Chapter II: Part 2

Soup is a mighty lubricant of the inward parts; wherefore there broke out, when the first course was run, a very freshet of conversation; and the most conspicuous figure in the flow was that of Mr. Craig. He had the advantage, of course, of an erect position, for he had risen to inaugurate his attack upon the helpless fowl before him; an entrance once effected, he would resume his seat.

"It beats me," he was saying, glancing towards Dr. Fletcher as he spoke, "it beats me how any man can go and see sick folks every day—I’d sooner do hard labour. Don’t you get awful tired of it, Doctor?"

The minister’s gentle face flushed a little—the same face at sight of which the sad and the weary were wont to take new hope. "I don’t think you understand it, Mr. Craig," he answered quietly; "any one who regards it as you do could never see the beauty of it—it all depends on what you take with you."

"Good heavens, do you have to take things with you?" cried the astonished host. "Matters are come to a pretty pass when they expect a poor preacher to be giving—as well as praying," he affirmed, affirmed, savagely at the victim on the platter.

David Borland was listening intently, nabbing dexterously the while at a tray of salted almonds that lay a good arm’s length away from him. "The minister’s quite right," he now broke in; "you don’t understand, Mr. Craig—Dr. Fletcher don’t mean that he takes coal an’ tea, when he visits poor folks. But what he says is dead true just the same—any one can carry a bag of turnips, or such like, to any one that’s willin’ to take ’em. But a minister’s got to give somethin’ far more than that; even on Sundays—at least that’s my idea of it—even on Sundays, what a preacher gives is far more important than what he says."

"You mean he ought to give himself," Mrs. Craig suggested, stirring the gravy as she spoke, the dismembered turkey being now despatched to its anointing.

"That’s it exactly," rejoined David, beaming on his hostess, her own face aglow with the gentle light that flows from a sympathetic heart. "Everythin’s jest a question of how much you give of your own self; even here," his voice rising as he hailed the happy illustration, "even in this here house—with this here bird—we ain’t enjoyin’ it because we’re gettin’ so much turkey, but because we’re gettin’ so much Craig," he went on fervently. "I could buy this much turkey for a quarter," passing a well-laden plate as he spoke, "for twenty-five cents at an eatin’ house—but it wouldn’t jest taste the same. It wouldn’t have the Craig taste, you see—there wouldn’t be no human flavour to it, like; an’ turkey ain’t nothin’ without a human flavour. That’s what makes everythin’ taste good, you see," he concluded, smiling benignly around on the assembled guests.

"I don’t believe in any such," retorted Mr. Craig; "no mixture of that kind for mine. Turkey’s one thing, and humanity’s another—no stews for me," he directed, smiling broadly at this flash of unaccustomed wit; "people eat turkey—but not humanity," he concluded victoriously.

"You’re wrong there," replied David Borland quickly. "Folks lives on humanity—only it’s got to be served warm," he added, falling to upon the turkey nevertheless.

"What do you think about it, Doctor?" Mrs. Borland enquired absently, for her real concern was with David; his dinner knife was her constant terror when they were dining out. All was well so far, however, her husband devoting it as yet to surgery alone.

"I think exactly what your husband thinks," replied the minister. "He has said the very thing I have often wished to say. I have always felt that what a preacher _gives_ to his people—of his heart and love and sympathy—is far more than what he _says_ to them. If it were not so, they’d better stay home and read far finer things than he can say; I often feel that preparing to preach is far more important than preparing a sermon. And I think the same holds true of all giving—all philanthropy, for instance. What you give of yourself to the poor is far more than what you give from your pocketbook—and, if the truth were told, I believe it’s what the poor are looking for, far more than they are for money." The tenderness in Dr. Fletcher’s face and the slight quiver in his voice attested the sincerity of his feeling; they might, too, have afforded no little explanation of the love that all Glenallen felt for the humble and kindly man.

Mr. Craig laughed; and that laughter was the key to his character. Through that wave of metallic merriment, as through a tiny pane, one might see into all the apartments of a cold and cheerless heart.

"That’s mighty pretty, Doctor," he began jocosely; "but if I was poor I’d sooner have the cash—give me the turkey, and you can have the humanity. I believe in keeping these things separate, Dr. Fletcher," he went on sagaciously; "no mixin’ up business with religion, for me—of course, helping the poor isn’t exactly religion, but it comes mighty near it. And if I give anything to the poor—I used to, too, used to give—to give so much every year, till I found out one family that bought a watermelon with it, and then I thought it was about time to stop. But when I used to—to give to the poor, I always did it strictly as a matter of business; just gave so much to—to an official—and then I didn’t want to know how he dispensed it, or who got it, or anything about it."

"Did the—the official—did he give all his time to dispensin’ it, Mr. Craig? Or did he just do it nights and after hours?" enquired David Borland, detaching his napkin from his upper bosom and scouring an unduly merry mouth with it the while.

Mr. Craig glanced suspiciously at his guest. "I didn’t wish to know," he replied loftily in a moment; "all I’m making out is the principle that governed me. And I always take the same stand in my business—always assume the same attitude towards my men," he amplified, as proud of his language as of his attitude. "Of all the men I’ve got hired, I don’t believe I know a half dozen except the foremen. I get their work, and they get their pay every second and fourth Tuesday—and that’s the end of it."

"You don’t know how much you miss," the minister ventured, quite a glow of colour on his otherwise pallid cheek. "There’s nothing so interesting as human life."

"You bet—that’s just it," chimed David’s robust voice; "that’s where a fellow gets his recreation. I don’t think I’m master of my business till I know somethin’ about my men—there ain’t no process, even in manufacturing half so interestin’ as the doin’s of folks in their own lives. I know lots of their wives, too, an’ half the kids—please give me a little more stuffin’, Mrs. Craig: it’s powerful good," and David passed his plate as cheerfully as his opinion.

"That may be your way of taking your recreation, Mr. Borland, but it isn’t mine," retorted the host, obviously a little ruffled. "Business on business lines, that’s my motto. Just the other day a little gaffer asked me for work, on the plea that he wanted to fix up his mother’s eyes—wanted to send her to a specialist, I think—and I told him that had nothing to do with the case; if I wanted him I’d take him, and if I didn’t, nobody’s eyes could make any difference."

"Was his name Harvey Simmons?" David enquired somewhat eagerly.

"I believe it was. Why, what do you know about him?"

"Oh, nothin’ much—only I hired him. And he isn’t goin’ to have no blind mother if my givin’ him work will help—that’s more. She’s got a son worth lookin’ at—that’s one thing sure. An’ he earned every penny I ever gave him, too—what was you goin’ to say, Doctor?" For he saw the minister had something to offer.

"I know the little fellow well," said Dr. Fletcher, evidently glad of the opportunity. "Poor little chap, he’s had hard lines—his father was a slave to drink, I believe, and the poor mother has fought about as good a fight as I ever saw. I’m sure she carries about some burden of sorrow nobody knows anything about. She has two children. Well, a long time ago now, one of the richest couples in my church offered to adopt the little girl—and they got me to sound her on the subject. Goodness me! You should have seen the way the woman stood at bay. ’Not till the last crust’s gone,’ she said. She was fairly roused; ’I’m richer than they are,’ she said; ’I’ve got my two children, and I’ll keep them as long as I can lift a hand to toil for them.’ Really, I never felt more rebuked in my life—but I admired her more than I could tell. And the wee fellow raged like a little lion. ’Did he want to take sister?—tell him to go home, mother,’ and he was fairly shouting and stamping his little foot, though the tears were running down his cheeks all the while. I said she had two children," the minister added, "but I think she lost a baby through some sad accident years ago."

David Borland’s eyes were glistening. "Bully for you, Doctor!" his voice rang through the room. "Bully for you—I knew the lad was worth stickin’ to. I’m proud to be mixed up with a chap like that," thumping the table as he spoke.

"That’s what I often say to Peter," Mrs. Craig began mildly during the pause that followed. "I often feel what you sometimes say in your sermons, Doctor—that we ought all to be mixed up a little more together. The rich and the poor, I mean. They need us, and we need them—and we both have our own parts to play in the great plan."

"That’s it, Mrs. Craig," David broke in lustily again; "that’s exactly it—last Sunday when we sang that line, ’My web of time He wove,’ I jest stopped singin’—it struck me, like it never done before, as how God Himself couldn’t weave much without us helpin’ Him—the rich an’ the poor—it’s Him that designs, but it’s us that has to weave. An’ I reckon our hands has got to touch—if they’re workin’ on the same piece," he concluded, drinking in the approving smile with which Dr. Fletcher was showing his appreciation of the quaint philosophy.

A considerable silence followed, the host showing no disposition to break it. Cecil was the first to speak.

"Harvey wears patches on his knees," he informed the company. "What is there for dessert, mother?"

Mrs. Craig whispered the important information; the radiant son straightway published it to the world: "Plum pudding!—I like that—only I hope it has hard sauce."

Which it ultimately proved to have—and to Mrs. Borland’s great dismay. For David, loyal to ancient ways, yet ever open to the advantage of modern improvement, passed back his plate for a second helping.

"I used to think the kind of gravy-sauce you slashed all over it was the whole thing—but I believe that ointment’s got it beat," he said; whereat Mrs. Borland laid her spoon upon her plate, the ointment and the anointed untasted more.

*VI*

_*AN INVESTMENT*_

David Borland stood quite a little while gazing at the contents of the window before he entered the tiny store. Rather scanty those contents were; a few candy figures, chiefly chocolate creations, a tawdry toy or two, some samples of biscuits judiciously assorted, a gaudy tinselled box of chewing-gum, and a flaming card that proclaimed the merits of a modern brand of tea.

These all duly scrutinized, David pushed the door open and entered the humble place of business. The opening door threw a sleigh-bell, fastened above it, into quite an hysterical condition, and this in turn was answered by hurrying footsteps from the inner room. It was Harvey who appeared.

"Good-morning, Mr. Borland," the boy said respectfully. "Did you want to see mother?" he enquired a little anxiously; "she’s gone to the market, but I think she’ll soon be back."

"That’s all right, my boy," the man responded. "No, it wasn’t your mother I wanted; it was you—I come to do a little business."

"Oh," said Harvey, glancing hopefully towards the window.

"’Tain’t exactly shop business," David said, a little nervously, "I come to—to buy a hen," he blurted out. Harvey’s hand went like lightning into the glass case. Withdrawn, it produced a candy creature of many colours, its comb showing the damage that vandal tongues had done. "Totty Moore licked at it once or twice when we wasn’t lookin’," he explained apologetically; "it used to be in the window—it’s a settin’ hen," he enlarged, indicating with his finger a pasty pedestal on which the creative process was being carried on.

David grinned broadly. "’Tain’t that kind of a hen I’m wantin’," he said. "I want the real article—a real live two-legged hen."

"Oh," said Harvey, staring hard.

"Where’s your chicken-house?" enquired David, coming to business direct.

"It’s outside," the boy replied instructively—"but there ain’t very many."

"Let’s go and see them," said the man.

The boy led the way, David ducking his head several times en route, bowing profoundly at the last as they entered the little house.

"This your hennery?" he asked, surveying the inmates amid a storm of cackling; "sounds like you had hundreds of ’em."

"Just five," said Harvey, peering towards his customer through the semi-darkness.

"I think I’ll buy that there one on the roost," David said after due deliberation; "seems to be the highest-minded of the bunch."

"Can’t," said Harvey, "that’s Jessie’s; it’s only got just one eye—that’s why Jessie wanted it. Can’t sell Jessie’s," he concluded firmly.

David agreed. "Haven’t you got one called Pinky?" he enquired.

"No," Harvey replied solemnly, "she’s dead—we had her a long, long time ago. I can show you her grave outside in the yard."

"Never mind," said Mr. Borland; "this ain’t no day for inspectin’ graves. I might have known she’d passed away—how long does a hen live, anyhow—a healthy hen?"

"Depends on how they’re used," said the boy; "Pinky sneezed to death—too much pepper, I think. Who told you about Pinky, sir?"

"Depends a good deal, too, on how often the preacher comes to dinner, don’t it? It was Madeline told me about Pinky—you know my girl, don’t you?"

"Yes," and Harvey’s face was bright; "I’m awful sorry Pinky’s dead—I could sell you one of Pinky’s grandchildren’s children, Mr. Borland."

"What?" said Mr. Borland, turning a straw about and placing the unchewed end in his mouth, "one of what?"

"One of Pinky’s grandchildren’s children. You see, her child was Fluffy, and its child was Toppy—that was her grandchild; well, its child was Blackie—and that’s her scratchin’ her cheek with her left foot. She’s done scratchin’, but that’s her over there."

"She’s got the Pinky blood in her all right?" asked Mr. Borland.

"She’s bound to have it," the boy answered gravely; "they was all born right in this room; besides, I’ve got it all marked down on the door."

David surveyed the descendant critically. "Does she lay brown eggs?" he enquired presently. "Madeline said Pinky always laid brown eggs."

Harvey hesitated a moment. "They’re—they’re pretty brown," he said after a pause. "They mostly turn brown a little after they’re laid."

"I’m terrible fond of brown eggs," remarked the purchaser.

"What for?" asked Harvey, looking full into his face.

"Well, really—I don’t know," and David grinned a little. "Only I always fancy they’re kind o’—kind o’ better done, don’t you think? Besides," he added quickly, "I always like my toast brown, too—and they kind o’ match better, you see."

"Yes," said Harvey reflectively; "I never thought of that before. Of course, there isn’t any hen can be taught _always_ to lay them brown—I think Blackie tries to make them as brown as she can," glancing fondly at the operator as he spoke. "If you was to feed her bran, Mr. Borland, I think she’d get them brown nearly all the time."

"That’s a thunderin’ good idea," affirmed Mr. Borland, Harvey chiming in with increasing assurance of success as he marked the favour with which his theory was received.

"We’ll call it a bargain," said David.

"All right," exclaimed the boy, "just wait a minute till I get a bag."

"Don’t bother about that; I’ll just leave her here till I send for her—she’ll earn her board. But I may as well pay you now—how much is she worth?"

The boy pondered. "I don’t hardly know—of course the brown kind comes a little dearer," he ventured, glancing cautiously at Mr. Borland. "She’s an awful well-bred hen—I can show you on the door. And she’ll eat anything—Jessie’s string of beads broke loose in the yard once and Blackie ate them all but two; that shows she’s healthy," he concluded earnestly.

"It’s a wonder she ain’t layin’ glass alleys," remarked David. "Well, about the price—I’ll tell you what I’ll do with you. Here’s a bill—an’ if she keeps on at the brown business, mebbe I’ll give you a little more."

He handed the boy a crisp note, the lad’s hand trembling as he took it. He gave the door a push open that the light might fall on it. "Oh, Mr. Borland," he cried, in a loud, shrill voice, "I won’t—you mustn’t, you mustn’t. Mother wouldn’t let me—I can’t—please take it back, Mr. Borland," and David noticed in the fuller light that the boy was shaking with emotion, his face aglow with its eager excitement.

"Nonsense, my lad; what you going on about? I reckon I know somethin’ about the price of hens—especially the brown kind. No, I won’t take it back. She’s worth that much to me jest to keep the yard red up o’ glass."

"Oh, Mr. Borland—I wish I——"

"Tut, tut," David interrupted; "boys should take what’s set before ’em, an’ ask no questions—an’ don’t you tell nobody now, only your mother. Say, isn’t that her callin’? Listen—it is, sure enough—that’s your mother callin’ you," and David took advantage of the interruption to unlatch an adjoining gate, slipping through to the outer lane, his face the more radiant of the two.

*VII*

*"*_*EFFECTUAL CALLING*_*"*

"I’ll go with you as far as the door, dear—but the elders wouldn’t want me to come in, of course." Thus spoke Mrs. Simmons to her son as the little family were seated at their evening meal. Very humble it was, indeed, with its strawberry jam, and bread and cheese, these themselves carefully measured out.

"Come away, Jessie; what’s keeping you?" the mother called to the outer kitchen.

"I’ll come in a minute, mother," the child’s cheery voice replied. "I’m doing something," which was evident a little later when Jessie appeared, flushed and triumphant, bearing in one hand a little plate of well-browned toast, and in the other, her little fingers tingling with its heat, a large brown egg, evidently an unwonted luxury.

"Jessie, my child, what have you been doing?" the mother asked, peering rather closely at the dainties the child had laid upon her plate. "Oh, Jessie, you shouldn’t have done it—you know we can’t afford it, dear; we need to sell them all," she remonstrated, affection and gratitude nevertheless mingling in her voice.

"It was cracked, mother—it got a little fall," the child explained artfully.

"Jessie gave it a little fall; she always gets the biggest one cracked a little when there isn’t much for supper—don’t you, sister?" Harvey asked knowingly.

His sister blushed, but the reply she was struggling to provide was interrupted by the tinkling of the bell above the door in the little room without. This was a signal the mother was never slow to obey; customers were rare enough and must not be permitted to escape. Rising quickly, she made her way, her hands extended rather pitifully, to the little room that did duty as a store. Jessie bore the little delicacies back to the kitchen, lest they should cool in the interval.

The mother was back again in a minute, sighing as she resumed her seat.

"Did they buy anything, mother?" her son enquired.

"No, nothing—they wanted something we didn’t have; I sent them to Ford’s," referring to a more elaborate establishment on an adjoining street. "I was speaking about you going to the elders’ meeting, Harvey—I’ll go with you as far as the church, as I said. And you mustn’t be afraid, son; they’ll be glad you’re going to join the church. And you must just answer what they ask you, the same as you do to me at home."

"Will they ask me the catechism, mother?"

"Some of the questions, most likely. Be sure you know ’effectual calling’—I think they nearly always ask ’effectual calling.’"

"I know that one all right," the boy answered. "I said it to Jessie four times last night—do you think there’ll be others there to join the church, mother?"

"I couldn’t say for sure, but it’s likely there’ll be some. I guess it’s almost time to go now, dear," she said rising. "Jessie, you’ll do the best you can if anybody comes in—I’ll not be long."

"Will it be all right about—about you finding your way back, mother?" Harvey asked slowly, his voice full of solicitude.

"Of course, child, of course—you and Jessie are growing quite foolish about me. I’m not so bad as that," she protested. "Why, I can tell the day of the month, when I stand up close to the calendar—this is the 23d," she affirmed reassuringly, stepping out into the night with Harvey clinging close beside her.

Neither spoke much as they walked on towards the village church. Often, when she thought the boy’s eyes were not upon her, the woman lifted her own upward to the silent stars; the night always rested her, something of its deep tranquillity passing into the tired heart that had known so much of battle. And yet the long struggle had left upon her face the marks of peace rather than the scars of conflict. Of merriment, there were traces few or none, although sufficient provocation could recall the old-time sparkle to the eyes that had been so often dimmed; but something noble was there instead, a placid beauty such as comes alone from resignation, born of a heart that has found its rest in a Strength and Tenderness which dwell beyond the hills of time. If one could have caught a vision of that face, upturned to the radiant sky above her, the glimpse would have disclosed features of shapely strength, marked by great patience, the eyes full of brooding gentleness and love, conscious of the stern battle that composed her life, but conscious, too—and this it was that touched the face with passion—of invisible resources, of an unseen Ally that mysteriously bore her on.

"Let us go in here a minute," the mother said when they were almost at the church.

Harvey followed her, unquestioning. He knew whither her feet were turned, for he had often followed that well-marked path before, often with toddling feet. They entered the quiet churchyard, passing many an imposing monument, threading their way with reverent steps among the graves, careful that no disrespect should be shown the humblest sleeper. On they pressed, the dew glistening upon their shoes as they walked, their very breathing audible amid the oppressive silence. Gradually the woman’s steps grew slower; and as she crept close to an unmarked grave that lay among the untitled mounds around it, the slender frame trembled slightly, drawing her poor shawl closer as she halted with downcast eyes, gazing at the silent sepulchre as it lay bathed in the lonely light of the new-risen moon. The boy stood behind her for a moment, then crept close to her, his hand gliding into hers; the woman’s closed about it passionately, its warmth stealing inward to her heart.

"I think I remember when baby died," Harvey began, after they had stood long together by the grave; "I was asleep, wasn’t I, mother? I remember in the morning."

"Yes, dear," said his mother, her voice tremulous; "yes, you were asleep—I was with baby when she died."

"Was father there too, mother?"

"Yes, Harvey, yes—pull that weed, dear; there, at the foot of baby’s grave."

"Did father cry when baby died, mother?—like you did, mother?"

"I don’t know, dear—yes, I think so. We’ll have to bring some fresh flowers soon, won’t we, Harvey?" the mother’s lips trembling.

"Yes, mother, I’ll pick some pretty ones to-morrow. Did father die long after baby, mother?" the boy pursuing the dread subject with the strange persistence wherewith children so often probe a secret wound.

"No, my son—yes, I mean; yes, Harvey, it was the same night, I think," her nervous fingers roving about Harvey’s uncovered head.

"You _think_, mother?" the tone full of surprise.

"It was near the same time, Harvey," she answered hurriedly, unable to control her voice. "I can’t tell you now, son—some day, perhaps. But mother was so sorry about baby that she hardly knows—don’t ask me any more about it, Harvey," she suddenly pleaded; "never any more—some day I’ll tell you all about your father, and all you’ve asked me so often. But don’t ask me any more, my son—it makes mother feel bad," as she bent over to kiss the curious lips.

He could see the tears upon his mother’s cheeks, and he inwardly resolved that her bidding should be done, silently wondering the while what this mysterious source of pain might be.

After a long silence the boy’s voice was heard again: "Weren’t baby’s eyes shut when she died, mother?"

"Yes, darling—yes, they were closed in death," and the unforgetting heart beat fast at the tender memory.

"But they’re open now, aren’t they, mother?—and wasn’t it God that did it?"

"Yes, Harvey, they’re open now—God opened them, I’m sure."

"Couldn’t He make people see all right before they’re dead, mother? Couldn’t He do it for you?"

"Yes, child—yes, He could if He wanted to."

"And why wouldn’t He want to?" the boy asked wonderingly. "I’m sure He could; and I’ve been asking Him to do it for us Himself—if we couldn’t get the money for the doctor to do it. Wasn’t that right, mother?"

The moon, high now, looked down upon the lonely pair; they stood together, they two, beside the unresponsive grave, the elder face bathed in tears, the younger unstained by grief and wistful with the eager trust of childhood. The insignia of poverty was upon them both, and the boy shivered slightly in the chill air; but the great romance and tragedy of life were interwoven there, love and hope and sorrow playing the parts they had so often played before. The woman stooped down amid the glistening grass and took her child into her arms, pressing him close to her troubled bosom, her face against his cheek, while her eyes roved still about his sister’s grave.

"We must go on," she murmured presently. "Can you see a light in the church?"

"Did you join when you were just a girl, mother?" the boy asked, his lips close to her ear.

"Yes," she replied, "I was very young when I joined."

"Did father ever join the church?" Harvey went on, releasing his face to gaze about the sleeping city.

"No, dear—no, your father never was a member of the church," she said softly.

"Wasn’t he good enough? Wouldn’t they let him?" the lad asked wonderingly.

"They never—they never refused him," his mother faltered. "But he never thought he was good enough."

"But he was, wasn’t he?" the boy pursued.

"Yes, dear—yes, he was once—he often was. He always meant to be good; he loved you, Harvey. And he made me promise that some day I would tell you why he thought—why he thought he wasn’t good enough. He was afraid you might be the same; it was something he—something he couldn’t help very well—I’ll tell you some day, Harvey. Who’s that?" she whispered excitedly, pointing towards a shadowy figure that was winding its way silently towards them.

His mother straightened up as she spoke, Harvey’s hand tight clasped in hers again. The figure came swiftly on.

"It’s Madeline," the boy said rather excitedly. "It’s Madeline Borland—I guess she’s going to join too."

Which proved indeed to be the case. "I knew it was you," the girl began, almost breathless as she came up to them. "The beadle said it was you, Harvey; Julia walked to the church with me, and she’s waiting till I join. I thought perhaps we might go in together; I don’t want to go in alone." Harvey could see in the dim light how eagerly the girl’s eyes were searching his mother’s face. He did not withdraw his hand, but unconsciously straightened himself in quiet dignity.

"This is my mother," he said simply, quite unfamiliar with the modes of introduction; "and that’s Miss Borland, mother."

"Please don’t say that," the girl interrupted. "I think you might call me Madeline; anyhow, I heard you call me Madeline to your mother," as she stepped gently around the foot of the grave and extended her hand to Harvey’s mother. The older woman was evidently struck by the girl’s beauty, by the simple grace and kindliness of her manner. At any rate she held the outstretched hand rather long in hers, gazing on the sweet face upturned in the quivering light.

"And this—this is my sister’s grave," Harvey’s subdued voice added a moment later.

The girl said nothing, turning a solemn gaze upon the lowly mound. She had been long familiar with the quiet acre, but this was perhaps the first time she had realized the dread personality that clothes the grave with dignity.

"You haven’t any treasure here, have you, Miss Madeline?" the mother asked timidly, when the pause had become almost painful.

"No, not any," the girl answered in hushed tones; "we haven’t even got a plot—I never had a little sister," she affirmed, the moistening eyes turning now to Harvey’s face. He looked down, then up again, and the soulful gaze was still fixed upon him. A kind of wave, strange and unfamiliar, seemed to bathe his soul; he did not wish to look longer, and yet a sort of spell seemed to keep his eyes fastened on her face. The girl’s look was eloquent of much that neither he nor she was able to interpret, the first venture out to sea on the part of either soul.

"Doesn’t it seem strange that we should meet here—here at your sister’s grave," she said slowly, after the gaze of both had fallen. "Of course, we’ve often seen each other at school—but this is our first real meeting, isn’t it?" she went on, gazing now towards the light that twinkled feebly in the distant church.

"Yes," he answered simply, "yes, it is—I guess we’d better go. Do you know the catechism?" he digressed, beginning to move forward, half leading his mother by the hand.

"No, I don’t. Father doesn’t believe in catechisms,—I wanted him to join along with me, but he said he wasn’t good enough. Only he said he’d see—it would be just like him to come without my knowing."

"That’s what my father said," Harvey interjected quickly; "and my mother says he was often good—only of course it’s too late now," a little sigh escaping with the words.

"Perhaps they join them in heaven," the girl suggested in an awestruck voice. "Father says that’s where the real joining’s done; if your father was good, I’m sure they’d join him," she concluded earnestly, looking into both the serious faces as she spoke.

"Don’t you think maybe they would, mother?" pleaded the boy. The habit of a lifetime committed everything to the mother for final judgment.

"That’s in God’s hands, dear," the delicate face glancing upward through the mist. "I’m sure God would do it if He could—we’d better hurry on; they’ll be waiting for us in the church."

The little procession wound its way back to the humble temple, Harvey still holding his mother by the hand, Madeline following close behind. And the shadowy home of the little child was left alone in the silence and the dark.

The youthful pair disappeared within the ivy-grown door. The mother, her dim eyes still more dimmed by tears, turned upon her homeward way, a troubled expression on her face. Why had she not told him more, she wondered to herself—something about his father, and the cruel appetite that had been his shame and his undoing? And her lips moved in trembling prayer that God would save her son from the blight of his father’s life, that the dread heritage might never wrap his life in the same lurid flame.

*VIII*

_*OF SUCH IS THE KINGDOM*_

The predominant national type among the Glenallen folks was Scotch, and that distinctly. David Borland was one of the few exceptions; and the good folk about him had varied explanations for the baffling fact that he, American-bred though he was, had been one of the most prosperous men of the community. Some maintained that his remote ancestry must have come from the land o’ cakes, even though he himself were oblivious to heaven’s far-off goodness. Others contended that his long association with a Scottish neighbourhood had inoculated him with something of their distinctive power; while the profounder minds acknowledged frankly that the ways of Providence were mysterious, and that this lonely spectacle of an alien mortal, handicapped from birth and yet rising to affluence and distinction, was but an evidence of the Omnipotence that had wrought the miracle.

But if, in matters temporal, the historic Scotch stock of Glenallen had been compelled to divide the spoil with those of lesser origin, the control of affairs ecclesiastical was carefully reserved for Scottish hands alone. This went without saying. Over every door of church officialdom, and especially of the eldership, he who ran might read: "No Irish need apply,"—and the restriction included all to whom heaven had denied the separate advantage of Scottish birth or ancestry.

Wherefore it came about that the assembled elders who on this particular night awaited the arrival of applicants for church-membership were about as formidable to look upon as any half dozen of mere men could be. The dignity of their office filled the little room and the sense of responsibility sat gravely on every face. Two there were among them, newly elected to the office—the highest office in the gift of their fellow-men—and these two were fairly dripping with new-born solemnity. The older men, relaxing with the years, had discarded some of the sombre drapery that the newer elders wrapt about them with pious satisfaction.

Æneas Ramsay, one of the veterans, had ventured to ask one of the newly ordained if they would finish the threshing at his farm to-morrow. The question was put before the meeting had well begun, and was whispered in the ear at that; but the shock was easily seen on the new elder’s face, who, recovering in a moment, informed his senior that they would discuss the matter after the "sederunt" was adjourned. Which purely Presbyterian term rolled from his lips with the luxurious unction known to Presbyterian elders, and to them alone.

The Session had been constituted, and good old Sandy McKerracher had led in prayer, the other elders standing through the exercise. Most of them had one foot upon a chair, the elbow resting on the knee and the chin upon the hand, before Sandy had concluded. In fact, the precaution of an adjoining chair was seldom overlooked by any when the Moderator named Sandy for this solemn duty, his staying powers famous for fifty years. The chief emphasis of his prayer was laid on the appeal to Infinite Love that none of the intending communicants might eat and drink damnation to themselves. This was a favourite request with all of them on such occasions—excepting one elder, and good Dr. Fletcher himself—and it was largely because of this that the Moderator was wont to see the Session constituted before the candidates were admitted to the room.

"There’s some bringin’ their lines frae ither kirks," Robert MaCaig began, when the Moderator asked if there were any candidates for membership, "but there’s nae mair nor twa to join on profession o’ faith," he added, turning a despondent eye upon his brother elders. "We used to hae a dizzen or mair."

"Twa souls is an awfu’ lot, Robert—twa never dyin’ souls!" It was Geordie Nickle who sounded the hopeful note. He was the saintliest elder of them all, and the saintliest are the sanguinest. "We maun be thankfu’ for twa mair to own the Saviour’s name," he added reverently.

"But they’re only bairns," Robert urged; "there’s no’ a muckle man among them."

"That’s a’ the better," returned Geordie; "the Maister was aye glad to hae the bairns come—ca’ them in," he said, the slightest note of impatience in his voice.

A moment later Harvey and Madeline were ushered in, very shy and embarrassed, their downcast eyes fluttering upwards now and then to the stern faces fixed upon them.

There was considerable skirmishing of a preliminary sort, the elders’ questions booming out solemnly like minute guns. Suddenly Robert McCaig proceeded to business.

"We’ll tak a rin ower the fundamentals," he said, brandishing the age-worn term as though he had just invented it. "What is original sin?" he demanded; "tell the Moderator what’s original sin."

"The Moderator kens fine himsel’," Andrew Fummerton whispered to the elder at his right, smiling grimly. But the man beside him scarcely heard, for every mind was intent with the process under way; scores of times had they witnessed it before, but it was again as new and absorbing as the prowess of a fisherman landing his reluctant prize.

There was a long silence, still as death. Suddenly Willie Gillespie fell to sneezing; he it was at whose farm the threshers had been that day, and who had been profanely questioned by Æneas Ramsay, as already told. Perhaps it was the day’s dust that provoked the outburst; but, from whatever cause, the explosion was remarkable in its power and duration, one detonation following another with heightening tumult till the final booming was worthy of the noblest efforts of modern artillery. As the bombardment increased in power, the elders unconsciously braced themselves a little on their chairs, dismayed at the unseemly outbreak, considering the place and the occasion.

Harvey, for the life of him, could not forbear to smile; this human symptom was reassuring to him amid the statuesque solemnity of the room—it made original sin less ghostly, somehow, and he looked almost gratefully at the dynamic Willie. This latter worthy, recoiling like a smoking cannon, groped frankly for his nose as if apprehensive that it had been discharged; finding it uninjured, he repaired hastily to the tail pocket of a black coat that had sustained the dignity of a previous generation in the eldership, extracting therefrom a lurid pocket-handkerchief—that is, originally lurid—but now as variously bedecked as though the threshers had enjoyed its common ministry that day. Whereupon there ensued a succession of reports, inferior only to their mighty predecessors themselves, resembling nothing so much as the desultory firing that succeeds the main attack.

"Ye was askin’ what might be original sin," Willie murmured apologetically from behind the faithful handkerchief, swishing it back and forward on his nose the while as though he were polishing the knocker on a door; he glanced apologetically towards Mr. McCaig as he spoke, anxious to repair the connection he had so violently disturbed.

"If my memory serves me," Robert returned severely, "if my memory serves me, that is what we was dealin’ wi’—order’s a graun’ thing at a meetin’ o’ sic a kind as this," he added sternly, his gaze following the disappearing banner now being reëntombed.

"What is original sin, laddie? Mebbe the lassie can gie me the answer," he suggested, Harvey’s silence impressing him as incurable.

"I’m not very sure," faltered Madeline—"was it the kind at the beginning?"

Robert McCaig had no desire to be unnecessarily severe; therefore turned enquiringly to his colleagues, implying that the verdict lay with them.

"Very good, child, very good," Dr. Fletcher said approvingly. "It’s very hard to answer Mr. McCaig’s question—he’d find it difficult enough himself. What is it, Harvey?" he asked, smiling at the boy, who seemed to have an idea ready.

"I’m not very sure either; but isn’t it—isn’t it the kind that doesn’t wear off?" the lad ventured timidly, rather ashamed of the description after it was finished.

"Capital, my boy; first-rate!" the minister cried delightedly. "That’s better than anything I learned in college. I don’t believe any one could get much nearer to it than that—now we’ll just pass from this," smiling around at the elders as he made the suggestion; "there are other things more important—has any of the elders anything else to ask?"

It was not long before two or three of them were in full cry again. Stern questions, weighty interrogatives, suggestive of the deepest mysteries, were propounded to the youthful pair as complacently as though they were being asked how many pints make a gallon. One wanted to know their view of the origin of evil, following this by a suggestion that they should each give a brief statement of the doctrine of the Trinity. Another urged that they should describe in brief the process of regeneration. Still another asked if they could repeat the books of the Bible backwards—any one, he said, could do it the old way—and one good elder capped the climax by saying he would like to hear them tell how to reconcile the free agency of man with the sovereignty of God.

But just at this juncture Geordie Nickle rose, his face beaming with tenderness, and addressed the chair.

"They’re fashin’ the bairns, Moderator," he said gently. "Wull ye no’ let me pit a wee bit question or twa till them mysel’?"

The Moderator was evidently but too well pleased, and his nod gave Geordie the right of way. The old man moved to where Harvey and Madeline were seated, taking his stand partially behind them, his hands resting gently on the heads of both.

"I mind fine the nicht I joined the kirk mysel’," he began; "it was the winter my mither gaed awa, an’ I think God answered her prayer, to mak her glad afore she went—but the elders askit me some o’ thae vera questions—an’ I kent then hoo far they was frae the soul," he said gravely, looking compassionately on the faces now upturned to his own. "Sae I’m juist gaein’ to ask ye what I was wishin’ they’d ask frae me. Div ye no’ love the Saviour, lassie—and div ye no’ ken He’s the son o’ God?" he asked reverently, tenderly. "Div ye no’ ken that, lassie?—an’ the same wi’ yirsel’, my laddie?—I’m sure ye’re baith trustin’ Him, to the savin’ o’ the soul; are ye no’, bairnies?" and the old man’s face shone as the great truth kindled his own simple soul.

Harvey and Madeline nodded eager assent, a muffled affirmative breaking from their lips.

"An’ ye ken the Saicrament’s juist the meetin’-place where He breaks bread wi’ His children, and where they say, afore a’ the folk, that they love Him, and trust Him, an’ want to be aye leal an’ true till Him, and show forth His death till He come—div ye no’ ken it that way?" the kindly voice went on, his hands still resting on the youthful heads.

Harvey answered first: "That’s what I’d like to be—that’s what I want to do," he said simply.

"I want to, too—I’m the same as Harvey," Madeline faltered sweetly.

Then Geordie Nickle straightened himself and turned towards Dr. Fletcher. "Moderator," he said earnestly, "we canna mak the way mair open nor the Maister made it; an’ I move that these twa be received intil full communion, an’ their names—the Clerk kens what they are—be added to the roll o’ communicants in good standin’ i’ the kirk."

This was carried without further protest and ordered to be done forthwith.

*IX*

_*A BELATED ENQUIRER*_

The youthful candidates had hardly left the room when the beadle, compared with whose solemnity the gravity of the elders was frivolity itself, announced that a further candidate was in waiting.

"It’s Mr. Borland," he said in an awed whisper—"Mr. David Borland. He wants to jine, Mr. Moderator," the beadle informed the court in much the same tone as is employed when death-warrants must be read. "An’ it’ll be on profession," he added, unable to forego the sensational announcement, "for he never jined no church afore." Then the beadle retreated with the mien that becomes an ecclesiastical sheriff.

An instant later he reappeared with Mr. Borland, whom he left standing in the very centre of the room. The elders gazed wonderingly at the unexpected man.

"Dinna break oot again," Robert McCaig whispered to the now tranquil Willie, fearful of another explosion; "it’s no’ often a kirk session has sic a duty to perform," and Willie responded by rising slightly and sitting down hard upon the contents of his coat-tail pocket, as though the fuse for the explosion were secreted there.

David looked round upon the elders, in no wise abashed; he even nodded familiarly to two or three with whom he was more intimately acquainted. "It’s a fine evening," he informed one nearest him, to the evident amazement of his brethren.

The usual process began, one or two undertaking preliminary examination.

"Have you ever joined before, Mr. Borland?" one of the elders asked him after a little.

"Never joined a church before—haven’t been much of a joiner," David answered cheerfully; "joined the Elks once in the States when I was a young fellow—an’ they made it pretty interestin’ for me," dispensing a conciliatory smile among the startled elders as he turned to catch another question.

"What maks ye want to join, Mr. Borland?" enquired one of the new elders, hitherto silent. "What’s yir motive, like? Hae ye got the root o’ the matter in ye, div ye think?" he elaborated formally.

David started somewhat violently, turning and looking his questioner full in the face. "Have I got what in me?" he cried—"what kind of a root? That’s more than I can say, sir; I don’t catch your meanin’."

Dr. Fletcher interposed. "You’re not familiar with our terms, Mr. Borland," he said reassuringly. "Mr. Aiken only wants to know why you feel impelled to become a member of the church—perhaps you could answer the question when it’s put that way?"

David’s first sign of answer was to stoop and pick up a rather shapeless hat lying at his feet. This symptom decidedly alarmed the elders, several of them sitting up suddenly in their chairs as though fearful that so interesting a subject might escape. But David had evidently seized it only for purposes of reflection, turning it round and round in his hands, his eyes fixed upon the floor.

"It was a queer kind of a reason," he began abruptly, clearing his throat with all the resonance of a trumpet—"but mebbe it ain’t too bad a one after all. It was Madeline," he finally blurted out, staring at all the brethren in turn. "I knew she was goin’ to join—an’—an’ I wanted to keep up with her. If she’s agoin’ to heaven, I’m agoin’ too—an’ I reckon this here’s the way," he added, feeling that the phraseology was not too ill-timed. Then he waited.

"Very good, Mr. Borland—very good," the Moderator pronounced encouragingly. "But about—about your own soul. I’m sure we all hope you—you—realize your need, Mr. Borland. It’s a sense of sin we all need, you know. I’m sure you feel you’ve been a sinner, Mr. Borland?" and the good man turned the most brotherly of faces upon the applicant.

"Oh, yes," responded David agreeably; "oh, yes, I’m all right that way—I’ve been quite a sinner, all right. The only thing I’m afeart of is I’ve been ’most too good a sinner. I wisht I wasn’t quite so handy at it," he went on gravely. "I reckon I’ve been about as bad as—as any of the deacons here," glancing towards the open-mouthed about him as he made the comparison, "an’ some o’ them’s got quite a record, if all reports is true. I traded horses onct with Robert there," nodding familiarly in the direction of Mr. McCaig, "an’ the first time we traded, he sinned pretty bad—but that’s nothin’; bygones is bygones—an’ anyhow, the second time we traded, I sinned pretty bad myself. So I’m all right that way, Doctor," he again assured the Moderator, making a last desperate effort to tie his hat into a knot.

"I didna ken the mare was spavined, Moderator," Mr. McCaig broke in, gasping with emotion; "an’ a meetin’ o’ session’s no place for discussin’ sic like matters onyway," he appealed vehemently. "Thae week-day things has nae richt to be mentioned here—a meetin’ o’ elders is no’ a cattle fair," and Robert looked well pleased with this final stroke.

"That’s all right, Robert, that’s all right," David returned in his most amiable tone; "don’t get excited, Robert—we both traded with our eyes open. An’ all these things makes life, anyhow—they all go to the weavin’ of the web, as I say sometimes, an’ besides——"

But Robert’s blood was up.

"Onyhow, I didna swear," he exclaimed in a rising tone; "I didna say damn, Mr. Moderator—an’ the horse-doctor tellt me as how the candidate afore us said damn mair nor aince when he found oot aboot the spavin. He’d mak a bonnie member o’ the kirk!" and the elder’s face glowed with righteous indignation.

The Moderator cast about to avert the storm. "Maybe he was taken unawares," he interposed charitably; "any one might be overtaken in a fault. Did you, Mr. Borland—did you say what Mr. McCaig says you did?" as he turned a very kindly face on the accused.

David was more intently employed than ever with his hat. "I won’t say but what I mebbe did," he acknowledged, an unfamiliar confusion in his words. "You see, sir, I should a knowed a spavin when I seen it; the signs is awful easy told—an’ that’s what made me mad. So I said I was a fool—an’ I said Robert here was an elder. An’ I likely said both of us was—was that kind of a fool an’ an elder, the kind he says I said—it’s an awful handy describin’ word," he added, nodding respectfully towards the Moderator’s chair.

"So I have heard, Mr. Borland," the Moderator replied, smiling reproachfully nevertheless, "though I think there are others just as good. However, if that is the worst sin you’ve been guilty of, I wouldn’t say you’re beyond the pale."

"Oh, there’s lots of things I’ve done, far worse than that," David exclaimed vigorously. "I don’t allow that’s a sin at all—that’s just a kind of a spark out o’ the chimney. I reckon nearly everybody, even ministers, says that—only they don’t spell it just the same. I’d call that just a kind of splutter—an’ everybody splutters sometimes. Robert there, he says ’bless my soul’ when he gets beat on a trade—but he means just the same as me. Oh, yes," he went cheerfully on, "there’s lots o’ worse things than that against me. There’s lots o’ little weak spots about me; an’ I’ll tell them if you like—if the deacons’ll do the same," he proposed, looking earnestly around for volunteers.

There was no clamour of response, and it fell to Geordie Nickle again to break the silence.

"These is no’ the main things, David," he began solemnly. "Tell us, div ye trust the Saviour wi’ yir soul?"

David halted, the gravity of the question shading his face. "I think—I think I do," he ventured after a long pause. "I wouldn’t trust it to no one else. My mother taught me that."

"An’ div ye want to follow Him, an’ to let yir licht shine upon the world? Div ye want to be a guid soldier, an’ wull ye try it, wi’ His grace?" the old man asked tenderly.

David’s voice was very low. "I’m not very far on the road," he said falteringly, "an’ I’m afeared there ain’t much light in me—but I’d try an’ do my best," he concluded earnestly.

The venerable elder proceeded with his gentle art, leading the belated enquirer on from stage to stage, seeking to discover and disclose the hidden treasures of the soul. He was never slow to be convinced of goodness in any heart that he thought sincere, and it was not long till he turned to the Moderator, proposing, as before, that this new name should likewise be enrolled among those of the faithful.

But one or two thought the examination hardly doctrinal enough, nor carried sufficiently far afield.

"Perhaps Mr. Borland would give us a word or two regarding his views on the subject of temperance," suggested Morris Hall. He was a comparatively modern elder; in fact, he had been but recently reclaimed, one of the first-fruits of a spring revival, himself snatched from the vortex of intemperance and correspondingly severe upon all successors in his folly. For largeness of charity, as a rule, is to be found only with those who have been tempted and prevailed.