So that evening the three men went in a coach to the Broomilaw together. A boat and two watermen were in waiting at the bridge-stair, and though the evening was wet and chilly they all embarked. No one spoke. The black waters washed and heaved beneath them, the myriad lights shone vaguely through the clammy mist and steady drizzle, and the roar of the city blended with the stroke of the oars and the patter of the rain. Only when they lay under the hull of a large ship was the silence broken. But it was broken by a blessing.

"God bless you, Robert! The Lord Jesus, our Redeemer, make you a gude man," said Dr. Morrison fervently, and David whispered a few broken words in his friend's ear. Then Captain Laird's voice was heard, and in a moment or two more they saw by the light of a lifted lantern Robert's white face in the middle of a group on deck.

"Farewell!" he shouted feebly, and Dr. Morrison answered it with a lusty, "God speed you, Robert! God speed the good ship and all on board of her!"

So they went silently back again, and stepped into the muddy, dreamlike, misty streets, wet through and quite weary with emotion.

"Now gude-night, David. Your uncle is waiting dinner for you. I hae learned to love you vera much."

"Is there anything I can do, doctor, to show you how much I love and respect you?"

"You can be a good man, and you can let me see you every Sabbath in your place at kirk. Heaven's gate stands wide open on the Sabbath day, David; sae it is a grand time to offer your petitions."

Yes, the good old uncle was waiting, but with that fine instinct which is born of a true love he had felt that David would like no fuss made about his return. He met him as if he had only been a few hours away, and he had so tutored Jenny that she only betrayed her joy by a look which David and she understood well.

"The little folks," said John, "have a' gane to their beds; the day has been that wet and wearisome that they were glad to gae to sleep and forget a' about it."

David sat down in his old place, and the two men talked of the Russian war and the probable storming of the Alamo. Then John took his usual after-dinner nap, and David went up stairs with Jenny and kissed his children, and said a few words to them and to the old woman, which made them all very happy.

When he returned to the parlor his uncle was still sleeping, and he could see how weary and worn he had become.

"So patient, so generous, so honorable, so considerate for my feelings," said the young man to himself. "I should be an ingrate indeed if I did not, as soon as he wakes, say what I know he is so anxious to hear."

With the thought John opened his eyes, and David nodded and smiled back to him. How alert and gladly he roused himself! How cheerily he said,

"Why, Davie, I hae been sleeping, I doot. Hech, but it is gude to see you, lad."

"Please God, uncle, it shall always be gude to see me. Can you give me some advice to-night?" "I'll be mair than glad to do it."

"Tell me frankly, Uncle John, what you think I ought to do. I saw Robert off to America to-night. Shall I follow him?"

"Davie, mind what I say. In the vera place where a man loses what he values, there he should look to find it again. You hae lost your good name in Glasgow; stay in Glasgow and find it again."

"I will stay here then. What shall I do?"

"You'll go back to your old place, and to your old business."

"But I heard that Deacon Strang had bought the looms and the lease."

"He bought them for me, for us, I mean. I will tell you how that came about. One day when I was cross, and sair put out wi' your affairs, Davie, Dr. Morrison came into my office. I'm feared I wasna glad to see him; and though I was ceevil enough, the wise man read me like a book. 'John,' says he, 'I am not come to ask you for siller to-day, nor am I come to reprove you for staying awa from the service o' God twice lately. I am come to tell you that you will hae the grandest opportunity to-day, to be, not only a man, but a Christ-man. If you let the opportunity slip by you, I shall feel sairly troubled about it.'

"Then he was gone before I could say, 'What is it?' and I wondered and wondered all day what he could hae meant. But just before I was ready to say, 'Mr. MacFarlane, lock the safe,' in walks Deacon Strang. He looked vera downcast and shamefaced, and says he, 'Callendar, you can tak your revenge on me to-morrow, for a' I hae said and done against you for thirty years. You hold twa notes o' mine, and I canna meet them. You'll hae to protest and post them to-morrow, and that will ruin me and break my heart.'

"David, I had to walk to the window and hide my face till I could master mysel', I was that astonished. Then I called out, 'Mr. MacFarlane, you hae two notes o' Deacon Strang's, bring them to me.' When he did sae, I said, 'Well, deacon, we a' o' us hae our ain fashes. How long time do you want, and we'll renew these bits o' paper?'

"And the thing was done, Davie, and done that pleasantly that it made me feel twenty years younger. We shook hands when we parted, and as we did sae, the deacon said, 'Is there aught I can do to pleasure you or David?' and a' at once it struck me about the sales o' the looms and lease. Sae I said, 'Yes, deacon, there is something you can do, and I'll be vera much obligated to you for the same. Davie is sae tied down wi' Robert's illness, will you go to the sale o' Callendar & Leslie's looms and lease, and buy them for me? You'll get them on better terms than I will.' And he did get them on excellent terms, Davie; sae your mill is just as you left it—for Bailie Nicol, wha took it at the accountant's valuation, never opened it at all. And you hae twenty months' rent paid in advance, and you hae something in the bank I expect."

"I have £3,600, uncle."

"Now, I'll be your partner this time. I'll put in the business £4,000, but I'll hae it run on a solid foundation, however small that foundation may be. I'll hae no risks taken that are dishonest risks; I'll hae a broad mark made between enterprise and speculation; and above a', I'll hae the right to examine the books, and see how things are going on, whenever I wish to do sae. We will start no more looms than our capital will work, and we'll ask credit from no one."

"Uncle John, there is not another man in the world so generous and unselfish as you are."

"There are plenty as good men in every congregation o' the Lord; if there wasna they would scatter in no time. Then you are willing, are you? Gie me your hand, Davie. I shall look to you to do your best for baith o' us."

"I have not drunk a drop for two months, uncle. I never intend to drink again."

"I hae given it up mysel'," said the old man, with an affected indifference that was pathetic in its self-abnegation. "I thought twa going a warfare together might do better than ane alone. Ye ken Christ sent out the disciples by twa and twa. And, Davie, when you are hard beset, just utter the name of Christ down in your heart, and see how much harder it is to sin."

CHAPTER IX

The arrangement had been a very pleasant one, every way, but somehow John did not feel as if David had as much outside help as he needed. The young man was not imaginative; an ideal, however high, was a far less real thing to David than to old John. He pondered during many sleepless hours the advisability of having David sign the pledge. David had always refused to do it hitherto. He had a keen sense of shame in breaking a verbal promise on this subject; but he had an almost superstitious feeling regarding the obligation of anything he put his name to; and this very feeling made John hesitate to press the matter. For, he argued, and not unwisely, "if David should break this written obligation, his condition would seem to himself irremediable, and he would become quite reckless."

In the morning this anxiety was solved. When John came down to breakfast, he found David walking about the room with a newspaper in his hand, and in a fever heat of martial enthusiasm. "Uncle," he cried, "O Uncle John, such glorious news! The Alamo is taken. Colin Campbell and his Highlanders were first at the ramparts, and Roy and Hector Callendar were with them. Listen?" and he threw the passion and fervor of all his military instincts into the glowing words which told, how in a storm of fire and shot, Sir Colin and his Highland regiment had pushed up the hill; and how when the Life Guards were struggling to reach their side, the brave old commander turned round and shouted, "We'll hae nane but Hieland bonnets here!" "O Uncle John, what would I not have given to have marched with Roy and Hector behind him? With such a leader I would not turn my back on any foe."

"David, you have a far harder fight before you, and a far grander Captain."

"Uncle, uncle, if I could see my foe; if I could meet him face to face in a real fight; but he steals into my heart, even by my nostrils, and unmans me, before I am aware."

John rang the bell sharply, and when Jenny came, he amazed her by saying, "Bring me here from the cellar three bottles of whiskey." He spoke so curt and determined that for once Jenny only wondered, and obeyed.

"That will do, my woman." Then he turned to David, and putting one bottle on the table said, "There is your foe! Face your enemy, sir! Sit down before him morning, noon, and night. Dare him to master you! Put this bottle on the table in your ain room; carry this in your hand to your office, and stand it before your eyes upon your desk. If you want a foe to face and to conquer, a foe that you can see and touch, here is one mighty enough to stir the bravest soul. And, if you turn your back on him you are a coward; a mean, poor-hearted coward, sir. And there ne'er was a coward yet, o' the Callendar blood, nor o' the Campbell line! Your Captain is nane less than the Son o' God. Hear what he says to you! 'To him that overcometh! To him that overcometh!' O Davie, you ken the rest!" and the old man was so lifted out of and above himself, that his face shone and his keen gray eyes scintillated with a light that no market-place ever saw in them.

David caught the holy enthusiasm; he seized the idea like a visible hand of God for his help. The black bottle became to him the materialization of all his crime and misery. It was a foe he could see, and touch, and defy. It seemed to mock him, to tempt him, to beg him just to open the cork, if only to test the strength of his resolutions.

Thank God he never did it. He faced his enemy the first thing in the morning and the last thing at night. He kept him in sight through the temptations of a business day. He faced him most steadily in the solitude of his own room. There, indeed, his most dangerous struggles took place, and one night John heard him after two hours of restless hurried walking up and down, throw open his window, and dash the bottle upon the pavement beneath it. That was the last of his hard struggles; the bottle which replaced the one flung beyond his reach stands to-day where it has stood for nearly a quarter of a century, and David feels now no more inclination to open it than if it contained strychnine.

This is no fancy story. It is a fact. It is the true history of a soul's struggle, and I write it—God knows I do—in the strong hope that some brave fellow, who is mastered by a foe that steals upon him in the guise of good fellowship, or pleasure, or hospitality, may locate his enemy, and then face and conquer him in the name of Him who delivers his people from their sins. I do not say that all natures could do this. Some may find safety and final victory in flight, or in hiding from their foe; but I believe that the majority of souls would rise to a warfare in which the enemy was confronting them to face and fight, and would conquer.

I have little more to say of David Callendar. It was the story of his fall and his redemption I intended to write. But we cannot separate our spiritual and mortal life; they are the warp and woof which we weave together for eternity. Therefore David's struggle, though a palpable one in some respects, was, after all, an intensely spiritual one; for it was in the constant recognition of Christ as the Captain of his salvation, and in the constant use of such spiritual aids as his Bible and his minister gave him, that he was enabled to fight a good fight and to come off more than conqueror in a contest wherein so many strive and fail.

David's reformation had also a very sensible influence on his business prosperity. He has won back again now all, and far more than all, he lost, and in all good and great works for the welfare of humanity David Callendar is a willing worker and a noble giver. The new firm of John and David Callendar acquired a world-wide reputation. It is still John and David Callendar, for when the dear old deacon died he left his interest in it to David's eldest son, a pious, steady young fellow for whom nobody ever mixed a first glass. But God was very kind to John in allowing him to see the full harvest of his tender love, his patience, and his unselfishness. Out of his large fortune he left a noble endowment for a church and college in his native town, making only two requests concerning its management: first, that no whiskey should ever go within the college walls: second, that all the children in the town might have a holiday on the anniversary of his death; "for," said he, "I have aye loved children, and I would fain connect the happiness of childhood with the peace o' the dead."

Dr. Morrison lived long enough to assist in filling in the grave of his old friend and helper, but attained unto the beginning of peace and glory soon afterwards. And I have often pictured to myself the meeting of those two upon the hills of God. The minister anticipated it, though upon his dying bed his great soul forgot all individualities, and thought only of the church universal, and his last glowing words were, "For Jerusalem that is above is free, which is the mother of us all."

Robert Leslie has done well in America, and no man is a more warm and earnest advocate of "the faith once delivered to the saints." I read a little speech of his some time ago at the dedication of a church, and it greatly pleased me.

"Many things," he said, "have doubtless been improved in this age, for man's works are progressive and require improvement; but who," he asked, "can improve the sunshine and the flowers, the wheat and the corn? And who will give us anything worthy to take the place of the religion of our fathers and mothers? And what teachers have come comparable to Christ, to David, Isaiah, and Paul?"

Jenny only died a year ago. She brought up David's children admirably, and saw, to her great delight, the marriage of Flora and young Captain Callendar. For it had long been her wish to go back to Argyleshire "among her ain folk and die among the mountains," and this marriage satisfied all her longings. One evening they found her sitting in her open door with her face turned towards the cloud-cleaving hills. Her knitting had fallen upon her lap, her earthly work was done for ever, and she had put on the garments of the eternal Sabbath. But there was a wonderful smile on her simple, kindly face. Soul and body had parted with a smile. Oh, how happy are those whom the Master finds waiting for him, and who, when he calls, pass gently away!

"Up to the golden citadel they fare,
And as they go their limbs grow full of might;
And One awaits them at the topmost stair,
One whom they had not seen, but knew at sight."

Andrew Cargill's Confession.

ANDREW CARGILL'S CONFESSION

CHAPTER I

Between Sinverness and Creffel lies the valley of Glenmora. Sca Fells and Soutra Fells guard it on each hand, and the long, treacherous sweep of Solway Frith is its outlet. It is a region of hills and moors, inhabited by a people of singular gravity and simplicity of character, a pastoral people, who in its solemn high places have learned how to interpret the voices of winds and watersand to devoutly love their God.

Most of them are of the purest Saxon origin; but here and there one meets the massive features and the blue bonnet of the Lowland Scots, descendants of those stern Covenanters who from the coasts of Galloway and Dumfries sought refuge in the strength of these lonely hills. They are easily distinguished, and are very proud of their descent from this race whom

"God anointed with his odorous oil
To wrestle, not to reign."

Thirty years ago their leader and elder was Andrew Cargill, a man of the same lineage as that famous Donald Cargill who was the Boanerges of the Covenant, and who suffered martyrdom for his faith at the town of Queensferry. Andrew never forgot this fact, and the stern, just, uncompromising spirit of the old Protester still lived in him. He was a man well-to-do in the world, and his comfortable stone house was one of the best known in the vale of Glenmora.

People who live amid grand scenery are not generally sensitive to it, but Andrew was. The adoring spirit in which he stood one autumn evening at his own door was a very common mood with him. He looked over the moors carpeted with golden brown, and the hills covered with sheep and cattle, at the towering crags, more like clouds at sunset than things of solid land, at the children among the heather picking bilberries, at the deep, clear, purple mist that filled the valley, not hindering the view, but giving everything a strangely solemn aspect, and his face relaxed into something very like a smile as he said, "It is the wark o' my Father's hand, and praised be his name."

He stood at his own open door looking at these things, and inside his wife Mysie was laying the supper-board with haver bread and cheese and milk. A bright fire blazed on the wide hearth, and half a dozen sheep-dogs spread out their white breasts to the heat. Great settles of carved oak, bedded deep with fleeces of long wool, were on the sides of the fireplace, and from every wall racks of spotless deal, filled with crockery and pewter, reflected the shifting blaze.

Suddenly he stepped out and looked anxiously towards the horizon on all sides. "Mysie, woman," said he, "there is a storm coming up from old Solway; I maun e'en gae and fauld the ewes wi' their young lammies. Come awa', Keeper and Sandy."

The dogs selected rose at once and followed Andrew with right good-will. Mysie watched them a moment; but the great clouds of mist rolling down from the mountains soon hid the stalwart figure in its bonnet and plaid from view, and gave to the dogs' fitful barks a distant, muffled sound. So she went in and sat down upon the settle, folding her hands listlessly on her lap, and letting the smile fall from her face as a mask might fall. Oh, what a sad face it was then!

She sat thus in a very trance of sorrow until the tears dropped heavily and slowly down, and her lips began to move in broken supplications. Evidently these brought her the comfort she sought, for erelong she rose, saying softly to herself, "The lost bit o' siller was found, and the strayed sheep was come up wi', and the prodigal won hame again, and dootless, dootless, my ain dear lad will no be lost sight o'."

By this time the storm had broken, but Mysie was not uneasy. Andrew knew the hills like his own ingle, and she could tell to within five minutes how long it would take him to go to the fauld and back. But when it was ten minutes past his time Mysie stood anxiously in the open door and listened. Her ears, trained to almost supernatural quickness, soon detected above the winds and rain a sound of footsteps. She called a wise old sheep-dog and bid him listen. The creature held his head a moment to the ground, looked at her affirmatively, and at her command went to seek his master.

In a few moments she heard Andrew's peculiar "hallo!" and the joyful barking of the dog, and knew that all was right. Yet she could not go in; she felt that something unusual had happened, and stood waiting for whatever was coming. It was a poor, little, half-drowned baby. Andrew took it from under his plaid, and laid it in her arms, saying,

"I maun go now and look after the mither. I'll need to yoke the cart for her; she's past walking, and I'm sair feared she's past living; but you'll save the bit bairn, Mysie, nae doot; for God disna smite aften wi' baith hands."

"Where is she, Andrew?"

"'Mang the Druids' stanes, Mysie, and that's an ill place for a Christian woman to die. God forbid it!" he muttered, as he lit a lantern and went rapidly to the stable; "an evil place! under the vera altar-stane o' Satan. God stay the parting soul till it can hear a word o' his great mercy!"

With such a motive to prompt him, Andrew was not long in reaching the ruins of the old Druidical temple. Under a raised flat stone, which made a kind of shelter, a woman was lying. She was now insensible, and Andrew lifted her carefully into the cart. Perhaps it was some satisfaction to him that she did not actually die within such unhallowed precincts; but the poor creature herself was beyond such care. When she had seen her child in Mysie's arms, and comprehended Mysie's assurance that she would care for it, all anxiety slipped away from her. Andrew strove hard to make her understand the awful situation in which she was; but the girl lay smiling, with upturned eyes, as if she was glad to be relieved of the burden of living.

"You hae done your duty, gudeman," at length said Mysie, "and now you may leave the puir bit lassie to me; I'll dootless find a word o' comfort to say to her."

"But I'm feared, I am awfu' feared, woman, that she is but a prodigal and an—"

"Hush, gudeman! There is mercy for the prodigal daughter as weel as for the prodigal son;" and at these words Andrew went out with a dark, stern face, while she turned with a new and stronger tenderness to the dying woman.

"God is love," she whispered; "if you hae done aught wrang, there's the open grave o' Jesus, dearie; just bury your wrang-doing there." She was answered with a happy smile. "And your little lad is my lad fra this hour, dearie!" The dying lips parted, and Mysie knew they had spoken a blessing for her.

Nothing was found upon the woman that could identify her, nothing except a cruel letter, which evidently came from the girl's father; but even in this there was neither date nor locality named. It had no term of endearment to commence with, and was signed simply, "John Dunbar." Two things were, however, proven by it: that the woman's given name was Bessie, and that by her marriage she had cut herself off from her home and her father's affection.

So she was laid by stranger hands within that doorless house in the which God sometimes mercifully puts his weary ones to sleep. Mysie took the child to her heart at once, and Andrew was not long able to resist the little lad's beauty and winning ways. The neighbors began to call him "wee Andrew;" and the old man grew to love his namesake with a strangely tender affection.

Sometimes there was indeed a bitter feeling in Mysie's heart, as she saw how gentle he was with this child and remembered how stern and strict he had been with their own lad. She did not understand that the one was in reality the result of the other, the acknowledgement of his fault, and the touching effort to atone, in some way, for it.

One night, when wee Andrew was about seven years old, this wrong struck her in a manner peculiarly painful. Andrew had made a most extraordinary journey, even as far as Penrith. A large manufactory had been begun there, and a sudden demand for his long staple of white wool had sprung up. Moreover, he had had a prosperous journey, and brought back with him two books for the boy, Æsop's Fables and Robinson Crusoe.

When Mysie saw them, her heart swelled beyond control. She remembered a day when her own son Davie had begged for these very books and been refused with hard rebukes. She remembered the old man's bitter words and the child's bitter tears; but she did not reflect that the present concession was the result of the former refusal, nor yet that the books were much easier got and the money more plentiful than thirty years previous. When wee Andrew ran away with his treasures to the Druids' stones, Mysie went into the shippen, and did her milking to some very sad thoughts.

She was poisoning her heart with her own tears. When she returned to the "houseplace" and saw the child bending with rapt, earnest face over the books, she could not avoid murmuring that the son of a strange woman should be sitting happy in Cargill spence, and her own dear lad a banished wanderer. She had come to a point when rebellion would be easy for her. Andrew saw a look on her face that amazed and troubled him: and yet when she sat so hopelessly down before the fire, and without fear or apology

"Let the tears downfa',"

he had no heart to reprove her. Nay, he asked with a very unusual concern, "What's the matter, Mysie, woman?"

"I want to see Davie, and die, gudeman!"

"You'll no dare to speak o' dying, wife, until the Lord gies you occasion; and Davie maun drink as he's brewed."

"Nay, gudeman, but you brewed for him; the lad is drinking the cup you mixed wi' your ain hands."

"I did my duty by him."

"He had ower muckle o' your duty, and ower little o' your indulgence. If Davie was wrang, ither folk werena right. Every fault has its forefault."

Andrew looked in amazement at this woman, who for thirty and more years had never before dared to oppose his wishes, and to whom his word had been law.

"Davie's wrang-doing was weel kent, gude-wife; he hasted to sin like a moth to a candle."

"It's weel that our faults arena written i' our faces."

"I hae fallen on evil days, Mysie; saxty years syne wives and bairns werena sae contrarie."

"There was gude and bad then, as now, gudeman."

Mysie's face had a dour, determined look that no one had ever seen on it before. Andrew began to feel irritated at her. "What do you want, woman?" he said sternly.

"I want my bairn, Andrew Cargill."

"Your bairn is i' some far-awa country, squandering his share o' Paradise wi' publicans and sinners."

"I hope not, I hope not; if it werena for this hope my heart would break;" and then all the barriers that education and habit had built were suddenly overthrown as by an earthquake, and Mysie cried out passionately, "I want my bairn, Andrew Cargill! the bonnie bairn that lay on my bosom, and was dandled on my knees, and sobbed out his sorrows i' my arms. I want the bairn you were aye girding and grumbling at! that got the rod for this, and the hard word and the black look for that! My bonnie Davie, wha ne'er had a playtime nor a story-book! O gudeman, I want my bairn! I want my bairn!"

The repressed passion and sorrow of ten long years had found an outlet and would not be controlled. Andrew laid down his pipe in amazement and terror, and for a moment he feared his wife had lost her senses. He had a tender heart beneath his stern, grave manner, and his first impulse was just to take the sobbing mother to his breast and promise her all she asked. But he did not do it the first moment, and he could not the second. Yet he did rise and go to her, and in his awkward way try to comfort her. "Dinna greet that way, Mysie, woman," he said; "if I hae done amiss, I'll mak amends."

That was a great thing for Andrew Cargill to say; Mysie hardly knew how to believe it. Such a confession was a kind of miracle, for she judged things by results and was not given to any consideration of the events that led up to them. She could not know, and did not suspect, that all the bitter truths she had spoken had been gradually forcing themselves on her husband's mind. She did not know that wee Andrew's happy face over his story-books, and his eager claim for sympathy, had been an accusation and a reproach which the old man had already humbly and sorrowfully accepted. Therefore his confession and his promise were a wonder to the woman, who had never before dared to admit that it was possible Andrew Cargill should do wrong in his own household.