Of course Mr Stewart, being a minister, whose office it is to do good to people, was very glad to have done good to Shenac. Perhaps he thought it best to let _well_ alone, for he did not speak to her again during tea-time, nor while she was gathering up the tea-things--"just as she used to do in the old house long ago," he said to himself. She washed them, too, there before them all; for it was Shenac Dhu's new china--Christie More's beautiful wedding present--that had been spread in honour of the occasion, and it was not to be thought of that they should be carried into the kitchen to be washed like common dishes. She was quiet, as usual, all the evening and at the time of worship, when Angus Dhu and his wife and Evan and some other neighbours, having heard of the minister's arrival, came in. She was just as usual, they all said, only she did not sing. If she had raised her voice in her brother's favourite psalm,--

"I to the hills will lift mine eyes,"

she must have cried again; and she was afraid of the tears which it seemed impossible to stop when once they found a way.

Mr Stewart fully intended for that night to "let well alone." Shenac had welcomed him warmly as the dearest friend of her dead brother, and he would be content for the present with that. He had something to say to her, and a question or two to ask; but he must wait a while, he thought. She must not be disturbed yet.

But when the neighbours were gone, and he found himself alone with her for a moment, he felt sorely tempted to change his mind. As he watched her sitting there with folded hands, so quiet and grave and sweet, so unconscious of his presence, as it seemed to him, a fear came over him-- a fear as to the answer his question might receive. It was not at all a pleasant state of mind. He endured it only while he walked up and down the room two or three times; then pausing beside her, he said softly,--

"Is this my Shenac?"

She looked up with only wonder in her eyes, he saw, with a little shock of pain; but he went on,--

"Hamish gave his sister to me, to keep and cherish always. Did he never tell you?"

"I do not understand you, Mr Stewart," said Shenac; but the sudden drooping of the eye and the rush of colour over her face seemed to say something else.

"To be my wife," he said, sitting down beside her and drawing her gently towards him. She did not resist, but she said hastily,--

"Oh, no; I am not fit for that."

"But if I am content, and can make you content?"

"But that is not enough. I am not fit. No; it is _not_ humility. I know myself, and I am not fit."

It is just possible that Mr Stewart wished that he had for that night "let well alone."

"But I must have it out with her, now that I have begun," he said to himself as he rose and went to the door, at which a footstep had paused.

Whoever it was, no one came in; and, shutting the door, he came and sat down again.

In the meantime, Shenac had been calling up a vision of the new minister's wife, the one who had succeeded old Mr Farquharson, and, in view of the prettily-dressed, gentle-mannered, accomplished little lady that presented herself to her mind, she had repeated to herself, more emphatically,--

"No, I am _not_ fit."

So when Mr Stewart came back she was sitting with closely-folded hands, looking straight before her, very grave indeed. They were both silent for a moment; then Mr Stewart said,--

"Now, Shenac, tell me why."

Shenac started. "You must know quite well."

"But indeed I do not. Tell me, Shenac."

It was not easy to do so. In the unspeakable embarra.s.sment that came over her, she actually thought of flight.

"I am not educated," she murmured. "I have never been anywhere but at home. I can only do common work. I am not fit."

"Hamish thought you fit," said Mr Stewart softly.

"Ah, yes; Hamish, bhodach!"

Her voice fell with such a loving cadence. All the pain and embarra.s.sment pa.s.sed out of her face, giving place to a soft and tender light, as she turned towards him.

"I was perfect in his eyes; but--you know better, Mr Stewart."

"The eyes of the dying are very clear to see things as they are," said Mr Stewart. "And as we sat at the end of the house that day, I think Hamish was more glad for me than for you. He was willing to give you to me, even for your sake; but he knew what a treasure he was giving to his friend, if I could win you for my own."

Her tears were falling softly. She did not try to speak.

"Will you tell me in what respect you think you are not fit?"

She did not know how to answer. She was deficient in so many ways--in every way, indeed, it seemed to her. She did not know where to begin; but she must speak, and quickly too, that she might get away before she quite broke down. Putting great force upon herself, she turned to him, and said,--

"I can do so few things; I know so little. I could keep your house, and--and care for you in that way; but I have seen so little. I am only an ignorant country girl--"

"Yes; I thought that myself once," said Mr Stewart.

"You must have thought it many times," said Shenac with a pang. It was not pleasant to hear it from his lips, let it be ever so true. But it took the quiver from her voice, and gave her courage to go on, "And all you care for is so different from anything I have ever seen or known, I should be quite left out of your real life. You do not need me for that, I know; but I don't think I could bear it--to be so near you and so little to you."

She rose to go. She was trembling very much, and could hardly utter the words.

"You are very kind, and I thank you; but--you know I am not fit. An ignorant country girl--you have said so yourself."

"Shall I tell you when I thought so, Shenac? Do you mind the night that I brought little Flora home, crying with the cold? It was the first time I saw your face. Do you mind how you comforted Flora, and put the little lads to shame for having left her? And then you thanked me, and asked me to sit down. And do you mind how you made pancakes for supper, and never let one of them burn, though you were listening all the time to Hamish and me? I remember everything that happened that night, Shenac--how you put away the things, and made a new band for the mother's wheel, and took up the lost loops in little Flora's stocking.

Then you helped the little lads with their tables, and kept Dan in order, listening all the time to your brother and me; and, best of all, you bade me be sure and come again. Have you forgotten, Shenac?"

"It was for the sake of Hamish," said Shenac, dropping her head; but she raised it again quickly. "That does not make any difference."

"Listen. That night, as I went over the fields to Angus Dhu's, I said to myself that if ever I grew strong and well again, if ever I should live to have a kirk and a manse of my own--was I too bold, Shenac?--I said to myself you should help me to do my work in them as I ought."

Shenac shook her head.

"It was not a wise thought. You little know how unfit I was then, how unfit I am now."

"Say that you do not care for me, Shenac," said Mr Stewart gravely.

"No, I cannot say that; it would not be true. I mean, that has nothing to do with my being fit."

Mr Stewart thought it had a great deal to do with it, but he did not say so.

"You said you would be left out of my real life. What do you mean, Shenac? Do you know what my life's work is to be? It is, with G.o.d's help, to be of use to souls. Don't you care for that, Shenac? Do you think a year or two of life in the world--common life--could be to you what these months by your brother's death-bed have been, as a preparation for real life-work--yours and mine? Do you think that any school could do for you what all these years of forgetting yourself and caring for others have done--all your loving patience with your afflicted mother, all your care of your sister and the little lads, all your forbearance with Dan, all your late joy in him? If you cared for me, Shenac, you would not say you are not fit."

It was very pleasant to listen to all this. There was some truth in it, too, Shenac could not but acknowledge. He was very much in earnest, at any rate, and sincere in every word, except perhaps the last He wanted to hear her say again that she eared for him; but she did not fall into the trap, whether she saw it or not.

"I know I care for your work," she said, "and you are right--in one way.

I think all our cares and troubles have done me good, have made me see things differently. But I could not help you much, I'm afraid."

"Don't say that, Shenac; you could give me what I need most--sympathy; you could help my weakness with your strength and courage of spirit.

Think what you were to Hamish. You would be tenfold more to me. Oh, I need you so much, Shenac!"