"Hoh!" cried John McIntyre derisively, "what is the use telling that to a man who knows the world? That's a tale for children and old women!

What do you know about the Almighty's care?" His eyes ran fiercely over his visitor. "You! Because you are well fed and well clothed, and prosperous, you think that all the world is the same, and that your G.o.d is a miracle of kindness. He may be to you. But there is another side. Your G.o.d causes the wicked to prosper, and sees the innocent trampled upon, and never puts forth a hand to help. And you call Him the Almighty! If there is an Almighty, then He takes pleasure in the pain of His creatures. He gives them the good things of this life only that He may take them away and enjoy their suffering. And because your turn hasn't come yet you would make me believe that every one is as well off as yourself. Hoh! Lies! Old women's lies!"

The minister stepped back in shocked amazement. He had lived his life among a prosperous, G.o.d-fearing people, where such blasphemous words, if ever uttered, were never allowed to reach his ears. Nothing aroused his righteous indignation like a slighting reference to the Master whom he served, and in his quick resentment he forgot the suffering written on John McIntyre's face.

"How dare you speak so of your Master?" he demanded hotly.

The man laughed again, and the minister broke forth in stern rebuke.

People said that when Mr. Scott denounced sin there was something of the fearless candor of the ancient prophets about him. But in this instance he forgot that the greatest Prophet was always gentle and tender in the presence of pain. He denounced John McIntyre roundly for his irreverence, showed him plainly the appalling evil of his ways, and quoted Scripture to prove that he was hastening to everlasting perdition.

At the mention of his inevitable destiny John McIntyre interrupted.

"h.e.l.l!" he shouted. "I've been there for months already!" As he spoke he turned swiftly and caught up an old spade lying by the doorstep.

"Get out of my sight!" he hissed fiercely, holding the weapon aloft.

"Leave me, or I'll send you where I'm going! Go!" His voice was almost beseeching. "Go, before I do you harm!"

The Rev. James Scott was afraid of no living man, but there was a terrible gleam in John McIntyre's eyes that hinted of insanity. He looked at him a moment and then, with a motion as though washing his hands of him, he turned away. The rest of the company had fallen back from the doorway, and now followed the minister in speechless concern.

They tramped along the old gra.s.sy road, followed by the call of the whip-poor-will from the darkening hillside above, and the lonely cry of the loon floating across the Drowned Lands. Uncle Hughie was the first to break the dismayed silence.

"Well! well! well! well! Ech! hech! Hoots! toots!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed incoherently, quite unable to express his feelings.

"Man, ain't he a caution?" whispered Jake Sawyer fearfully.

"Gosh! now there's some truth in what he says," remarked the melancholy blacksmith in an undertone.

"D'ye think he would be right in his mind, poor body?" asked Uncle Hughie, searching for some palliation of John McIntyre's outrageous conduct.

"Mebby he's had notions about the earth spinnin' 'round like a top, an'

they've drove him loony," suggested Spectacle John. "That often happens, they say."

But Silas Long was too deeply concerned over the tramp's wickedness to pay any heed to this frivolous remark.

The minister was walking ahead, in gloomy silence. His heart was still full of hot indignation, but it was mingled with regret and deep disappointment. He had wanted to do this lonely, sad man good, and in his haste, he feared, he had done him only harm.

But there was one pair of eyes that had regarded John McIntyre's action with perfect approval. Those eyes were now looking up at Jake Sawyer, alight with unholy joy. "Say," whispered the eldest orphan, jerking his foster-father's coat, "I like that man. He's awful bad, an' I think he's just bully."

The next day the tale of the tramp's outrageous treatment of the minister flew through Elmbrook like the news of a fire in the mill.

Sandy McQuarry had been away in Lakeview all day, and did not hear it until he was seated with his family and the mill-hands at the supper table.

Miss Euphemia, his sister, who had been his housekeeper since Sandy's wife, as folks said, worked herself to death, was the first who dared to broach the subject, any reference to Mr. Scott being rather hazardous.

"Yon's a fearfu' buddy ye've got in yer shanty doon yonder, Sandy," she began solemnly. "Ah'd no let him sleep there anither nicht."

Her brother was busy distributing the fried pork around the table, a performance at which he was an adept. In spite of a keen desire for money-making, Sandy was a generous man at his own table, and he had a way of serving his family that was the admiration of the whole mill staff. If a man but held up his plate as a slight indication that he was ready for more, the host could flip him a slice of beef or pork with the dexterity of a sleight-of-hand magician. At his signals, "Here, Bob, mon!" "Hi, Peter, lad!" "Look oot, Sam!" away flew each man's portion, hitting his plate with unerring precision. He had never been known to miss anybody in his life, not even Miss Euphemia, away at the other end of the table.

He paused now, his fork suspended, and looked at his sister from under his bristling brows. "What's he been doin'?" he demanded.

Now that the ice was broken, every one was ready with a different version of the tale. John McIntyre was an infidel and an outcast, and had spoken blasphemy and driven the minister and old Hughie Cameron and a half dozen others away from his door, threatening them with violence.

The company waited, expecting to hear an order summarily evicting the tramp from his refuge by the Drowned Lands. But the mill-owner made no comment. "Huh!" he remarked, an enigmatic e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n that left all in doubt as to his feelings. But the next night the village knew how deep was the elder's resentment against the minister, for early in the evening Sandy repaired to the Cameron milkstand, and, to the philosopher's joyful amazement, announced that he had decided, after all, to hire John McIntyre as night watchman.

CHAPTER VI

A FAMOUS PRACt.i.tIONER

But dere's wan man got hees han' full t'roo ev'ry kin' of wedder, An' he's never sure of not'ing but work an' work alway-- Dat's de man dey call de doctor, when you ketch heem on de contree, An' he's only man I know--me, don't get no holiday.

--WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND.

When the new doctor's horse arrived, and he began to drive about the country, even the outrageous conduct of Sandy McQuarry's new watchman, and the antics of the orphans, became matters of secondary interest to the village. When he drove away of a morning, every one ran across to every one else's house to debate the question as to whether he had gone to see a patient or only to exercise his horse. Of course, when some one came for him the problem was solved; but sometimes he went off on an independent excursion, and that was always puzzling. Miss Weir had once known a doctor who used to drive like mad all over the country, with his satchel set up on the seat, where every one could see it, and never go to see one solitary patient for weeks at a time. Ella Anne Long was sure the new doctor wasn't that kind; and anyway, Davy Munn had told Jean Cameron that the doctor often told him, when he drove away, that he was just going to give his horse some exercise.

Of course, it was no use asking Mrs. Munn. As usual, she "didn't know." Even when some one called for the doctor, in his absence, and had every legitimate right to be apprised of his whereabouts, it was with the greatest difficulty that any hint of it could be extracted from his housekeeper. She always spoke in broad generalities. Yes, he was gone away. To see a patient? Well, likely. Mrs. Munn couldn't tell. Where? Oh, out in the country. It might be up Glenoro way, or down by Lake Simcoe. She was not sure, now, but that she had seen him drive out east, or was it west? She hadn't remembered right. When would he be back? How could she tell? She didn't know how fast he was going to drive, that is, if he was driving at all. Mebby he was walking. People knew Mrs. Munn of old, and did not waste much time on her. They pa.s.sed the office door and went on to the stable, where information, though often highly colored, and tinged with the product of David's imagination, was at least easily procured.

Granny Long was the one reliable source of supply. As soon as the doctor drove out of the gate the telescope was turned upon him, and bulletins as to his movements issued at various intervals. He was sighted turning the corner at Cameron's Crossing, and was likely going down to see old Mrs. McKitterick; or he had turned around at Long John McLeod's old clearing, and would be back in fifteen minutes, maybe less, at the rate he was going; so it was only a drive. And one morning, when he started off early and drove so swiftly down the Lake Simcoe road that every one was sure some one must be dying, public opinion was much relieved when Granny Long sent Ella Anne out with the news that it wasn't a patient, after all, but that the doctor had just been down to Lake Simcoe, and was coming back. And she could not be quite sure yet, but his hair looked damp and shiny, and she suspected he had been in swimming; she could tell for certain in a few minutes.

And while the village discussed him, Dr. Allen drove up and down the Oro hills to exercise his horse, and wished with all his heart that he had more to do. One evening, when time was hanging more heavily than usual on his hands, he went for a stroll down the village street. As he pa.s.sed out to the gate Davy Munn was mowing the lawn. His groom's a.s.siduous attention to this one branch of industry, to the exclusion of all other labor, still remained a mystery. "He's got a dark-blue necktie on this time," was the whispered remark made in Granny Long's bedroom, "and it looks as if he was growing a mustache. He's comin'

this direction."

"Sakes alive! I wonder if he's comin' here!" cried Ella Anne's mother, all in a flutter.

Ella Anne flew down the stairs. She softly opened the front door, and seating herself at the organ, pulled out all the stops. Miss Long was organist in the church, and had the loudest voice in the township of Oro. She had a favorite solo, which she had sung at three tea-meetings the winter before.

"_Oh, meet me! Oh, meet me!

When you hear the first whip-poor-will's song!_"

Here was a splendid chance to let the new doctor hear her sing. As the musical invitation came pouring through the Longs' parlor door, the innocent cause of it stopped for an instant on the unsteady sidewalk, overcome by the deluge of song. Then, full of alarm, he turned off the street, and made his escape up the willow-bordered path that ran along the edge of the mill-pond, where the sound of the waterfall, as it poured in a silvery cascade beneath the bridge, alone broke the silence. Looking back past the bridge, Gilbert caught a glimpse of the valley, with its fairy windings, where he had met his first patient and the princess in the milkmaid costume. The pond lay like a colored mirror in its frame of feathery willows. As he advanced the trees disappeared, and his footfall was m.u.f.fled in the soft sawdust. The sweet, clean scent of the newly sawn lumber mingled with the cool breath of the water.

The big mill, so noisy and busy in the daytime, was silent and deserted, except for the watchman. He was seated in the wide doorway of the engine-room. Behind him, in the warm darkness, shone a red line from beneath the furnace door. Gilbert had not seen him since his illness, and was struck with the man's expression of utter dejection.

"Good-evening," said the young doctor cordially, stopping in his walk.

The man looked up with a curt response.

"I was just strolling about, viewing things," continued Gilbert. "You are night watchman here now, I believe?"

"Yes."

"I hope you are feeling better?"

The man looked up into the speaker's face, and seemed to recognize him.

"You are the doctor?" he said, half inquiringly.

"Yes. I came to Elmbrook lately, like yourself. My name is Allen--Gilbert Allen."

"Allen!" repeated the dark man. He arose, and gave the other a searching look. "Are you the Gilbert Allen who saved the life of a man once in Nelson Mills?"