The Orphans of Glen Elder

by Margaret M. Robertson

As he stood before the closed door of what had once been his home, it seemed to him that a mark more fearful than that of Cain was upon him. Heart-sick with remorse, he turned away. Not daring to make further inquiries, lest he might learn the worst, he went on, past familiar places, with averted eyes, feeling in his misery that the guilt of his mother’s death must rest upon his sinful soul unless he might hear her living lips pronounce the pardon of which he knew himself to be unworthy.

God was merciful to him. He opened the door of the humble cottage by the common, to inquire his way; and there, in the old armchair so well remembered, sat his mother, with her Bible on her knee. She did not know him, but she gave him kindly welcome, bidding him sit and rest, as he seemed weary. She did not know him till she felt his hot tears dropping on her hands, and heard him praying for pardon at her feet.

It would do no good to tell what passed between the mother and the son. That the meeting was joyful, we need not say; but it was very sorrowful, too. For years of sin and years of suffering must leave traces too deep for sudden joy to efface. Hugh Blair had left his mother in the prime of life, a woman having few equals as regards all that in a woman is admired. He returned to find her feeble, shrunken, helpless, with the hair beneath her widow’s cap as white as snow. He had redeemed his good name; he had returned to surround her last days with comfort; he had brought wealth greater than had blessed her most prosperous time. But for all those years of poverty and doubt and anxiety, those years which had made her old before her time, what could atone for these? And as for her, even amid her thankful gladness the thought would come, “How shall I ever learn to put trust in him, after all these years? Can his guileless child’s heart come back again to him?”

Oh, yes! the meeting was sorrowful, as well as glad.

With the joy of Archie and Lilias no misgiving mingled. Their cousin Hugh had come home again. That was enough for them. In his youth he had done many foolish things, and maybe some wrong things, they thought. He had sinned against God and his mother. He had left his home, like the prodigal, choosing his own will and way rather than do his duty. But now, like the prodigal, he had come home repenting; and the best robe and the ring for his hand these happy children made ready for him.

“There is joy among the angels to-night, Lily,” said Archie, coming back to whisper it to her, after she thought he was asleep.

“Yes: ‘this my son was dead, and is alive again; was lost and is found,’” answered Lilias softly.

“And now Aunt Janet’s midnight prayers will be changed to thanksgivings,” was the last thought of the weary child, as she lay down that night. Her first thought in the morning was that her aunt would not want the children for a few days at least, now that her cousin had come home, and she would get rest and be well again. Her next was that Mrs Stirling’s golden sovereigns might stay with the other nine-and-twenty in the china teapot; and a curious feeling of regret mingled itself with the pleasure of the thought.

“I almost wish that I had taken them,—just to show her that it wasn’t pride; but I dare say Hugh would be better pleased as it is. I wonder if he is strong and ready at doing things? He doesn’t look very strong; but he is a man and will know how to manage things; and my aunt will not be anxious and cast down any more. And now I see how foolish I was to vex myself with what was to happen to us. I might have known that the Lord was caring for us all the time. ‘Yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread.’” Lilias repeated the words with a sudden gush of happy tears, hiding her face in the pillow, lest her aunt should see.

Hugh and Archie went over the hills to the kirk at Dunmoor that day; but Lilias dreaded the long walk a little, and she dreaded a great deal the wondering looks and curious questioning which the sight of the stranger would be sure to call forth. So she went to the kirk close at hand, saying nothing to the people who spoke to her of her cousin’s return, lest their coming and going might break the Sabbath quiet of her aunt. And a very quiet afternoon they had together. Her aunt sat silent, thinking her own thoughts; and Lilias sat “resting,” she said, with her cheek on her little Bible, and her eyes fixed on the faraway clouds, till the cousins came home again.