This was rather much for the gentle candidate, familiar as he was with the impeacher's record in days that were yet hardly dry.
"There's one thing sure, anyhow," he returned hotly, in his intensity of feeling. "I didn't never have to be toted home on a stone-boat—that's one thing certain." This was a reference to authentic history of no ancient sort, and Mr. Hall's relapse to silence was as final as it was precipitate.
Whereupon Geordie Nickle again reverted to his motion that Mr. Borland be received. He briefly reviewed the case, emphasizing the obvious simplicity and candour that had been remarked by all, while admitting David's evident unfamiliarity with the formulas and doctrines of the church.
"But there's mony a man loves flowers wha disna ken naethin' aboot botany," he pleaded; "an' there's mony a soul luvin' Christ, an' trustin' till Him, wha kens little or naethin' aboot theology."
This view seemed to prevail with the majority, and the proposal of the kindly elder would doubtless have been speedily endorsed, had it not been for the protest from David himself. "I'm terrible thankful for your kindness to a lame duck like me—but I believe I'd jest as soon wait awhile," he said. "I'll try an' follow up the best I can. But Dick Phin's comin' to visit me next week—Dick's an old crony I haven't seen for a dog's age. An' besides, Robert there has kind o' set me thinkin'; an' I jest minded Tom Taylor's comin' on Monday to try an' trade back the three-year-old he got in August. So I think mebbe I'd better wait. But I'll follow up the best I can."
X
SHELTERING SHADOWS
Two chestnut steeds, securely tied, looked reproachfully at the retreating figures as Madeline and her father pressed on beneath the shadow of the great oaks that looked down upon the merry picnickers. For Glenallen's Sunday-school scholars were en fête beneath them. Very gladly did these mighty guardians of the grove seem to welcome back the happy throng as each returning summer brought the festal day. And very tenderly did they seem to look down upon the varied pleasure-seekers that gathered beneath their whispering branches; children, in all the helplessness of childhood, mingling with other toddlers whose was the helplessness of age—little tots whose toilsome journey was at hand, and patriarchs whose weary pilgrimage was almost past. Many were there whose fathers' fathers, snatching a brief truce from their struggle with the poverty and stress of early days, had rested and rollicked as only pioneers know how; masters and men, their respective ranks forgotten, had sat side by side about the teeming board, or entered the lists together as they flung the bounding caber, or raced across the meadow-sward, or heaved the gleaming quoits, or strained the creaking cable in the final and glorious tug of war.
As David Borland and his daughter drew near to the central group of picnickers, they found them employed in a very savoury task. They were emptying the baskets one by one, the good things translated promiscuously to the ample table around which all were about to take their places. Pies of every sort there were, cakes of every imaginable brand and magnitude, sandwiches, fruits, pickles, hams that would waddle, fowls that would cackle, tongues that would join the lowing choir, nevermore—all these conspired to swell the overflowing larder.
Suddenly David's eyes fell on a face in the distance, a face for which he had long had a peculiar liking. It was Geordie Nickle's, the old man sitting apart on a little mound, his kindly eyes bright with gladness at the lively scene around him.