Part 43

Little Issie had long since snuggled down in her own separate place in my heart; she was indeed a favourite with all who knew her--but I saw as I stepped into the room that God loved her best of all. The white thin hands were tightly held, one in her father's, the other in her mother's, as though they would detain her; but the angels heeded not and went on with the preparations for her flight. These were almost complete when I arrived; Issie alone knew that they were of God's providing, for the face she turned to me was full of childish sweetness, and her smile was touched with other light.

"I'm glad you're home," she whispered, as I bent low beside her. "Please don't go away again"--and as I kissed her she was gone.

Her curls were gold, still gold, though she was gone. As we stood weeping beside the precious dust the sun arose, still arose, though she was gone. And his first errand was to the broken heart. Swift to the window flew his first-flung rays, like eager couriers who hear the cry of need. And entering in, unbidden, they set God's brighter seal of love upon the golden tresses. Up and down among the glowing strands, they wandered, smiling at God's gain, smiling still, though she was gone. Unafraid, they caressed the unconscious locks, anointing them for their burial.

When I went out, the winter seemed past and gone; I knew then what made these snowbound hearts so warm.

* * * * *

"Margaret has a new sorrow," said my wife, soon after my arrival home.

"What is it?"

"A young woman and her child from Ireland--"

"Yes," I interrupted, "I heard about it; the driver told me. Does Margaret seem to fret herself about it?"

"I don't know," answered her mother, "but I am afraid it has made it all the harder for us: I mean that I fear that she is more devoted to him now than ever. She read me a letter Angus wrote her just before he shut himself up with the child."

"What did it say?" I asked, with eagerness.

"I don't remember very clearly: but he said that this woman who died of smallpox, the child's mother, you know, had opened all her heart to him before she died. And he says there never was a gentler or purer-hearted woman--the old story, of love, and trust, and anguish. Then he said he promised her to care for her boy; and he said something about his ordination vows, said he would try to be true to them, and that this would help him to banish revenge and hatred from his heart."

"His ordination vows?" I exclaimed, "what do you suppose he means? Surely he is not trifling with all that unhappy occurrence?"

"I don't think so. There was no trifling tone about his letter. I asked Margaret about that very thing, but she wouldn't tell me, only she said there was no elder in St. Cuthbert's more ordained to God's service than Angus is."

"Did she say anything about their love affairs?" said I, after a man's poor bungling fashion.

"Not a word--but she wouldn't let me see the letter," this with a little womanly sigh: for women, like children, have griefs that appear trifling to grown men, but are very real to them.

After a pause my wife ventured: "Don't you think that perhaps we are just a little unrelenting about Margaret and Angus?"

"What?" I said.

"Oh, I don't mean that she should marry him, of course, but it does seem hard, father--and it really wasn't his fault--and perhaps we will regret it some day."

"But, my dear, you know it is impossible--think of the humiliation of it, the shame of it, I might say."

"Yes, I know," she answered, "but I do admire Angus more and more. He seems to be trying to staunch his sorrow, only he does it by love and service. Everybody is talking about how useful and unselfish he is, in the church, and among the poor--and everywhere."

"I know it," admitted I, "I know it, and there is no reason why we should not always be friends--but the other is an entirely different matter. It cannot be."

"Well," went on my wife, "I do not think I want to stay here; I don't suppose the people understand everything, but I feel sure many of them think we are dealing harshly with Margaret. And yet they would nearly all do the same. What kind of a manse have they in Charleston?" she concluded eagerly--for a woman's gift of transition is marvellous.

Whereupon I told her all about my Southern experiences and impressions.

* * * * *

There was no tumult in St. Cuthbert's. A man who knows nothing of the under-currents in the heart's great ocean would have said that my people were serenely indifferent as to whether I should stay in New Jedboro or go to Charleston. There was no open attempt to influence the outcome, for they believed in the sovereignty of God and would not interfere--at least not till that very sovereignty so constrained them. Of course, they held prayer to be a legitimate interference. This is a great mystery, but it is cherished by the soul as persistently as it is challenged by the reason. Mysterious though this union must ever be, the Scottish spirit takes full advantage of it, and enjoys its fruit, let the root be hidden as it may.

"Ye'll be givin' us yir decision some o' these days," was about as far as the most emotional would go, some even adding: "Charleston's a graun city, nae doot, an' I'm hopin' ye'll like it fine if you leave us," which last proved to me that such an one secretly prayed for my remaining. The true Scotchman is like the Hebrew language--to be understood, he must be read backwards.

"It's a graun chance ye're gettin', to be called to sic a kirk as that," said Wattie Gardner one day. "I'm fearin' ye'll rue it if ye bide wi' us here."