"Do," said Ranald; "I would be very glad. Just to the church hill and back."

"Go, auntie," pleaded Harry. "She is wonderful."

"You go, Maimie," said her aunt, to whom every offered pleasure simply furnished an opportunity of thought for others.

"Nonsense!" cried Harry, impatiently. "You might gratify yourself a little for once in your life. Besides," he added, with true brotherly blindness, "it's you Ranald wants. At least he talks enough about you."

"Yes, auntie, do go! It will be lovely," chimed in Maimie, with suspicious heartiness.

So, with many protestations, Mrs. Murray took her place beside Ranald and was whirled off like the wind. She returned in a very few minutes, her hair blown loose till the little curls hung about her glowing face and her eyes shining with excitement.

"Oh, she is perfectly splendid!" she exclaimed. "And so gentle. You must go, Maimie, if only to the gate." And Maimie went, but not to turn at even the church hill.

For a mile down the concession road Ranald let Lisette jog at an easy pace while he told Maimie some of his aims and hopes. He did not mean to be a farmer nor a lumberman. He was going to the city, and there make his fortune. He did not say it in words, but his tone, his manner, everything about him, proclaimed his confidence that some day he would be a great man. And Maimie believed him, not because it seemed reasonable, or because there seemed to be any ground for his confidence, but just because Ranald said it. His superb self-confidence wrought in her assurance.

"And then," he said, proudly, "I am going to see you."

"Oh, I hope you will not wait till then," she answered.

"I do not know," he said. "I cannot tell, but it does not matter much. I will be always seeing you."

"But I will want to see you," said Maimie.

"Yes," said Ranald, "I know you will," as if that were a thing to be expected. "But you will be coming back to your aunt here." But of this Maimie could not be sure.

"Oh, yes, you will come," he said, confidently; "I am sure you will come. Harry is coming, and you will come, too." And having settled this point, he turned Lisette and from that out gave his attention to his driving. The colt seemed to realize the necessity of making a display of her best speed, and without any urging, she went along the concession road, increasing her speed at every stride till she wheeled in at the gate. Then Ranald shook the lines over her back and called to her.

Magnificently Lisette responded, and swept up to the door with such splendid dash that the whole household greeted her with waving applause.

As the colt came to a stand, Maimie stepped out from the buckboard, and turning toward Ranald, said in a low, hurried voice: "O, Ranald, that was splendid, and I am so happy; and you will be sure to come?"

"I will come," said Ranald, looking down into the blue eyes with a look so long and steady and so full of passionate feeling that Maimie knew he would keep his word.

Then farewells were said, and Ranald turned away, Harry and Mrs. Murray watching him from the door till he disappeared over the church hill.

"Well, that's the finest chap I ever saw," said Harry, with emphasis.

"And what a body he has! He would make a great half-back."

"Poor Ranald! I hope he will make a great and good man," said his aunt, with a ring of sadness in her voice.

"Why poor, auntie?"

"I'm sure I do not know," she said, with a very uncertain smile playing about her mouth. Then she went upstairs and found Maimie sitting at the window overlooking the church hill, and once more she knew how golden is silence. So she set to work to pack Maimie's trunk for her.

"It will be a very early start, Maimie," she said, "and so we will get everything ready to-night."

"Yes, auntie," said Maimie, going to her and putting her arms about her.

"How happy I have been, and how good you have been to me!"

"And how glad I have been to have you!" said her aunt.

"Oh, I will never forget you! You have taught me so much that I never knew before. I see everything so differently. It seems easy to be good here, and, oh! I wish you were not so far away from me, auntie. I am afraid--afraid--"

The tears could no longer be denied. She put her head in her aunt's lap and sobbed out her heart's overflow. For an hour they sat by the open trunk, forgetting all about the packing, while her aunt talked to Maimie as no one had ever talked to her before; and often, through the long years of suffering that followed, the words of that evening came to Maimie to lighten and to comfort an hour of fear and sorrow. Mrs. Murray was of those to whom it is given to speak words that will not die with time, but will live, for that they fall from lips touched with the fire of God.

Before they had finished their talk Harry came in, and then Mrs. Murray told them about their mother, of her beauty and her brightness and her goodness, but mostly of her goodness.

"She was a dear, dear girl," said their aunt, "and her goodness was of the kind that makes one think of a fresh spring morning, so bright, so sweet, and pure. And she was beautiful, too. You will be like her, Maimie," and, after a pause, she added, softly, "And, most of all, she loved her Saviour, and that was the secret of both her beauty and her goodness."

"Auntie," said Harry, suddenly, "don't you think you could come to us for a visit? It would do father--I mean it would be such a great thing for father, and for me, too, for us all."

Mrs. Murray thought of her home and all its ties, and then said, smiling: "I am afraid, Harry, that could hardly be. Besides, my dear boy, there is One who can always be with you, and no one can take His place."

"All the same, I wish you could come," said Harry. "When I am here I feel like doing something with my life, but at home I only think of having fun."

"But, Harry," said his aunt, "life is a very sacred and very precious thing, and at all costs, you must make it worthy of Him who gave it to you."

Next morning, when Harry was saying "Farewell" to his aunt, she put her arms round him, and said: "Your mother would have wished you to be a noble man, and you must not disappoint her."

"I will try, auntie," he said, and could say no more.

For the next few weeks the minister and his wife were both busy and anxious. For more than eight years they had labored with their people without much sign of result. Week after week the minister poured into his sermons the strength of his heart and mind, and then gave them to his people with all the fervor of his nature. Week after week his wife, in her women's meetings and in her Bible class, lavished freely upon them the splendid riches of her intellectual and spiritual powers, and together in the homes of the people they wrought and taught. At times it seemed to the minister that they were spending their strength for naught, and at such times he bitterly grudged, not his own toils, but those of his wife. None knew better than he how well fitted she was, both by the native endowments of her mind and by the graces of her character, to fill the highest sphere, and he sometimes grew impatient that she should spend herself without stint and reap no adequate reward.

These were his thoughts as he lay on his couch, on the evening of the last Sabbath in the old church, after a day's work more than usually exhausting. The new church was to be opened the following week. For months it had been the burden of their prayers that at the dedication of their church, which had been built and paid for at the cost of much thought and toil, there should be some "signal mark of the divine acceptance." No wonder the minister was more than usually depressed to-night.

"There is not much sign of movement among the dry bones," he said to his wife. "They are as dry and as dead as ever."

His wife was silent for some time, for she, too, had her moments of doubt and fear, but she said: "I think there is some sign. The people were certainly much impressed this morning, and the Bible class was very large, and they were very attentive."

"So they are every day," said the minister, rather bitterly. "But what does it amount to? There is not a sign of one of these young people 'coming forward.' Just think, only one young man a member of the church, and he hasn't got much spunk in him. And many of the older men remain as hard as the nether millstone."

"I really think," said his wife, "that a number of the young people would 'come forward' if some one would make a beginning. They are all very shy."

"So you always say," said her husband, with a touch of impatience; "but there is no shyness in other things, in their frolics and their fightings. I am sure this last outrageous business is enough to break one's heart."

"What do you mean?" said his wife.

"Oh, I suppose you will hear soon enough, so I need not try to keep it from you. It was Long John Cameron told me. It is strange that Hughie has not heard. Indeed, perhaps he has, but since his beloved Ranald is involved, he is keeping it quiet."

"What is it?" said his wife, anxiously.

"Oh, nothing less than a regular pitched battle between the McGregors and the McRaes of the Sixteenth, and all on Ranald's account, too, I believe."

Mrs. Murray sat in silent and bitter disappointment. She had expected much from Ranald. Her husband went on with his tale.

"It seems there was an old quarrel between young Aleck McRae and Ranald, over what I cannot find out; and young Angus McGregor, who will do anything for a Macdonald, must needs take Ranald's part, with the result that that hot-headed young fire-eater Aleck McRae must challenge the whole clan McGregor. So it was arranged, on Sunday morning, too, mind you, two weeks ago, after the service, that six of the best of each side should meet and settle the business. Of course Ranald was bound to be into it, and begged and pleaded with the McGregors that he should be one of the six; and I hear it was by Yankee's advice that his request was granted. That godless fellow, it seems, has been giving Ranald daily lessons with the boxing-gloves, and to some purpose, too, as the fight proved. It seems that young Aleck McRae, who is a terrible fighter, and must be forty pounds heavier than Ranald, was, by Ranald's especial desire and by Yankee's arrangement, pitted against the boy, and by the time the fight was over, Ranald, although beaten and bruised to a 'bloody pulp,' as Long John said, had Aleck thoroughly whipped. And nobody knows what would have happened, so fierce was the young villain, had not Peter McGregor and Macdonald Bhain appeared upon the scene. It appears Aleck had been saying something about Maimie, Long John did not know what it was; but Ranald was determined to finish Aleck up there and then. It must have been a disgusting and terrible sight; but Macdonald Bhain apparently settled them in a hurry; and what is more, made them all shake hands and promise to drop the quarrel thenceforth. I fancy Ranald's handling of young Aleck McRae did more to bring about the settlement than anything else. What a lot of savages they are!"

continued the minister. "It really does not seem much use to preach to them."

"We must not say that, my dear," said his wife, but her tone was none too hopeful. "I must confess I am disappointed in Ranald. Well," she continued, "we can only wait and trust."

From Hughie, who had had the story from Don, and who had been pledged to say nothing of it, she learned more about the fight.