Bert saw the point at once, and never again ventured to ridicule boys who were the sons of "real carriage folk." Not only so, but he began at once to feel a respect for them, which wrought such a change in his bearing toward them, that they, who were not at all favourably impressed at first, changed their minds and decided that he was a "right smart little fellow."

It was while playing "hide and seek" in the big barn with half-a-dozen of these youngsters, that Bert had a narrow escape from serious injury, if not, indeed, from death. The great, gaping mows were being filled with hay, which was pitched in any way, and not, of course, packed firmly. Consequently, it was in some places like snow upon the Alpine slopes--ready to fall in an avalanche, at the slightest temptation.

In endeavouring to reach a far corner of the barn, where he felt sure no one could possibly find him, Bert tried to cross a hill of hay, that had piled up in one division of the mow. His hasty movements were just what was needed to bring the whole ma.s.s toppling down in confusion to the bottom of the mow. Unfortunately for him, he was involved in the overthrow, and without a moment's warning was buried beneath a huge ma.s.s of hay. As he went sliding helplessly down he uttered a cry of terror, which startled little Rory Chisholm, who sprang out from his hiding-place just in time to see poor Bert disappear.

"Hi! Hi! boys--come here; Bert Lloyd's under the hay."

The boys quickly gathered, and with eager hands set to work, to rescue their imperiled playmate. But, vigorously though they toiled, it was slow progress they made; and in the meantime the little fellow, pressed upon by many hundredweight of hay, was fast losing breath and consciousness. He could hear them very indistinctly, but could not make a sound himself.

By a fortunate accident, one of the men happened along, just as the boys were near giving up the task as too great for them.

"Donald! Donald! Quick! Bert Lloyd's under the hay. Dig him out, or he'll die," cried Rory, at the top of his voice.

Seizing a pitchfork, Donald attacked the hay like a giant, getting more and more careful as he drew near the bottom of the mow, until at last, with a shout of "I've got him," he stooped down and dragged the senseless form of Bert from the very bottom of the pile. Taking him in his arms, he ran with him to the house, and gave Aunt Sarah a great fright by suddenly plumping him into her lap, as she sat on the verandah reading, saying, breathlessly:

"Here, miss, bring him to, and he'll be none the worse for it."

Aunt Sarah screamed for hartshorn, spirits of wine, and the dear knows what, but Mrs. Lloyd, bringing a gla.s.s of water, dashed it freely over her boy's pale face, and in a minute or two he opened his eyes again. As Donald said, he was none the worse for his experience, for no bones were broken, nor muscles strained; yet all felt thankful that he had escaped so well.

It was not long after this that Bert had another adventure, which also came near costing him his life. He was not only very fond of water, but as fearless about it as a Newfoundland puppy. The blue sea, calm as a mirror or flecked with "white caps," formed part of his earliest recollections. He would play at its margin all day long, building forts out of sand for the advancing billows of the tide to storm and overwhelm. He was never happier than when gliding over it in his father's skiff. It was the last thing in nature he looked upon before lying down at night, and the first thing to which he turned on awaking in the morning. Thus he got so used to the great salt sea, that when he came to Maplebank and looked at the quiet stream, which glided along so noiselessly at the bottom of the slope before the house, he thought it a mere plaything, and could hardly be made to understand that, innocent as the river appeared, there was water enough in it to drown him ten times over.

One day some of the village folk came out to spend the day at Maplebank, and the weather being decidedly warm, Uncle Alec proposed that the men of the party should go with him for a bathe. They gladly a.s.sented, and Bert having begged to accompany them was given leave to do so. Uncle Alec took them to a lovely spot for a bath--a tempting nook in which one might almost have expected to surprise a water nymph or two, if you drew near quietly enough. On one side, the bank rose high and steep, affording perfect seclusion; a narrow beach of gravel made a fine place for undressing. The river rolled gently along with plenty of depth, and beyond it was another beach, and then the swelling intervale.

Amid much laughter and excitement the men undressed, Uncle Alec allowing Bert to do the same, as he had promised to carry him across the river on his back. So soon as they were ready the bathers dived in; and, with much splashing and noise, swam races to the opposite bank, leaving Bert alone upon the sh.o.r.e. Skylarking with one another there they quite forgot their little companion until Uncle Alec looking across, gave a start, and cried out:

"Hallo! What's become of the boy?"

Not a sign of Bert was to be seen. His little pile of clothes, with hat placed carefully on top, was plain enough but no Bert. Full of anxiety, Uncle Alec sprang into the water, and with great sweeping strokes made for the other side. The water fairly foamed about his broad, white shoulders as he tore through it. He steered straight for the spot where he had seen Bert last. Three-fourths of the distance had been covered, when suddenly he stopped, and reaching down into the water, pulled up--What do you think? Why, Bert, of course, whose big brown eyes had startled him as they looked up at him through the clear, cool water. But how did Bert get there? Well, easily enough. He had got tired waiting for his uncle to come back for him. He wanted to be over there where the men were all having such fun. He could not swim across, so he just coolly accepted the only alternative, and started to walk across! When Uncle Alec found him there was a clear foot of water over his head. A step or two more and he would certainly have lost his footing, been carried away by the current, and drowned perhaps before Uncle Alec could have found him.

The men all voted him a young hero when they were told of his attempt, and Uncle Alec vowed he'd teach him to swim the next time he paid a visit to Maplebank.

Aunt Sarah was greatly excited when she heard of her darling Bert's second escape, and had Mrs. Lloyd taken her advice the poor boy would have been tied to somebody's ap.r.o.n strings for the rest of the summer.

But Mrs. Lloyd thought it better to do no more than caution Bert, and trust to the Providence that protects children to keep him from harm. He would have to learn to take care of himself sooner or later, and the sooner the better.

CHAPTER VIII.

TEMPTATION AND TRIUMPH.

The one day in the week that Bert did not like at Maplebank was Sunday; and, indeed, under the circ.u.mstances, he was not without excuse. At home, the Lord's Day was always made as bright and cheerful as possible.

The toys and playthings of the week-days were of course put aside, and wading by the seash.o.r.e or coasting down the lane was not to be thought of, but in their place Bert had his father's company, of which he never had enough, and Mr. Lloyd made it a point, whether he really felt in good spirits himself or not, to appear to be so to Bert; and, in consequence, the little chap never thought his father quite so delightful as on the day of rest, that was so welcome to the lawyer, tired by a week's toil at his profession.

Then mother had more leisure, too; and besides the pleasure of going with his parents to church, dressed in his best clothes, a privilege Bert fully appreciated, there was the enjoyment of having her read to him wonderfully interesting stories from the Bible or Pilgrim's Progress, and explaining to him whatever puzzled his brain.

If the day was fine, Mary would take him with her to the Sunday school, where, with a number of youngsters like himself, the hour would pa.s.s quickly enough, as Miss Brightley entertained them with song and story, and pictures bearing upon the lesson. And then, after Sunday school, in summer time, his father would lead him off to the old fort, where they would sit on the gra.s.sy ramparts, watching the white sailed ships cleaving the blue waters, that never seemed more beautiful than on Sunday afternoon.

But at Maplebank it was all very different. Squire Stewart was a Presbyterian of the stern old Covenanter stock. To him the Lord's Day meant a day to be spent in unsmiling strictness of conversation and demeanour. No laughter, no bright talk, no semblance of joyousness was sanctioned; nor, indeed, could have existed within the range of his solemn countenance. He was a grave and silent man at any time, but on Sunday the gravity of his appearance was little short of appalling. One meeting him for the first time would certainly have thought that he had just been visited by some overwhelming affliction. Bert, on the morning of his first Sunday, coming out of his mother's room, after receiving the finishing touches to his dress, and dancing along the hall, in joyous antic.i.p.ation of the drive in the big carriage to the village, ran right into his grandfather. Laying a strong hand on the boy's shoulder, Squire Stewart looked down at him, with disapproval written on every line of his stern face.

"My boy," said he, in his deepest tones, "know you not that this is the Sabbath day, and that you are to keep it holy, and not be dancing along the hall?"

Poor Bert shrank away, with a trembling, "I didn't mean to, sir," and thenceforth avoided his grandfather as completely as though he were a criminal and the Squire was a policeman.

Not only at the house, but at the church, did Bert find Sunday a day of dreariness. And here again, who could blame him? He was only a boy and a very restless, active boy, at that, to whom one half-hour's sitting still was about as much as he could endure. How, then, could he be expected to be equal to four whole hours of stillness? Yet that was what his grandfather required of him whenever he went to church.

The order of the day was as follows:--Leaving the house about ten o'clock in the big covered carriage, of which the Squire felt duly proud, as being the only one in the county, they drove leisurely into the village, where the horses were put up, and after the ladies had dropped in at a friend's to make sure their bonnets and dresses were as they ought to be, they wended their way to the church, which, standing right in the centre of the village, was noisily summoning its worshippers to its seats as the big bell swung to and fro high up in the steeple.

The church service began at eleven o'clock, and was of the most old-fashioned orthodox type. No organ had yet profaned the sanct.i.ty of that holy place, but instead thereof, a quartette of singers, selected seemingly more for the strength than the sweetness of their voices, occupied a large box right under the pulpit, and thence led the congregation by a whole bar at least, in the rendering of Tate and Brady's metrical version of the Psalms. Very weird and sorrowful were many of the tunes. None were bright and inspiring like those Bert was wont to hear at home, and as choir and congregation vied with one another in the vigour of their singing, the little fellow was sometimes half-frightened at the bewildering noise they made.

A saintlier pastor than the Reverend Mr. Goodman, D.D., few congregations possessed; but only those members of his audience who were of like age with himself thought him a good preacher. He had, indeed, some gifts in expounding the Bible, and even Bert would be interested if the lesson happened to be one of those stirring stories from the Old Testament which seem so full of life and truth. But when it came to preaching a sermon--well, it must be confessed there were then few dryer preachers throughout the whole Province of Acadia. Bending low over his ma.n.u.script, for his eyesight was poor, and lifting his head only now and then to wipe his brow, or relieve his throat, with a dry, hard cough, Mr. Goodman pursued his way steadily and monotonously from "firstly" to "lastly" every Sunday.

And not only once, but twice on every Sunday. For be it understood, that although many of the congregation lived too far away from the church to make two trips to it from their homes, they were not thereby going to be deprived of two services. Accordingly, after the morning service--which usually lasted until one o'clock--was over, a recess of one hour for lunch and fresh air followed, and at two o'clock a second service, precisely similar in character, was entered upon, which occupied two hours more. And then, having thus laid in a supply of sound theology for the rest of the week, the good people of Calvin church, after indulging in a little harmless gossiping at the church door--of which indulgence, by the way, Squire Stewart strongly disapproved, and would have prohibited, had he been able--harnessed up their horses and drove away home.

Four hours of church service of so unattractive a character, and that in mid-summer! Poor little Bert! He did not want to shock his grandfather, or bring his mother's discipline into condemnation; but really, how could he be all that the Squire, who, if he ever had been a boy himself, must have quite forgotten about it, expected him to be? If he went to sleep, Aunt Sarah or Aunt Martha, in obedience to signals from grandfather, shook or pinched him awake again. If he stayed awake, he felt that he must wriggle or die. Sometimes the temptation to scream out loud was so strong that it seemed little short of a miracle he did not yield to it. Mrs. Lloyd fully sympathised with her son's troubles, but accustomed from infancy to obey her father unquestioningly, she would not venture to do more than softly plead for Bert, now and then, when he was more restless than usual. Her pleadings were not altogether vain, and frequently they had the result of securing for Bert a boon that he highly appreciated.

Squire Stewart was bothered by a troublesome chronic cough. He did not mind it very much when at home, but at church he felt it to be a nuisance both to himself and his neighbours. To ease it somewhat he always carried to church with him a number of black currant lozenges, a supply of which he kept in his big mahogany desk at home. Occasionally, either as encouragement to him to try and be a better boy, or as a token of relenting for being over severe, he would pa.s.s Bert one of these lozenges, and Bert thought them the most delicious and desirable sweetmeat ever invented. Not that they were really anything wonderful, though they were very expensive; but the circ.u.mstances under which he received them gave them a peculiar relish; and it was in regard to them that Bert fought and won the sharpest battle with the tempter of all his early boyhood. It happened in this way:

As already mentioned, Squire Stewart kept a supply of these lozenges in his big mahogany desk, that had a table to itself in the parlour. This desk was always kept locked, and Bert had many a time, when alone in the room, gone up to it, and pa.s.sed his hand over its polished surface, thinking to himself how nice it would be if the package of lozenges was in his pocket instead of shut up in there where n.o.body could get at it.

One morning, as Bert was playing about the house, a message came that the Squire was wanted at once at the farthest barn, as one of the horses had been hurt by another. He went out hastily, and shortly after, Bert, going into the parlour, saw the desk wide open, his grandfather having been looking for a paper when so suddenly called away. The moment his eyes fell upon the open desk, a thought flashed into his mind that set every nerve tingling. As though the old desk exerted some strange and subtle fascination, he drew near it; slowly, hesitatingly, almost on tiptoe, yet steadily. His heart beat like a trip-hammer, and his ears were straining to catch the slightest sound of any one's approach. The house was wonderfully quiet. He seemed to be quite alone in it; and presently he found himself close beside the desk. Although open, the inner lids were still shut, and ere Bert put out his hand to lift the one under which he thought the package of lozenges lay, the thought of the wrong he was doing came upon him so strongly as well-nigh to conquer the temptation. For a moment he stood there irresolute; and then again the hand that had dropped to his side was stretched forth. As it touched the desk lid a thrill shot through his heart; and again he hesitated and drew back.

It was really a tremendous struggle, and one upon which great issues hung, so far as that boy, alone in that room with the tempter, was concerned. Bert fully realized how wrong it would be for him to touch the lozenges; but, oh! what a wonderful fascination they had for him!

Reaching forward again, he lifted up the desk lid, and there, fully exposed to view, lay the package temptingly wide open, displaying its toothsome contents. The crisis of the temptation had come. An instant more, and Bert would have yielded; when suddenly his better nature got the upper hand, and with a quick resolution, the secret of which he never fully understood, he cried out:

"No, I won't." And slamming down the desk lid, he tried to run out of the room, and ran right into the arms of his grandfather, who, unseen and unsuspected, had witnessed the whole transaction from the door.

Overwhelmed with a sense of guilt and terror at having been detected by the one person of all others whom he dreaded most, Bert sank down on the floor, sobbing as though his heart would break. But, strange to say, the stern old man had no harsh words for him now. On the contrary, he bent down and lifting the little fellow gently to his feet said, in tones of deepest tenderness:

"No tears, laddie; no tears. You've fought a grand fight, and glad am I that I was there to see you win it. G.o.d grant you like success to the end of your days. I'm proud of you, Bert boy; I'm proud of you."

Scarce able to believe his ears, Bert looked up through his tears into his grandfather's face. But there was no mistaking the expression of that rugged old countenance. It fairly beamed with love and pride, and throwing himself into his arms, Bert for the first time realised that his grandfather loved him.

He never forgot that scene. Many a time after it came back to him, and helped him to decide for the right. And many a time, too, when grandfather seemed unduly stern, did the remembrance of his face that morning in the parlour drive away the hard feelings that had begun to form against him.

CHAPTER IX.

LOST AND FOUND.

The summer days pa.s.sed very quickly and happily for Bert at Maplebank, especially after the surprising revelation of the love and tenderness that underlay his grandfather's stern exterior. No one did more for his comfort or happiness than his grandmother, and he loved her accordingly with the whole strength of his young heart. She was so slight and frail, and walked with such slow, gentle steps, that the thought of being her protector and helper often came into his mind and caused him to put on a more erect, important bearing as he walked beside her in the garden, or through the orchard where the apples were already beginning to give promise of the coming ripeness.

Mrs. Stewart manifested her love for her grandson in one way that made a great impression upon Bert. She would take him over to the dairy, in its cool place beneath the trees, and, selecting the cooler with the thickest cream upon it, would skim off a teaspoonful into a large spoon that was already half filled with new oatmeal, and then pour the luscious mixture into the open mouth waiting expectantly beside her.