MORE than two years have passed since the death of little Minnie Macleod. Life at Benvourd has gone quietly on. Little duties, little cares, and what some would call little pleasures, made up the daily routine of the lives of most of the inhabitants of the neighbourhood.
And yet both in nature and the souls of the inmates of the glen there was growth. Not very visible, perhaps, to an unobservant eye, still the young trees in the pass were reaching upwards, and, all unseen, their roots were striking deeper down, enabling them the better to bear unharmed the wild winter blasts that from time to time swept over them. The river also, though almost imperceptibly, was deepened, the large boulder stones in its channel were getting more firmly fixed in their places than of yore. And in the souls of many of the dwellers there, the words of gospel truth, sown on the September day we have written of, at the field-meeting, were springing up, "first the blade, then the ear," one day to ripen into full corn.
And so it was in Nora's soul: from strength to strength she was going on, ripening gradually in the wisdom which cometh from above, expanding into a noble Christian character—a comfort in her home, and amongst the poor proving a true counsellor and friend.
Snow was on the ground, and a keen, frosty wind was blowing, when one morning she came into the drawing-room at Benvourd, equipped for a walk, fur cuffs on her arms, fur around her neck, and a leather bag in her hand. Very pretty she looked as she peeped in.
"Any messages, auntie?" she said. "I'm off to see old nurse and some, of the poor bodies; and I'll look into the school on my way back, and see how the children are getting on with their work."
"All right, dear," was the reply; "only, do not get cold. And take Cherry with you for company."
"How bright and happy Nora looks," Mrs. Macleod remarked to her husband, as he entered the room shortly after the young girl had set off on her walk.
"Yes," he said; "and yet I had a letter this morning from Mrs. Ross, asking if I did not think it was a mistake to keep Nora moped up here all the winter, when she should be mixing in society and seeing something of the world. Of course an invitation to spend the winter with them follows; and, if you agree with me, I have resolved to let Nora choose for herself."
"Surely she does not look either dull or moped. But if she wishes a change, she shall have it."
In the meantime Nora was tripping down the pass with a glad heart. Never, she thought, had she seen the whole country more beautiful than it looked that day: the snow-crowned hills glistening in the sunlight, and the leafless trees, now sprinkled with snow, glittering like diamonds as the merry little sunbeams played on them, and the river, swollen with the melting snow, rolling swiftly along, making music through the lonely pass. Moping, indeed! The firm step and bright, sparkling eye of the girl told the falsity of that supposition.