Allison Bain; Or, By a Way She Knew Not

by Margaret M. Robertson

And then, when they stopped at the door, her father took her in his arms, and carried her into the parlour where her mother was waiting for her, and set her on her own little couch which had never been removed all this time, and then the door was shut. But not for very long.

For there were all the brothers waiting to see her, and there was the little sister, who, when she went away, had been a tiny creature in a long white frock, whom Marjorie longed to see. She was a little lass of two years now, rosy and strong as any brother of them all. She was in Allison’s arms when the door was opened to admit them, and the pleasant confusion that followed maybe imagined, for it cannot be described.

That was but the beginning. During the next few days, many a one came to the manse to see the little maiden who had suffered so patiently, though she longed so eagerly to be strong and well like the rest. And now she was “strong and well,” she told them all, and the eager, smiling face was “bonnier and sweeter than ever,” her admiring friends agreed.

And those who could not come to see her, she went to see—auld Maggie and the rest. The schoolmistress was come to the end of all her troubles, before this time, and was lying at peace in the kirkyard. So were some others, that Marjorie missed from the kirk and from the streets, but there was room only for brief sorrow in the heart of the child.

In the course of a few days Marjorie and Allison were invited to drink tea at Mrs Beaton’s, which was a pleasure to them both. Mrs Beaton read to them bits out of her John’s last letters, which told a good many interesting things about America, and about John himself, and about a friend of his, who was well and happy there. Marjorie listened eagerly and asked many questions. Allison listened in silence, gazing into her old friend’s kindly face with wistful eyes.

That night, when the child was sleeping quietly, Allison came back again to hear more. There was not much to hear which Allison had not heard before, for her brother wrote to her regularly now. She had some things to tell John’s mother, which she had not heard from her son, though she might have guessed some of them. He had told her of his growing success in his business, and he had said enough about Willie Bain to make it clear that they were good friends, who cared for one another, and who had helped one another through the time when they were making the first doubtful experiment of living as strangers in a strange land. But Willie had told his sister of his friend’s success in other directions, and he gave the Americans credit for “kenning a good man when they saw him.”

“For,” said Willie, “it is not just an imagination, or a way of speaking, to say, that in this land ‘all men are free and equal.’ Of course, there are all kinds of men—rich and poor, good, bad, and indifferent—here as in other lands. All are not equal in that sense, and all are not equally successful. But every man has a chance here, whether he works with his head or his hands. And no man can claim a right to be better than his neighbour, or to have a higher place than another because of his family, or his father’s wealth. It is character, and intelligence, and success in what one has undertaken to do, that bring honour to a man here. At least that is the way with my friend. If he cared for all that, he might have pleasure enough, and friends enough. He is very quiet and keeps close at his work.

“He has been a good friend to me—better than I could ever tell you, and nothing shall come between us to separate us, that I say, and swear. Sometimes I think I would like to go back to Grassie again, that I might give myself a chance to redeem my character there. But still, I do not think I will ever go. And so, Allie, the sooner you come the better. There is surely no danger now after nearly three years.”

All this Allison read to John’s mother, and there was something more which, for a moment, she thought she would like to read that might give pleasure to her kind old friend. For Willie in his next letter had betrayed, that the “something” which was never to be permitted to come between the friends to separate them, was the good-will of pretty and wayward Elsie Strong, who since she had come home from the school, where she had been for a year or more, “has been as changeable as the wind with me,” wrote poor Willie, and greatly taken up, and more than friendly with Mr Beaton whenever he came out to the farm. And then he went on to say, that he thought of going to look about him farther West before he settled down on land of his own. And he had almost made up his mind to go at once, and not wait till the spring, as he had at first intended to do.

The letter went on to say that John Beaton had bought land, and was going to build a house upon it.