"You have come, I suppose," said the Bishop, "in connection with this pet.i.tion," and he pointed to the paper lying on the table.

"Oh, that's the thing, is it?" asked Mrs. Stickles, as she leaned forward to get a better view. "Be very keerful of it, Mr. Bishop. Don't scratch it or bring it too close to the fire."

"Why, what do you mean?" asked the Bishop.

"What do I mean? Don't ye know that's the work of the devil, an' there's enough brimstone in that paper to burn us up in a jiffy. It's soaked through an' through, so I advise ye to handle it keerful."

"So you think these charges in this pet.i.tion are not true? What can you say to the contrary, then?"

"What kin I say to be contrary? I kin say a good deal, an', indeed, I hev said a good deal. When I heered about that pert.i.tion my buzum jist swelled like the tail of an old cat when a hull bunch of yelpin' curs git after her. But I didn't sit down an' weep an' wring me hands. No, sir, not a bit of it. Me an' Sammy went to them in authority, an' sez I to them church-wardens, sez I, 'will ye let that old parson, the Lord's anointed, be imposed upon by them villains?'"

"'What kin we do?' sez they.

"'Do!' sez I.' Do what the Lord intended ye to do, fight. Didn't the Holy Apostle say, 'Quit ye like men, be strong?' 'Git up a pert.i.tion,' sez I, 'an' git every decent, honest man in Glendow to sign it, an' send it to the Bishop. Tell 'im?' sez I,' that the parson isn't neglectin' his parish an' that yez hev full confidence in 'im.'

"'We don't like to do it,' sez they.

"'Why not?' sez I.

"'We don't like to stir up strife,' sez they. ''Tisn't good to hev a disturbance in the church. We're men of peace.'

"'Peace,' sez I, 'an' let the devil win? That's not the trouble. Yer afeered, that's what's the matter. Yer too weak-kneed, an' hain't got as much backbone as an angle worm.' That's what I said to 'em, right out straight, too. Now kin ye tell me, Mr. Bishop, why the Lord made some people men instead of makin' 'em chickens fer all the s.p.u.n.k they've got?"

"But, Mrs. Stickles," replied the Bishop, who had been staring in amazement at the torrent of words, "what has this to do with the question before us?"

"I'm comin' to that, sir, only I wanted to tell ye my persition. When I found that them in authority wouldn't make the start, I concluded that the Lord meant me to do the work. So me an' Sammy an' our old horse Queen travelled up an' down the parish fer three solid days, with this result,"

and, drawing a paper from a capacious pocket, she laid it on the table.

"Thar 'tis, read it fer yerself, an' jedge."

The Bishop's eyes grew a little misty as he read the words written there, and noted the long list of names testifying to the worthiness of the rector of Glendow.

"Mrs. Stickles," he at length remarked, and his voice was somewhat husky, "the Lord will reward you for what you have done. While others have been simply talking, you have been acting. Like that woman of old, you have done what you could, and this deed of love, believe me, will be remembered in the parish of Glendow for generations to come. You may go now; you have done your part."

Chapter XXI

Decision

With his chair drawn tip close to the window, Parson John watched the people as they moved along the road to and from the church. He recognized them all, and knew them by their horses when some distance away. As clothes betray a person when his face is not observable, so do horses and sleighs on a country road. They seem to be vital parts of the owners, and to separate them would be fatal. No one could imagine Mrs. Stickles seated in a finely-upholstered sleigh and driving a high-mettled horse. She and Sammy, the home-made pung and the old lean mare plodding onward, were inseparably connected with the parish of Glendow. The parson's face brightened as he saw this quaint conveyance shaking along the road. In Mrs. Stickles he knew he would have one champion at least, though all the others should turn against him. Team after team he watched, but none turned aside into the Rectory gate to say a word to the old grey-headed man, sitting before the window.

The hours dragged slowly by, and still he sat there. Nellie went quietly about her household duties, but a great weight kept pressing upon her heart. Her father was so quiet, took no interest in his books, and did no writing. Often she would stop and watch him as he sat there. He seemed to be greyer than usual; his head was more bent, and his face wore a sad, pained expression. "If he would only utter some word of complaint,"

thought Nellie, "it would not be so hard. But to see that dumb, appealing look is almost more than I can bear."

Though very quiet, Parson John was fighting a hard, stern battle. His eyes were often turned towards the road, but his thoughts were mostly upon other things. Over his desk hung two pictures, and occasionally his gaze rested upon these. One was that of a sweet-faced woman, who looked down upon him with gentle, loving eyes-such eyes as Nellie inherited.

"Ruth, Ruth," he murmured, "my darling wife. Thirty-five years since I brought you here as a fair young bride. Thirty-five years! We knew not then what lay before us. We knew not then how one must walk for years by himself and at last tread the wine-press alone."

His eyes drifted to the other picture hanging there--the Master kneeling alone in Gethsemane. Long he looked upon that prostrate figure with the upturned face. He thought of His agony in the Garden, the betrayal, desertion and suffering. "I have trodden the winepress alone," he softly whispered as into his face came a new light of peace and strength. Opening a well-worn volume lying on the desk he read again that Garden scene, when the Master knelt and fought His terrible battle. Forgotten for a brief s.p.a.ce were his own trials as he pored over that sacred page. How often had he read that story, and meditated upon every word, but never before did he realize the full significance of the scene. "Wonderful, wonderful," he murmured again, as he reverently closed the Book. "Thank G.o.d--oh, thank G.o.d for that life of suffering and sorrow! He knows our human needs. He trod the winepress alone, and must I, His unworthy servant, expect to escape? So, my Father, do with me what is best. 'Not my will, but Thine be done.'"

At this moment Nellie entered the room. She noticed the changed expression upon her father's face, and, crossing to where he was, stood by his side.

"Do you feel better, father?" she asked.

"Yes, dear. My heart was very heavy a short time ago, but it is lighter now. I seem to see my way more clearly. The darkness has pa.s.sed, and a new peace has come to me. Will you sing something for me, dearie?"

"Certainly, father. What shall it be?"

"Your mother's favorite hymn. The one she sang just before she left us."

Taking her seat at the little harmonium, Nellie gently touched the keys, and in a clear, sweet voice sang the old favourite hymn:

"The sands of Time are sinking, The dawn of Heaven breaks, The summer morn I've sighed for.

The fair, sweet morn awakes.

Dark, dark has been the midnight, But dayspring is at hand, And glory, glory dwelleth In Emmanuel's land."

Softly she sang the whole hymn through, her father leaning back in his chair with closed eyes, drinking in every word and sound.

"I're wrestled on towards Heaven, 'Gainst storm and wind and tide; Lord, grant thy weary traveller To lean on Thee as guide."

"That's what I must do now, Nellie. 'Lean on Him as guide.' Oh, it gives me such comfort. And He will guide right; we must never doubt that."

When the Bishop had finished his investigation in the vestry, he sighed as he closed his small grip and left the church. Slowly he walked up the road lost in deep thought. There were numerous things which disturbed his mind.

He had listened to what the people had to say, but everything was so vague. Yet there was some mystery, he believed, connected with the whole matter. That missing gold, the Rector's need of money and then the purchase of the farm were still shrouded in darkness. Thinking thus he reached the Larkins' house where he had been invited to tea.

"It will help Nellie to have the Bishop here," Mrs. Larkins had said to her husband, "for she has enough care at the present time."

Keenly she watched the Bishop's face as he came into the house, hoping to obtain some clue to his thoughts. To her the trouble at the Rectory was as her own, and she longed to know the outcome of the investigation. At first she dreaded the thought of having the Bishop to tea. Had she not often heard of his sharp, abrupt manner? Anxiously she scanned the tea-table, with its spotless linen, with everything so neatly arranged, and wondered what she had omitted. Her fears were soon dispelled, however, for the Bishop made himself perfectly at home. It was a pleasure to him to sit at the table with these two true, honest souls, of whom he had heard much from Parson John. They were so natural, and made no effort to be what they were not.

"You must be tired, my Lord," said Mrs. Larkins, "after this trying day."

"Not so much tired as puzzled," was the reply.

"And did you get no light on the matter?"

"Not a bit. Look at all those notes I took--not worth the paper on which they are written. Everything is hearsay--nothing definite. And yet there is some mystery attached to the whole affair. I am sorely puzzled about that missing gold and where the Rector obtained the money to buy that farm."

"And didn't he tell you, my Lord?" asked Mrs. Larkins, pausing in the act of pouring the tea.

"No, he will not tell me. He is as silent as the grave. When I pressed him to speak and thus clear himself, he begged me with tears in his eyes not to urge him. 'It's honest money,' he said, 'which purchased the farm, but I can tell you no more now.'"

"You have heard, my Lord, that he is involved in some mining transaction out in British Columbia. It is now in litigation and the parson is contributing all he possibly can."

"Yes, I learned of that to-day, and it only tends to complicate matters. I cannot believe that your Rector had anything to do with that gold. But oh, if he would only explain. Are you sure that that box is not still among the ashes and ruins of the old house?"

"I am certain it is not there," Mr. Larkins replied. "We have searched the place thoroughly, and even sifted the ashes, but all in vain. Not a trace could we find of the box or the gold."