Chapter 5

grew to reverence as they grew in years. The calm that sat on that high, broad brow, told of conflicts passed, and victory secure, of weary wandering through desert places, over now and scarce remembered in the quiet of the resting-place he had found. His words and deeds, and his chastened views of earthly things told of a deep experience in "that life which is the heritage of the few--that true life of God in the soul with its strange, rich secrets, both of joy and sadness," whose peace the world knoweth not of, which naught beneath the sun can ever more disturb.

"The minister is changed--greatly changed." Janet had said many times to herself and others during the last few months, and she said it now, as her eye with the others turned on him as he entered. But with the thought there came to-night the consciousness that the change was not such a one as was to be deplored. He had grown older and graver, and more silent than he used to be, but he had grown to something higher, purer, holier than of old, and like a sudden gleam of light breaking through the darkness, there flashed into Janet's mind the promise, "All things shall work together for good to them that love God." Her lips had often spoken the words before, but now her eyes saw the fulfilment, and her failing faith was strengthened. If that bitter trial, beyond which she had vainly striven to see aught but evil, had indeed wrought good, for her beloved friend and master; need she fear any change or any trial which the future might have in store for her?

"It will work for good, this pain and separation," murmured she. "I'm no' like the minister, but frail and foolish, and wilful too whiles, but I humbly hope that I am one of those who love the Lord."

"Well, bairns!" said the father. There was a gentle stir and movement among them, though there was no need, for Graeme had already set her father's chair and opened the Bible at the place. She pushed aside the cradle a little that he might pass, and he sat down among them.

"We'll take a Psalm, to-night," said he, after a minute's turning of the leaves from a "namey chapter" in Chronicles, the usual place. He chose the forty-sixth.

"God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.

"Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed, though the mountains be cast into the midst of the sea."

And thus on through the next.

"He shall choose our inheritance for us, the excellency of Jacob, whom he loved."

And still on through the next till the last verse,--

"This God is our God for ever and ever. He will be our guide, even unto death," seemed like the triumphant ending of a song of praise.

Then there was a momentary hush and pause. Never since the mother's voice had grown silent in death had the voice of song risen at worship time. They had tried it more than once, and failed in bitter weeping. But Janet, fearful that their silence was a sin, had to-night brought the hymn-books which they always used, and laid them at Arthur's side. In the silence that followed the reading Graeme looked from him to them, but Arthur shook his head. He was not sure that his voice would make its way through the lump that had been gathering in his throat while his father read, and he felt that to fail would be dreadful, so there was silence still--

There was a little lingering round the fire after worship was over, but when Arthur went quietly away the boys soon followed. Graeme would fain have stayed to speak a few words to her father, on this first night of his return. He was sitting gazing into the fire, with a face so grave that his daughter's heart ached for his loneliness. But a peevish voice from the cradle admonished her that she must to her task again, and so with a quiet "good-night, papa," she took her little sister in her arms. Up-stairs she went, murmuring tender words to her "wee birdie," her "bonny lammie," her "little gentle dove," more than repaid for all her weariness and care, by the fond nestling of the little head upon her bosom; for her love, which was more a mother's than a sister's, made the burden light.

The house was quiet at last. The boys had talked themselves to sleep, and the minister had gone to his study again. This had been one of Rosie's "weary nights." The voices of her brothers had wakened her in the parlour, and Graeme had a long walk with the fretful child, before she was soothed to sleep again. But she did sleep at last, and just as Janet had finished her nightly round, shutting the windows and barring the doors, Graeme crept down-stairs, and entered the kitchen. The red embers still glowed on the hearth, but Janet was in the very act of "resting the fire" for the night.

"Oh! Janet," said Graeme, "put on another peat. I'm cold, and I want to speak to you."

"Miss Graeme! You up at this time o' the night! What ails yon cankered fairy now?"

"Oh, Janet! She's asleep long ago, and I want to speak to you." And before Janet could remonstrate, one of the dry peats set ready for the morning fire was thrown on the embers, and soon blazed brightly up. Graeme crouched down before it, with her arm over Janet's knee.

"Janet, what did your mother say? And oh! Janet, Arthur says my father--" Turning with a sudden movement, Graeme let her head fall on Janet's lap, and burst into tears. Janet tried to lift her face.

"Whist! Miss Graeme! What ails the lassie? It's no' the thought of going awa', surely? You hae kenned this was to be a while syne. You hae little to greet about, if you but kenned it--you, who are going altogether."

"Janet, Arthur is to bide in Scotland."

"Well, it winna be for long. Just till he's done at the college. I dare say it is the best thing that can happen him to bide. But who told you?"

"Arthur told me after we went up-stairs to-night. And, oh! Janet! what will I ever do without him?"

"Miss Graeme, my dear! You hae done without him these two years already mostly, and even if we all were to bide in Scotland, you would hae to do without him still. He could na' be here and at the college too. And when he's done with that he would hae to go elsewhere. Families canna aye bide together. Bairns maun part."

"But, Janet, to go so far and leave him! It will seem almost like death."

"But, lassie it's no' death. There's a great difference. And as for seeing him again, that is as the Lord wills. Anyway, it doesna become you to cast a slight on your father's judgment, as though he had decided unwisely in this matter. Do you no' think it will cost him something to part from his first-born son?"

"But, Janet, why need he part from him? Think how much better it would be for him, and for us all, if Arthur should go with us. Arthur is almost a man."

"Na, lass. He'll no' hae a man's sense this while yet. And as for his goin' or bidin', it's no' for you or me to seek for the why and the wherefore o' the matter. It might be better--more cheery--for you and us all if your elder brother were with us, but it wouldna be best for him to go, or your father would never leave him, you may be sure o' that."

There was a long silence. Graeme sat gazing into the dying embers. Janet threw on another peat, and a bright blaze sprang up again.

"Miss Graeme, my dear, if it's a wise and right thing for your father to take you all over the sea, the going or the biding o' your elder brother can make no real difference. You must seek to see the rights o' this. If your father hasna him to help him with the bairns and--ither things, the more he'll need you, and you maun hae patience, and strive no' to disappoint him. You hae muckle to be thankful for--you that can write to ane anither like a printed book, to keep ane anither in mind. There's nae fear o' your growin' out o' acquaintance, and he'll soon follow, you may be sure. Oh, lassie, lassie! if you could only ken!"

Graeme raised herself up, and leaned both her arms on Janet's lap.

"Janet, what did your mother say?"

Janet gulped something down, and said, huskily,--

"Oh! she said many a thing, but she made nae wark about it. I told your father I would go, and I will. My mother doesna object."

"And Sandy?" said Graeme, softly, for there was something working in Janet's face, which she did not like to see.

"Sandy will aye hae my mother, and she'll hae Sandy. But, lassie, it winna bear speaking about to-night. Gang awa' to your bed."

Graeme rose; but did not go.

"But couldna Sandy go with us? It would only be one more. Surely, Janet--"

Janet made a movement of impatience, or entreaty, Graeme did not know which, but it stopped her.

"Na, na! Sandy couldna leave my mother, even if it would be wise for me to take him. There's no more to be said about that." And in spite of herself, Janet's tears gushed forth, as mortal eyes had never seen them gush before, since she was a herd lassie on the hills. Graeme looked on, hushed and frightened, and in a little, Janet quieted herself and wiped her face with her apron.

"You see, dear, what with one thing and what with another, I'm weary, and vexed to-night, and no' just myself. Matters will look more hopeful, both to you and to me, the morn. There's one thing certain. Both you and me hae much to do that maun be done, before we see saut water, without losing time in grumblin' at what canna be helped. What with the bairns' clothes and ither things, we winna need to be idle; so let us awa' to our beds that we may be up betimes the morn."

Graeme still lingered.

"Oh, Janet! if my mother were only here! How easy it all would be."

"Ay, lass! I hae said that to myself many a time this while. But He that took her canna do wrong. There was some need for it, or she would hae been here to-night. You maun aye strive to fill her place to them all."

Graeme's tears flowed forth afresh.

"Oh, Janet! I think you're mocking me when you say that. How could _I_ ever fill her place?"

"No' by your ain strength and wisdom surely my lammie. But it would be limiting His grace to say He canna make you all you should be--all that she was, and that is saying muckle; for she was wise far by the common. But now gang awa' to your bed, and dinna forget your good words. There's no fear but you will be in God's keeping wherever you go."

Janet was right; they had need of all their strength and patience during the next two months. When Janet had confidence in herself, she did what was to be done with a will. But she had little skill in making purchases, and less experience, and Graeme was little better. Many things must be got, and money could not be spent lavishly, and there was no time to lose.

But, with the aid of Mrs Smith and other kind friends, their preparations were got through at last. Purchases were made, mending and making of garments were accomplished, and the labour of packing was got through, to their entire satisfaction.

The minister said good-bye to each of his people separately, either in the kirk, or in his own home or theirs; but he shrunk from last words, and from the sight of all the sorrowful faces that were sure to gather to see them go; so he went away at night, and stayed with a friend, a few miles on their way. But it was the fairest of summer mornings--the mist just lifting from the hills--and the sweet air filled with the laverock's song, when Janet and the bairns looked their last upon their home.