The year has rolled away; it is Christmas eve; the snow is crisp and sparkling in the low December sun, and groups are thronging in with wreaths and crosses and bouquets, to tell their dear ones they are not forgotten, and that to-morrow the vacant place by the fireside will be haunted by
The touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still.
Near the Brompton gate, where the porter, smiling, good-natured giant, stands holding the gate open for loiterers like me—sleeps a dear old friend, long passed away—an Indian doctor, the kindest heart for young people, the most interested in their pleasures, I ever knew. A Scotchman from Skye—even in his eightieth year with strength unfailed, and the large limbs of the people of his race. ‘A strong lad, Samson; sure he cam’ frae Skye,’ was the old woman’s commentary on the hero of the Book of Judges. The merry days of girlhood on Richmond Hill and Thames, clear Marlow water, childhood treats of strawberries at Kew, rise up before misty eyes as I read your name, dear old William Bruce! Many a happy Christmas eve have we spent at your kindly table, when your dark beaming face and Scottish voice asked the ‘bit lassie,’ whose tall toddy glass stood untasted at her side—‘Why, Miss Helena, Miss Helena, are ye doing naught for the gude o’ the hoose?’ He used to say the fifty years of perfect health he had spent in India were due to the nightly toddy! I believe it was the kindly heart and cheerful mind.
Lie lightly, snow; shine red, ye holly-berries; and I pass out bidding good-night to my baby, sleeping till his young eyes shall open, not on the Christmas, but on the Resurrection morn. As I go, I see that even the long-forgotten old merchant has at last been remembered, and on his grave is a scroll of immortelles and berries inscribed, ‘Kind words and deeds, they never die.’
BY MEAD AND STREAM.
CHAPTER LVIII.—CLEARING UP.
Philip with amazement not unmingled with displeasure recognised Mr Beecham in the person who in this mysterious fashion intruded himself on their privacy.
Madge was for a second startled by the sudden apparition; but that feeling passed as the shadow of a swift-flying bird passes over the breast of a clear pool, and her face became bright with hope. The object which Philip had so longed for was accomplished—the distrust and enmity of Austin Shield were extinguished. Remembering about the secret recess of the Oak Parlour, and the legend of its having once served as the hiding-place of a fugitive king, she did not pause to speculate how it had been discovered, or how or why the man came to make use of it at that moment, but waited eagerly for the upshot of this singular meeting.
The invalid, resting back on his cushions, stared at the intruder with mingled emotions of astonishment, curiosity, and suspicion; then he glanced inquiringly from Madge to Philip, seeking from them the explanation at which the latter could no more guess than he.