellow? And he is so good."

"But his mother is not happy, Rachel. I never saw anyone so sunk in the
depths of despair."

"Perhaps she is grieving for her baby."

"I asked Mrs. Bristol about that, but she does not think so. Her chief
thought seems to be about the man who betrayed her."

"Do you know who he is, sir?"

"No. I wish I did, though, for then something might be done. But
Christie will not tell. She was always a strange girl in some ways, and
I never got to know her very well. She used to run away to the fields or
the woods whenever I went to the house. I wonder why?"

Rachel made no reply, but took the baby back to the kitchen. She was
quite disappointed that the parson had taken no notice of the child.
But he had always been like that, and she knew the reason why Christie
had avoided him whenever possible. And she was not the only one. It was
the same all over the parish. The reason was quite apparent, Mr.
Landrose looked upon children with an eye to their baptism, instruction
in the Catechism, and later on to their Confirmation. To him they were
so many candidates for the Church. If he understood them better, and had
entered into their little joys and troubles, they would not have dreaded
his visits to their homes. Rachel had known of this for years, but she
felt that it was not her business to tell her master. And, besides, she
knew that he would have resented any interference on her part. He was
sure that he was right, so that ended it.

After supper Mr. Landrose worked for a while in his garden. Here, busy
with his hands, he found some relief from the thoughts which were
agitating his soul and mind. For nearly an hour he remained here, part
of the time leaning on his hoe, meditating. He then went back to the
house and entered his study. He had his sermon to prepare for next
Sunday, so decided to spend the evening at home. He was tired, and glad
to sit down by his desk. The evening was sultry, and scarcely a breath
of wind stirred the curtains at the open window. He had been thinking
much during the week about a text which had given him considerable
comfort, "Yea, like as a father pitieth his own children, even so is the
Lord merciful unto them that fear him." At once his mind turned to the
saying of the Master, "If a son ask bread of any of you that is a
father, will he give him a stone?" He repeated these familiar words, but
stopped short at the word "stone". "Bread", "stone". What a difference
between these two words. People needed bread, the Bread of Life, and he,
God's minister, had been giving them a stone. Was that the reason why
they were so unresponsive now after his long years of service? And it
was the Bread of Life poor Christie needed, and he had none to give her.
He felt that this was true, and his spirit groaned within him. Yes, he
had failed in his life's work, and so miserably that he could not bring
any relief to one unfortunate girl. What was he to do? He leaned back in
his chair and looked out of the window through the deepening twilight.
His entire life's work seemed to be falling in ruins around him. He
thought of the stories which were in circulation about him and Doris,
and the visit of the detective to the parish. And added to these was his
own agony of soul, and his failure in the Lord's Vineyard.

A gentle knock upon the door aroused him, and Rachel entered.

"Excuse me, sir. There is a man to see you."

"Can't he come again, Rachel? I am very tired to-night, and in no mood
to see anyone."

"I told him so, but he says he must see you. He has come a long way, and
his business is very important."

"Oh, very well, then, let him come in. I suppose I must see him."

Mr. Landrose was annoyed at being thus disturbed, but when he turned and
saw the visitor his annoyance changed to surprise. He rose at once to
his feet and stood erect, uncertain what to say. The stranger had
stopped just inside the door, and with hat in hand was looking intently
at the clergymen. He was the first to speak.

"Pardon me, sir, for intruding upon you. But my business is very
important. You do not know me, but that makes no difference."

At these words the parson stepped quickly forward and reached out a hand
of welcome.

"I do know you. You are the man I heard preaching in the street when I
was attending Synod. Sit down, please. You look tired."

"Ah, I am surprised that you recognize me, Mr. Landrose. Your memory is
good."

He sat down in a nearby chair and placed his soft-felt hat upon the
floor. He was a small man, almost mean in appearance at the first
glance. His beard and hair had been carefully trimmed, and his clothes,
though much worn, were neat and clean. But the man's eyes were what
arrested the clergyman's attention. They glowed with a remarkable light
of tranquility and peace. They were piercing, too, and seemed to read
his very soul. They gave him a peculiar sensation, and he was glad to
turn away his head as he sank down into his chair. The visitor noted his
slight embarrassment, and a semblance of a smile flitted across his
face.

"I can't help my eyes, sir. They are what you and the Lord made them."

Too astonished to speak, the clergyman stared at the stranger.

"Ah, you don't understand, I see. Well, that's natural. But what I am
to-day is due to a sermon I heard you preach years ago. The Lord did the
rest, praise be to His holy Name!"

"To a sermon you heard me preach! What you tell me is very strange."

"No doubt it is. But if you look at it aright it shows in what strange
ways the Lord works. Yes, it was years ago that I happened to drop in
at a service you were holding. You preached a sermon about the Church
and what it should mean to people in general. I forget now the details,
but that sermon stirred me up, for I was a free-thinker then and had
read many books against the Church and religion. But I didn't know the
Bible, so then and there I decided to read the Book very carefully to
prove that you were wrong. I wanted to know it at first hand so as not
to be caught in any argument."

The man paused and into his eyes came a far-away look as he turned them
toward the window. The clergyman leaned eagerly forward.

"So you read the Book? You found more than you expected? Is that it?"

"It is, sir. I found Him, and in finding Him I found a new life. My
whole point of view became changed. It was wonderful, most wonderful
what I saw when my eyes were opened and He entered into my heart. It
took a long time to overcome my old doubts, but when at last I was free
my joy knew no bounds. I was a new man, filled with a new spirit, and I
wanted to shout abroad what great things the Lord had done for me."

"So you took up street-preaching?"

"Not at first. But when I saw the need for the simple message, I could
resist no longer. Like the Master I went into the highways and byways,
wherever there are people. I have travelled far and wide, but something
drew me back to my own province. If men and women will not go to church,
the message must be taken to them. In that way I have brought the great
reality home to many hearts. It is a wonderful joy in thus presenting a
living and a loving Saviour to sinners. I am called 'Crazy Paul', but I
rejoice in the name. If I am crazy, I hope to remain so."

"You have no use, then, for the formal church service."

"Indeed I have, sir. Please do not misunderstand me. I attend the church
service whenever possible, and I was in the Cathedral that night of the
Synod service."

"You were!"

"I was, and my heart was full to overflowing at what the Bishop said. I
have been longing for years to hear such words from a Bishop of the
Church. It is that spirit which will give new life. The Church is a
marvellous organization, but it needs the revivifying spirit, and
burning hearts. Oh, how often have I been grieved at the coldness and
the mechanical manner in which the services have been conducted by so
many clergymen. I have prayed that prayer of old, 'Come from the four
winds, O breath, and breathe upon these slain that they may live'."

He ceased and looked with glowing eyes at the parson. His face was
radiant, and Mr. Landrose was deeply impressed. Yet he was not
altogether satisfied. What authority had this man to teach? The Church
had not sent him forth, and he had not been ordained. It was difficult
to free himself from the idea of Apostolic Succession. He had believed
and taught it for years, and had always scorned the idea of a man-made
Ministry. The great commission had been given to the Church through the
Bishops, and apart from them there could be no true Ministry. But here
was a man who had taken upon himself the responsibility of preaching to
others.

"Have you received authority, that is, a license from the Bishop for
your work?"

"No, I have not. Mine comes from One greater than any Bishop. I have my
commission direct from Him who has done so much for me."

"But would it not be better if you were ordained? Could you not do more
effective service by working along established lines? Would you not meet
with greater success if you had the authority and the blessing of the
Church to support you?"

"Have you found that to be so in your work, Mr. Landrose? But, there,
you need not answer, as I do not wish to embarrass you. One may prefer a
rigid system, and work according to Canons and rubrics. But with me it
is different. I would rather be guided by the Holy Spirit which always
leads aright."

A month before Mr. Landrose would have considered such a statement as
downright heresy, not to be tolerated for a minute. He would have
buckled on his armor and charged in defense of the doctrines he held so
dear. Now, however, he was not so keen for battle. The beaming eyes and
burning words of the man before him disarmed him. Surely the spirit of
God was with him. He had something which he, an ordained minister, did
not possess. What could he say to such a man? What argument could he
use?

"Why didn't you come to see me sooner?"

"Would you have received me as you have to-night?"

"What do you mean?"

"Would you not have turned me from your door? You had no use for a
street-preacher then."

"How do you know I have now?"

"Because you stopped to listen to me that night of the Synod service."

"Might not anyone do that? It might mean nothing more than curiosity."

"Quite true. But I saw your face that night, not only on the street but
at the service, and I knew you were not happy. Something was troubling
you, and I surmised the reason."

"You did!"

"Yes. And that is why I have come here to-night. Mine is an important
mission concerning a young woman, Christie Rixton. She is a member of
your flock, I understand."

"She was, but I hardly know whether she is now or not. She is in great
trouble, poor girl, and I am at my wit's end to know what to do for her.
We have her baby here, and my housekeeper is looking after it. I wish I
knew who the child's father is, as I might be able to do something."

"I know him, sir, and he has sent me here. He asked me to find out where
Christie is."

"He did! and who is he?"

"I am not at liberty to tell you just now, Mr. Landrose. But at one time
he was a member of your flock."

"Was he! Now, who can he be! So many of my young men have gone from this
parish that it would be difficult for me to guess the right one."

"You need not worry about that now, sir. He was a man very careless and
indifferent about spiritual things. But one evening he and several other
young men stopped to listen while I was speaking in the city. They were
somewhat troublesome at first, especially the young man to whom I refer.
As I kept my eyes upon him, for I was attracted by his appearance, I
saw a sudden change come over his face. He stood quietly there after
that until I was through. Then, leaving his companions, he came and
asked if he could speak to me privately. I went with him to his
boarding-place, and he told me the story of his life, and about the girl
he had betrayed. I have never met a more repentant man. It was the
Lord's doings, I am sure. What He did to Saul of Tarsus, he did to him
that night."

The man's eyes were glowing, and under his excitement he rose to his
feet and laid his hand lightly on the clergyman's shoulder.

"Do you know where Christie is? I must find her. I was told that you
know."

"Yes, I saw her to-day, and found her in the depths of despair."

"Ah, that is too bad. But when she hears about her lover it will make a
great change. Will you go with me to see her?"

"Does the young man wish to marry her?"

"He does, and as soon as I get Christie's consent, he will come for her.
He is most anxious now to make amends as far as possible for the wrong
he has done her."

"I am glad to hear that. Yes, I will go with you in the morning. This is
all very wonderful, and I see the Lord's hand in it all."

"There is no doubt about it sir. It's as plain as day. But I must go
now, as I have some business to attend to down the road. Good-night,
sir. I shall be back again in the morning."

When the man had gone, Mr. Landrose sat quietly for some time with his
head resting upon his right hand. At length he turned his eyes upon the
Bible open on his desk before him. The words "bread" and "stone"
arrested his attention.

"That man has been giving people bread while I have been giving them
stones. And he has wrought a marvellous change in one of my flock. I
wonder who Christie's lover is. Anyway, that street-preacher has done
more than I could do, and he has not been ordained. Perhaps the Lord
does work through such men, even though they are not in the Ministry.
Why have I been so blind through the years as not to have seen this
before?"

He ceased suddenly in his musing, for he caught sight of an old familiar
verse which now became illuminated with a new meaning, "If ye, then,
being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children, how much
more shall your heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to them that ask
Him?"

"Ah, I see it now. 'How much more'. What wonderful words! How much more
has the Lord given of His Holy Spirit to that man than He has given to
me. Yes, I see it, I see it. God forgive me for not seeing it sooner."

For a long time he sat there that night. His sermon for next Sunday was
much in his mind. But it had taken a new form, and a strange thrill came
into his soul as he thought upon the message he would give to his
people. It was a thrill akin to the one he had experienced the day of
the funeral when he had spoken without a written sermon.

The storm rolled up from the west, the thunder pealed, the lightning
flashed, and the rain beat against the windows. But the silent thinker
had no sense of fear, for his heart was full of an abiding peace which
no earthly tempest could disturb.




CHAPTER XXVIII

GOOD NEWS


The night of the storm Tim Bendle became a fugitive from justice. While
Jimmy Bristol was battling for the life of Christie Rixton in the lake,
and Parson Dan was meditating in his study, Tim was crouching in the
woods under the big upturned root of a fallen tree. Here he found some
shelter from the rain, but no refuge from the wild rage that surged in
his heart.

Tim was bewildered, so suddenly had the wheel of fortune turned against
him. And it had all been brought about through one man, so he believed,
the man he feared most in the whole parish. It was the physical fear of
an animal for the beating he had received at the hands of John Norton
but a short time before. It had filled his soul with the spirit of
revenge, and he had only been waiting for an opportunity to strike back
in some underhand manner. But his enemy had struck first and in a way he
least expected. This was what confused Tim as he crouched there alone in
the woods with the storm raging around him.

John Norton had not been idle since his visit to Doris in the back
settlement. His suspicions of the man who called himself a detective had
been aroused when he learned how he was going about his work. In the
first place, he did too much talking, telling everybody he met the
object of his visit. And then, he was very friendly with Tim Bendle.
This in itself did not look well to John, so he went to the city and
consulted the detective department there. What he had surmised was true,
for he learned that no detective had been sent to Green Mount, and
nothing was known at headquarters of the man who was posing as a
detective. It was decided there and then to send down two men to
apprehend the imposter and take him to the city. John also visited the
office of the Trust Company to find out, if possible, about the "uncle".
What he learned gave him great satisfaction. There was no uncle, and
never had been, so he was informed. The dead woman had only one child,
the mother of Doris Randall.

John was much elated at his success so far. But he was anxious to learn
if Tim Bendle was really at the bottom of the mischief. It seemed
certain that he had hired that imposter to injure innocent people. His
intense love for Doris urged him on, and he was determined to leave no
stone unturned in his efforts to bring Tim, if guilty, to task. Why he
should wish to harm the reputation of such a girl as Doris Randall he
could not understand. And then there was the clergyman for whom he had
such respect. Perhaps it was on account of him that Tim had started the
lies. John had thought of this before, and he was very anxious now to
find out the truth.

He accompanied the detectives to Green Mount, and was with them when
they interviewed McPrentiss, and placed him under arrest. The culprit
told them that Tim Bendle had hired him, but so far he had not been paid
a cent.

It was at the store where this took place, and Mrs. Bendle, who was
passing at the time, heard the news. She hastened home in great fear and
notified her husband. Surprised at the news, Tim swore that he would
shoot the detectives if they ventured near his place. But after a few
minutes thought, he seized his rifle and left the house. It was now the
dusk of evening, so hiding in a clump of bushes by the side of the road,
he was able to discern the two strangers accompanied by John Norton as
they passed by on their way to his house. He now knew for certain the
man who had brought this trouble upon him, and it filled his heart with
a burning rage. But he would get even with Norton, so he swore. No one
could do such a thing to him and get clear. He would abide his time, and
then--

He spent the night in the woods, and crept cautiously back to his house
at daybreak for something to eat.

"They will git you yet, Tim," his wife told him. "The detectives said it
was no use for you to run away, as you could not escape."

"Let 'em try to git me," Tim growled as he gulped down his food. "Jist
let 'em lay hands on me. An' that d---- cur, Norton, I'll fix him fer
what he's done. He thinks he's smart, but I'll show him."

"Be careful, Tim. Don't do anything rash, or you'll be sorry."

"Me sorry! Bah! I know a thing or two, so don't you worry. An' see that
you keep ye'r mouth shet as to where I am."

Early next morning the news of Tim's disappearance was known to all.
There was great excitement, and people wondered if he would be able to
escape. When it was learned what he had done, indignation became
general, and on all sides sympathy was expressed for Doris and the
clergyman. The latter heard the news while at breakfast. It was Rachel
who told him. Mrs. Wickham had come to the rectory that morning bubbling
with excitement, and had imparted the information. The parson laid down
his knife and looked at his housekeeper.

"And did Tim really bring that man down here, Rachel? It seems
improbable."

"I suppose it does, sir, but it is true, nevertheless. Tim is a very
revengeful man."

"I know he is. But I did not believe he would go so far as that. And you
say he has escaped to the woods?"

"No one is sure. He has disappeared, anyway. He may have left the
parish, for all I know."

"Most likely he has, Rachel, and good riddance it would be. He has been
a worry to me for years, and he has led his poor wife a hard life. I
must see her as soon as possible. And by the way, Rachel, when my last
night's visitor comes bring him at once into the study. I do not expect
to be home for dinner."

After the parson had gone, Rachel went on quietly with her work. Several
times she glanced at the baby asleep in his cot, sweet and rosy from his
recent bath. She was thinking of the little one she had lost years
before. A mistiness came into her eyes.

"The parson never spoke about him. Perhaps he has forgotten that there
is a baby in the house. He is a good man, but I wish he had children of
his own. What a difference it would have made in his life. He would be
more human now. I could not love this poor little waif so much if I had
not had one of my own."

She continued her work, but her mind was in the past among other scenes
and with another baby.

It was Jimmy Bristol who took the news to Glen Hollow. He had been to
the early boat with butter and eggs, and on the wharf he had heard men
and women discussing the affair of the night before. He had listened to
every word he could hear with fast-beating heart, and when the steamer
had gone he started at once for home. It was a wild trip he made over
that rough backland road. The old wheezy car bumped and rattled, and it
was a wonder that it did not shake to pieces in its headlong career. But
hold together it did, and kept the road, too.

Mrs. Bristol was in the kitchen when the car swept into the yard and
brought up with a jerk at the back door. She wondered what had brought
Jimmy home so soon, for he generally took most of the morning when he
went to the shore. Then she heard him calling to her, and from the tone
of his voice she knew that he had news of special importance. She went
at once to the door.

"What is it Jimmy?"

"Come here, ma, I've got somethin' to tell ye. It's great news."

Mrs. Bristol hastened out to the car, all a-flutter with curiosity.

"Fer land's sake, what is it? Nothin' wrong, I hope."

"Guess there is or I wouldn't be home this early. My! I made our old car
travel. She was in the air most of the time."

"Never mind the car, Jimmy. What's the matter?"

"Tim Bendle's in a trap. He's caught, an' so is that detective feller."

"In a trap! Tim in a trap! An' that detective, too! Are they hurt
much?"

"Aw, I don't mean a steel trap, ma, but a kind a man gits into when he
does wrong. The law's after Tim, an' it's got that feller who said he
was a detective. Tim's cleared out, an' no one knows where he is. But
he's in a trap, a'right, an' he'll have some job gettin' out of the fix.
He told lies about the parson an' Doris."

"Land's sake, Jimmy! When did all this happen?"

"Last night, so I heard. An' it was that Mr. Norton who done the trick.
He went to the city an' came back with two real detectives, an' they've
taken that other feller away. Tim got wind of it, an' lit out."

Just then Doris was seen coming toward them. She was carrying a bunch of
wild flowers she had gathered for Christie's room. She had been away in
the fields for over half an hour, and enjoyed being alone. She had been
thinking much about Christie and wondering what she could do for her. So
far as money was concerned the girl should not want. But it was not
money she needed now, and Doris's only hope was to find the man who had
wronged her. But how could she do that? Her thoughts naturally turned to
John. Perhaps he could help here, for a man could do far more than a
woman in such a case. But where was John? She longed to see him, and a
slight feeling of resentment stole into her heart at what she considered
his neglect. She was thinking of this as she came near the house and
noticed Mrs. Bristol standing near the car. When she saw the woman
waving her hands and calling to her to hurry, she felt sure that
something out of the ordinary had taken place. She quickened her steps
as Mrs. Bristol came to meet her. It took but a minute for her to learn
the news, and as she listened to what John had done, she chided herself
for thinking that he had neglected her. Mrs. Bristol was much excited.

"Isn't it great what Mr. Norton done! My, I'm glad he didn't let the
grass grow under his feet in roundin' up them skunks that spread sich
lies about the old parson an' you, dear soul. I'd put 'em both in jail
where they would stay fer some time, that's what I'd do."

Doris breathed a sigh of relief, and her eyes shone with joy.

"I am so thankful, Mrs. Bristol, for I was so worried about those lies
that were in circulation. And I am sure that Mr. Landrose must be
relieved. Oh, if this would only bring some comfort to Christie."

Before Mrs. Bristol had any time to reply, the sound of a car
approaching arrested her attention.

"Why, it's the parson an' Mr. Norton! An' they've got another man with
'em. What in the world are they doin' here this time of the mornin'!"

It did not take her long to understand the cause of the visit, and when
she knew, her face beamed with pleasure.

"Praise the Lord, an' bless His holy Name! Wonders'll never cease. Come
right into the house."

She led the way to the front door, with the parson and Paul Random
following. Christie was lying as if asleep. But when Mrs. Bristol
approached, she opened her eyes. Then seeing the men, she started, while
an expression of fear overspread her face.

"What are they doing here?" she demanded. "I don't want to see them.
They can do me no good. They will only torment me. Send them away."

She clutched Mrs. Bristol by the hand and tried to rise.

"There, there, dear, don't ye worry. These men ain't come to torment ye.
They've brought good news."

"Ah, I know what that means. But what is 'good news' to them is misery
to me. What is heaven to a saint is hell to a sinner. No, I don't want
them here. Tell them to go away."

She pulled up the quilt and covered her face. Mr. Landrose at once
stepped to her side.

"Christie." His voice was firm and low. "Look at me."

Slowly the quilt was removed, and the girl's eyes met his.

"We are not here to torment you, Christie. We have come instead, to help
you."

"How can you help me? There is only one person who can do that, but he
won't come."

This was an opening, and eagerly the parson seized upon it.

"He will come, and he is just waiting to hear from you. That is why we
are here."

At these words a change passed swiftly over the girl's face. Surprise,
mingled with joy, was expressed in her eyes.

"Do you mean that Bob wants to come to me?"

"Yes. This man," and Mr. Landrose motioned to Paul, "has come all the
way to see you. Bob sent him. He will tell you the rest."

Turning, he left the room, followed by Mrs. Bristol. The latter's face
was beaming with happiness. When they had reached the kitchen she
closed the door.

"Set down, sir, ye must be tired. I'm all flustered. An' no wonder. This
news is almost too good to be true. But who is Bob, anyway, parson?"

"I am not sure, Mrs. Bristol, although I have my suspicion now."

"An' so have I, parson. I really believe it's Bob Bendle. He allus was
fond of Christie, an' her of him."

"I wouldn't be surprised if he is the man. And my, my! how strange it
will be for him to return now when his father is an outcast."

"H'm, I'm not worryin' about Tim, fer he's no good. I hope he'll be so
fer an outcast that he'll never show up ag'in. But I did like Bob, so if
it's him, I'll fergive him, even though he's done wrong. We're all human
an' make mistakes, so we mustn't be too hard on others."

"Quite right, quite right, Mrs. Bristol. Anyway, I am glad that matters
are turning out all right, and that the young man, whoever he may be, is
willing to act the honorable part and marry Christie."

While Mrs. Bristol and the parson talked, Doris and John were with Mrs.
Rosher. They had found her sitting in the vine-covered porch, busily
knitting, and with a book in her lap. She was sincerely pleased to see
them, and understood the meaning of the happiness that shone in their
eyes. She loved young people, and they loved her. And it was only
natural that on such a beautiful morning they should tell her of the
great secret which meant so much to them. Her old heart thrilled as she
listened, and her voice trembled with emotion as she gave them her
blessing.

"May God bless you both, and keep you safe under His loving protection.
It is great to be young and full of abounding health. Be true to each
other, and never let the love in your hearts grow cold."

Doris twined her arms around the old woman and tenderly kissed her.

"Thank you, oh, thank you so much Mrs. Rosher for your blessing and
words of advice. I am sure we shall never forget them."

"A'nt Hanner, please," she corrected, as she brushed away a tear that
was stealing down her furrowed cheek. "I'm always 'A'nt Hanner' to the
ones I love, and I love you both."




CHAPTER XXIX

REVENGE


Mr. Landrose was strangely drawn to Paul Random. He made an effort to
oppose this influence, feeling that it was not altogether right. The man
had not been ordained and he should not go about preaching, so he
reasoned. But he could not overlook the good he was doing, especially in
the case of Christie Rixton. Where he himself had failed, Random had
succeeded. Why was that? He knew the answer, and it caused him much
regret. Paul gave people spiritual food, while he had given them stones.
He frankly acknowledged this to be true. After long years of hard work,
it was a pathetic admission of failure. Paul never spoke about
theological matters, Church government, ritual and such things which
were so often discussed when the clergy met together. He had a far
greater subject to think and talk about. To him it was the spirit that
giveth life, and without that all the forms in the world are of little
avail. "I believe in forms, and so does every builder," Random had said
that morning on their way to Glen Hollow. "A form is necessary for the
holding and binding of things together, such as cement, for instance. So
religious forms are important for the preservation of truth. The danger
comes when the forms are given too much emphasis. That is what makes me
dissatisfied at times with some of our church services. The tyranny of
form often crushes the vital spiritual life. For that reason I prefer
to remain free and do my little work in my own way."

Random spoke very quietly, but there was no mistaking his strong
conviction. The parson, listening, knew that he was right. He himself
had magnified the form, and it had crushed the spirit. He was learning
now in his old age what he should have known from personal experience
before he entered the Ministry.

He thought of this as he stood by Christie's side when he bade her
good-bye. The changed expression upon the girl's face, and the light of
hope in her eyes told their own tale. Doris was standing near, and her
heart thrilled with happiness at the transformation that had come so
suddenly over Christie. The latter grasped the parson's hand and looked
up into his face.

"Do you think it is really true? Surely that man wasn't deceiving me."

"Do not worry about that, my child. Mr. Random means what he said."

"I know that, but Bob may have changed his mind. Oh, I can't yet believe
that he is willing to come. And, then, something may stop him. I had a
dream, and I can't get it out of my mind. I saw Bob coming to me when
something happened, and I saw him lying so white and still in the middle
of the road. I hope it doesn't mean anything."

"Certainly not, my dear. We are going right back, and Mr. Random will
telephone at once for Bob to come. He should be here this evening."

"And will you come, too? You know what I mean, don't you?"

"I do. You shall be married in the little church. How nice that will
be."

"It will, although I somehow feel that it is all a wonderful dream."

The parson joined John and Paul who were waiting for him outside, and in
another minute they were speeding down the road. He said very little on
the way home, for he had many things to think about. But that afternoon
as he and Random sat in the study waiting for Bob to arrive, he asked
the question which had been much in his mind during the day.

"Was your conversion sudden, Mr. Random, like Saul's of Tarsus, for
instance? Or was it a gradual growth?"

"Why do you ask me that, sir? Is it only curiosity?"

"No, no. I want to know, that I, too, may experience such a change. I
need it, God knows. In the few years that remain for me to carry on my
work, I must have a different spirit, something like yours, in fact."

Random was silent for a few minutes, gazing thoughtfully through the
window out upon the fields beyond. His eyes were unusually bright and
his face was almost radiant. Then he looked at the clergyman.

"The Kingdom of God is within. It comes not by observation, that one can
say, 'Lo here!' or 'Lo there!' 'The wind bloweth where it listeth, and
thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh, and
whither it goeth: so is everyone that is born of the Spirit.' Such are
the Master's words, and I have proven them to be true."

"I have no doubt about it, Mr. Random. But I wish to know whether this
wonderful thing came suddenly or gradually."

"Both, sir. But the outcome was in a moment of time, and in a strange
place and manner. I shall not attempt to tell you the whole story of my
past life. Sufficient to say that for years after I heard that sermon of
yours I fought a hard battle. To crush the spirit of God that was
working in me I plunged into a reckless manner of living. I associated
with men of low morals and became as one of them. But all the while I
was most unhappy. This continued for some time. Then one night in a
miserable dive, with evil companions around me, I saw a vision of Him.
He stood before me with such an expression of pity and reproach in His
eyes that I covered my face to hide the sight. And it was then that He
spoke to me. I remember every word and the tone of His voice. They are
stamped upon my soul. 'And for this thou hast left Me!' That is what He
said. When at last I looked up, He was gone."

Random paused, lost in thought and memory. Mr. Landrose was much moved.

"And so that was the great change, I suppose?"

"Oh, no. That happened a year later. I had left my wretched manner of
living, and travelled from place to place seeking peace, but finding it
not. I left the busy haunts of men and plunged into the wilderness where
dwell the natives. I lived with them, going with them on their hunting
expeditions. Crazy I must have been, for I hardly knew what I was doing.
But the Indians were good to me, and took me under their care. It was
while with them that the change came. Three of us had been travelling
through the woods for several days. The way was rough, and we were
forced to carry our packs upon our backs. I was weary almost to the
point of exhaustion when at length we reached a river. And there upon
the bank I sank down and longed to die, so tired was I and full of agony
of soul. I could find no peace, for the vision of the Master and His
words were ever with me. Only one who has gone through such an
experience can understand my feelings. At times I wanted to get away
from Him, and again the great longing came upon me for His help. Between
these two emotions I was tossed like a ship on a rough sea. Such was my
condition as I dropped upon the ground by that inland stream."

Random again paused, while an expression of awe appeared in his eyes. He
had come now to the momentous event in his life. This the clergyman
knew, and he leaned eagerly forward so as not miss a single word.

"And it was there you found what you had been seeking? How?"

"Yes, I found Him, but in a most unexpected manner. It was there that
the Indians made a strong raft and placed me on board, for I was too
weak to walk, and we started downstream to the great lake beyond. As the
current caught the raft and bore us onward, a strange new feeling came
upon me. I thought of the days I had been struggling through the forest,
depending upon my own feeble strength. But that was all over, and lying
there I was borne forward so easily by a mighty power beneath. All I had
to do was to entrust myself to its strength, join with it, so to speak,
and all was well. The past struggles were forgotten in the pleasure of
such a new sensation. No longer did I have to strive and fight my way
onward, because the stream was doing it all for me.

"And as I thought of all this, there suddenly came into my soul a great
illumination. I seemed to hear a voice saying, 'Come unto Me all ye that
are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.' Then I knew the
truth. I had been struggling along in my own strength for rest and peace
of soul as through a rough wood, and had failed. And all the time there
was One strong and willing to do it for me. All I had to do was to join
myself with Him, trust implicitly to his upholding power and He would
bear me up and give me what I desired. It all came to me quicker than it
takes me to tell it, and oh, who can describe the new sense of strength
and joy that came upon me. 'Come unto Me, and I will give.' These words
kept ringing in my ears all the way down that river. I left the raft a
new man, a new creature. Old things had passed away, and all things had
become new."

He ceased and there was silence in the room for a few minutes. The men
sat lost in thought. One was living again the struggles of the past; the
other was longing for that transforming spirit which he did not possess.
The parson was the first to speak.

"And has that power sustained you ever since, Mr. Random? Have there not
been times of weakness and depression?"

"Indeed there have been, sir; plenty of them. I would not be human if
they did not come upon me. Even the Master Himself had his moments of
depression and doubt, so why should I expect to escape? But I have been
kept by the power of God, and have been wonderfully sustained. 'When I
am weak, then am I strong,' for I throw myself upon Him, and He supplies
all my needs. Then there always comes to me the feeling of rest, peace
and strength such as I had that day while floating down the river. There
is a verse of a master poet which has great depth of thought, and has
meant much to me,

    "'Speak to Him, thou, for He hears,
    For spirit and spirit can meet;
    Closer is He than breathing,
    And nearer than hands and feet.'

"Tennyson thus expressed a blessed truth which I have proved over and
over again. 'Spirit and spirit can meet,' and when the spirit in a man
meets the spirit of God, in that union man is more than conqueror. And
it is not necessary to go in search of Him, for He is ever present,
'Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet.' Yes, He
is very near to each one who calls upon Him."

Mr. Landrose was deeply moved by these heart-burning words.

"Oh, if I could only have that feeling! If I could have that spirit, how
it would transform my whole life! I need it so much because I am a
minister of God. How can I impart to others what I do not possess
myself? Have you ever read Dean Hole's 'A Book About Roses,' Mr.
Random?"

"No, I never heard of it."

"Ah, that is too bad. You have missed a great treat. It is one of my
favorite books, for it tells so much about the cultivation of roses. How
well I remember his opening words, 'He who would have beautiful roses in
his garden must have beautiful roses in his heart.' Those words have a
new meaning for me now, for they apply to the work of the Ministry and
the care of souls as well as flower gardens. Yes, he who would have
spiritual flowers in his parish must have spiritual flowers in his
heart. I see it now, alas, too late!"

"All that will come, sir, never fear, for 'No good thing will He
withhold from them that lead a godly life.' You have the longing, and
'He satisfieth the longing soul, and filleth the hungry soul with
goodness.'"

"How can I doubt it after what you have told me? And I have also
witnessed what you have done for Christie Rixton. And think of the man
who betrayed her. He has changed, so you tell me, has repented of his
evil ways, and is coming to marry the girl. That is wonderful."

"It is only another evidence, sir, of what the Lord will do through one
man. I have been but a very humble instrument used by Him in carrying
out His design. It is 'not I, but the grace of God that is within me.'"

Just then Rachel appeared at the door, announcing supper.

"Dear me!" the clergyman exclaimed. "I had no idea it was so late. And
that man has not come yet. Anyway, we might as well have something to
eat."

Mr. Landrose was worried about Bob Bendle coming home while his father
was an outcast from justice. There was much excitement throughout the
parish, so he had learned that afternoon from the storekeeper. Several
stories were in circulation, and they had gained a great deal while
passing from person to person. Bob's arrival and his intended marriage
to Christie would prove a choice topic of conversation. It would free
Doris, anyway, of the base lie that had been told about her, and for
that he was most thankful. He was pleased, too, that his own name had
been cleared.

Supper was just over when Bob arrived alone in his car. Mr. Landrose
knew him at once, and as he grasped his hand he looked keenly into the
young man's face.

"Robert, I am glad you have come."

"Thank you, parson." He then lowered his voice. "I have done wrong, sir,
but by God's help I hope to do better. How is Christie?"

"She is waiting for you, Robert, so we might as well go to her at once.
I have my grip and register all ready. Have you procured the marriage
license?"

"Yes, sir. I got it as soon as I heard from Mr. Random."

In a few minutes they were on their way, for Bob was eager to see
Christie, and he drove fast up the main highway. Coming to the road
leading to Glen Hollow, he was compelled to drive slower owing to the
stones and ruts.

They had gone but a short distance when they reached a hill with a steep
bank covered with rocks and bushes on the lower side. The clergyman was
sitting with Random in the back seat, and he had just bent forward to
move his grip a little to one side when the sharp report of a rifle
sounded on the right. This was instantly followed by the crashing of the
wind-shield and the scattering of broken glass. With a cry of pain Bob
dropped his hands from the wheel, the car swerved suddenly to the right,
leaped from the road, and plunged headlong down the bank among the
tangled mass of bushes and rocks below. It turned over twice, and
finally brought up with a crash against a large fir tree close to the
edge of a little brook which trickled through the thicket.




CHAPTER XXX

WAITING


"I can hardly believe it is true. It all seems like a wonderful dream."

As Christie uttered these words she was sitting with Doris under the
shade of a big maple tree on the upper side of the meadow. Behind was
the forest, while down below lay the lake, very calm, and gleaming
beneath the sun's rays. It was about the middle of the afternoon, and
they were on their way to the little church. There was a short-cut
through the woods, and they had stopped here to rest ere entering upon
the well-beaten path. Christie was still weak, but her eyes and face
expressed the hope and animation that had been enkindled in her heart.
She was more like her old self now, and Doris was afraid lest she should
attempt too much.

"It is no dream, Christie, dear. It is the reality. And I am so glad for
your sake. I hope that your troubles are about over."

"They will never be over, Doris." Christie's voice was low. "The stain
will always remain upon my soul, and people will never forget what I
have done. But when I have Bob and the baby I will not mind so much what
is said. Bob was good to me, until--" She paused abruptly and looked
down at the lake. "Let us go on. I can't bear to look at that water now.
It makes me shudder when I think of that night of the storm, and the
mistake I made. But for Jimmy it would be all over."

Slowly they made their way through the woods. It was cool here, and the
shade of the branching trees was refreshing. Ferns and moss lined the
path, and the rich pungent smell of the forest was invigorating.
Squirrels chattered around them, and birds flitted here and there. In a
few minutes the big trees fell away and the path led to a pasture where
several cows were peacefully feeding. Wild flowers were in abundance,
and Christie stopped to pick several of the choicest.

"They are for my wedding. I always kept the vases filled in church in
summer, and the parson liked to see them there. But I never thought in
those happy free-from-care days that I should ever gather flowers for my
own wedding. I used to dream, though, that I would be married in the
church, and that the girls would trim it with beautiful flowers, and the
neighbors would all come to the service. I would be dressed in white,
and there would be singing, and everybody would crowd around to wish me
much happiness. Oh, it was a glorious dream I used to have. But I don't
want such a wedding now. Only a few friends must be there, and the
service very quiet."

Doris made no reply as she assisted in gathering the flowers. When they
had enough, they continued on their way until they reached the church.
It was a little building, nestling among the trees. The door was
unlocked, and as they entered, they stood for a minute just inside. Then
Christie stepped forward to a pew, knelt down, and bowed her head in her
hands. Doris partly imagined the emotion that was stirring the heart of
the kneeling girl. No doubt she had often sat there in other days. But
what a change had come over her life since she had last knelt there.

When Christie at length rose to her feet, she picked up the flowers
lying by her side, entered the vestry to arrange them in the vases,
while Doris went for water from the little brook that flowed by the
church. When the flowers had been arranged to her satisfaction, Doris
placed them upon the altar. She then stepped back and viewed them with
critical eyes.

"I hope Bob will like them. He was always fond of flowers, especially
the ones I gathered."

"I am sure he will like these," Doris assured her, placing her arm
tenderly around her companion. "They look lovely there, and I wish we
had more of them in the church."

"They are enough, Doris. I want only a few to-day."

When they returned home, they found Mrs. Bristol very busy in the house.
She had been sweeping and dusting all the afternoon.

"I've jist finished gittin' the house set to rights. I had to do some
cookin', too, fer I want to have a real weddin' supper fer Christie. It
wouldn't do to have folks here with the house dirty an' the pantry
empty."

At once Doris laid aside her hat and offered her assistance.

"Let me do something, Mrs. Bristol."

"I don't need ye'r help, me dear. I was glad to git you girls out of the
way, fer I kin allus work better alone when I have much to do. It takes
so long sometimes explainin' that I'd fer ruther do the work meself.
Jimmy's ginerally around to give a hand. But dear me! He's been no use
this afternoon. It's that he's been foolin' with," and she pointed to a
gun standing in a corner of the kitchen. "He says he's expectin' a skunk
to be prowlin' around t'night an' he wants to be ready fer it. I don't
know what's put that notion into his head, fer we haven't seen nor
smelled one of them critters fer some time. But Jimmy's jist like his
pa. He takes sich queer freaks, an' I never know when one's goin' to
attack him. But, there, I must git on with me work. You'd better lay
down, Christie, an' rest yerself. You're not overly strong, an' gittin'
married is ruther a tiresome bizness. I found it so, anyway. But dear
me! it's nuthin' to bein' married, fer then ye'r tired all the time, an'
haven't a ghost of a chance to git rested."

Mrs. Bristol worked while she was talking, and she did both with
considerable energy. But what she had said so casually about Jimmy and
the gun meant a great deal to Doris. There came at once to her mind that
scene on the opposite side of the lake. Again she saw the boy standing
on the shore, his eyes blazing with anger, and his hands clenched hard
together as he threatened to kill the man who had harmed Christie. Was
that wild idea still in his mind? And was that what he meant by the
"skunk" he expected would be prowling around this night? She felt quite
sure that it was, and her heart beat fast at the thought. Jimmy was a
queer boy in many ways, there was no mistake, and it was hard to tell
what terrible thoughts might be seething in his mind. She must see him
at once.

After Christie had been induced to lie down and rest, Doris went out of
doors. She looked around for Jimmy, but he was no where to be seen.
Going to the back of the house, she found him seated upon a block of
wood looking out over the lake. When he saw her approaching, his face
flushed.

"Lost in thought, Jimmy?"

"Guess so."

"Thinking about that skunk?"

Jimmy started at these words, and sprang to his feet.

"Who told you about that?"

"Your mother, of course. And she showed me the gun in the corner."

"She did!"

"Yes. And, Jimmy, you have murder in your heart. But don't do it. Think
what it would mean. If you kill that man, you will be arrested, and
perhaps hung. Think of your mother, and how it would break her heart.
You are all she has."

"I know, oh, I know, Doris. I've thought all about them things. But I
can't let that skunk git off. Shootin's too good fer him. Think how he's
a'most killed Christie."

"But he's coming back to her, Jimmy, and intends to marry her. If you
kill him, Christie will be heart-broken. You love her, do you not?"

"Guess I do. She's like a sister to me, an' don't ye think I'd fight fer
her? Why, I'd die fer her any minute, that's what I'd do."

"Well, then, if you love her so much, why should you cause her more
trouble by shooting the man she wants to marry?"

"But s'pose he doesn't marry her?"

"He will. He is on his way now, most likely, and will be here shortly.
Why would he come if he is not in earnest?"

"Dunno. But I'm goin' to be ready, an' if he doesn't marry Christie,
he'll not leave this place alive. That old gun kin shoot wicked, an'
she never misses when I pull the trigger. Yep, I'll stand by Christie."

Doris well knew that it would be useless to reason any more with the
lad. The wild look in his eyes caused her great uneasiness, for she
could not tell to what extremes his rage might carry him. He was a
peculiar boy in some ways, and it was uncertain what he might do when
aroused by a mighty passion.

She went back into the house, but it was impossible to get Jimmy out of
her mind. As she looked at the gun in the corner she was tempted to hide
it somewhere. Anyway, she decided to keep a close watch upon it, and if
possible to restrain Jimmy from carrying out his evil design.

Supper was ready, and Mrs. Bristol had the table spread with her best
linen and dishes. She was very hot from her exertions, and for a few
minutes she sat down and fanned herself with a newspaper.

"There, I've got everything ready. I hope t'goodness the folks won't
keep me waitin' too long or the supper will be cold. We might as well
eat now, so's be ready to wait upon the company. I'll call Jimmy. He's
allus hungry, an' kin eat at any old time."

She went to the door and called. In a few minutes the lad appeared, took
his place at the table and ate in silence. Doris, sitting opposite,
watched him. When he was through, he went into the kitchen, picked up
the gun and went outside.

"Now, be keerful with that gun, Jimmy," his mother called after him. "I
don't want any accident around here. I wonder what kin be keepin' them
folks, anyway," she continued, turning to Doris. "It's gittin' late."

"They may be here any minute now, Mrs. Bristol. Something may have
detained them."

Just then Christie came into the room, looking paler than usual. She sat
down by the table near Doris.

"Are you feeling rested, dear?" the latter asked.

"A little, thank you. But I have a weight here," and she pressed her
right hand to her heart. "I have the feeling that something has
happened, and that Bob will not come."

"Tut, tut, that's all nonsense," Mrs. Bristol replied, as she opened the
oven door. "They'll be here, never fear. I'm not worryin'."

But as the evening wore on, and darkness enshrouded the land Mrs.
Bristol did worry, although she showed no signs of it. She was bright
and cheerful, but when nine o'clock came and the visitors had not
arrived, she became exceedingly anxious. They were all sitting just
outside the front door, for the night was warm. They had been watching
the stars and talking about them. Mrs. Bristol was quite enthusiastic.

"Ain't they beautiful! Me an' Sam used to set here sometimes an' watch
'em when the day's work was done. Sam knew a lot about the stars an'
could tell their names, too. He was quite poetical, Sam was, more so
than he was religious. Mebbe that was his religion, fer all I know. I
guess he saw the Lord back of the stars, fer he used to look up an' in a
very solemn kind of voice would say, 'Sary, ain't they wonderful! But we
must remember that the things that are seen are temp'ral, but the things
we can't see are internal.' Yes, them's the exact words he said, an'
they are in the Bible. Poor Sam did like to talk about internal things,
even though he didn't make any perfession of religion. An' I guess the
Lord'll understand. My! did ye see that shootin'-star? Sam allus said
when he saw one, 'Another world gone to destruction.' That's what he
said."

"That star makes me shiver," Christie declared.

"We'd better go into the house, then, fer ye might git cold here in the
night air. It wasn't the star that made me shiver, but the dampness
comin' up from the lake an' swamp. Sam used to feel the same way, an'
he'd sneeze awful when he sat out here too long. He was a great man to
sneeze, anyway, an' he could be heard all over the place. Yes, we'd
better go in, an' mebbe Doris'll play something fer us on the organ."

Mrs. Bristol knew the meaning of Christie's shiver all too well, and it
troubled her. She was fond of music herself, and believed it might have
a soothing effect upon the girl. And this was so, for as Doris played
hymn after hymn, the anxious expression upon Christie's face gradually
faded. Several times she softly hummed the words of some old familiar
hymns, and once asked Doris to play one which was her special favorite.

The most marked effect, however, was made upon Jimmy. He had crept into
the room and slumped down into a chair near the organ. As the playing
continued, the wild look in his eyes softened, and the strained
expression upon his face relaxed. When at last Doris began to sing, he
sprang to his feet and stood by her side. He loved music, and knew a
number of hymns by heart. Often had he sung them when alone out in the
fields or woods. So now he joined in the singing in one of his
favorites, lifting up his voice in the comforting words of "Abide with
Me." Verse after verse they sang, and when the Amen died down, and the
last notes ended, Jimmy gave a deep sigh and resumed his seat. Doris
glanced at his face, and what she saw there gave her much encouragement.
She felt sure that the music had accomplished what all her reasoning had
failed to do. Jimmy's heart had been touched, and the evil thoughts had
been banished for a while, at least.

Doris was about to continue her playing, when Jimmy became suddenly
alert.

"They're comin' now," he cried, as he hurried from the room with his
mother following.

Doris went, too, and as she reached the front door she heard a man
outside saying, "Bad accident, Mrs. Bristol. The parson and Bob Bendle
went over the bank at Deep Brook in a car."

"Fer land's sake, Jim!" Mrs. Bristol exclaimed. "Will they die?"

"I can't say. They're both at the rectory now, and the doctor is tending
them. It was a bad smash-up, and I can't understand how Crazy Paul
escaped as he did. He got only a few scratches."

Mrs. Bristol turned from the car to enter the house. As she did so, she
saw Christie standing near Doris. She stopped suddenly.

"Did ye hear the news, Christie?"

"I did, and I must go to Bob at once. Jim will take me."

"But, me dear, ye're not strong enough to go."

"I am going, and nothing can stop me. I must be with Bob."

"And I will go with you," Doris declared. "Perhaps I can be of some
help."

"Thank you, Doris. It is good of you."

Christie's voice was firm, and the light of a strong resolution shone
in her eyes as she made ready for the journey. Doris assisted her, and
she was surprised at the girl's animation. She had expected an outburst
of grief and wild lamentation instead of such calmness.

"You are wonderful, Christie, to bear this so bravely. I was afraid that
the shock of the news would almost kill you."

Christie paused for a minute and looked straight into her companion's
eyes.

"It is a great blow, Doris, and if Bob dies it will be very hard on me.
But if he gets better, he will know what it means to suffer, and that
will do him good. Come, let us go."




CHAPTER XXXI

RETRIBUTION


For years Tim Bendle had been a law unto himself. Only his wife, and
occasionally the parson, opposed him when he became exceptionally
unruly. His neighbors were wonderfully tolerant of his frequent
outbursts of temper. This was largely due to their fear of the man lest
he should injure them in some underhand manner. They left him alone as
much as possible, and although they talked a great deal at times, they
took no action against him. He was a thorn in the flesh to many, but no
one knew what to do to get rid of the annoyance.

Such patience and forbearance, however, were not right. The community
suffered by having such a man in its midst. He was a nuisance, and the
sooner a nuisance is removed or remedied the better it is for all
concerned. And Tim himself also suffered. He believed that he could do
almost anything and get off with it. His boldness increased as people
gave way to him, and he gloated over his masterfulness, as he called it.
He tore gaps in the line fence, and allowed his half-starved cows to
wander at will through his neighbor's meadow. His big dog harried the
sheep for miles around, and no one had the courage to shoot it for fear
of incurring Tim's wrath. Several times he had threatened to shoot any
man who killed his dog, and it was generally believed that he meant what
he said.

Tim's wife opposed him, and he retaliated by beating her, driving her
from the house and smashing the furniture. He resented the parson's
interference, and vowed to get even with him. He had not long to wait
after his last wild outburst, for the burial of the woman by night, and
the presence of Doris at the rectory furnished choice material for his
purpose. Then the coming of Christie, and the story she told him, gave
him intense satisfaction. The presence of the fake detective, and the
excitement in the parish over the parson's strange actions proved of
great value. Everything was going his way, and he looked eagerly forward
to the clergyman's complete downfall and ruin.

"I'll teach the old cuss a lesson," he said to himself. "He'll learn to
mind his own business and leave me alone after this."

But there is always an unknown quantity, and it is this which so often
upsets the most carefully-laid schemes. Tim found this to be so, and in
his case it was John Norton. He had not expected anyone to oppose him,
so when John suddenly landed upon him, and gave him a thorough thrashing
it was like a bolt from the blue. He vowed revenge, but again John acted
first, and Tim found himself driven from the ways of men, a wretched
outcast. This filled his heart with a burning rage against the one man
who had brought about his downfall.

He accordingly prowled around among the trees, gun in hand, waiting his
chance. It came, so he thought, when he saw the car leave the rectory
for Glen Hollow. That it belonged to John Norton he had no doubt, and as
the auto began to descend the hill he took careful aim at the driver
and pulled the trigger. The result of his shot was more than he had
expected. When he saw the car leave the road and plunge down the steep
bank, a sudden fear filled his heart. Suppose it was not Norton, after
all! His anger cooled as he listened for some sound. Hearing nothing, he
glanced fearfully around. What if he had killed all in the car! He had
sense enough to know what that would mean. Although he had escaped so
far, there could be no escape for a murderer. All the forces of the law
would be brought forth, and he would be hunted from place to place.

He longed to go forward and find out what had happened. But the thought
of seeing dead men there was sickening. He turned and fled to the depths
of the woods. And there he waited in fear and trembling. Every sound he
heard became magnified to his heated brain, and at times he imagined he
could hear his pursuers in the distance. Despair settled upon him as he
crouched in a dense thicket of young fir trees. He must find out what
had been the result of his shot, or he felt that he would go mad.

Coming out upon the main highway, he looked up and down the road,
uncertain which way to go or what to do. He did not wish to meet anyone,
and yet he must learn something. Off in the distance, to the left, was
his house. Perhaps his wife could tell him. But suppose his house was
being watched? No, he must not go there at present. To the right he
could see the rectory. And as he looked, he noticed that the windows
were aglow with light. This was unusual, for except the parson's study,
the building was generally in darkness. What was the reason of all those
lights? Was something out of the ordinary taking place there? Perhaps
Norton had been taken to the rectory. It was quite likely, for he and
the parson were great friends. Anyway, Tim decided to find out. Keeping
clear of the road, lest he should meet anyone, he sped along on the
meadow side of the fence until he came quite close to the rectory. Here
he stopped, dropped down into the grass and watched. Through the windows
facing him he could see people moving to and fro, telling plainly that
something out of the ordinary was going on in the house. There were
several autos before the building, and presently the front door opened
and a number of people came out, bearing something between them which
they placed in one of the cars. Tim crept closer on hands and knees,
peering keenly through the darkness, and straining his ears for some
word which might give him a clue as to what had happened. Was it a dead
man they had in the car? And had he killed him? The thought was
terrible, and his hands clutched hard upon the grass in front of him. In
another minute the car had moved away very slowly toward the main road.
Tim decided to follow it. Keeping at a safe distance, he glided back
along the way he had recently come, with the car moving just ahead of
him on his right. This led to his own place, and to his great surprise
the car turned in at his gate. What was the meaning of that? Why were
they going to his house? Ah, now he understood. John Norton was dead!
He, Tim Bendle, had shot him, and they were taking the body to his house
to hold an inquest. Such was the thought which passed through the
unhappy man's heated brain. What else could it mean? But curiosity led
him on, and very carefully he crept along until he came near the back
door. Here hidden in the shadow of a hen-house, he watched and waited.
Presently a light shone forth from the little bed-room at the back of
the parlor. Creeping up close, he peered into the room. Several people
were there, including the doctor. And who was that man lying upon the
bed? A woman was standing at his head, so he could not see the man's
face. But when she moved a little to one side, Tim beheld his own son,
Bob! The sight caused him to stagger back as from a blow. Bob! His son!
Had he killed him?

Again he crept up to the window. Perhaps he had been mistaken. He looked
steadily now. It was Bob, all right, and who was that kneeling by his
side? It was a young woman, and instantly he recognized her. It was
Christie Rixton! Ah, now he understood. Bob had been on his way to see
Christie, and he had mistaken him for John Norton. He stifled a groan,
left the window and slumped down upon the ground. He was weak for lack
of food and the excitement of the last few hours. But this final blow
had unmanned him completely. As he grovelled there, he felt that he
would go mad. He had shot his own son! Retribution was piling thick and
fast upon the head of this wretched man.

For some time he remained there, and when at length he struggled to his
feet, he looked once again into the window. All was still in the room.
Bob was lying quietly on the bed, with a bandage across his forehead,
and Christie was sitting by his side holding his hand. Bob was not dead.
That was some relief. But how badly was he injured?

Sick at heart, Tim longed to go into the house. He wanted to ask his
wife a number of questions. But how could he go? The constable might
arrive at any minute. No, he would go away and never return. How could
he ever face his neighbors again after what he had done?

He was a different man who groped his way to the main road from the one
who had fled to the woods over a day before. His spirit had been broken
and subdued at last. It had taken a hard blow to do the breaking, but it
had been most effective.

Instead of going out upon the highway he sat down upon the ground near
his own gate just inside the broken-down fence. He wanted to think, to
form some plan as to his future course of action. He knew that he must
get away. But where could he go to escape the long arm of the law and
his own troubled conscience? No matter where he went he would be surely
followed. He could not live long in the woods, that was certain. He
would be forced to come out for food, and that would betray his
presence.

And as he sat there, he heard the sound of voices. Ere long he was able
to distinguish the forms of two men coming up the road. They were
talking in a most animated manner, and he listened with bated breath.

"Yes, I'm afraid it will go hard with the poor old parson," one was
saying.

"But the doctor thinks he can pull him through all right," the other
replied.

"So he says. But I have me doubts. He thinks Bob may be crippled fer
life. Too bad, an' him such a smart young feller. I wonder what Tim'll
do without him."

"What happened to the car, anyway, do you suppose?"

"Oh, something must have gone wrong, struck a stone, mebbe, or the
steering-gear broke. It sometimes does. Ye haven't seen Tim, have ye?"

What the reply was Tim could not hear, as the men were too far away. But
he had learned several important things. Bob would be a cripple for
life, so the doctor had said. Bob a cripple! The words kept sounding in
his ears. His Bob, so strong and active, a cripple! He covered his face
with his hands and groaned aloud. He did not care who heard him. He was
wild with despair and agony of soul. And the parson had been injured,
too. But he would most likely recover, while Bob would be a cripple for
life. And his father had done the deed! Wild thoughts surged through his
brain. He would kill himself, and thus be free from his torment. What
else was there for him to do? He could not go away, neither could he
remain at home. Death was the only remedy.

And as this wild resolve took shape in his mind, he heard a step behind
him. Startled, he turned quickly around and saw the dim form of a man
approaching. He was on the point of leaping aside and running away, when
a calm voice stayed him.

"Were you calling me?"

"Callin' you! Lord, no! I wasn't callin' anybody."

"But it seemed to me that you were. You need help, don't you?"

"Should 'say I do. I'm in a h---- of a fix."

"I'm just the man you need, then. I have come in the nick of time."

"Who are you, anyway?" Tim gasped. "I thought at first ye was a
constable."

"Well, I'm not. I am only Paul Random. I saved your son, and I am now
here to save you. Come along with me."




CHAPTER XXXII

A MODERN MIRACLE


There was great excitement throughout the parish over the accident.
People discussed it in their homes, at the store, and wherever two or
three were gathered together. All were deeply concerned about Parson
Dan, and neighbors came to the rectory to learn how he was getting
along. Their feeling toward him had been suddenly changed, and they
realised at last how much he really meant to them. For over forty years
he had been in their midst, and had entered into their lives in times of
sorrow and joy. He had baptized their children, married many of them,
and had buried their dead. Suppose he should die! They could not imagine
what the place would be like without his familiar form going along the
road in his old buggy.

"Why, we'll be lost without him," Joe Steffins declared that morning in
the store, as he leaned against the counter. "Though I've not been much
of a church-goer, I allus liked to know that the parson was among us. I
liked to feel if I got sick he'd be handy when I needed him."

"H'm, I guess there were more like you, Joe," the storekeeper retorted.
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself. You've talked against the parson
for years, and never even attended church. Yet you wanted to have him
handy when you got sick. Bah! I wouldn't give a snap of my fingers for
that kind of religion, and I don't believe the Lord will, either."

"Mebbe ye'r right," and Joe ran his fingers through his hair, a sure
sign of the depth of his feeling. "But if the parson is spared to us, I
swear I'll turn over a new leaf, by jingo, I will!"

And more than Joe decided to make a change. Their hearts had been
touched as never before, and it seemed that the accident which befell
the parson had produced a greater effect than all the sermons he had
preached.

The parish was also stirred over the accident to Bob Bendle. At first it
was a mystery as to what he was doing in the place. But when the news
leaked out, it provided a choice subject for conversation. It swept away
the falsehood about Doris Randall, and all felt sorry for the girl.
Following upon this came the startling information that Tim Bendle had
given himself up to the police. No one could understand this, for Tim
was the last man, so all believed, to do such a thing. He had been seen
in the company of "Crazy" Paul, and all wondered what that might mean.
Thus everywhere there was much excitement, combined with considerable
talking, while all waited eagerly to see what would happen next.

Little by little the news of what was going on drifted into the rectory.
The parson knew whenever a visitor arrived, and he was always anxious to
know who it was. Although he suffered much from his broken left arm and
the bruises upon his head and body, his mind was perfectly clear. He was
a model patient, and gave his attendants as little trouble as possible.
He liked to have Doris with him, and at times he would close his eyes
and imagine it was Martha as he had known her years before. And Doris
enjoyed waiting upon the clergyman. He seemed nearer to her now since
she had learned from Mrs. Rosher the story of his past life and of his
great love for her grandmother. She did everything in her power for his
comfort. Whenever a visitor called with any news, she told him whatever
she believed would interest him.

"It is good of my people to come to inquire about me," he remarked more
than once. "They never seemed to take much interest in me when I was
well except to criticize everything I did and said. Perhaps this
accident will turn out for the best, after all. The Lord always
overrules everything for good if only we have eyes to see. There is
someone else at the door now. Go and see who it is."

Doris was gone longer than usual, and when she returned there was a
happy expression upon her face. This Mr. Landrose noticed, and he was
anxious to know the reason.

"Something of importance, eh?"

"It is. Christie has been here to see her baby, and she has good news of
Bob, as she calls him. He is greatly changed, so she said, and the
doctor believes he will recover, although it will take some time."

"I am so glad to hear that," and the clergyman gave a deep sigh of
relief. "I was so anxious about the poor fellow, and have been wondering
what he would do should he be a cripple for life. How pleased Christie
must be."

"Indeed she is, and you should see her with the baby. It brought tears
to my eyes the way she kissed and fondled him. How hard it must have
been for her to part with him."

"I do hope everything will be all right now, Doris. We have Mr. Random
to thank for what he has done for Bob. I wonder where he is, anyway."

"Oh, Christie said that he is with Tim Bendle, and he has done so much
for him. He was with him last night, and she heard that Tim is going to
give himself up to the police."

"What! Tim is to give himself up! I can hardly believe that. It is so
improbable."

"But Christie says it is true, and that Tim called to see his son, and
asked his forgiveness for the harm he had done to him."

"What harm? Bob was the only one Tim ever thought anything about. His
affection for his son was his only redeeming feature."

Doris did not at once reply, but stood very still, lost in thought. This
caused Mr. Landrose some surprise. He also noted that her face had
become quite pale.

"Do not be afraid to tell me if anything is wrong. In what way did Tim
injure his son?"

"He was the cause of the accident. He shot at Bob as he was driving the
car, thinking it was John."

"What's this? What's this, Doris? Tim shot Bob!"

"That's what he said, and he is so sorry. I never heard a man talk as he
did, and when he left the house he was crying like a child."

"I can hardly believe it, Doris. It is not like Tim at all. He must have
undergone a remarkable change since I saw him last. Where is he now?"

"I do not know. He went away with Mr. Random."

"With Random! Ah, now I understand. It was Random who changed Tim, I
feel sure of that. My! my! this is wonderful news to me."

Just then a knock was heard upon the door, and at once Random himself
entered. The clergyman's eyes expressed his pleasure and surprise.

"Why, we were talking about you this very minute, and here you are. I am
so glad to see you. Sit down here by my side, for I know you have much
to tell me."

"Indeed I have," the visitor replied. He then turned to Doris who was
standing nearby.

"There is someone waiting for you outside, Miss Randall. You can guess,
perhaps, who it is."

The girl's face flushed with pleasure.

"Is it John?"

"Yes. He has just arrived, and wants to see you."

In another minute the girl was gone, and the two men were left alone.
Random drew up a chair close to the bed, and sat down.

"How are you feeling now, sir?"

"Much better, thank you, since I have heard the great news about Tim. I
can hardly believe it, so wonderful does it all seem. How did you manage
to perform such a remarkable miracle?"

Random smiled, and his eyes shone with happiness.

"It wasn't my doing, sir, but the power of the Holy Spirit. I was sent
to Tim last night when he was on the verge of despair. He was a broken
man, and ready for a desperate deed. But man's extremity is God's
opportunity, and I was led to him just when his need was the greatest.
At any other time he would have scorned me and driven me away with
curses. But not last night. He was worn out for lack of sleep and food.
I saw that he got both, and then, as I have told you, the Spirit did
the rest."

"But how did you do it, Mr. Random? What did you say to him? This is all
news to me, and I want to know."

"Mr. Landrose, when a man is starving and you give him food, you do not
have to argue to induce him to eat. When he is dying of thirst and you
place water before him, you do not have to urge him to drink. When the
need is great and the desire is intense, there is no difficulty then.
That was the way with Tim. I merely pointed him to the Bread and Water
of life, Who alone can satisfy the hungry and thirsty soul. It was all
very easy."

"Perhaps so, but I cannot understand how Tim could change in such a
short time. I might believe it about anyone else but him. He has been a
hard man, opposed to religion, and an inveterate reader of atheistic
books. I have several of them in the house now which his wife let me
have. They are most pernicious."

"Ah, Mr. Landrose, there is often more hope of such a man as that than
one who is absolutely indifferent. He was a thinker, and that counted
for much. I was once that way myself, and when people believed I was
hopeless, the Spirit was all the time striving with me and giving me no
rest. I have already told you of my experience, and how I suddenly found
peace while drifting down that northern river. And so it must have been
with Tim. He was evidently seeking and not finding. For a time he was
mad, and his madness led him to his deed of violence. Then when his need
was the greatest he found that for which he had been seeking. St. Paul,
you remember, was like that, but on the road to Damascus the Lord met
him. Is it any more wonderful now than in olden days?"

"No, no, certainly not, Mr. Random. But this is a miracle, if ever there
was one. Oh, if we could only have others changed like that!"

"They will only have it, sir, when they feel the need of the power from
on high. 'Power belongeth unto God,' so we read, but it will only be
given to us in proportion to our need and faith. The Master Himself came
unto His own, and His own received Him not. But as many as received Him
to them gave He power to become the sons of God, even to them that
believe on His name.' Those words are as true to-day as of old. Only to
those who receive Him will power be given. I have proven it over and
over again."

"I believe you have," the clergyman murmured. With closed eyes he lay
very still for a few minutes, while silence reigned in the room. When at
last he spoke there was a deep earnestness in his voice as he turned his
eyes upon his companion's face.

"And I need that Spirit, too. I have lacked power because I have not
received. And if I have not received, how could I impart to others? Oh,
I see my mistake now. Yes, I see it. God forgive me for not realizing it
before. You have done a great thing for me, Mr. Random, and I thank you
with all my heart."

"But you must have received, sir," was the quiet reply. "How could you
have carried on your work for so many years unless you had been
spiritually upheld? Surely grace has been given to you."

"I suppose I have had some. But my people have not responded, for I have
given them the husks instead of food. I have taught them, but the
teaching lacked the life-giving power. Religion such as I have imparted
has not been a vital and personal thing. I have explained the benefits
of religion as taught by the Church, but I have not led my people to
accept Him as their Saviour Who alone can supply all their needs. No, I
had come to the end of my resources when my eyes were opened and I
realized my mistake. In a way, I was like Tim Bendle, in despair. Now I
see that at such times Christ comes as He came to the disciples on the
storm-tossed lake when they needed Him most. I see it now."

For a few minutes longer they talked, and when Random rose to go, the
clergyman grasped his hand.

"Come again soon. There are many things we must talk over together. The
Lord is surely using you to do great things. Good-bye, and God bless
you."




CHAPTER XXXIII

THE BISHOP


Mr. Landrose had never been confined to his bed for more than a day or
two at a time. This, therefore, was a new experience to be laid aside
and unable to carry on his work. It was strange for him to be lying
there with others waiting upon him. But he did not altogether dislike
it. Doris and John were much with him, and they were always cheerful. It
was pleasant to have these young people by his side, and at times as
they talked to each other he would watch them. How happy they were, and
he was glad. He thought of other days when he and Martha were young, and
the glamor of the past came upon him as on the wings of fancy he drifted
back to scenes of old. He now knew that it was for the best that he had
not married Martha. She would not have been happy with him, he was sure.
She would never have submitted to the quiet routine of a clergyman's
life in a country parish. She needed excitement and travel. And she had
obtained her heart's desire, but at what a price!

The clergyman was much interested in the newspaper's report of the
accident. There was a big headline, "Clergyman Badly Injured." It then
described what had taken place, and gave a sketch of the parson's life.
"Mr. Landrose," so the paper stated, "is one of the oldest and most
faithful clergyman in the diocese. He has spent over forty years in his
present parish, ministering to his scattered flock. He is a man highly
respected, and the influence of his self-denying work has extended far
beyond the bounds of Green Mount. In these days when men are ever on the
move, flitting from one parish to another, it is good to find a man who
has been content to remain in one place for such a length of time,
growing up with his people, entering into their joys and sorrows, the
confidant, adviser, and spiritual friend of all. The sympathy of all is
extended to Mr. Landrose, and it is sincerely hoped that he will soon be
fully restored to his former strength and vigor."

"Well! well!" the parson exclaimed. "Who in the world wrote that about
me! Why, I am really unknown beyond this parish."

"You are better known than you imagine, sir," John replied. "Why, I have
already met many who inquired after you. They all know of your faithful
service here. It has taken this trouble to teach you how highly
respected you are."

"It is all very strange and bewildering to me. I have never sought
publicity, and always disliked it. My aim always was to go on steadily
with my work, and glad when others received honors."

"You should have received them, though," John declared. "And what has
the Church done for you? It has neglected you, while other men, and some
of them far inferior, have been recognized. It is a downright shame, and
I am surprised at the Bishop for overlooking you."

Mr. Landrose made no reply. He was in a quandary, and knew not what to
say. He wished to defend his Bishop, and mention his offer of the
Canonry in the Cathedral. But how could he explain his reason for not
accepting it? In order to do so he would have to refer to his sin in
giving an excommunicated woman the Holy Communion. But he could not
have his Bishop misjudged. He looked at the two young people before him,
and felt that they would respect his secret if he revealed it to them.
It would unburden his mind, anyway.

"You must not judge the Bishop too harshly," he at length began. "He did
offer me a Canonry, and I have not accepted it. I could not see my way
clear to do so."

"Mr. Landrose!" John exclaimed. "You astonish me! Why did you not accept
it?"

"Because of my unworthiness."

"H'm, that's all nonsense. You are too humble, sir."

"It is not humbleness, but sinfulness. Listen. How could I accept the
Canonry when I have disobeyed my Bishop? Doris, I gave the Holy
Communion to your grandmother, knowing that she had been excommunicated.
That was my great sin. Now you know why I have not accepted the Bishop's
offer. He was not to blame. No one knows what mental agony I have
endured since my fall."

At these words Doris rose to her feet and went close to the clergyman's
side. Her face was aglow, and her eyes were unusually bright.

"And you did that for granny's sake?" she asked. "You made that great
sacrifice for her? And because of that you did not accept the Canonry?"

"I did, I did, Doris. I know I was weak, but how could I help it when
your grandmother meant so much to me? You understand, I suppose, what I
mean?"

"I did not until Mrs. Rosher told me a few days ago."

"Ah, so she told you, did she? She should not have done so."

"Why not? It was right that I should know, for it explained several
things I could not understand. But I had no idea that granny had been
put out of the Church. And, oh, Mr. Landrose, I am so thankful that you
gave her the Communion. I am sure the Lord will forgive you even if the
Bishop doesn't. I am proud of you."

"You must not say that, Doris. You should never be proud of anyone who
has done wrong. Oh, how I have prayed that my sin might be forgiven, but
I receive no peace. Perhaps I merit none."

"Have you told the Bishop, sir?"

"No, and that is what worries me, too. I have not even replied to his
letter, as I do not know what to say. I cannot write without explaining
my sin. But I am determined to do so just as soon as I am able to write.
The Bishop must know what I have done. What the outcome will be I cannot
tell. It will be hard to be reprimanded in my old age. But if so, I must
submit. The fault is mine, so I must bear it."

This conversation was interrupted by Rachel, who entered carrying a tray
containing the clergyman's luncheon. He looked up in surprise.

"Dear me! I seem to be always eating. I had my breakfast only a short
time ago."

"And you didn't eat enough to keep a sparrow alive," Rachel replied.
"You must do better than that now. And here is your mail, too." She
motioned to several letters lying upon the tray. "But you must eat
something before you open them. You have to obey orders now."

"So it seems, Rachel. But, then, I don't mind when everyone is so kind.
You are a wonderful woman, Rachel, and a great comfort to me."

The housekeeper said nothing in reply, but her eyes were a little misty.
He had complimented her at times in the past, but always in an
absent-minded manner. The tone of his voice was different now, and she
wondered if it was due to his accident. He was much more considerate,
and not so fussy about little things.

After Mr. Landrose had finished his meal, he picked up his letters. One
was from the Bishop, who after expressing his sympathy, stated that he
would come to Green Mount next Sunday and take the three services. This
was welcome news to the parson, for he had been troubled about the
services. The people would be glad to have the Bishop with them, and for
once the churches would be filled. At the same time, he dreaded the
Bishop's visit, for he would speak, no doubt, about the Canonry which
had been offered. A full explanation would then be necessary, and how
grieved and offended the Bishop would be at his disobedience. That such
a breach of discipline could or would be forgiven never once occurred to
him. Duty was duty, and law was law, so that ended it as far as he could
see. This had been the guiding principle of his entire ministry except
once--and for that one offense he was a condemned man. Did not the Bible
say that "Whosoever shall keep the whole law, and yet offend in one
point, he is guilty of all?" And that was so in his case, he believed,
and his past good conduct would amount to nothing.

When Doris and John learned that the Bishop was coming they did all in
their power to keep the clergyman from worrying. Doris read to him from
the book he had purchased in the city, and although it was quite dry and
dull to her, it was of considerable interest to the invalid. Several
times he interrupted her with comments.

"That man knows what he wrote about. He has had a long experience in
parish work. I like his spirit."

There were other interruptions, as well, for several visitors called to
inquire about the parson. He was glad to see them, and chatted with each
for several minutes. Christie also came during the afternoon. She had
been over to see the baby, and when Mr. Landrose heard that she was at
the rectory, he sent for her. She came timidly into the room where he
was lying, and sat down by his side.

"And how is Robert getting along?" the parson asked.

"As well as can be expected. The doctor was in to see him this morning,
and he spoke most hopefully."

"I am glad to hear that, Christie. I can sympathize with the poor
fellow. Both of us will be laid aside for some time. I trust that Robert
is supplied with everything for his comfort. Let me know if there is
anything he needs."

"Doris is attending to all that, sir. She has been so good and wanted to
get a nurse for Bob. But I would rather look after him myself."

"Yes, Doris spoke to me about the matter, and I readily gave my consent.
She is a great comfort to us all. She is to me, anyway, and I do not
know what I should do without her. She is like my own daughter."

"She has meant much to me, Mr. Landrose. No sister could be kinder or
more thoughtful. She is not one bit selfish, but is always thinking of
others. But, there, I must go and see how Bob is getting along."

It was dark when the Bishop arrived, and Doris conducted him at once to
where Mr. Landrose was lying. She then stood back and silently watched
the two men. She had never met a Bishop before, and she stood in
considerable awe of such a Church dignitary. But this man was just like
anyone else, and spoke so pleasantly to her that her fear was
immediately removed. Her heart warmed toward him as she noticed how
considerate and respectful he was to the invalid. There was no trace of
condescension on his part. He sat by the side of the bed, took the
parson's hand, expressed his sympathy, and inquired as to his welfare.
It was like the meeting of two old friends, and there was no sign of any
difference in their positions in the Ministry. Thinking it best that the
two should be left alone, Doris went quietly out of the room, and sought
Rachel and the baby. The latter was just ready for bed, and he reached
out his little hands as Doris came near.

"Isn't he a darling!" she exclaimed, taking the wee lad in her arms.
"How Christie must love him. Isn't it wonderful to watch her face when
she is looking at him?"

"I am afraid she will be taking him away from us soon," and Rachel
sighed at the idea. "I wish that I could keep him as my own."

"Perhaps Christie will let you, Rachel."

"It is hardly likely. No mother would wish to be separated from such a
child for any length of time. I wouldn't, anyway."

While the women talked, the Bishop and Mr. Landrose were engaged in an
earnest conversation. The latter in a trembling voice had made his
confession. It had been a hard thing for him to do, and when he had
ended he looked at the Bishop who was sitting with downcast eyes and
hands clasped together, as if in deep thought. For a minute there was
silence in the room. Mr. Landrose's heart beat fast, for he felt that
the Bishop was very angry. At length he could endure the tension no
longer.

"I know this has shocked you, my lord, and that is only natural. But I
do not plead for mercy. I have sinned, perhaps, in your eyes, but I am
sure the Lord will understand and be merciful."

At once the Bishop reached out and grasped the clergyman's right hand as
it lay motionless outside the counterpane.

"Do not say that. I have not been shocked at your confession, for I knew
all about what you had done."

"You did!" The parson's eyes opened wide in amazement. "Who told you?"

"Oh, I learned about it in several ways. One was by means of an
anonymous sent to me shortly after you committed the offense. I also saw
the account of the woman's death in the paper, and how you had conducted
the funeral. Thus, you see, I knew quite well what you had done."

"And yet you did not write and reprimand me."

"No."

"Did you know what I had done when you offered me the Canonry?"

"No."

"You had no idea, then, why I did not accept the honor?"

"Oh, yes, I knew quite well, for I knew you. Any other man would have
accepted it at once. But with you it was different."

The clergyman was puzzled at these words, and groped about in his mind
as to the Bishop's meaning. The latter noticed this, and smiled.

"If I had the least doubt in the past about my course of action, it is
entirely gone now. You are a man in a thousand."

"How can you say that, my lord, after what I have done? I am astonished
at your moderation."

"Perhaps you are. But you yourself are to blame for that."

"In what way? I do not understand your meaning."

"For being such a faithful clergyman for so many years. Your life has
been an inspiration to the whole diocese, though you were not aware of
it. Most men remain in one place but a short time, and then move away
somewhere else. But you have stuck to your post through thick and thin."

"But what about my great sin, my lord? Have you forgotten that?"

"Not at all. Now, if a young man had done that I should, no doubt, have
called him to account at once. But it was different in your case. I had
enough confidence in you to let it pass. I believed that you had some
very special reason for giving an excommunicated woman the Communion.
What that was, I did not know, but my confidence in you was very great."

There were tears in the parson's eyes when the Bishop ended, and he
found it difficult to speak. He lay very still, looking straight before
him. The Bishop saw his emotion, and he, too, was deeply moved.

"I am glad that I have had this talk with you to-night. I have waited
quite a while for your confession. You will accept the Canonry now, I
hope."

"It will be a great pleasure, my lord. I can hardly believe it is true
that the ordeal is over, and I have not been severely reprimanded. I
longed to tell you before, and I had planned to unburden my mind at the
Synod. But you were very busy, and, besides, my courage failed. And I
also hesitated about revealing the secret about my past life. I thought
it would only bother you. Now, however, I know better. Yes, there was a
special reason why I gave that woman the Communion, for she and I were
once engaged to be married. I was willing to give my life, if necessary,
that Martha Benson might have the comfort of the Journey Food. She
needed it, poor soul, if anyone ever did. Now you understand. I can tell
you no more."

"I do, I certainly do," the Bishop replied in a husky voice. "And I
appreciate your confidence. May God bless you."

He rose to his feet, and was about to leave the room when the door
opened, and Paul Random entered. He was not surprised to see the Bishop
there, and a smile illumined his face.

"I am so glad to see you," the Bishop accosted, as he held out his hand.
"You are everywhere, it seems to me, and doing a wonderful work as
usual. Mr. Landrose has been telling me of your latest triumphs. Oh, for
more such workers in the Church!"

"'Not unto us, O Lord, but unto Thy name give the praise," Random
quietly replied. "It is only He who doeth marvellous works, for all
power belongeth unto Him."

"I believe it, I believe it," the Bishop fervently declared. "Oh, for
more of His Holy Spirit in our midst. But I must go now, and leave you
two together. I hope to see you to-morrow," he added turning to the
clergyman. "I wish to talk over with you about getting some one to take
duty in this parish while you are laid up. Good-night to you both."




CHAPTER XXXIV

THE WEDDING


During the following weeks, Mr. Landrose made steady progress toward
recovery. The Bishop's visit and his forgiveness had lifted a great
burden from his mind. That he had not been reprimanded for what he had
done gave him much comfort, and he often meditated over the change that
had come upon the Church since his ordination. There was a deeper and a
more earnest feeling, and the spirit was taking the place of the letter,
so it seemed to him. He thought of Bishop Strathroy's sermon at the
Synod, and also the words of his own Bishop. If these men had received
the vision it was a sign of what was taking place in the whole body of
the Church. For such he was most thankful, and he was no longer afraid
to acknowledge the change that had come into his own soul. It brought
him a new peace and comfort such as he had never experienced in the past
when he had thought only of the dry bones of religion. He knew that the
letter was important and must not be neglected, but the letter without
the spirit is dead.

Doris was his faithful attendant, and they had long conversations
together. Sometimes the girl would read to him, but what he liked best
of all was to talk about personal matters.

"You remind me so much of your grandmother when she was your age," he
said to her one day. "The resemblance is very remarkable, and I can
almost imagine that you are Martha as I knew her. It all seems like a
wonderful dream that you are with me here. How can I ever repay you for
all you have done for me?"

"Do not try," Doris smilingly replied. "I am more than repaid already.
What little I can do will never make up for the way granny treated you.
But, oh, how she must have suffered, too. I did not understand it when
she was alive, but I do now. She was always so restless and unhappy, and
I know the reason. How strange that I did not suspect what was the
trouble, even after we came to this place and I knew that she was so
much interested in you."

"I know, I know. Poor soul! She was something like the children of
Israel in olden days, when the Lord 'gave them their hearts' desire, but
sent leanness withal into their soul.' And so with Martha. She got what
her heart desired, but it brought great unrest into her soul. It reminds
me of a fable about a little brook among the hills which became
dissatisfied with its simple life. It asked for snow from the mountains,
and rain from the clouds. Then when its prayer was granted, it burst its
bounds and brought ruin and desolation on all sides. At first it
delighted in its strength, but seeing at last how much harm it had done,
and that it was doomed forever to be a sullen stream, it longed for the
quietness and restfulness of its former home in the hills among the
birds, flowers and trees. Ah, yes, that was sadly true in Martha's
case."

He ceased and looked off over the fields, lost in thought.

"But granny did come back," Doris reminded. "She did find peace at
last."

"To a certain extent she did. But how brief it was, and it was mingled
with the regret of what she had lost in life. It is always so. Anyway, I
am thankful that Martha came back, and that I have you with me. Your
presence here has made a great difference in my life. When Martha asked
me to be your guardian I considered it a great burden. But it has turned
out to be a joy and a blessing."

"Perhaps it was my fault that you considered the guardianship of me as a
burden. I was not very civil to you at first. I was annoyed at what
granny had done, and I hated you, and planned to make you thoroughly
disgusted with your task."

"You did! Well, I never knew of it, for you have been so kind ever since
that first meeting at the hotel."

"Don't you remember how I sent you to the city to buy my clothes?"

"Oh, yes, I shall never forget that terrible ordeal. But what had it to
do with your plan?"

"Very much. John and I decided that we would make you do all sorts of
disagreeable things until you gave up your guardianship in despair."

"Why didn't you continue the plan?"

"Because I couldn't. I got to know you, and that made such a great
difference. And, oh, I am so thankful since I have learned what granny
did to you."

A mistiness came into the clergyman's eyes as he listened to this candid
confession. He thought of how he had planned to teach this girl the
doctrines of the Church. But, instead, she had been his teacher in many
things. For this he was thankful, as he knew it was all for the best.

Mr. Landrose's days were also brightened by many visitors. Among them
was Mrs. Bristol. Her very presence was invigorating, like a fresh
breeze from the hills and woods of her valley home.

"My, it's good to see ye around ag'in!" she exclaimed, as she grasped
the parson's hand. "I've been longin' fer a sight of ye'r face, so I got
Jimmy to drive me in t'day. Ye've been through deep waters, parson,
since I saw ye last."

"I have, Mrs. Bristol. But the Lord has been merciful."

"'Deed He has, an' to others, too. I hear Bob's gittin' on fine. I met
Christie on the road an' her face was beamin'. She told me that Bob is
settin' up now, an' the doctor thinks he'll be as well as ever. I'm so
glad fer Christie's sake."

Thus through the weeks of summer Mr. Landrose made steady progress. John
came often to see him. It was not for his sake alone that he came, he
was well aware, for he was not blind to the love that he and Doris had
for each other. He said nothing, however, but it was a pleasure to watch
them and rejoice in their happiness. His mind went back to other days
when he and Martha were young. But no rebellious feeling entered his
heart, for he knew that all had turned out for the best.

Several times Paul Random came to see him, and they always had long
talks together. Random had much to tell about his work, and the parson
listened with keen interest. How he, too, longed to be up and doing, to
start all over again, old as he was, and do more effective service in
the Lord's cause.

When Mr. Landrose was strong enough he would walk every day over to the
church, and kneel for some time in his old accustomed place. Then he
would go out and stand by Martha's grave. He liked best to go there in
the quietness and coolness of the evening. The church then was filled
with a subdued light, and the figures in the stained-glass windows
facing west were soft with the glow of departing day. These were all in
memory of loved ones, and only one window remained to be filled. That
should be for Martha Benson, so he resolved, and it would be the parable
of the Lost Sheep. He had a picture in his study of the Master seeking
the wandering one in a dreary mountain region, clinging with one hand to
a rough boulder on the side of a steep precipice, and reaching down with
the other to rescue the sheep below. Yes, that would be the subject.

Coming out of the church that evening with heart stirred and eyes aglow
at the thoughts which had come to him, he saw Tim Bendle just outside.
He gave a slight start and looked keenly into the man's face. This was
the first time he had met Tim since the accident, and it was hard for
him to rid his mind of past impressions. This, however, was no longer
the Tim of other days, but a man subdued and respectful. His bold manner
had departed.

"I've come to see ye, parson, about them books of mine the Missus let ye
have a while ago."

"Oh, yes, I remember them now, Tim, although I had forgotten all about
them. They are in my study. I have been tempted to burn them."

"That's what I intend to do with 'em, parson. I'm goin' to have a
bon-fire to-night an' burn the hull lot. They're trash, an' full of
lies. Me eyes have been opened, an' I see the truth now."

"Thank God for that," the clergyman fervently declared, as he reached
out and caught Tim by the hand. "I can hardly believe it possible."

"Neither kin I, parson. But it's true, an' I'm a new man. An' in
thankin' the Lord, I'm not goin' to leave Paul Random out. It was him
that found me jist in the nick of time. Mebbe the Lord sent him, fer all
I know. Anyway, he found me when I needed help in the worst way, an'
changed me from the devil I was. I kin see now what a bad critter I've
been. But by the help of God an' Paul Random I'm goin' to do better."

"So you are going to burn those books, Tim?"

"I sure am, an' to-night if I kin git the ones you have. I don't seem to
have the right peace until the work is done."

"Come with me to the rectory, then, and you shall have them. Oh, I am so
thankful at this change in your life. You were a hard man."

"Indeed I was, parson, an' I was a mighty trouble to you. But that's all
ended now, an' I'm goin' to settle down to steady work. Mr. Norton has a
job fer me, an' it's good of him to take me after what I've done."

The change in Tim's life was a great relief to Mr. Landrose. It was also
the talk of the whole parish. Some had their doubts, for it was
difficult for them to believe that Tim Bendle could be reformed. But as
the weeks passed, and he worked steadily in the quarry, even the most
skeptical had to acknowledge that Tim was in earnest. His wife was
delighted, and a new peace and harmony settled down upon the Bendle
home.

Summer at length gave place to fall, and at the end of September Bob
Bendle was almost his former self again. Plans had been made weeks
before for the wedding which would be held in the little church out
among the hills. Christie wished it so, and she and Doris often talked
about it.

"I can hardly believe it yet," Christie one day confided to her
companion. "But I know it is true. I want the wedding to be in my home
church which I attended as a child. And I want Mrs. Bristol and Jimmy to
be there. And how I wish A'nt Hanner could see us married."

The wedding-day arrived fine and warm. The little church was filled with
interested people. Wild flowers, especially the golden-rod, were
artistically arranged in the chancel, while the vases on the altar were
filled with beautiful white roses, which had been sent from the city by
Doris's special order. The service was most impressive, and when at last
Mr. Landrose pronounced Bob and Christie man and wife many present
breathed deep sighs of relief and thankfulness. Tears rolled down Mrs.
Bristol's cheeks, and Doris found it difficult to conceal her emotion.
Jimmy was by his mother's side, alert and watchful. He kept his eyes
fixed upon Bob during the entire service. But when the benediction had
been pronounced, his watchful attitude relaxed, and his face brightened.
A heavy burden was lifted from his mind, and he knew that he would not
have to use his gun, after all.

After the service there were many congratulations, and then came a great
surprise. There was to be a wedding-supper at A'nt Hanner's. Mrs.
Bristol had made all the arrangements. For two days she had been
cooking, and Jimmy had taken everything over to the house in the car.
John Norton, who had really suggested the idea, had done all in his
power to make the supper a success. Doris surmised this, and the
grateful look she gave John was all the reward he needed. A'nt Hanner
was overjoyed, and ere Bob and Christie left when supper was ended, she
clasped the girl in her arms and gave her a motherly kiss.

"May God bless you both," she said. "I have known you, Christie, ever
since you were a little child. You have come through deep waters, but He
who has guided you will never fail nor forsake you. Be true to Him, and
you and Bob will be true to each other."

That night in the rectory study, Mr. Landrose, Doris and John sat before
an open fire, for a chilliness was in the air. Among other things, they
talked of what had taken place that day. Then the young couple told the
clergyman of their love for each other. They had no need to tell him,
however, for he knew it long before. But he was glad of their
confidence, so all that remained for him to do was to add his blessing.

"My heart overflows with peace and gratitude," he quietly said. "Many
are the blessings vouchsafed to me in my old age. I have been forgiven
by my Bishop. My people have gathered around me. They have given me
their love and sympathy, and from Martha I have received a daughter to
love and to be loved in return. But above all, I have gained a new
spirit, and in that spirit I shall henceforth live and work. It has
crowded out many things which I once thought were so essential. I have
been a stumbling shepherd, but the Lord has kept me from falling. He has
given me a new vision, and has guided my feet into the way of peace."

As he finished, Paul Random came quietly into the room and took a seat
by the clergyman's side. His unannounced appearance seemed to them like
the very embodiment of that spirit of which the parson had just been
speaking.


THE END

       *       *       *       *       *

BY H. A. CODY


    THE STUMBLING SHEPHERD
    FIGHTING STARS
    THE FIGHTING-SLOGAN
    THE MASTER REVENGE
    THE TRAIL OF THE GOLDEN HORN
    THE KING'S ARROW
    JESS OF THE REBEL TRAIL
    GLEN OF THE HIGH NORTH
    THE TOUCH OF ABNER
    THE UNKNOWN WRESTLER
    UNDER SEALED ORDERS
    IF ANY MAN SIN
    THE CHIEF OF THE RANGES
    THE FOURTH WATCH
    THE LONG PATROL
    ROD OF THE LONE PATROL
    THE FRONTIERSMA


[The end of _The Stumbling Shepherd_ by H. A. Cody]