"Do you think so, mamma?" said he, colouring.

"They will like to hear it, and I shall like them to hear it. Shall I read it for you?" said his mother, smiling.

David rose and went into his mother's room, and came back with the letter in his hand. Giving it to her without a word, he sat down in a corner where the light could not fall on his face. Mrs Inglis opened the letter and read:

"Dear David Inglis,--It is a solemn thing to sit down and write a letter which is not to be opened till the hand that holds the pen is cold in death; and so I feel at this time. But I want you to know all about it, and I must put it in as few words as possible. I will begin at the beginning.

"I never had much hope of your father after that first hard cold he took about the time that Timothy Bent died. I worried about him all winter, for I couldn't make it seem right that his life and usefulness should be broken off short, just when it seemed he had got ready to do the most good. I would have put it right, in my way, if I could have done it.

But it was not the Lord's way, and I had to give it up. It never was easy for me to give up my own way, even to the Lord. But He is long-suffering and slow to anger; and by and by He showed me how I might help make up your father's loss to the church and the world.

"But I wasn't in any hurry about it, because I didn't know just how it would be with you, and whether you would keep your armour bright, and stand in the day of trial. So I waited, and went to Singleton, and talked with Mr Caldwell, and came home feeling pretty well; and all the more when I heard from your mother how she and you felt about your taking up your father's work. Still I was not in any hurry, for I thought you were not losing your time. You seemed to be learning, what many a minister gets into trouble for not knowing, how business is done, and how far a little money may be made to go. And I thought, if it were just a notion of yours to be a minister, because you had thought so much of your father, and to please your mother, you would find it out pretty soon, and get into other business. But I knew, if the Lord had called you to the work, you wouldn't be tired waiting, and you weren't losing time.

"Well, I have thought of it, and planned for it considerable, one way and another; and, lately, I have begun to think that I shall not have much more time for planning or doing either. This summer, I have seemed to see my way clear. There are not many women in the world like your mother, I can tell you, David; and she will know how to go to work better than I can tell her. So I have made up my mind to leave what I have got to her. The time you have been working to keep the family together has not been lost, so far. But, when your mother don't need you, you will be free to help yourself. I thought first I would leave you money enough to take you through college, and all that; but, as far as I have had a chance to judge, those who have had to work hard to get an education, have come out best in the end. Your mother will know what to do, as one thing follows another in your life, better than I could put it down on paper. She'll help you all you need, I am not afraid; and if the Lord shouldn't have called you to His work after all, I would rather your mother had the property I have worked for than that you should have it to put into other business. I hope it will come all round right in the end.

"There is a good deal more I wanted to say to you, but I don't seem to know just how to put it down on paper as I want to, so I shall not try.

When you read this, I shall be where your father is; and I pray the Lord to lead you in the way you should go, and make you a faithful minister of His word, as he was. Amen."

There was nothing said for several minutes, after she had ceased reading; then she only said:

"And so, now, children, you see what it was that our old friend wished."

"Mr Caldwell must have known it all along," said Philip. "Well, he told me there was not much chance of Davie's accepting my offer. I should think not!"

"Are you sorry?" asked Violet.

"I am not sure. I must think about it."

"I sha'n't seem to care so much about being a rich man now," said Jem, "since Davie is provided for."

"There are plenty more of us, Jem," said Ned.

"And mamma, too," went on Jem dolefully. "If Miss Bethia had given it all to Davie, I might have done for mamma."

They all laughed at Jem's trouble, and they grew eager and a little noisy and foolish after that, laughing and making impossible plans, as though Miss Bethia's money had been countless. David said nothing, and Mrs Inglis said little, and the confusion did not last long, for, beneath all their lightness, there was among the children a deeper and graver feeling than they wished to show, and they grew quiet in a little while.

There were no plans made that night, however; but, by degrees, it was made plain to Mrs Inglis what it was best for them to do. David went almost immediately to M--, and was admitted into the university, pa.s.sing the examinations for the second year; and Violet went back to her place in Mrs Lancaster's school. Mrs Inglis decided to remain in Singleton for the winter, partly for Jem's sake, and partly that Ned might still have the benefit of school. Frank was also to be with them. Mr Oswald was not to be in Singleton constantly, and Miss Oswald was to remain at her own home all winter, and the little girls were to remain with her.

So Frank took David's place, though he did not quite fill it, and Mr Philip came and went almost as often as when the others were at home.

His visits were for the pleasure of all, and for his own profit; and when the time came that they were to say "good-bye" for a little while, it was spoken by Mrs Inglis with feelings far different from those she would have had a year ago; for she knew that the discipline of changed circ.u.mstances, of care, and of hard work that had fallen upon him, had strengthened him in many ways; and, better still, she could not but hope that the influence and teaching to which he had so willingly submitted during the last year and more, had wrought in him for good, and that now he was being taught by Him who teacheth to profit, and guided by Him in the right way.

Jem had an opportunity to play at being "head of the house" for once; and it was, by no means, all play, for the care and responsibility of acting for his mother in all that pertained to making necessary arrangements, to the disposal of such things as they did not care to take with them, and to the removal of such things as they wished to keep, fell on him. He did his work well and cheerfully, though with a little unnecessary energy, and he would gladly have staid to settle them all in Gourlay. But he was needed for his legitimate work; and amid much cause for grat.i.tude, Mrs Inglis had this cause for anxiety, that Jem must henceforth be removed from the constant happy influence of home life, and left to prove the strength and worth of his principles among strangers. If he had been more afraid for himself, it is likely his mother would have been less afraid for him. But there was no help for it. It is the mother's "common lot."

"The young birds cannot always stay in the parent nest, mother, dear,"

said Jem; "and I must go as the rest do. But I shall come home for a week in the summer, if it be a possible thing; and, in the meantime, I am not going to forget my mother, I hope."

"Nor your mother's G.o.d, I trust, dear Jem," said Mrs Inglis, as she let him go.

Who could tell all the labour and pains bestowed on the arrangement and adornment of the house they had never ceased to love? David came home early in May, and did his part. Ten times a day Jessie wished for Violet to help with her willing and skillful hands. They had Debby for all that required strength. She had fallen very easily into her old place, and was to stay in it, everybody hoped.

Sarah and Charlotte Oswald were to form part of their family for the next year, and Violet's work was to be to teach them and her sisters, and two little orphan girls who had been committed by their guardian to Mrs Inglis's care. But Violet's work was not to be begun till September, and after the house was in perfect order, ready to receive expected visitors, there were two months for happy leisure before that time came.

Violet and Jem were coming home together, and Sarah and Charlotte were expected at the same time. Jem was to stay for ten days only. By dint of some planning on their part, and much kindness on the part of Mr Caldwell, Philip and Frank were to have their holiday together, and they were to accompany the rest to Gourlay. At first it was intended to make their coming a surprise, but mindful of certain possible contingencies in Debby's department, Violet overruled this, and the people at home were permitted to have the pleasure of expecting and preparing for them, as well as the pleasure of receiving them, and wonderful things were accomplished to that end.

The last night had come. The children had gone away to the woods to get some sprigs from a beautiful vine, without which Jessie did not consider her floral decorations perfect, and Mrs Inglis and David were awaiting them alone. They were in the garden, which was a very pretty place, and never prettier than on that evening, David thought. Ned's gardening was a great improvement on his of the old days, he willingly acknowledged.

Indeed, since their coming back to Gourlay, Ned had given himself to the arranging and keeping of the garden, in a way that proved the possession of true artistic taste, and also of that which is as rare, and as necessary to success in gardening and in other things--great perseverance. His success was wonderful, and all the more so that for the last few years the flower-garden, at least, had been allowed to take its own way as to growing and blossoming, and bade fair when they came to be a thicket of balsam, peonies, hollyhocks, and other hardy village favourites. But Ned saw great possibilities of beauty in it, compared with the three-cornered morsel that had been the source of so much enjoyment in Singleton, and having taken Philip into his confidence, there came from time to time seeds, roots, plants and cuttings to his heart's content.

He had determined to have the whole in perfect order by the time of the coming of Violet and the rest, and by dint of constant labour on his part, and the little help he got from David or any one else who could be coaxed into his service for the time, he had succeeded wonderfully, considering all things. It was perfect in neatness, and it was rich in flowers that had never opened under a Gourlay sun till now. It was to be a surprise to Violet and Jem, and looking at it with their eyes, David exclaimed again and again in admiration of its order and beauty.

"But they won't see it to-night, unless they come soon," said he.

"However, it will look all the better with the morning sun upon it.

Does it seem like home to you, mamma?--the old home?"

"Yes--with a difference," said his mother.

"Ah, yes! But you are glad to be here, mamma? You would rather have your home in Gourlay than anywhere else?"

"Yes, I am glad our home is here. G.o.d has been very good to us, Davie."

"Mamma, it is wonderful! If our choice had been given us, we could not have desired anything different."

His mother smiled.

"G.o.d's way is best, and this will seem more like home than any other place could seem to those who must go away. I cannot expect to keep my children always."

"Any place would be home to us where you were, mamma. But I am glad you are here--and you don't grudge us to our work in the world?"

"No, truly. That would be worse than ungrateful. May G.o.d give you all His work to do, and a will and strength to do it!"

"And you will have the children a long time yet; and Violet--" David hesitated and looked at his mother with momentary embarra.s.sment. "Only mamma," added he, "I am afraid Philip wants Violet."

Mrs Inglis started.

"Has he told you so, Davie?" said she, anxiously.

"No--not quite--not exactly. But I think--I know you wouldn't be grieved, mamma? Philip is just what you would like him to be now.

Philip is a true Christian gentleman. I expect great things from Philip. And mamma, you can never surely mean that you are surprised."

"Not altogether surprised, perhaps. But--we will not speak of it, Davie, until--"

"Until Philip does. Well, I don't think that will be very long. But, mamma, I cannot bear that you should be unhappy because of this."

"Unhappy? No, not unhappy! But--I could never make you understand. We will not speak about it."

They went on in silence along the walk till they came to the garden gate, and there they lingered for a while.

"Mamma," said David, "do you remember one night, a very stormy night, when you and I watched for papa's coming home? I don't know why I should always think of that night more than of many others, unless it was almost the last time he ventured forth to meet the storm. I think you were afraid even then, mamma?"

"I remember. Yes, I was afraid." David stood silent beside her. The voices of the children on their homeward way came through the stillness.

In a minute they could see them, moving in and out among the long shadows, which the last gleam of sunshine made, their hands and laps filled with flowers and trailing green--a very pretty picture. The mother stood watching them in silence till they drew near. Then the face she turned to David was bright with both smiles and tears.