Page 13.

HONEST WULLIE.

BY

LYDIA L. ROUSE,

AUTHOR OF "SANDY'S FAITH," AND "JIM BENTLEY'S RESOLVE."

AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY,
150 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK.

COPYRIGHT, 1884,

BY AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY.

Contents

EFFIE PATTERSON'S STORY.

SEQUEL: BY CHRISTIE SOMERVILLE.

Honest Wullie.

CHAPTER I. WULLIE AND RAB.

Among the hills that divide the county of Ayr from Kirkcudbright, and near the bonny Doon, lived, in the early part of this century, a man named William Murdoch, but who was called by all his neighbors "honest Wullie." He was a farm-laborer, and lived alone in a cottage which he rented. He feared God and regarded man. His word was indeed as good as his bond. He had been called honest Wullie while yet a boy, and by common consent he still retained the name. At the time our story opens he was about thirty-five years of age.

It was the morning of the first of January. The departing year had robed the earth in spotless white, that its successor might behold nothing but beauty and purity, and might begin its course with gladness. The rough places were made smooth and the waste places concealed. The sun shone brightly, and the earth glittered and sparkled as if nature had purposely arrayed herself in jewelled robes to welcome the coming year. But men looked out upon the frozen earth and saw only wastes of snow, and began to cut their way through it that they might look after their cattle and all that belonged to them. While all other hands were busy, Willie Murdoch's were not idle. He was shovelling paths about his door, and, while so employed, his thoughts were running in this manner.

"I suppose I shall hae to look after that ne'er-do-weel brither o' mine. A man canna let his ain brither suffer, even if it s'ould be through his ain faut. Rab was aye a careless lad. He s'ouldna hae married withoot changing his ways. Hoo did he suppose he would support a wife and weans! He aye depends o'er muckle on me." While he was thus mentally soliloquizing his brother appeared, struggling through the snow.

"Weel, Wullie, ye are aye warking; ye are o'er industrious."

"A man canna sit in the hoose and be snawed in. Hae ye no made paths aboot your ain door?"

"I didna feel the courage to do it, the snaw is that deep. I am a'maist beat oot wi' coming here."

"What brings ye oot on sic a morning? Are ye no all weel at hame?"

"We are all weel, I am thankful to say, but I am in trouble aboot the rent. Ye ken it is due, and I hae na made oot to save it. I am sair set upon to pay it, and I cam to ask if ye could gie me a helping hand."

It seemed but natural for Robert to ask this help. As his brother had said, he depended on Willie. The two were all that were left of their family, or, rather, of two families; for, though brothers by adoption and affection, they were in reality cousins. Willie's parents had died when he was but a few months old, and his mother's only sister, then lately married to a brother of Willie's father, had taken the orphaned little one and brought him up as her own child. He had repaid her with all the devotion of a loving and thoughtful son; and on her death-bed she had given him, then only fifteen years of age, the charge of Robert, who was six years younger. Her other children had died in infancy, and she had been a widow several years.

"Wullie, ye are a douce lad, for ane o' your years," she had said. "Ye maun aye hae a care o' your brither, and if he doesna get on weel in the warld, dinna spare to lend him a hand. And may the gude God guide you both."

Willie had never forgotten the injunction of his foster-mother, which seemed to him doubly binding from the peculiar character of their relationship. He had had too much care of his brother, in fact, to the manifest detriment of both; for Robert was sadly deficient in self-reliance, and Willie's hard-earned money was too often applied to the support of his brother's family. So when this new demand was made, Willie, with a perplexed look, leaned upon his shovel and remained a moment silent and thoughtful. At length he spoke.

"I dinna see what is to be dune. I am sair straitened for siller mysel'."

"Weel, if ye dinna see a way I canna tell what is to become o' us. I thought I could coont on you to help me out o' my trouble."

"Ye hae coonted on me o'er mony times for the gude o' my purse," said Willie, half in jest and half in earnest; for he had always said to himself, "I can never find it in my heart to be hard upon Rab." "But come into the hoose, Rab," continued he; "we will talk aboot it, and see if there is ony way to mend matters. I hae a few p'un's laid by for ony case o' emergency; but I would be loath to break in upon that just noo. Ye s'ould wark better and plan better. I dinna want to be hard upon you, but ye maunna forget that ye are na longer a laddie, but a man, and a husband and father forbye. I will help you this ance, but I canna be always ready to meet your obligations at a moment's warning. I hae been casting aboot in my ain mind, for some time, whether it wouldna be better to tak ye a' in wi' me, sin' ye are maistly no prepared on rent days. The hoose is sma'; that is ane thing against it; and I hae sa long lived in quiet that it might be hard at first to become accustomed to the prattle o' the bairns; but if you choose to come, you will be welcome."

This generous offer had cost Wullie no little self-sacrifice. He had lived alone since Robert was married, and he liked that way of living. "He could mak his ain parritch, and help himsel' amazin' weel," as his neighbors said. His wants were few and simple. He went to his labor each morning, and returned in the evening. As he left his house, so he found it; but how would it be if he opened his door to his brother's family? This is what he often thought about, and for this reason he had hesitated to propose the subject to Robert. But it was becoming a serious matter to pay so much for rent, for he almost always had it to pay for both cottages. Besides, hardly a week passed that he did not carry or send something to relieve the necessities of Robert's family. Having made the proposition, he watched to see how it would be received.

Robert's face brightened at first; then a shadow overspread it as he thought that, if he were in his brother's house, he could not conceal from him the fact that he was often out at night, and in bad company. So he sat trotting his feet, with his eyes on the floor, and made no reply.

"Hoo would that please you, Rab?" asked Wullie, after a long silence.

"I would be almost ashamed to accept sic a favor. Then, too, I might feel mair bound to think like yoursel' aboot mony things that I hae my ain opeenion aboot."

"Hoo is that, Rab? Ye dinna want to do wrang, I hope; or do you think I hae na sense to judge what s'ould be accounted wrang? If you do what is right, we will hae na difference o' opeenion. It is time ye had your wild oats a' sown. A man s'ould think mair aboot wark and less aboot diversion."

"Ilka ane canna think like yoursel', Wullie."

"Ilka ane s'ould consult duty before pleasure, Rab."

"A' folk dinna see duty in the same light. But we will mak na mair words aboot that. If Jeannie has na objections, we will accept your kindness and be thankful for it."

This he said to cover his own hesitancy, for he well knew that his wife would be glad of any change that would insure for herself more comforts and fewer cares. Her daily life was harassed by the all-absorbing questions, "What shall we eat? what shall we drink? and wherewithal shall we be clothed?"

Robert for once hastened home to tell Jeannie the good news. As may be supposed, her necessitous circumstances overcame her pride, and she readily consented to a proposition which would lessen her anxieties; for she was a sensible, well-meaning woman, and was much pained at her husband's want of thrift. "Wullie was aye a douce, honest man," said she, as she made hasty preparations to leave her comfortless home. There was little to pack and little to move; and before night closed in upon the short day, Robert and his family were brought by a kind neighbor to his brother's door. Wullie heaved a sigh of regret for past quiet, and hastened to welcome the pale, careworn woman to her new home.

Tears of gratitude stood in Jeannie's eyes as she crossed the threshold. She extended her hand to Wullie, and endeavored to express her thanks; but sobs choked her utterance, and she burst into tears.

"Ye maunna greet, woman; ye are mair than welcome. Sit doun by the fire, and warm yoursel' and the bairns," said Wullie in the kindest tones.

Jeannie sat down and soon regained her composure. Then she arose, and began to place and put in order the few things she had brought with her. This done, she returned to the fire where Wullie was preparing the evening meal. She assisted in arranging the table, and soon they sat down to a frugal but substantial supper.

After the repast was finished, Robert went to pay his rent. Jeannie busied herself about the house for a while; then she put the children to bed, and sat down to her usual evening occupation, knitting.

Wullie did not as usual get his Bible; he sat on the opposite side of the room and watched Jeannie's nimble fingers and listened to the clicking of her needles.

"Jeannie, ye are o'er pale and thin; are ye no weel?" he asked.

"I maistly think I am weel; but whiles I misdoot it. I think laneliness has had muckle to do wi' my ill looks. I was reared in a large family, and I canna but feel the change. Then Rab has a way o' gaen oot in the evening, and I am all alane, savin' my sleepin' bairns; and it is weary waitin', for he is lang a-comin'. I doot if he would like me to tell you, but lately I hae suffered bath laneliness and fear."

"O Jeannie, ye s'ould hae tauld me before. I didna ken he was gaen that gate."

"Weel, I hae tauld ye noo, and I hae a purpose in tellin' ye. I want ye to look after him. He willna heed me, but perhaps he will heed you."

Wullie was about to reply when they heard a footstep, and Robert entered.

"Weel, Rab, ye are square ance mair," said his brother cheerily, though his own small store was much smaller on that account.

"Ay am I, thanks to yoursel', Wullie."

"I am right glad we hae stoppit rent-payin' for ane o' the places. Noo, if ye stick to wark as ye s'ould, ye will get on in the warld better than ye hae been doing. I will seek a gude place for ye the neist year. If ye are wullin' to wark weel, I hae na doot but ye can wark wi' me. Farmer Lindsay will need anither man in the spring, and ye would do better on a farm than wi' your hedging and ditching. With him ye would hae every kind o' wark in its season; and if ye wark as weel as ye ken hoo, ye will hae wark the hail year round, and nae trouble in gien satisfaction. We will hae to look weel to oor affairs, and then I see na reason why we s'ouldna gather comforts aboot us. I will get a coo; it willna cost muckle to keep her, and the milk will be gude for the bairns. And we'll hae to fatten a couple o' swine. I hae had naebody but mysel' to feed, and I hae been sa strang and weel that onything would do me. But your wife and bairns need mair than I hae needed. I dinna like to see them sa thin and pale."

A cry from one of the children attracted Jeannie's attention, and she left the room.

"It canna be, Rab, that they hae na been weel keepit," he continued. "Plenty o' aiten meal would mak them look better than they do."

Rab was confused, and did not reply. He could not look into the clear gray eyes of honest Wullie and tell him that a part of his wages went to the innkeeper, that he often treated a set of idle, jolly fellows with the money that should have given bread to his family. So he only said, "Jeannie has never complained o' her fare."

"Weel, Rab, the pale cheek will sometimes tell o' suffering when the tongue refuses to speak o' it. I dinna say it is so in Jeannie's case; ye ken that best yoursel'."

"Wullie, ye are o'er plain o' speech. Ilka ane wouldna tak it frae ye."

"I am plain-spoken, Rab. I never say yea when I mean nay; neither do I stand aboot tellin' a freend his fauts when ony gude can come o' it. 'Faithful are the wounds o' a freend,' ye ken."

"That may be; but sic talk maistly sits too snug to fit weel. Ye are ca'ed honest Wullie, and ye cam as honestly by the name through your plain, outspoken way as by your fair dealing."

"Weel, I am no ashamed o' the name, however I cam by it."

Jeannie's return changed the conversation to some other subject.

CHAPTER II. THE NEW HOME.

The next morning was the Sabbath. Of course honest Wullie was at home on that morning. It was a strange thing for him to have children in his house. But his face brightened as little Jamie's curly head and happy face appeared, and instinctively he extended his hand. "Come to me, come to your uncle, my wee man," he said in winning tones.

The child approached him rather slowly, and suffered himself to be lifted to his uncle's knee. Soon the broad palm of honest Wullie was stroking Jamie's head, and from that time Uncle Wullie's knee was the child's favorite seat. The other child was a mere babe, a sweet, delicate little girl, named Isabel, whom Wullie always called "the wee lass." This child he did not at first attempt to take, for she was "sic a wee bit thing," he said, he would be "a'maist sure to let her fa'."

There was soon a decided improvement in Rab's family. The children grew plump and rosy, and the mother lost the pale, sad look. Rab seldom went to town, and when he did he returned early. His wife began to breathe more freely; she inwardly felt that Wullie's influence would save her husband.

Spring came, and with it a change of labor for Robert Murdoch. His brother secured employment for him on Mr. Lindsay's farm, as he had proposed. Jeannie now moved about the house with a light step and a lighter heart. The cottage too was undergoing a change; not under the carpenter's hand, but under the skilful, remodelling hand of a woman. The bareness was less apparent. In the best room were a chest of drawers and a clock, the only heirlooms Jeannie possessed. The windows were curtained, some of the rough chairs and unsightly stools were cushioned; here was a small mirror, and there a bright pincushion and housewife. The cradle, too, with its many-colored covering and tiny pillow, and little Isabel's sweet face half hidden in it, made the cottage seem more like a home. True, there was no elegance or beauty, but there was a change; for honest Wullie had considered his home furnished when he had a bed, a table, a few chairs, shovel and tongs, parritch-pot, and bake-kettle. As to time, he could always tell that by the crowing of the cock or the position of the sun. He was so accustomed to these methods of telling time that he seldom needed to look at the noon-mark cut in the south window. But Wullie appreciated the change that had taken place, and smiled approvingly. He even went so far as to say, "It taks a woman's hand to mak hame tidy." He began to perceive that he had received as well as afforded comfort by opening his door to others.

Quickly passed the spring and summer seasons. On warm afternoons Jeannie often sat in the pleasant cottage door sewing on some pretty garments for the little ones who were playing at her feet. She had watched the budding trees with unusual interest, for the new life in nature seemed to harmonize with her own fresh hopes. Her heart was again blithe and hopeful, and as the birds carolled their notes of joy, she too sang old songs of love and happiness. But hers was a happiness founded on the constancy of frail humanity. Alas, that cannot always be trusted.

CHAPTER III. DAFT JAMIE'S.

About two miles from the cottage was a small inn and dramshop familiarly known as Daft Jamie's. The nominal proprietor was James McAllister, but the house was kept by his wife; for, many years before, McAllister had been so badly injured in a drunken brawl that he had never fully recovered his reason, and had ever since borne the name of Daft Jamie. This was a place of resort for all the idlers of the neighborhood, who came here to gossip and drink and empty their pockets into Mrs. McAllister's money-drawer. Rab well knew the road to this place, but since he had brought his family to his brother's house he had kept away from it.

One evening late in autumn Robert Murdoch failed to come home as usual. As the evening advanced Jeannie's fears fast deepened into certainty; but she concealed her anxiety as well as she could and endeavored to appear cheerful.

Wullie had no fears concerning his brother. He sat down near the fire, preparing to doze until Rab should return; but before he was lost in slumber Jeannie broke the silence by remarking that the night was dark, and it was a long way to Daft Jamie's.

"What puts Daft Jamie's into your heid?" said Wullie. "Surely Rab is no there. He is crackin' wi' Donald McPherson or some o' the neebors. Dinna worry yoursel'. Gang to your bed, and I'll wait for Rab."

But Jeannie did not go to bed. She resumed her work and relapsed into silence.

Again Wullie settled himself into an easy posture and succeeded in falling asleep. The unhappy wife still listened for the footsteps of her husband, but all the sound she heard was the heavy breathing of the weary man in the chimney-corner. After another hour had passed she again roused the sleeper.

"I am right sorry to disturb you," she said, "but I am worried about Rab. Would you be sa kind as to gang and look for him?"

"Ay, I will gang, to please you," said he, putting on his bonnet and going out into the darkness. It was now late. As he passed the neighbors' houses one after another, he found only darkness and silence. The inmates were wrapped in slumber. Rab was not there. He kept on till he saw the light of Daft Jamie's. As he approached the house he heard loud laughing. He opened the door and beheld with astonishment his brother, who had always been as lithe as a willow, performing sundry feats for the amusement of the company. Rab was so much engaged that he did not notice the entrance of the new-comer.

"Gude save us!" exclaimed one of the company, "if here isna honest Wullie! I would liefer see the de'il himsel' in this place."

Wullie walked straight to his brother. "It is time all honest folk were at hame," said he.

Robert looked at him a moment, hardly knowing whether to be angry or to yield and feel foolish.

"Can a man no hae a bit o' merriment but ye maun come spierin' aboot after him?" he asked.

"Come hame. Dinna stop here makin' a gowk o' yoursel'," said Wullie in an undertone. "I could hide my face wi' very shame to see your foolish pranks to mak sport for these idle haverals."

Rab went home, but he was much displeased. He did not like the idea of his free moral agency being interfered with. He remained silent and sullen. When the Sabbath came he refused to accompany Wullie to church. Wullie remonstrated, but to no purpose. "Then ye can mind the bairns, and let your wife gang," he added.

"She can gang if she likes," Rab replied.

The day passed wearily to Robert Murdoch. He felt as one always feels when he is wilfully drifting from the right. To Wullie the day and means of grace had not been without profit. Ever since his brother came to live with him he had been debating with his conscience whether he ought to have family worship. That day he made up his mind to act on the side of duty. When the time for rest drew near, the time when so many of those honest, devout sons of Scotland bowed before the King of kings, Wullie took down the Bible he had so often read in private, and read aloud. Then he knelt in prayer, and one more altar was set up for the worship of God. Short and simple, yet touching, was the prayer of honest Wullie. Especially did he pray that they all might be delivered from the power of the tempter. After he arose from his knees he remarked to Robert,

"Ye dinna mind when our faither kept the fire o' devotion burning on sic an altar as I hae this night set up, but I mind it weel; and I mind, mairover, that God's fury is to be poured out on the families that call not on his name; so I hae made up my mind that, come what will, I will daily raise my voice in praise to God, to whom I owe every good thing I possess."

Jeannie, who had often in her hours of trouble turned her thoughts towards God, heartily assented to this arrangement. But Rab said to himself, "What is the need o' sic an ado?" He felt that the breath of piety in his home was a constant rebuke to his wilful course, and it vexed him. Truly, "the way of the transgressor is hard."

But Rab's resentment gradually wore away, and the little household had nearly regained its wonted cheerfulness when, in a few weeks, Rab was again absent.

"I wonder what is keeping Rab," said Jeannie, as they sat down to supper without him. Wullie was as anxious as herself; for when the demon of drink has once entered a household, one never knows at what moment shame, or a worse thing, may come to the door.

As the candle burned low, and the evening was far advanced, Wullie arose and took his bonnet and plaid. "The night is cold, and it is o'er late. I will go and seek Rab. Something has gone wrang, or he would be here."

"He said ye werena to come again," was sobbed out by Jeannie, rather than spoken.

"I canna bide this suspense, and it is my duty to go. We are each our brother's keeper."

It was a still, cold night. The stars shone brightly, and the crusted snow sparkled in the moonlight. Wullie drew his plaid closely about him and strode forth in the direction of Daft Jamie's. He knew by the remark that greeted his ear on the former occasion that his presence was not regarded as desirable, so he slipped in very quietly. There was Mrs. McAllister, who was anxious to shut up for the night, and Rab with his boon companion Donald McPherson. When Wullie entered, Donald was vainly endeavoring to induce Rab to go home.

"Hands off," said Wullie, coming quickly forward; "I'll tak care o' him mysel'. He has had mair o' your care than is gude for him." Then, turning to the landlady and addressing her, he said, "Ye s'ould be mair careful hoo ye deal oot your foul whiskey."

He raised his brother to his feet, put his bonnet on his head, drew him to the door, and turned his face towards home. He took him by the arm and led him along as fast as possible. Jeannie had sat there anxiously waiting their return. They laid the scarcely conscious man in his bed, and then with aching hearts sought their own pillows, where at length tardy sleep came to relieve exhausted nature.

Robert awoke next morning too late to go to his work in time. His head ached; he felt angry with himself and angry with others. His wife bore his ill-humor with patience, and that annoyed him. Little Jamie noticed the change in his father. "What ails ye, faither, that ye dinna smile to wee Jamie?" he asked.

"Faither has a sair heid; rin awa and play by yoursel'," said the father.

Jeannie prepared a nice dinner, and she tried to wear a smile, but failed; for in her heart she felt that thick darkness hung over her future.

When honest Wullie returned from his work that evening his face was very grave. Thought had been active all day. Had he been too lenient with his brother when he was young and under his care? Had he failed to impress his mind with Bible truths? What was the cause of his intemperance? and why his aversion to vital piety? These and similar questions had troubled him all day. So while Rob had a "sair heid," Wullie had a sair heart. He took his Bible and read long to himself. Once, some large tears fell on the book. Rab saw them, and his heart was softened. He had never before seen tears in his brother's eyes. He moved uneasily about the room, and spoke pleasantly to his family. He even felt so nearly penitent as to listen patiently to the reading of the Scriptures, and to a lengthy prayer wherein were some allusions to his own shortcomings, for Wullie carried all his troubles to the throne of grace. So he besought the Lord, who is a present help in trouble, to draw near to his household, and to deliver them from the snare of the fowler; he entreated that, if Satan desired to have any of them, the blessed Master might pray for them as he did for Peter of old, and plead their poor prayers before the throne of mercy, and that delivering power might be felt in all their hearts.

The next day Rab was himself again. He went to his work, and came home at the usual time. He had thought a good deal during the day. He was ashamed of his weakness, and he had resolved to let strong drink alone. He told Wullie that he would never have to go again to Daft Jamie's to bring him home; and he promised Jeannie that he would drink no more. Jeannie rejoiced to hear him say so, although she knew a promise is more easily made than kept.

But Rab kept his resolution. He worked steadily all the next year. He attended church, and seemed anxious to do right. Hope sprang up in the hearts of his wife and brother. Wullie felt sure that God had heard his prayers. And God had heard them. But human strength, at best, is weak; and there was to be one more trial, the hardest and the last.

CHAPTER IV. DEATH IN THE CUP.

The rolling year again brought the winter. During the coldest weather there was little to be done on the farm, and Wullie and Rab spent many days at home. One very cold evening Rab went out "to look after the coo," as he told his wife. While he was at the cow-shed, Donald McPherson, who was passing that way in hope of seeing his old comrade, approached him softly.

"Come awa wi' me to Daft Jamie's, and get a drop to warm you this cauld night."

"I canna gang, Donald. It isna gude for me nor you to gang there."

"Hoot, man! I'll be bound ye are as dry as a fish oot o' water."

"Weel, dry or no dry, I canna gang. I hae na claes on that would keep me frae the cauld to gang that length, and but a puir pair o' auld shoon to my feet; and if I went to the hoose to get better, Jeannie would say, 'Where are ye gaen?' and Wullie would say, 'What are ye after noo?' Sa ye see yoursel' I canna gang."

"I hae it. Ye jist gang in and say ye are but noo tauld to gang for the doctor for a seek neebor."

"Na, na. I canna lee, wi' a' my fauts. I would liefer rin fast eneuch to keep mysel' warm."

"Weel, do that," said the tempter; and Rab consented, though rather reluctantly.

He did run fast enough to keep himself warm while going; but alas for the home-coming! He had, of course, drunk more than was good for him. Mrs. McAllister, who feared another visit from honest Wullie, urged Donald to take him home. Donald took him a part of the way and left him. "We hae had a gude auld-fashioned time tagither," said he; "but noo ye maun hasten hame. Rin, for the life o' ye!" But poor Rab did not comprehend his situation; he could not have hurried if he had. The cold soon benumbed him; his feet refused to carry him, and he soon sank down into the snow.

Meantime he had been missed at home, and search had been made for him. It was a long time before it entered into the minds of his family that he might have gone to Daft Jamie's. But with the thought Wullie quickly seized his brother's plaid and his own, and hurried in the direction of the inn. He had gotten about half the distance when he found the object of his search. He succeeded in arousing him, wrapped him in his plaid, and took him home as fast as his ill condition would permit. Rab was allowed to remain near the fire until he was supposed to be warm. Then Wullie offered to "loose his shoon." To his horror he discovered that his feet had been frozen.

It was a trial to all, but particularly to Rab, that he had to be kept in the house with sore feet. Still, no one at first realized the extent of the injury; and many days had elapsed before a conviction fastened on Rab's mind which found expression in these words:

"I will hae to lose my taes."

"No so bad as that, I hope," said his wife.

"I see nae help for it. Oh, why did I gang oot that unlucky night! I wish I had let the coo gang withoot her supper; then I wouldna hae seen Donald. I am afeared I will be a cripple a' the rest o' my days; and if I am crippled in sic a way, I will never shaw my heid again."

"But, Rab, ye might hae been frozen to death; think o' that!"

"Ay, I hae thought o' that; and I hae thought o' anither thing, and that is just this: Donald McPherson will hae gray hairs on his heid before I forgie him for that night's wark. I would hae been at hame in my warm bed but for him. I was aboot my ain business, and had nae intention o' gaen to Daft Jamie's, when he cam along, and naething would do but I maun gang wi' him. But, as God helps me to keep my promise, I will never be found wi' him again."

"I am glad to hear ye say that," said Jeannie, "and I hope ye will stick to it as lang as he is the same wild, warthless Donald; but if God s'ould change his heart, it would be different, ye ken."

"It is my opeenion that God's grace will never reach Donald."

"Ye maunna say that. Wullie would tell ye no to limit the grace o' God."

"Ay, and Wullie would say there is mercy for me; but I canna feel sure aboot it."

"And why s'ould there not be mercy for you?"

"Because, Jeannie, I hae been, and am still, a great sinner."

"Weel, Rab, it was but yester morn that I read in the gude Book, 'They that are whole need not a physician, but they that are sick;' and I thought to mysel, here Jesus holds oot hope for the warst o' folk."

"It would seem so, Jeannie, but I ken little aboot sic things."

"And I am nae judge o' thae things either, although I would fain learn aboot them. We will ask Wullie."

Accordingly, after Wullie had returned from his work, and had settled in his favorite corner, with Jamie on his knee, Jeannie began to speak upon the subject uppermost in her mind.

"Wullie, doesna the Bible hold forth hope and pardon to the warst o' sinners?"

"Of course it does. Wha says it doesna?"

"Rab says he doesna feel a'thegither sure aboot it."

Wullie smiled a glad smile, not unmingled with surprise, while he answered, "If you will test the promises, Rab, ye will ken better than to doot them. Only turn to the Lord wi' full purpose o' heart. Tak the promises as your ain, and cling to them, and ye shall save your soul; for the Lord is ever ready to hear all that call upon his name."

"I hae only lately begun to think aboot sic things. I had some conversation to-day wi' Jeannie that led her to speak to you aboot it."

"It is the strivings o' the Spirit, Rab. Oh, that ye would 'seek the Lord while he may be found, and call upon him while he is near!' He is near to you noo. He is speaking to your conscience. He has said, 'Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts; and let him return unto the Lord, and he will have mercy upon him; and to our God, for he will abundantly pardon.'"

"I am sure I would like to have that abundant pardon. But there is are thing I canna mak clear in my ain mind. I canna weel see what maks sic a difference between us. It may be that you are to be saved and I am to be lost. Ye ken the ministers preach that one is sure to go to the gude place, and anither to the bad, according to God's plan."

"I ken, Rab, some say that. But I dinna fash my held aboot election while I can find sic words as these: 'Say unto them, As I live, saith the Lord God, I have no pleasure in the death of the wicked; but that the wicked turn from his way and live. Turn ye, turn ye from your evil ways; for why will ye die, O house of Israel?'"

"But, Wullie, might not that be only for the chosen people, the Israelites?"

"Na, Rab, na. 'The Gentiles shall come to Thy light.' And listen to this: 'Ho, every one that thirsteth, come ye to the waters, and he that hath no money; come ye, buy, and eat; yea, come, buy wine and milk without money and without price.' And again: 'Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.' This is eneuch for me; for I ken weel our blessed Maister wouldna call us to him to send us empty awa."

"Weel, Wullie, there be folk wha say ane thing, and folk wha say anither thing. Wha kens wha has the right o' it?"

"I will tell ye, Rab; ye just read the Ward o' God for yoursel. I am sure ye are nae fule; and if ye were, ye could understand eneuch to be saved; for the Bible declares that the wayfaring man, though a fule, needna err therein. Noo read for yoursel, as I said, and tak the plain, simple truths o' the Bible. Dinna gang aside frae the general course to pick at what ye canna understand, for in so doing ye may wrest the Scriptures to your ain destruction. Nane by seeking can find out God; neither can they understand all the wards o' him wha is infinite in wisdom."

"But what wad ye think if ye were in the kirk and ye s'ould hear it sounded in your ears that some were left to eternal death?"

"I would no dispute it; but I would whisper softly to my heart sic passages o' the Holy Ward as these: 'As Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, even so must the Son of Man be lifted up; that whasoever believeth in him s'ould not perish, but have eternal life.' 'For God so loved the warld that he gave his only-begotten Son, that whasoever believeth in him s'ould not perish, but have everlasting life.' 'For God sent not his Son into the warld to condemn the warld, but that the warld through him might be saved.'"

"That you would say to yoursel; but if a man was in trouble aboot the doctrine o' election, and s'ould ask ye to comfort him, what would ye tell him?"

"I would say, dinna meddle wi' decrees. Never gang back o' the promises. They are strang eneuch to bear us up, and sweet eneuch to comfort us; and I think a' we hae to do is to lay hand o' them as they are held oot to us. And I will tell ye, Rab, what I honestly think: mair folk catch at the question o' election as an excuse for putting off God's claims upon them, than through fear that they are not o' the elect."

CHAPTER V. A YEAR OF GLOOM.

Spring came, but Robert Murdoch was still in his chair. It was then evident that not only his feet had been injured, but that he had also contracted disease. The physician plainly told Wullie that his brother's working days were over. "It is but right to tell you," said he, "that he has consumption; and though its work may not be swift, it will be sure." Honest Wullie staggered under the weight of this sad intelligence. But he took this trouble where he had long since learned to take all others—to his Father in heaven. He also tried to appear cheerful, though his heart was very heavy.

Rab began to think that his health had been undermined, and he became very despondent. During the day he would sit many hours without speaking; but in the evening he would converse with his brother on indifferent subjects. Wullie soon perceived that he was speaking of that which was least in his thoughts. Therefore, one evening when Jeannie and the children were in another room, he endeavored to lead Rab to talk of that which more nearly concerned his true welfare.

"Hoo is it," said he, "that ye speak aboot sic things? I can see right weel that your heart is no in your talk. It would be better to lay aside sic pretences, for ye hae na deceived me frae the vera first. Ye hae a trouble that is pressing sair upon you. Will ye no tell me at ance what it is? Perhaps I might comfort you."

"Wullie," replied Rab, "ye hae had ane look into my heart, and noo I will mak it bare to you. I am thinking I will never be a sound man again. It isna my feet alane, but I hae a sair pain when I cough; and I hae nae mair strength than wee Jamie; and it is nae wonder, for I sweat sae muckle o' nights. But that is not all: the end of it will be death—death to the body at least; and wha kens but it will be death to the soul as weel! It is this that troubles me. I sit and ponder it o'er and o'er, and Jeannie thinks perhaps that I am ill-tempered; but I canna bring mysel to tell her. It would break her heart if I were to dee without hope. Puir lass! I hae never been gude eneuch for her. Many a time I hae pitied her that she wasna better mated."

Wullie was much moved. As soon as he could trust his voice he replied, "Rab, I hae seen all that ye hae tauld me, and mair than ye hae tauld me. Ye are seeking to find favor in the sight o' God; and ye are looking within yoursel to find something to recommend you to him, but ye canna find onything. Ye hae been vexing yoursel wi' a notion a'thegither wrang. Hae ye never understood that ye are to come with a' your guilt upon you, and fall doun at the feet o' sovereign Mercy, and ask God to accept you as ye are, since naething but the bluid o' the Son of God has power to cleanse you frae your sins? That is the way you are to come to God. Ye shall read it for yoursel." Handing him the Bible, he continued, "Read frae the eleventh to the twenty-fifth verse o' the fifteenth chapter o' St. Luke, and ye will see if the prodigal son did mair than just come to his faither."

Rab read the story carefully.

"Ye are right, Wullie. He went wi' a' his fauts, and was thinking to be coonted as a servant; but he wasna, for the servants were called to put the best robe on him, and a ring on his hand, and shoon on his feet."

"Ye hae missed ane strang point, Rab, if ye didna notice that the mere sight o' the sinfu' son, wi' his face turned hameward, gave the faither sic joy that he ran to meet him while he was yet a lang way off, and fell on his neck and kissed him."

"Sae he did; sae he did. Weel, it was sae full I couldna tak it all in at ance."

Jeannie had returned and sat quietly listening. She had been praying that her husband might be brought to see the promises so clearly as to be led to accept them. Finally she ventured to speak.

"It is plain that a' the young man did, saving his rising and gaen to his faither, was to confess his fauts; and he was met wi' compassion even before he made any confession. So ye see, Rab, God is waiting to forgive if we forsake sin and rise up and go to him. I am sure that I, for ane, need a strang freend to flee to when doots and fears get hold o' me."

"And I feel the need o' sic a freend mair than ye think, Jeannie," said Rab. "Wha will lead me to him?"

"I hae pointed you to the Word o' God, my brither. Ye maun ask to be led by the Holy Spirit. Meantime ye hae my puir prayers that ye may be accepted," said Wullie.

Honest Wullie soon found his hands more than full. Expenses had greatly increased, and were not likely soon to diminish. He now had the entire charge of providing for his brother's family. Besides, there were extra expenses in the way of medicines and occasional visits from the physician. It required all his energy to meet these constantly recurring demands on his resources. The remainder of the small sum he had laid by was spent. Autumn came, and he found that his wages would barely purchase provisions for the winter. There could be no surplus for an emergency. Rab's family now numbered five instead of four, for another little girl had come to be cared for; and the father's illness increased. Wullie felt that he was being sorely tried. He was obliged to apply to his employer to advance him money.

Farmer Lindsay was accompanied by a strange gentleman when honest Wullie met him and preferred his request. The money was immediately put into his hand.

"How is this," said the stranger when Wullie was gone, "that you advance money in that fashion? If he cannot meet his expenses this year, how will he do it next year with this amount deducted?"

"I admit," said Farmer Lindsay, "that I couldna do it wi' a' my men; but wi' honest Wullie it is a' right. He has ta'en his brither's family into his hoose, and there is seckness amang them. The brither himsel is seck, and his wife has a wee bit bairn, and they hae na onything laid by. I am right sorry for Wullie, for a better man never put his hand to a sickle. I would help him though I s'ould never be paid. But there is nae danger o' that. He hasna come to his name withoot gude reason. I ken him weel. He has a generous nature; and he is aye ready to help ithers when he has the means in his hands."

Here the subject dropped. But the gentleman, who was a cousin of Mrs. Lindsay's, had also a generous nature, and he did not forget honest, struggling Wullie. The next day when he left he put a ten-pound note into Mr. Lindsay's hand, saying, "Give this, with my compliments, to the man that has earned the name of honest Wullie."

Wullie went to town, paid the doctor's bill, bought a few delicacies for the sick, and some necessaries, among which was a pair of thick warm shoes for Jeannie. He paid out nearly all the money he had taken, but still more things were needed. When he reached home he gave the shoes to Jeannie. "I hae brought you some shoon," said he. "Noo your feet will no be weet." Jeannie had not expected them. Her happy surprise gave him no small pleasure. But the pleasure suddenly vanished; for no sooner had he taken his seat by the fire than Jamie climbed on his knee and asked,

"Uncle Wullie, did you bring me too ony new shoon?"

"Nae, my wee man, I couldna spare the siller."

"Will ye bring me some when ye gang again? My shoon are fu' o' holes."

"I canna promise, puir laddie," said he, stroking the child's head as he spoke.

Jamie hid his face on his uncle's neck and cried from disappointment.

Wullie felt very sorry for his little nephew. "Dinna greet, laddie, dinna greet," said he. "Ye will hae me keepin' you company if ye dinna stop." In reality he felt perplexed as well as sorry; for he could not help seeing that to keep comfortable would require his utmost efforts.

The signs of perplexity had not left his countenance, when Farmer Lindsay entered. Mr. Lindsay seemed the bearer of good tidings, so happy was his face. He wished them all a good evening, and then inquired particularly after Rab.

"I am nae better," said Rab.

"And hoo are a' the bairns, Mistress Murdoch?"

"They are a' vera weel, I thank ye."

"And hoo hae ye made oot wi' your marketing in the town, Wullie?"

"I found things o'er dear; and I hae na got a' I s'ould hae fetched, for this wee man has but noo been greetin' for new shoon. I brought his mither a pair, and he lookit doun at his ain feet; then he climbed to my knee and spiered at me aboot shoon for himsel. It is nae wonder, as ye see," said Wullie, holding up both the small feet in his capacious hand and displaying the condition of the shoes.

Farmer Lindsay smiled peculiarly. "Come here, my wee man," said he. "So ye hae been greetin' aboot new shoon, hae ye? Weel, your uncle will bring them the next time he gaes to town."

"I dinna ken hoo that will be," interposed Wullie.

"Weel, ye will hae the means to get them, at ony rate," replied Mr. Lindsay; "for the man ye saw wi' me yesterday, when he learned more aboot you, gied me a ten-pound note, saying 'Gie that, wi' my compliments, to the man that has earned the name o' honest Wullie.'"

Wullie was dumb with amazement. But collecting his thoughts he said, "I hae nae suitable words to express my thanks; but if I ever see the gentleman I will do my best to thank him, for I am right thankfu'. But, Mr. Lindsay, I hae seen the time when I wouldna hae taen sic a gift. But God has shawn me that it is pride, and not wisdom, that refuses the help that gude men offer to their struggling fellow-men. Especially would it be wrang for me, sin' I hae the comfort o' ithers to consider."

"That is my ain opeenion, Wullie; and I thought ye would hae the sense to see it in that light. I hae nae sympathy, nor patience either, wi' puir folk that haud their heids sae high, and willna accept help when it is offered to them, and then sink into want or disgrace through their ain fulish pride."

"Ye are right, Mr. Lindsay. If God puts it into the hearts o' gude men to help those wha are in need, and they willna receive that help, they stand in the way o' Providence, sin' they shut up channels through which the Lord would send blessings to them. Every ane can understand that it is mair gratifying to give than to acknowledge ane's needs so far as to accept gifts; but pride maun hae a fa'."

"Just so, Wullie. Now, if ye s'ould find yoursel again in want o' means, come to me. I wish ye a' a good-night."

"Hae ye ever heard o' sic a thing!" exclaimed Wullie when the door had closed behind Farmer Lindsay. "Yesterday I was that discouraged that I hardly kenned what to do nor which way to turn. But I clung to the promise o' God, and I said to mysel, 'The siller and the gowd are his;' but I couldna see in what way he would send it to me in my sair need. My heart wouldna quite trust yet. I thought o' the wee helpless bairns, and I said again to mysel, 'He hears the young ravens when they cry, and he will hear the prayer o' his unworthy servant for those His ain providence has put into his care.' Then I gaed aboot my wark as light o' heart as the birds o' the air. But my faith was o'er weak, for when wee Jamie was disappointed I had a'maist gien o'er again to fear."

"Weel, Wullie, if ye lack faith, what would ye think o' me?" asked Rab.

"Ah, Rab, ye hae na proved what comfort ane gets in just takin' God at his ward. I dinna see hoo folk can endure life withoot the Heavenly Father's smile. It is true they hae the bonny things in nature; but they are far bonnier when ane can not only see their beauty, but can trace in them the gudeness and wisdom o' the Creator, and can feel that he has this all-wise Creator for his freend. Mony a time when I am weary wi' my wark, I see a bonny wee flower, and the sight o' it gladdens me. I hear the blithe sang o' a bit bird, and that cheers me. I see the drooping plant revive, and I say to mysel, 'Though I fa', I shall rise again.' I tell ye, there is naething like having the Bible hidden in your heart when your een are lookin' oot on the face o' nature. The ane makes you think o' the ither. They blend weel thegither, and strengthen ane's faith, for it isna hard to see that He that created the ane inspired the ither."

"Hoo differently you and I hae aye lookit on life, Wullie. Did ye ever think o' it?"

"Ay, I hae thought o' it mony times. Ye hae been fond o' company, while I hae been fond o' quiet. I hae made a companion o' my Bible; and I gie it as my verdict that it is not only a safe, but a profitable ane."

Wullie's heart was full of glad thankfulness. He rose and stirred the fire, and added fuel. There should be no lack of anything now. "Jamie, ye s'all hae new shoon, and wee Belle s'all hae new shoon; and Rab, ye s'all no want for medicines. Jeannie, ye will see till 't that there is plenty o' parritch made, for if the meal gies oot ye can hae mair. Weel, weel, I canna forget it. Is it no wonderfu' that the gentleman s'ould hae left the money for me! I hae nae doot he is a servant of the Lord, sin' he considers the puir. Oh, how I wish that ilka ane would set his heart on serving the Most High!"

CHAPTER VI. A CLEAR SUNSET.

Wullie now felt a great relief with regard to ways and means. Ten pounds seemed quite a sum to those frugal cottagers. But as Rab's illness increased Wullie became very anxious about his brother's future welfare, and earnestly desired that he should experience a good hope through the Saviour of sinners. He missed no opportunity to set before him the love of Christ, and his willingness to save all who come to him with a humble and contrite heart. He proposed to bring the parish minister. But Rab said, "Not yet. I like best to talk wi' yoursel, Wullie. I would be ashamed to talk to onybody aboot my past life."

"Are ye sorry for it as weel as ashamed o' it."

"Ay, I am baith ashamed and sorry."

"There is a godly sorrow that warketh repentance. Hae ye that sorrow?"

"I dinna ken right weel what that s'ould be."

"I will tell you what it is as near as I can come to it. If the remembrance o' sin is painfu' to us because it is hateful in the sight o' God; if our misspent, unprofitable lives grieve us because they hae grieved our Saviour, to whom we owe obedient, faithful service; if we wish to forsake sin, because it is sin, and not from fear o' punishment alane, then I think it is the sorrow that warketh repentance."

"I think I feel something like that. I dinna ken hoo it would be if I were oot again wi' my auld comrades; but noo as I lie here I am seck o' sin, seck o' the things I ance loved. I canna bear to think o' my past life. In the night season I often put oot my hand in the vain attempt to push it far frae me, but it willna gang oot o' my memory. Then I think o' Him wha deed to save us frae oor sins, and I remember that I hae never turned towards him, but awa frae him, and I feel that my condemnation would be just. But at ither times I feel that I will, I must, lay hold o' some promise; that I will lay me doun just outside the door o' mercy, and wait to see if the Maister willna lift the latch and bid me come in."

"Brither, it is yoursel maun lift the latch to the door o' your heart, and bid the Maister come in and possess it. Beyond a doot the Saviour is noo knocking to be admitted. Do ye no remember that passage o' Scripture that reads, 'Behold, I stand at the door and knock: if any man hear my voice and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me'? Noo, my brither, in faith bid the Maister enter your heart, and all will be weel. Only believe, Rab. 'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved.'"

"Wullie, I am gaen to believe noo." Then closing his eyes, he said aloud, "Lord, I will believe thee. I do believe thee; and if I do not believe aright, wilt thou teach me how to believe?"

Wullie went to the bedside, and, kneeling down, he poured out his soul in prayer that God would bless them all, and bless them then. When he arose from his knees Jeannie was weeping softly, but Rab had a glad light in his eyes. "Wullie," he said, "the darkness is o'erpast, and light is breaking through. Oh, the wondrous condescension o' the Saviour! Jeannie, my puir wife, ye maun find Jesus and hae him for your dearest freend."

"I hae found him, Rab. Ane can greet wi' joy as weel as sorrow."

"That is true," said Wullie, as he wiped away the great joy-born tears from his own cheeks. It was a sight for angels—and angels do know of such scenes, for "There is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner that repenteth."

"I think I would hae been comforted sooner," said Rab, "if I could hae brought mysel to forgive Donald the wrang he has done me. But I couldna do it, although I aye remembered what oor Saviour himsel said, 'If ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Heavenly Father forgive you your trespasses.' It was only this morning that I forgave him, and noo I am rejoicing in forgiveness mysel. I would like to tell Donald that I forgive him, for perhaps after I am awa he may feel troubled aboot it."

Donald McPherson had always felt very guilty concerning his own part in Rab's illness. He never came near the cottage, and he took care to avoid honest Wullie. But now that Rab had expressed a desire to tell Donald that he had forgiven him, Wullie went to Donald's cottage and told him that Rab would like to see him. Donald looked embarrassed and troubled.

"He wants to upbraid me," said he, "but God knows my ain conscience has upbraided me eneuch for that night's wark."

"Na, naething o' the kind. I could tell you what it is mysel, but he would rather tell it."

"I will come and see him. I hear he isna lang for this warld."

"He willna be here lang," replied Wullie.

"God hae mercy on us a'," said Donald, with emotion.

That night there was a timid knock at honest Wullie's door. "Come in," said Wullie in a loud tone. The latch was lifted, and in walked Donald McPherson. Jeannie set a chair for him, and Wullie spoke pleasantly to him. But Donald was ill at ease. He seemed looking for some one he did not see. A voice from the bed said, "Good evening to ye, Donald." Donald approached the bed, and Rab extended his hand.

"I am o'er sorry to see you here," said Donald, grasping the proffered hand. A shiver ran through him as he saw and felt how emaciated it was.

"I am o'er sorry to see you here," said Donald.

"My hand is o'er thin," said Rab, noticing his emotion.

"Ay is it, and it is a' my ain faut."

"Not a'thegither, Donald, for I s'ould hae been proof against temptation."

"Ye would hae dune weel eneuch if ye had been left alane."

"That is true as to the night I got my seckness; but I might hae fallen some ither time, for I hadna the grace o' God to keep me in the right way. Noo I willna fall into that sin ony mair—I canna. And ye maunna think ye are no forgien your part in that night's wark, for I hae forgien ye, and that is what I wanted to tell you. God has forgien me, but he wouldna do it until I had forgien you. Noo I hope ye will ken what it is to hae God's forgiveness as weel as mine. Ye hae, as ye say, led me in the wrang way; let me noo seek to lead you in the right way. It is a fearsome thing to live withoot God for a freend. I hae found that oot the last year o' my life. To feel, as I hae felt, that life is fast passing awa, and to see nae hope in the darkness beyond, is dreadful, dreadful, Donald. Your life will hae an end too, Donald, though it mayna be for mony years. Then ye will stand alane before your Maker. Do ye no ken that there are robes provided, so that each wha will may wrap himsel around wi' them as he wraps his plaid aboot him? only thae robes cover us entirely. They are robes o' the Saviour's righteousness. Wi' sic a robe aboot us we may stand before the Judge o' all the earth and not fear condemnation. I dinna ken as I mak it plain to you, for I am but a beginner in the scule o' Christ; but I am in his scule, Donald; yes, I am; praised be the gude Lord for that! And what I canna learn here I can learn in the warld above."

"I hope I shall meet you there," said Donald, wiping the tears away with his hand.

"Dinna put off repentance till ye come to your death-bed, Donald. Gie your heart to God noo; and then, whether ye are called sooner or later, ye are aye ready."

Donald was much affected. He remained an hour or more talking with Wullie, and then left, promising to come again, and offering his assistance if it should be needed.

During Rab's illness Jeannie was very quiet in her manner, but her heart was heavy and sad. Slowly but surely proof was added to proof that her husband was soon to die. With many fears and anxieties she had looked forward to the long, weary time that must elapse between the sad event about to befall her and the time when her children would be old enough to seek their own livelihood. But since she had obtained a hope of eternal life she had learned to regard the future with less anxiety, and to cast her cares on One stronger than herself. Still the sadness remained. She could not forget that disease was fast wasting all that was mortal of Robert Murdoch. That which is spiritual within us may assent to God's providences, and we think it to be in the ascendency, and so it is; but sometimes, when the chill and gloom of a starless night settle down upon our spirits, our natural desires assert themselves, and we clutch again our passing friends and comforts. Poor Jeannie! More thorns than roses seemed to grow along her pathway. And now the saddest trial of all was before her. But she had promised in her heart that, if God would save her husband eternally, she would not murmur at the dispensation that was to separate him from her in this life. For this reason she strove to control her feelings; and the quivering of the face was often stayed before the tear-drop started.

Once, when her husband noticed these outward signs of inward grief, he called her to him. She drew her chair to the bedside, and laid her head on the pillow. "My puir wife," said he, while he pressed her pale cheek with his thin hand, "I hae never been as gude to you as I s'ould hae been, and noo I am gaen frae you. I ask your forgiveness. I leave you in the hands o' God, and under him to the care o' Wullie. I couldna leave you in better hands. And, Jeannie, if Wullie would ever wish to mak you his wife, hear till him."

She raised her eyes with a look of surprise and reproof.

He understood her, and continued, "Weel, never mind noo what I hae said. Some time ye may remember it withoot sae muckle pain, and be glad ye kenned my mind aboot it."

The winter passed slowly away. Rab's death was expected from week to week. The neighbors were untiring in their kindness and sympathy. Farmer Lindsay called often, and many a kind word he spoke to the afflicted family. Mrs. Lindsay sent many a dainty to tempt the sick man's appetite. The pastor, too, called, and was satisfied with the dying man's profession of faith.

"I am so thankful," said Rab, "that I had time gien me for repentance. If I had been cut off suddenly I s'ould hae gane to eternal death."

Donald McPherson fulfilled his promise and came often. "I hae seen eneuch o' the evils o' strang drink," he said to Rab, "and I want ye to carry wi' you to heaven my promise that, wi' God's help, I will never taste anither drap."

When the milder days of spring succeeded the rigors of winter, Robert Murdoch's lamp of life flickered and went out. He met death with a calm resignation and a happy trust.

Mrs. Murdoch yielded to sorrow after her husband was dead. No one interfered with her grief until Wullie thought she had wept "o'er lang." "Compose yoursel, sister Jeannie," he said, speaking in a persuasive manner. "I ken it is hard to bear; but neither yoursel nor the bairns will want for a freend while it is in the power o' Wullie Murdoch to help you. He wha has gaen frae us can never return to us, but we can gang to him in the Lord's ain gude time."

A simple funeral service was held at the church, and the body was committed to the earth whence it came.

CHAPTER VII. DONALD MACPHERSON.

No one, not even the widow, wept more at the grave than did Donald McPherson. The once light-hearted, mischief-loving, whiskey-drinking Donald was overcome with sorrow and contrition. He took Rab's death greatly to heart, and, standing by that open grave, he firmly resolved that from that hour he would change his manner of life; that he would fear and serve God, and never again place a stumbling-block in the way of his fellow-creatures. After the funeral he went to honest Wullie's cottage, "to see if there was onything to be dune," as he said.

Wullie thanked him for his kindness, adding, "The little that is to be dune I can do mysel. I would liefer be busy than not. But I am glad to see you, for a' that." Then, laying his hand on McPherson's shoulder, he said, "Ye will no forget the lesson o' this day, Donald!"

"I trust I never shall."

The widow had bowed to Donald as he entered, and then left the room. She went to attend the children; but she was glad of the excuse, for memory was too busy with the past to render the presence of Rab's old comrade desirable on that sad day.

Donald went slowly from the home of mourning to his own cottage. He hung his bonnet on a peg, then went and sat down beside his wife. She was holding a troublesome child and trying to sew at the same time. "Here, gie me the bairn," said he. He took the child in his strong arms and dandled him, much to the satisfaction of wee Donald. Then with much seriousness he addressed his wife.

"Katy, I dinna think I will gie you as muckle trouble as I hae dune. I maun gie up auld habits. They wunna do ony langer. I hae just seen Mistress Murdoch, and I hae been thinkin' what if it had been yoursel, Katy, that this day was clad in garments o' dool instead o' her, where would the soul o' Donald McPherson hae been noo!"

The person addressed was a tall, straight, well-formed woman, whose face showed both thoughtfulness and firmness. She only replied, "It is weel to think."

"I hae thought, and I hae felt as weel. Noo dinna think there is nae gude in me, wifie, but trust me ance mair. I am no gaen to drink any mair whiskey. I hae promised him that they this day laid law that I wouldna, and that I would gang to kirk. Noo I will tell ye my plans. I will gang to Daft Jamie's but ance mair, and that will be to pay fourpence ha'penny, for that is a' I owe them, I am blithe to say; and then never a penny mair will I gie for grog; but I will save a' that I can earn, and we will soon hae decent claes, and gang to the kirk like Christian folk."

"That sounds gude, and I hope ye will do as ye say; and ye may do it if ye look to the Strang for help."

After supper Donald put on his bonnet and went to Daft Jamie's. Mrs. McAllister smiled very blandly as he entered.

"Gude evenin' to ye, Donald. Ye hae keepit yoursel a great stranger o' late. What will ye be wantin'?"

"I am wantin' naething but to pay a bit debt. A man maun pay his debts, I suppose, though what he has bought has dune him no gude."

"Hoot, man! Hae ye taen to preachin'? Ye ken as weel as ony ane that it is gude whiskey we keep; and a drap o' gude whiskey hurts naebody."

"Na, Mistress McAllister, a drap wunna hurt ony ane; but wha stops at a drap, tell me?"

"Weel, Donald, ye ken it is a decent hoose we keep, and we dinna want ony drunken folk around us."

"Ay, I ken it; and that is ane reason why puir Rab went oot i' the cauld the night he got his death."

"Weel, weel, hae your ain opeenion aboot it, but dinna stand quarrellin' wi' me. Sin' ye dinna want onything ye may as weel be gaen."

"I will, Mistress McAllister, and there'll be mony a weet day afore I again cross your doorstane. Gude evenin' to ye."

Donald was soon at home again, much to the joy of his wife; for she thought if he could go to Daft Jamie's and return without the scent of liquor about him, there was indeed some room for hope.

CHAPTER VIII. IMPROVEMENTS.

Widow Murdoch now gave more time and attention to her children. The youngest had not yet been named, but had always been called "the wee lass." Now that more notice was taken of her, she began to smile and play.

"It is time this bairn had a name, Wullie," said Jeannie one evening when the baby was lying on her lap. "What would ye think o' callin' her Annie? It would be for Rab's mither, and it is a bonny name forbye."

"That I would like right weel."

So this important matter was happily decided, and Annie was the little one's name.

Spring brought warm, bright days, Jamie and Belle played at the cottage door, their innocent prattle often beguiling their mother's sad hours.

Honest Wullie was not long in paying by his labor the debt which he had contracted, and he felt glad that his accounts were again even. Farmer Lindsay let him have a small piece of ground near the cottage to be made into a garden. This was to be the joint care of Wullie, Jeannie, and Jamie, for "Jamie is auld eneuch noo to pu' the weeds frae the beds," said his uncle.