Chapter 15 The Revival Those last days of Mamie's visit sped by on winged feet. To Ronald they were brimming with happiness every one of them. It was the slack time of the year between seeding and harvest, and there was nothing much to keep him at home. And so, with Harry, his devoted companion, Ronald roamed the woods, hitching up Lisette in Yankee's buckboard, put her through her paces, and would now and then get up such bursts of speed as took Harry's breath away. And more than all, there was the chance of a word with Mamie. He had lost much of his awkwardness. He went about with an air of mastery, and why not? He had entered upon his kingdom. The minister noticed, and wondered, his wife noticed and smiled sometimes, but oftener sighed, wisely keeping silence, for she knew that in times like this the best words were those unspoken. The happiest day of all for Ronald was the last, when, after a long tramp with Harry through the woods, he drove him back to the manse, coming up from the gate to the door, like a whirlwind. As Lisette stood pawing and tossing her beautiful head, Mrs. Murray, who stood with Mamie watching them drive up, cried out, admiringly, what a beauty she is. Isn't she, cried Harry enthusiastically, and such a flyer, yet he and Aunty can see. Do, said Ronald, I would be very glad, just to the church hill and back. Go, Aunty, pleaded Harry, she is wonderful. You go, Mamie, said her aunt, to whom every offered pleasure simply furnished an opportunity of thought for others.  Besides, he added, with true brotherly blindness, it's you, Ronald wants, at least he talks enough about you. Yes, Aunty, do go, it will be lovely, chimed in Mamie with suspicious heartiness. So with many protestations Mrs. Murray took her place beside Ronald, and was whirled off like the wind.  Oh, she is perfectly splendid, she exclaimed, and so gentle, you must go, Mamie, if only to the gate. And Mamie went, but not to turn at even the church hill. For a mile down the concession road, Ronald let Lisette jog at an easy pace, while he told Mamie 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 Mamie believed him, not because it seemed reasonable, or because there seemed to be any ground for his confidence, but just because Ronald 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 Mamie. Yes, said Ronald, I know you well, as if that were a thing to be expected. But you will be coming back to your aunt here. But of this Mamie 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 Ronald 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 Mamie stepped out from the buck-board and, turning toward Ronald, said in a low, hurried voice, Oh, Ronald, that was splendid, and I am so happy, and you will be sure to come. I will come, said Ronald, looking down into the blue eyes with a look so long and steady and so full of passionate feeling that Mamie knew he would keep his word. Then farewells were said, and Ronald 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 Ronald, 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 did not know, she said, with a very uncertain smile playing about her mouth. Then she went upstairs and found Mamie sitting at the window overlooking the church hill, and once more she knew how golden is silence. So she set to work to pack Mamie's trunk for her. It will be a very early start, Mamie, she said, and so we will get everything ready to-night. Yes, auntie, said Mamie, 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.  For an hour they sat by the open trunk, forgetting all about the packing, while her aunt talked to Mamie 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 Mamie 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, Mamie. 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 laboured 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 fervour 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 tonight. 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 someone 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 Huey 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 McCraves 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 Alec McCrae and Ranald over what I cannot find out, and young Angus McGregor, who will do anything for a McDonald, must needs take Ranald's part, with the result that that hot-headed young fire-eater, Alec McCrae, 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 Alec McCrae, who is a terrible fighter, and must be forty pounds heavier than Ranald, was, by Ranald's a special desire and by Yankee's arrangement, pitted against the boy.  And nobody knows what would have happened, so fierce was the young villain, headknot Peter McGregor and McDonald Vane appeared on the scene. It appears Alec had been saying something about Mimi. Long John did not know what it was, but Ranald was determined to finish Alec up there and then.  But McDonald Vane apparently settled them in a hurry, and what is more, made them all shake hands and promised to drop the quarrel thence forth. I fancy Ranald's handling of young Alec McCrae 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 Huey, who had had the story from Don, and who had been pledged to say nothing of it, she learned more about the fight. It was Alec's fault, mother, he said, anxious to screen his hero. He said something about Mimi that Don wouldn't tell me at the blacksmith's shop in the sixteenth, and Ranald struck him and knocked him flat, and he could not get up for a long time. Yankee has been showing him how. I am going to learn, mother, interjected Huey. And then Angus McGregor took Ranald's part, and it was all arranged after church, and Ranald was bound to be in it, and said he would stop the whole thing if not aloud. Don said he was just terrible, it was an awful fight. Angus McGregor fought Peter McCray, Alec's brother, you know, and—never mind, Huey, said his mother, I don't want to hear of it.  Was Ranald much hurt? Oh, he was hurt awful bad, and he was going to be licked too. He wouldn't keep cool enough, and he wouldn't use his legs. Use his legs? said his mother. What do you mean? That's what Don says, and Yankee made him. Yankee kept calling to him. Now get away, get away from him. Use your legs. Get away from him. And whenever Ranald began to do as he was told, then he got the better of Alec, and he gave Alec a terrible hammering, and Don said if MacDonald Vane had not stopped them, Alec McCray would not have been able to walk home. He said Ranald was awful. He said he never saw him like he was that day. Wasn't it fine, mother? Fine, Huey, said his mother. It is anything but fine. It is simply disgusting to see men act like beasts. It is very, very sad. I am very much disappointed in Ranald. But mother, Ranald couldn't help it. And anyway, I am glad he gave that Alec McCray a good thrashing. Yankee said he would never be right until he got it. He must not repeat what Yankee says, said his mother. I am afraid his influence is not of the best for any of those boys. Oh mother, he didn't set them on, said Huey, who wanted to be fair to Yankee. It was when he could not help it that he told Ranald how to do. I'm glad he did, too. I am very, very sorry about it, said his mother sadly. It was a greater disappointment to her than she cared to acknowledge, either to her husband or to herself. But the commotion caused in the community by the fight was soon swallowed up in the interest aroused by the opening of the new church, an event for which they had made long and elaborate preparation. The big bazaar for which the women had been sewing for a year or more was held on Wednesday, and turned out to be a great success, sufficient money being realized to pay for the church furnishing which they had undertaken to provide. The day following was the first of the communion season. In a Highland congregation the communion seasons are the great occasions of the year. For weeks before the congregation is kept in mind of the approaching event, and on the Thursday of the communion week the season opens with a solemn, fast day. The annual fast day still a national institution in Scotland, although it has lost much of its solemnity and sacredness in some places, was originally associated with the Lord's Supper and was observed with great strictness in the matter of eating and drinking, and in Indian lands, as in all congregations of that part of the country, the custom of celebrating the fast day was kept up. It was a day of great solemnity in the homes of the people of a godly sort. There was no cooking of meals till after the services, and indeed some of them tasted neither meat nor drink the whole day long. To the younger people of the congregation it was a day of gloom and terror, a kind of day of doom. Even to those advanced in godliness it brought searchings of heart, minute and diligent, with agonies of penitence and remorse. It was a day in short in which conscience was invited to take command of the memory and the imagination to the scourging of the soul for the soul's good. The sermon for the day was supposed to stimulate and to aid conscience in this work. For the communion service Mr. Murray always made it a point to have the assistance of the best preachers he could procure, and on this occasion when the church opening was combined with the sacrament, by a special effort two preachers had been procured, a famous divine from Huron County, that stronghold of Calvinism, and a college professor who had been recently appointed but who had already gained a reputation as a doctrinal preacher, and who was, as Peter McCrae reported, grand on the attributes and terrible fine on the law. To him was assigned the honour of preaching the fast day sermon, and of declaring the church open. The new church was very different from the old. Instead of the high crow's nest with the wonderful sounding board over it, the pulpit was simply a raised platform partly enclosed with the desk in front. There was no precentaur's box, over the loss of which straight Rory did not grieve unduly, in as much as the singing was to be led in the English at least, by John Alec. Henceforth the elders would sit with their families, the elder's seat was gone. Peter McCrae's wrath at this being somewhat appeased by his securing for himself one of the short side seats at the right of the pulpit, from which he could command a view of both the minister and the congregation, a position with obvious advantages. The minister's pew was at the very back of the church. It was a great assemblage that gathered in the new church to hear the professor discourse as doubtless he would it being the fast day upon some theme of judgment. With a great swing of triumph in his voice, Mr. Murray Rose, and announced the hundredth psalm, an electric thrill went through the congregation as, with the wave of his hand, he said, let us rise and sing. Now, John, old hundred. Never did John Alec and the congregation of Indian lands sing as they did that morning. It was the first time that the congregation as a whole had followed the lead of that great ringing voice, and they followed with a joyous triumphant shout, as of men come to victory. For why, the Lord our God is good, rolled out the majestic notes of old hundred. What's the matter, mother? whispered Huey, who was standing up in the seat that he might look on his mother's book. Nothing, darling, said his mother, her face radiant through her tears. After long months of toil and waiting, they were actually singing praise to God in the new church. When the professor arose, it was an eager, responsive congregation that waited for his word. The people were fully prepared for a sermon that would shake them to their souls' depths. The younger portion shivered and shrank from the ordeal. The older and more experienced shivered and waited with not unpleasing anticipations. It did them good that remorseless examination of their heart's secret depravities. To some it was a kind of satisfaction offered to conscience, after which they could more easily come to peace. With others it was an honest heroic effort to know themselves and to write themselves with their God. The text was disappointing. Above all these things put on charity, which is the bond of perfectness, read the professor from that exquisite and touching passage, which begins at the twelfth verse of the fifteenth chapter of Colossians. Love, the bond of perfectness, was his theme, and in simple, calm, lucid speech he dilated upon the beauty, the excellence, and the supremacy of this Christian grace. It was the most godlike of all the virtues, for God was love, and more than zeal, more than knowledge, more than faith, it was the mark of the new birth. Peter McCray was evidently keenly disappointed, and his whole bearing expressed stern disapproval.  This was now day for the preaching of smooth things, the people were there to consider and to lament their original and actual sin, and they expected and required to hear of the judgments of the Lord, and to be summoned to flee from the wrath to come. Donald Ross sat with his kindly old face in a glow of delight, but with a look of perplexity on it, which his furtive glances in Peter's direction did not help to lessen. The sermon was delighting and touching him, but he was not quite sure whether this was a good sign in him or no. He set himself now and then to find fault with the sermon, but the preacher was so humble, so respectful, and above all so earnest, that Donald Ross could not bring himself to criticize. The application came under the third head. As a rule, the application to a fast-day sermon was delivered in terrifying tones of thunder or in an awful whisper. But today the preacher, without raising his voice, began to force into his hearer's hearts the message of the day. This is a day for self-examination, he said, and his clear, quiet tones fell into the ears of the people with penetrating power. And self-examination is a wise and profitable exercise. It is an exercise of the soul designed to yield a discovery of sin in the heart and life, and to induce penitence and contrition and so secure pardon and peace. But too often, my friends, and here his voice became a shade softer, it results in a self-righteous and sinful self-complacence. What is required is a simple honesty of mind and spiritual illumination, and the latter cannot be without the former. There are those who are ever searching for the marks of a genuinely godly state of heart, and they have the idea that these marks are obscure and difficult for plain people to discover. Make no mistake, my brethren, they are as easily seen as are the apples on a tree. The fruits of the spirit are as discernible to anyone honest enough and fearless enough to look. And the first and supreme of all is that which we have been considering this morning. The question for you and for me, my brethren, is simply this. Are our lives full of the grace of love? Do not shrink from the question, do not deceive yourselves with any substitutes. There are many offering zeal, the gift of prayer or of speech, yea, the gift of faith itself. None of these will atone for the lack of love. Let each ask himself, Am I a loving man? With quiet persistence he pursued them into all their relations in life. Husbands and wives, fathers and sons, neighbour and neighbour, he would not let them escape. Relentlessly he forced them to review their habits of speech and action, their attitude toward each other as church members, and their attitude toward those without. Behind all refuges and through all subterfuges he made his message follow them, searching their deepest hearts. And then, with his face illumined as with divine fire, he made his final appeal, while he reminded them of the infinite love that had stooped to save and that had wrought itself out in the agonies of the cross. And while he spoke his last words, all over the church the women were weeping, and strong men were sitting trembling and pale. After a short prayer the professor sat down. Then the minister rose, and for some little time stood, facing his people, in silence, the gleam in his eyes showing that his fervent highland nature was on fire. My people, he began, and his magnificent voice peeled forth like a solemn bell. This is the message of the Lord. Let none dare refuse to hear. It is a message to your minister. It is a message to you. You are anxious for the marks? Search you for this mark. He paused while the people sat looking at him in fixed and breathless silence. Then suddenly he broke forth into a loud cry. Where are your children at this solemn time of privilege? Fathers, where are your sons? Why were they not with you at the table? Are you men of love? Are you men of love, or by lack of love, are you shutting the door of the kingdom against your sons with their fightings and their quarreling? Then raising his hands high, he lifted his voice in a kind of wailing chant. Woe unto you! Woe unto you!  Ye would not! Ye would not! O Lamb of God, have mercy upon us! O Christ, with the pierced hands, save us! Again he paused, looking upward, while the people waited with uplifted white faces. Behold, he cried in a soul-thrilling voice, I see heaven open, and Jesus standing at the right hand of God, and I hear a voice. Turn ye, turn ye, why will ye die? Lord Jesus, they will not turn! Again he paused. Listen, depart from me ye cursed into everlasting fire. Depart ye. Nay, Lord Jesus, not so! Have mercy upon us! His voice broke in its passionate cry. The effect was overwhelming. The people swayed as trees before a mighty wind, and a voice cried aloud from the congregation, God, be merciful to me a sinner! It was MacDonald due. At that loud cry women began to sob, and some of the people rose from their seats. Be still, commanded the minister, rend your hearts and not your garments. Let us pray. And as he prayed, the cries and sobs subsided, and a great calm fell upon all. After prayer the minister, instead of giving out a closing psalm, solemnly charged the people to go to their homes, and to consider that the Lord had come very near them, and adjured them not to grieve the Holy Spirit of God. Then he dismissed them with the benediction. The people went out of the church subdued and astonished, speaking, if at all, in low tones of what they had seen and heard. Immediately after pronouncing the benediction, the minister came down to find MacDonald due, but he was nowhere to be seen. Toward evening, Mrs. Murray rode over to his house, but found that he had not returned from the morning service. He will be at his brother's, said Kirstie, and Ronald will drive over for him. Immediately Ronald hitched up Lisette and drove over to his uncles, but as he was returning he sent in word to the man's, his face being not yet presentable, that his father was nowhere to be found. It was MacDonald's vein that found him at last, in the woods, prone upon his face, and in an agony. He, man, he cried, what hails you? But there were only low groans for answer. Rise up, man, rise up and come away. Then from the prostrate figure he caught the words, depart from me, depart from me, that is the word of the Lord. That is not the word, said MacDonald vein, for any living man but for the dead. But come, rise, man, the neighbors will be here in a minute. At that black hue rose. Let me away, he said, let me not see them, I am a lost man. And so his brother brought him home, shaken in spirit, and exhausted in body with his long fast and his overpowering emotion. All night through his brother watched with him alone, for MacDonald do would have no one else to see him, till, from utter exhaustion, toward the dawning of the day he fell asleep. In the early morning the minister and his wife drove over to see him, and, leaving his wife with cursedy, the minister passed it once into MacDonald do's room. But in spite of all his reasoning, in spite of all his readings and his prayers, the gloom remained unbroken, except by occasional paroxysms of fear and remorse. There is no forgiveness, there is no forgiveness, was the burden of his cry. In vain the minister proclaimed to him the mercy of God. At length he was forced to leave him to attend the question meeting, which was to be held in the church that day, but he left his wife behind him. Without a word Mrs. Murray proceeded to make the poor man comfortable. She prepared a dainty breakfast and carried it into him, and then she sat beside him while he fell into a deep sleep. It was afternoon when MacDonald do awoke and greeted her with his won'ted grave courtesy. He were better, Mr. MacDonald, she said brightly, and now I will make you a fresh cup of tea. And though he protested she hurried out, and in a few moments brought him some tea and toast. Then, while he lay in gloomy silence, she read to him, as she did once before from his Gaelic Psalm book, without a word of comment. And then she began to tell him of all the hopes she had cherished, in connection with the opening of the new church, and how that day she had felt at last the blessing had come. And oh, Mr. MacDonald, she said, I was glad to hear you cry, for then I knew that the Spirit of God was among us. Glad, said MacDonald, do faintly. Yes, glad, for a cry like that never comes, but when the Spirit of God moves in the heart of a man. Indeed, I will be thinking that he has cast me off forever, he said, wondering at this new phase of the subject. Then you must thank him, Mr. MacDonald, that he has not so done, and the sure proof to you is that he has brought you to cry for mercy. That is a glad cry in the ears of the Saviour. It is the cry of the sheep in the wilderness that discovers him to the shepherd. And then, without argument, she took him into her confidence, and poured out to him all her hopes and fears for the young people of the congregation, and especially for Ronald, till MacDonald do partly forgot his own fears in hers. And then, just before it was time for Kirsty to arrive from the question meeting, she took her Gaelic Bible and opened at the Lord's Prayer, as she had done once before. It is a terrible thing to be unforgiven, Mr. MacDonald, she said, by man or by God. And God is unwilling that any of us should feel that pain, and that is why he is so free with his offer of pardon to all who come with sorrow to him. They come with sorrow to him now, but they will come to him someday with great joy. And then she spoke a little of the great company of the forgiven before the throne, and at the very last a few words about the gentle little woman that had passed out from MacDonald do's sight so many years before. Then, falling on her knees, she began in the Gaelic, her father, which art in heaven. Ernestly and brokenly MacDonald do followed, whispering the petitions after her. When they came to forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors, MacDonald do broke forth, oh, it is a little thing, whatever, it is little I have to forgive. And then in a clear, firm voice he repeated the words after her to the close of the prayer. Then Mrs. Murray rose and, taking him by the hand to bid him goodbye, she said, slowly, for if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly father will also forgive you your trespasses. You have forgiven Mr. MacDonald. Indeed it is nothing, he said earnestly. Then replied Mrs. Murray, the Lord will not break his promise to you. And with that she went away. On Saturday morning the session met before the service for the day. In the midst of their deliberations the door opened, and MacDonald Vane and his brother, MacDonald do, walked in and stood silent before the elders. Mr. Murray rose, astonished, and, coming forward, said to MacDonald Vane, what is it, Mr. MacDonald, you wish to see me? I am here, he said, for my own sake and for my brothers. We wish to make confession of our sins in that we have not been men of love. And to seek the forgiveness of God. The minister stood and gazed at him in amazed silence for some moments, and then, giving his hand to MacDonald do, he said, in a voice husky with emotion, come away my brother, the Lord has a welcome for you. And there were no questions that day asked in the session before MacDonald do received his token. End of Chapter 15 The First Communion in the New Church was marked by very great solemnity. There were few new members, but among the older men who had hitherto kept back from the table, there was a manifest anxiety, and among the younger people, a very great seriousness. The coming forward of MacDonald do was an event so remarkable as to make a great impression, not only upon all the MacDonald men who had been associated with him so many years in the lumbering, but also upon the whole congregation to whom his record and reputation were well known. His change of attitude to the church and all its interests, as well as his change of disposition and temperament, were so striking as to leave in no one's mind any doubt as to the genuineness of his change of heart, and every week made this more apparent. A solemn sense of responsibility and an intensity of earnestness seemed to possess him, while his humility and gentleness were touching to see. On the evening of Monday, the day of Thanksgiving in the Sacrament Week, a great congregation assembled for the closing meeting of the Communion season. During the progress of the meeting, Mr. Murray and the ministers assisting him became aware that they were in the presence of some remarkable and mysterious phenomenon. The people listened to the word with an intensity, response, and eagerness that gave token of a state of mind and heart wholly unusual. Here and there, while the psalms were being sung or prayers being offered, women and men would break down in audible weeping, and in the preaching the speaker was conscious of the power possessing him that he could not explain. At length the last psalm was given out, and the congregation contrary to their usual custom, by the minister's direction rose to sing. As John Alec led the people in that great volume of praise, the ministers held a hasty consultation in the pulpit. The professor had never seen anything so marvellous. Mr. Murray was reminded of the days of W. C. Burns. The question was, what was to be done? Should the meetings be continued, or should they close to-night? They had a great fear of religious excitement. They had seen something of the dreadful reaction following a state of exalted religious feeling. It was the beginning of harvest, too. Would it be advisable to call the people from their hard work in the fields to nightly meetings? At length, as the congregation were nearing the close of the psalm, the professor spoke. Brethren, he said, this is not our work. Let us leave it to the Lord to decide, put the question to the people, and abide by their decision. After the psalm was sung, the minister motioned the congregation to their seats, and, without comment or suggestion, put before them the question that had been discussed in the pulpit. Was it their desire that the meetings should be continued or not? A deep, solemn silence lay upon the crowded church, and, for some time, no one moved. Then the congregation were startled to see MacDonald do rise slowly from his place in the middle of the church. Mr. Murray, he said, in a voice that vibrated strangely, you will pardon me for letting my voice be heard in this place. It is the voice of a great sinner. Speak, Mr. MacDonald, said the minister, and I thank God for the sound of your voice in his house. It is not for me to make any speeches here. I will only make bold to give my word that the meetings be continued. It may be that the Lord, who has done such great things for me, will do great things for others also. And with that he sat down. I will take that for a motion, said the minister. Will anyone second it? Kenny Krubach had once rose and said, We are always slow at following the Lord. Let us go forward. The minister waited for some moments after Kenny had spoken, and then said, in a voice grave and with a feeling of responsibility in it, you have heard these brethren, my people. I wait for the expression of your desire. Like one man, the great congregation rose to their feet. It was a scene profoundly impressive, and with these serious-minded sober people, one that indicated overwhelming emotion. And thus the great revival began. For eighteen months, night after night, every night in the week except Saturday, the people gathered in such numbers as to fill the new church to the door. Throughout all the busy harvest season, in spite of the autumn rains that filled the swamps and made the roads almost impassable, in the face of the driving snows of winter, through the melting ice of the spring, and again through the following summer and autumn, the great revival held on. No fictitious means were employed to stir the emotions of the people or to kindle excitement among them. There were neither special sermons nor revival hymns. The old doctrines were proclaimed, but proclaimed with a fullness and power, unknown at other times. The old psalms were sung, but sung perhaps as they had never been before. For when John Alex mighty voice rolled forth in its full power, and when his band of trained singers followed, lifting onward with them the great congregation, for every man, woman, and child sang with full heart and open throat, the effect was something altogether wonderful and worth hearing. Each night there was a sermon by the minister, who, for six months, till his health broke down, had sole charge of the work. Then the sermon was followed by short addresses or prayers by the elders, and after that the minister would take the men and his wife, the women, for closer and more personal dealing. As the revival deepened it became the custom for others than the elders to take part by reading a psalm or other scripture without comment or by prayer. There was a shrinking from anything like a violent display of emotion, and from any unveiling of the sacred secrets of the heart. But scripture reading, or quoting, was supposed to express the thoughts, the hopes, the fears, the gratitude, the devotion that made the religious experience of the speaker. This was as far as they considered it safe or seemingly to go. One of the first outside the ranks of the elders to take part in this way was MacDonald Dew. Then, Long John Cameron followed, then Peter McGregor and others of the men of mature years. A distinct stage in the revival was reached when young Alec McCray rose to read his scripture. He was quickly followed by Don, young Findleson, and others of that age, and from that time onward the old line that had so clearly distinguished age from youth in respect to religious duty and privilege was obliterated forever. It had been a strange, if not very doubtful, phenomenon to see a young man coming forward or in any way giving indication of religious feeling, but this would never be again. It was no small anxiety and grief to Mrs. Murray that Rannald, though he regularly attended the meetings, seemed to remain unmoved by the tide of religious feeling that was everywhere surging through the hearts of the people. The minister advised letting him alone, but Mrs. Murray was anxiously waiting for the time when Rannald would come to her. That time came, but not until long months of weary waiting on her part and of painful struggle on his had passed. From the very first of the great movement his father threw himself into it with all the earnest intensity of his nature, but at the same time with a humility that gave token that the memory of the wild days of his youth and early manhood were never far away from him. He was eager to serve in the work and was a constant source of wonder to all who had known him in his youth and early manhood. At all the different meetings he was present, nothing could keep him away. Nate Cometh, he said to his brother who was remonstrating with him, his day's work was drawing to its close. But Rannald would not let himself see the failing of his father's health, and when in the harvest the slightest work in the fields would send his father panting to the shade, Rannald would say, it is the hot weather, father, when the cool days come you will be better, and why should you be bothering yourself with the work anyway? Surely Yankee and I can look after that, and indeed they seemed to be quite fit to take off the harvest. Day by day Rannald swung his cradle after Yankee with all a man's steadiness till all the grain was cut, and by the time the harvest was over Rannald had developed a strength of muscle and a skill in the harvest work that made him equal of almost any man in the country. He was all the more eager to have the harvest work done in time that his father might not fret over his own inability to help. For Rannald could not bear to see the look of disappointment that sometimes showed itself in his father's face when weakness drove him from the field, and it was this that made him throw himself into the work as he did. He was careful also to consult with his father in regard to all the details of the management of the farm, and to tell him all that he was planning to do as well as all that was done. His father had always been a kind of hero to Rannald, who admired him for his prowess with the gun and the axe, as well as for his great strength and courage. But ever since calamity had befallen him, the boy's heart had gone out to his father in a new tenderness, and the last months had drawn the two very close together. It was a dark day for Rannald when he was forced to face the fact that his father was growing daily weaker. It was his uncle, MacDonald Vane, who finally made him see it. Your father is failing, Rannald, he said one day toward the close of harvest. It is the hot weather, said Rannald, he will be better in the fall. Rannald, my boy, said his uncle gravely, your father will fade with the leaf, and the first snow will lie upon him. And then Rannald fairly faced the fact that before long he would be alone in the world. Without any exchange of words, he and his father came to understand each other, and they both knew that they were spending their last days on earth together. On the son's side they were days of deepening sorrow, but with the father every day seemed to bring him a greater peace of mind and a clearer shining of the light that never fades. To his son MacDonald do never spoke of the death that he felt to be drawing nearer, but he often spoke to him of the life he would like his son to live. His only other confidant in these matters was the minister's wife. To her MacDonald do opened up his heart, and to her more than to anyone else he owed his growing peace and light, and it was touching to see the devotion and the tenderness that he showed to her as often as she came to see him. With his brother MacDonald Vane he made all the arrangements necessary for the disposal of the farm and the payment of the mortgage. Rannald had no desire to be a farmer, and indeed when the mortgage was paid there would not be much left. He will be my son, said MacDonald Vane to his brother, and my home will be his while I live. So in every way there was quiet preparation for MacDonald do's going, and when at last the day came there was no haste or fear. It was in the afternoon of a bright September day as the sun was nearing the tops of the pine trees in the west. His brother was supporting him in his strong arms while Rannald knelt by the bedside. Near him sat the minister's wife and at a little distance cursedy. Lift me up, Tonnell, said the dying man. I will be wanting to see the sun again, and then I will be going. I will be going to the land where they will not need the light of the sun. Tonnell, Vadaik, it is the good brother you have been to me, and many's the good day we have had together. Ah, you man, are you going from me? said MacDonald Vane with great sorrow in his voice. Hi, Tonnell, for a little. Then he looked for a few moments at cursedy who was standing at the foot of the bed. Come near me, cursedy, he said, and cursedy came to the bedside. You have always been kind to me and mine, and you were kind to her as well, and the reward will come to you. Then he turned to Mrs. Murray and said with a great light of joy in his eyes, It is you that came to me as the angel of God with a word of salvation, and for evermore I will be blessing you.  He took Mrs. Murray's hand and tremblingly lifted it to his lips. It has been a great joy to me, said Mrs. Murray, with difficulty steadying her voice, to see you come to your saviour, Mr. MacDonald. I, I know it well, he said, and then he added in a voice that sank almost to a whisper, Now you will be reading the prayer. And Mrs. Murray, opening her Gaelic Bible, repeated in her clear, soft voice the words of the Lord's Prayer. Through all the petitions he followed her, until he came to the words, Forgive us our debts. There he paused. Ranald, my man, he said, raising his hand with difficulty in laying it upon the boy's head, You will listen to me now. Someday you will find the man that brought me to this, and you will say to him that your father forgave him freely and wished him all the blessing of God. You will promise me this, Ranald? said MacDonald do. Yes, Father, said Ranald, lifting his head and looking into his father's face. And Ranald, you too will be forgiving him. But to this there was no reply. Ranald's head was buried in the bed. Ah, said MacDonald do with difficulty. You are your father's son, but you will not be laying this bitterness upon me now. You will be forgiving him, Ranald. Oh, Father! cried Ranald with a breaking voice. How can I forgive him? How can I forgive the man who has taken you away from me? It is no man, replied his father, but the Lord himself, the Lord who has forgiven your father much. I am waiting to hear you, Ranald. Then with a great sob Ranald broke forth. Oh, Father, I will forgive him. And immediately became quiet, and so continued to the end. After some moments of silence, MacDonald do looked once more toward the minister's wife, and a radiant smile spread over his face. He will be finishing, he said. Her face was wet with tears, and for a few moments she could not speak. But it was no time to fail in duty, so, commanding her tears with a clear, unwavering voice, she went on to the end of the prayer. For thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory, forever and ever. Amen. Glory, said MacDonald do after her. Hi, the glory! Ranald, my boy, where are you? You will be following me, Lad, to the glory. She will be asking me about you. You will be following me, Lad? The anxious note in his voice struck Ranald to the heart. Oh, Father, it is what I want, he replied, brokenly. I will try. I, said MacDonald do, and you will come. I will be telling her. Now, lay me down, Tunnel. I will be going. MacDonald vane laid him quietly back on his pillow, and for a moment he lay with his eyes closed. Once more he opened his eyes, and with a troubled look upon his face, and in a voice of doubt and fear he cried, It is sinful man, O Lord, a sinful man. His eyes wandered till they fell on Mrs. Murray's face, and then the trouble and fear passed out of them, and in a gentler voice he said, Forgive us our debts. Then, feeling with his hand till it rested on his son's head, MacDonald do passed away, at peace with men and with God. There was little sadness and no bitter grief at MacDonald do's funeral. The tone all through was one of triumph, for they all knew his life and how sore the fight had been, and how he had won his victory. His humility and his gentleness during the last few weeks of his life had removed all the distance that had separated him from the people, and had drawn their hearts toward him, and now in his final triumph they could not find it in their hearts to mourn. But to Randall the sadness was more than the triumph. Through the wild ungoverned years of his boyhood, his father had been more than a father to him. He had been a friend, sharing a common lot, and without much show of tenderness, understanding and sympathizing with him, and now that his father had gone from him, a great loneliness fell upon the lad. The farm at its belongings were sold. Kirsty brought with her the big box of blankets and linen that had belonged to Randall's mother. Randall took his mother's Gaelic Bible, his father's gun and axe, and, with the great dear hound Bugle and his colt Lisette, left the home of his childhood behind him, and with his aunt Kirsty went to live with his uncle. Throughout the autumn months he was busy helping his uncle with the plowing, the potatoes, and the fall work.  That night his uncle talked long with him about his future. I have no son, Randall, he said, as they sat talking, and for your father's sake and for your own, it is my desire that you should become a son to me, and there is no one but yourself to whom the farm would go, and glad will I be if you will stay with me, but stay or not all that I have will be yours if it please the Lord to spare you. I would want nothing better, said Randall, than to stay with you and work with you, but I do not draw toward the farm. And what else would you do, Randall? Indeed I know not, said Randall, but something else than farming, but meantime I should like to go to the shanties with you this winter. And so when the MacDonald gang went to the woods that winter, Randall, taking his father's axe, went with them. And so clever did the boy prove himself that by the time they brought down their raft in the spring there was not a man in all the gang that MacDonald Vane would sooner have at his back in a tight place than his nephew Randall. And indeed those months in the woods made a man out of the long, lanky boy, so that on the first Sabbath after the shanty men came home not many in the church that day would have recognized the dark-faced stalwart youth had it not been that he sat in the pew beside MacDonald Vane.  But after the service was over Huey could be no longer restrained. Pushing his way eagerly through the crowd he seized upon Randall and dragged him to his mother. Here he is, mother, he exclaimed, to Randall's great confusion, and to the amusement of all about him. Isn't he splendid? And as Randall greeted Mrs. Murray with quiet, grave courtesy, she felt that his winter in the woods and on the river had forever put behind him his boyhood, and that henceforth he would take his place among the men. And, looking at his strong, composed, grave face, she felt that that place ought not to be an unworthy one. The shanty men came back home to find the revival still going on, not a home but had felt its mighty power, and not a man, woman, or even child, but had come more or less under its influence. Indeed, so universal was that power that Yankee was heard to say, the boys wouldn't go in swimming without their new testaments, not but that Yankee was in very fullest sympathy with the movement. He was regular in his attendance upon the meetings all through spring and summer, but his whole previous history made it difficult for him to fully appreciate the intensity and depth of the religious feeling that was everywhere throbbing through the community. Don't see what the excitement's for, he said to MacDonald Vane one night after meeting. Seems to me the Almighty just wants a feller to do the right thing by his neighbor and not be too independent, but go long kind of humble like and keep clean. Something wrong with me, perhaps, but I don't seem to be able to work up no excitement about it. I'd like to, but somehow it ain't in me. When MacDonald Vane reported this difficulty of Yankee's to Mrs. Murray, she only said, What doth the Lord require of thee but to do justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with thy God? And with this MacDonald Vane was content, and when he told Yankee the latter came as near to excitement as he ever allowed himself. He chewed vigorously for a few moments, then slapping his thigh he exclaimed, By jings, that's great, she's all right, ain't she? We ain't all built the same way, but I'm blamed if I don't like her model. But the shanty men noticed that the revival had swept into the church during the winter months, a great company of the young people of the congregation, and of these a band of some ten or twelve young men with dawn among them were attending daily a special class carried on in the vestry of the church for those who desired to enter training for the ministry. Mrs. Murray urged Ronald to join this class, for even though he had no intention of becoming a minister, still the study would be good for him and would help him in his after-career. She remembered how Ronald had told her that he had no intention of being a farmer or lumberman, and Ronald gladly listened to her and threw himself into his study, using his spare hours to such good purpose throughout the summer that he easily kept pace with the class in English and distanced them in his favourite subject, mathematics. But all these months Mrs. Murray felt that Ronald was carrying with him a load of unrest, and she waited for the time when he would come to her. His uncle, MacDonald Vane, too, shared her anxiety in regard to Ronald. He is the fine, steady lad, he said one night, walking home with her from the church, and a good winter's work has he put behind him. He is that quick there is not a man like him on the drive, but he is not the same boy that he was. He will not be telling me anything, but when the boys will be sporting he is not with them. He will be reading his book, or he will be sitting by himself alone. He is like his father in the courage of him. There is no kind of water he will not face, and no man on the river would put fear on him, and the strength of him, his arms are like steel. But, returning to his anxiety, there is something wrong with him. He is not at peace with himself, and I wish you could get speech with him. I would like it too, replied Mrs. Murray. Perhaps he will come to me. At any rate, I must wait for that. At last, when the summer was over and the harvest all gathered in, the days were once more shortening for the fall. Ronald drove Lisette one day to the mats, and went straight to the minister's wife, and opened up his mind to her. I cannot keep my promise to my father, Mrs. Murray, he said, going at once to the heart of his trouble. I cannot keep the anger out of my heart. I cannot forgive the man that killed my father. I will be waking at night with the very joy of feeling my fingers on his throat, and I feel myself longing for the day when I will meet him face to face and nothing between us. But, he added, I promised my father and I must keep my word, and that is what I cannot do for the feeling of forgiveness is not here, smiting his breast. I can keep my hands of him, but the feeling I cannot help. For a long time Mrs. Murray let him go on without seeking to check the hot flow of his words and without a word of reproof. Then, when he had talked himself to silence, she took her Bible and read to him of the servant who, though forgiven, took his fellow servant by the throat, refusing to forgive. And then she turned over the leaves and read once more, God commendeth his love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners Christ died for us. She closed the book and sat silent, waiting for Ronald to speak. I know, he said deliberately, I have read that often enough through the winter, but it does not help the feeling I have. I think it only makes it worse. There is someone holding my arm and I want to strike. And do you forget, said Mrs. Murray, and her voice was almost stern, and do you forget how for you God gave his son to die? Ronald shook his head. I am far from forgetting that. And are you forgetting the great mercy of God to your father? No, no, said Ronald, I often think of that. But when I think of that man, something stirs within me and I cannot see for the days before my eyes, and I know that someday I will be at him. I cannot help my feeling. Ronald, said Mrs. Murray, have you ever thought how he will need God's mercy like yourself? And have you never thought that perhaps he has never had the way of God's mercy put before him? To you the Lord hath given much, to him little. It is a terrible thing to be ungrateful for the mercy of God, and it is a shameful thing. It is unworthy of any true man. How can anyone take the fullness of God's mercy and his patience every day and hold an ungrateful heart? She did not spare him, and as Ronald sat and listened, his life and character began to appear to him small and mean and unworthy. The Lord means you to be a noble man, Ronald, a man with the heart and purpose to do some good in the world, to be a blessing to his fellows. And it is a poor thing to be so filled up with selfishness as to have no thought of the honour of God or the good of men. Louis Lenoir has done you a great wrong, but what is that wrong, compared with the wrong you have done to him who loved you to his own death? Then she gave him her last word. When you see Louis Lenoir, think of God's mercy, and remember you are to do him good and not evil. And with that word in his heart, Ronald went away, ashamed and humbled, but not forgiving. The time for that had not yet come. But before he left for the shanties he saw Mrs. Murray again to say good-bye. He met her with a shamed face, fearing that she must feel nothing but contempt for him. You will think ill of me, he said, and in spite of his self-control his voice shook. I could not bear that. No, I could never think ill of you, Ronald, but I would be grieved to think that you should fail of becoming a noble man, strong and brave, strong enough to forgive, and brave enough to serve. Once more Ronald went to the woods with earnest thoughts in his mind, hoping he should not meet Lenoir and fighting out his battle to victory. And by the time the drive had reached the big water next spring that battle was almost over. The days and the silent woods and the nights spent with his uncle in the camp and afterward in his cabin on the raft did their work with Ronald. The timber cut that year was the largest that had ever been known on the Upper Ottawa. There was great crowding of rafts on the drive, and for weeks the chutes were full, and when the rafts were all brought together at Quebec, not only were the shores lined and timber-cove packed, but the broad river was full from Quebec to Levis except for the steamboatway which must be kept open. For the firm of Raymond and Sinclair this meant enormous increase of business, and it was no small annoyance that at this crisis they should have detected their Quebec agent in fraud and should have been forced to dismiss him. The situation was so critical that Mr. Sinclair himself, with Harry as his clerk, found it necessary to spend a month in Quebec. He took with him Mamie and her great friend Kate Raymond, the daughter of his partner, and established himself in the Hotel Cheval Blanc. On the whole Mamie was not sorry to visit the ancient capital of Canada, though she would have chosen another time. It was rather disappointing to leave her own city in the West just at the beginning of the springeities. It was her first season, and the winter had been distinguished by a series of social triumphs. She was the toast of all the clubs and the bell of all the balls. She had developed a rare and fascinating beauty and had acquired an air so destangue that even her aunt, Ms. Sinclair, was completely satisfied. It was a little hard for her to leave the scene of her triumphs and to abandon the approaching gayities. But Quebec had its compensations, and then there were the Deleyses, one of the oldest English families of Quebec. The Sinclairs had known them for many years. Their blood was unquestionably blue, they were wealthy, and besides, the only son and representative of the family was now Lieutenant, attached to the garrison at the Citadel, Lieutenant Deleyses suggested possibilities to Mamie. Quebec might be endurable for a month. What a lovely view and how picturesque! Mamie was standing at the window looking down upon the river with its fleet of rafts. Beside her stood Kate and at another window Harry. What a lot of timber, said Harry, and the town is just full of lumbermen. A fellow said there must be six thousand of them, so there will be lots of fun. Fun exclaimed Kate. Fun rather, these fellows have been up in the woods for some five or six months, and when they get to town where there is whiskey and that sort of thing, they just get wild. They say it is awful. Just horrible, said Mamie in a disgusted tone. But splendid, said Kate, that is, if they don't hurt anyone. Hurt anybody, exclaimed Harry. Oh, not at all. They are always extremely careful not to hurt anyone. They are as gentle as lambs. I say let us go down to the river and look at the rafts. Deleyses was coming up, but it is too late now for him. Besides, we might run across Mamie's man from Glengarry. Mamie's man from Glengarry, exclaimed Kate. Has she a man there, too? Nonsense, Kate, said Mamie, blushing. He is talking about Ronald, you know, one of Aunt Murray's young men up in Glengarry. You have heard me speak of him often. Oh, the boy that pulled you out of the fire, said Kate. Yes, cried Harry, striking in attitude, and the boy that for love of her entered the lists and in a fistic tournament upheld her fair name and, oh, Harry do have some sense, said Mamie impatiently. Hush, here comes someone, Lieutenant Deleyses, I suppose. It was the Lieutenant, handsome, tall, well-made, with a high bread, if somewhat dissipated face, an air of blasé indifference a little overdone, and an accent which he had brought back with him from Oxford, and which he was anxious not to lose. Indeed, the bare thought of the possibility of his dropping into the flat semi-nasal of his native land filled the Lieutenant with unspeakable horror. We were just going down to the river, said Mamie after the introductions were over, but I suppose it is all old to you, and you would not care to go? Ah, charmed, I'm sure, the Lieutenant pronounced it shua, but it is rather, don't you know, not exactly clean? He is thinking of his boots, said Harry, scornfully looking down at the Lieutenant's shining patent leathers. Really, said the Lieutenant, mildly, awfully dirty street, though. But we want to see the shanty men, said Kate, frankly. Oh, the men, very proper, but not so very discriminating, you know. I love the shanty men, exclaimed Kate enthusiastically. Mamie told me all about them. By Jove, I'll join, to-morrow, exclaimed the Lieutenant with gentle excitement. They would not have you, answered Kate, besides you would have to eat pork and onions and things. The Lieutenant shuttered, gazing reproachfully at Kate. Onions, he gasped, and you love them? Let us go along, then, said Harry. We will have a look at them, anyway. From the windward side, I hope, said the Lieutenant gently. I am going right on the raft, declared Kate Stoutly, if we can only find Ronald. Meaning who, exactly, questioned Delacy. A lumberman whom Mamie adores. How happy, said Delacy. Nonsense, Lieutenant Delacy, said Mamie impatiently and a little heartily. He is a friend of my aunt's, up in the county of Glengarry. No nonsense about it, said Harry, indignant that his sister should seem indifferent to Ronald. He is a great friend of us all, and you will see she will fly into his arms. Heaven forbid! ejaculated the Lieutenant, much shocked. Harry, how can you be so? said Mamie, much annoyed. What will the Lieutenant think of me? Ah, if I only might tell, said the Lieutenant, looking at her with languishing eyes. But already Kate was downstairs and on her way to the street. As they neared the lower town, the narrow streets became more and more crowded with men in the shanty men's picturesque dress, and they had some difficulty in making their way through the jolly jostling crowds. As they were nearing the river they saw coming along the narrow sidewalk, a burly French Canadian, dressed in the gayest holiday garb of the shanty men, red shirt and sash, corduroy's tucked into red top boots, a little round soft hat set upon the back of his black curls, a gorgeous silk handkerchief around his neck, and a big gold watch chain with seals at his belt. He had a bold, handsome face, and swaggered along the sidewalk, claiming it all with an assurance fortified by whiskey enough to make him utterly regardless of any but his own rights. Hello, he shouted as he swaggered along, make way, I'm debossed bully on the river Hatois. It was his day of glory, and it evidently pleased him much that the people stood aside to let him pass. Then he broke into song, enroulant ma boule roulant, enroulant ma boule. This, I suppose, is one of your beloved shanty men, said the lieutenant turning to Kate, who was walking with Harry behind. Isn't he lovely, exclaimed Kate. Oh! cried Mimi in terror, let us get into a shop.  I have not the least idea that he will molest you. The lumberman by this time had swaggered up to the party, expecting them to make way, but instead, Delacy stiffened his shoulder, caught the Frenchman in the chest, and rolled him off into the street. Surprised and enraged, the Frenchman turned to demolish the man who had dared to insult the boss bully on the river Hatois. Vune d'avé par remarquer la demoiselle, said the lieutenant in a tone of politeness. The lumberman, who had swaggered up ready to strike, glanced at Mimi, took off his hat, and made a ceremonious bow. Eh bien non, pardon un zeal. Bonjour, said lieutenant Delacy with the military salute, and moved on, leaving the lumberman staring after them as if he had seen a vision. Beauty and the Beast murmured the lieutenant, thought I was in for it, sure. Really wonderful, don't you know? Do you think we had better go on, said Mimi, turning to Kate and Harry? Why not? Why certainly, they exclaimed. These horrid men, replied Mimi.  Sweet, but not always fragrant.  Certainly go on, echoed Harry impatiently. Safe enough, Miss Sinclair, but, pulling out his perfumed handkerchief, rather trying. Oh, get on, Delacy, cried Harry, and so they moved on. The office of Raymond and Sinclair stood near the wards. Harry paused at the door, not quite sure whether to go in or not. It was easy to discover work in that office. You might ask if Ronald has come, said Kate. Mimi is too shy. Harry returned in a few moments, quite excited. The McDonald gang are in, and the big McDonald was here not half an hour ago, and Ronald is down at the raft beyond the last wharf. I know the place. Oh, do let us go on, cried Kate, to whom Harry had been extolling Ronald on the way down. You really ought to inspect your timber, Harry, shouldn't you? Most certainly, and right away, no saying what might happen. Awful slush, said the lieutenant, glancing at Mimi's face. Do you think the timber wouldn't keep for a week? Oh, rubbish, a week, cried Harry. He is thinking of his boots again. To be quite fair to the lieutenant, it was Mimi's doubtful face, rather than his shiny boots that made him hesitate. She was evidently nervous and embarrassed. The gay, easy manner which was her habit was gone. I think perhaps we had better go since we are here, she said doubtfully. Exactly, it is what I most desired, said the lieutenant gallantly. Scores of rafts lay moored along the wharves and shore, and hundreds of lumbermen were to be seen everywhere, not only on the timber and wharves, but crowding the streets and the doors of the little saloons. For half an hour they walked along, watching the men at work with the timber on the river. Some were loading the vessels lying at anchor, some were shifting the loose timber about. When they reached the end of the last wharf, they saw a strapping young lumberman, in a shanty costume that showed signs of the woods, running some loose sticks of timber round the end of the raft. With great skill he was handling his pike, walking the big sticks and running lightly over the timber too small to carry him, balancing himself on a single stick while he moved to the timber to the bit of open water behind the raft, and all with a grace and dexterity that excited Kate's admiration to the highest degree. Rather clever that, said the lieutenant lazily, hello, close call that! Ha! Bravo! It was not often the lieutenant allowed himself the luxury of excitement, but the lumberman running his timber slipped his pike pole and found himself balancing on the edge of open water. With a mighty spring he cleared the open space, touched a piece of small timber that sank under him, and at the next spring landed safe on the raft. Mimi's scream sounded with the lieutenant's bravo. At the cry the young fellow looked up. It was Ronald. Hello there! cried Harry, and with an answering shout, Ronald, using his pike as a jumping pole, cleared the open space, ran lightly over the floating sticks, and with another spring reached the shore. Without a moment's hesitation he dropped his pole and came almost running toward them, his face radiant with delight. Mimi, he exclaimed, holding out his hand, wet and none too clean. How do you do? said Mimi. She had noticed the look of surprise and mild disgust on the lieutenant's face, and she was embarrassed. Ronald was certainly not lovely to look at. His shirt was open at the neck, torn and dirty. His trousers and boots were much the worse of their struggle with the bush. This is Mr. McDonald's lieutenant de Lacey, Mimi hurried to say. The lieutenant offered a limp hand. Chomped, I'm sure, he murmured. What? said Ronald. Lovely weather! murmured the lieutenant again, looking at his fingers that Ronald had just let go. Well, old chap! said Harry, grasping Ronald's hand and throwing his arm about his shoulder. I am awfully glad to find you. We have been hunting you for half an hour, but hold up, here you are. Let me introduce you to Miss Kate Raymond, the best girl anywhere. Kate came forward with a frank smile. I am very glad to meet you, she said. I have heard so much about you, and I am going to call you Ronald, as they all do. How lovely! sighed de Lacey. Her greeting warmed Ronald's heart that somehow had been chilled in the meeting. Something was wrong. Was it this fop of a soldier, or had Mimi changed? Ronald glanced at her face. No, she was the same, only more beautiful than he had dreamed. But while she was shaking hands with him, there flashed across his mind the memory of the first time he had seen her and the look of amusement upon her face then that had given him such deadly offence. There was no amusement now, but there was embarrassment and something else. Ronald could not define it, but it chilled his heart, and at once he began to feel how badly dressed he was, the torn shirt, the ragged trousers, and the old unshapely boots that he had never given the thought to before now seemed to burn into his flesh. Unconsciously he backed away and turned to go. Where are you off to, cried Harry, do you think we're going to let you go now? We had hard enough work finding you, come up to the office and see the Governor. He wants to see you badly. Ronald glanced at the lieutenant immaculate except where the slush had speckled his shiny boots and then at his own ragged attire. I think I will not go up now, he said. Well, come up soon, said Mamie, evidently relieved. No, said Kate impetuously, come right along now, as she spoke she ranged herself beside him. For a moment or two Ronald hesitated, shot a searching glance at Mamie's face, and then, with a reckless laugh, said, I will go now, and set off forthwith, Kate proudly marching at one side and Harry on the other, leaving Mamie and the lieutenant to follow after. And a good thing it was for Ronald that he did go that day with Harry to his Governor's office. They found the office in a swither, as Harry said, over the revelations of fraud that were coming to light every day, bookkeeper, clerk, and timber-checker, having all been in conspiracy to defraud the company. Where have you been, Harry? said his father, in an annoyed tone as his son entered the office. You don't seem to realize how much there is to do just now. Looking up, Ronald, father, said Harry cheerfully. Ah, the young man from Glengarry, said Mr. Sinclair rising, I am glad to know you, and to thank you in person for your prompt courage in saving my daughter. Lucky dog, groaned the lieutenant in an undertone to Mamie. Mr. Sinclair spoke to Ronald of his father and his uncle in words of highest appreciation, and, as Ronald listened, the reckless and hard look which had been gathering ever since his meeting with Mamie, passed away, and his face became earnest and touched with a tender pride. I hear about you frequently from my sister, Mr. MacDonald, or shall I say, Ronald? said Mr. Sinclair kindly. She apparently thinks something of you.  She is a wonderful woman and good. Yes, said Mr. Sinclair, that's it, wonderful and good. Then Mamie drew nearer. How is Auntie, she said, what a shame not to have asked before. She was very well last fall, said Ronald, looking keenly into Mamie's face, but she is working too hard at the meetings. Meetings, exclaimed Harry. I, for a year and more, she has been at them every night till late. At meetings, for a year, what meetings, cried Harry, astonished. Oh, Harry, you know about the great revival going on quite well, said Mamie. Oh, yes, I forgot. What a shame! What is the use of her killing herself that way? There is much use, said Ronald gravely. They are making bad men good, and the whole countryside is new, and she is the heart of it all. I have no doubt about that, said Mr. Sinclair. She will be the head and heart and hands and feet. You're just right, Governor, said Harry warmly. There is no woman living like Aunt Murray. There was silence for a few moments. Then Mr. Murray said suddenly, we are in an awful fix here, not a man to be found that we can depend upon for bookkeeper, clerk, or checker. Harry coughed slightly. Oh, of course, Harry is an excellent bookkeeper. Harry bowed low. While he is at it, added Mr. Sinclair. Very neat one, murmured the lieutenant. Now, Father, do not spoil a fine compliment in that way, cried Harry. But now the checker is gone, said Mr. Sinclair, and that is extremely awkward. I say, cried Harry, what will you give me for a checker right now? Mr. Sinclair looked at him, and then at the lieutenant. Pardon me, Mr. Sinclair, said that gentleman holding up his hand. I used to check a little at rugby, but not you by a long hand interrupted Harry disdainfully. This awfully charming brother of yours, so very frank, don't you know, said the lieutenant softly to Mamie while they all laughed. But here is your man, Governor, said Harry, laying his hand on Randall. Randall exclaimed Mr. Sinclair, why the very man? You understand timber, and you are honest. I will answer for both with my head, said Harry. What do you say, Randall, said Mr. Sinclair, will you take a day to think it over? No, said Randall, I will be your checker. And so Randall became part of the firm of Raymond and Sinclair. Come along, Randall, said Harry, we will take the girls home and then come back to the office. Yes, do come, said Kate Hartley. Mamie said nothing. No, said Randall, I will go back to the raft first and then come to the office. Shall I begin tonight? he said to Mr. Sinclair. Tomorrow morning will do, Randall, said Mr. Sinclair. Come up to the hotel and see us tonight. But Randall said nothing. Then Mamie went up to him. Good-bye just now, she said, smiling into his face. You will come and see us tonight, perhaps? Randall looked at her while the blood mounted slowly into his dark cheek and said, yes, I will come. What's the matter with you, Mamie? said Harry indignantly when they had got outside. You would think Randall was a stranger the way you treat him. And he is just splendid. I wish he had pulled me out of the fire, cried Kate. You might try the river, said the Lieutenant. I fancy he would go in, looks that sort. Go in, cried Harry, he would go anywhere. The Lieutenant made no reply. He evidently considered that it was hardly worth the effort to interest himself in the young lumberman. But before he was many hours older, he found reason to change his mind. After taking the young ladies to their hotel there was still an hour till the Lieutenant's dinner. So, having resolved to cultivate the Sinclair family, he proposed accompanying Harry back to the office. As they approached the lower portion of the town they heard wild shouts and sauntering down a side street they came upon their French-Canadian friend of the afternoon. He was standing with his back against a wall trying to beat off three or four men who were savagely striking and kicking at him and crying the while, Gattino, Gattino. It was the Gattino against the Ottawa. Our friend seems to have found the object of his search, said the Lieutenant, as he stood across the street looking at the melee. I say he's a good one, isn't he? cried Harry, admiring the Ottawa's dauntless courage and his fighting skill. His eagerness for war will probably be gratified in a few minutes by the look of things, replied the Lieutenant. The Gattinos were crowding around and had evidently made up their minds to bring the Ottawa champion to the dust. That they were numbers to one mattered not at all. There was little chivalry in a shantyman's fight. Ha! rather a good one, that, exclaimed the Lieutenant mildly interested, he put that chap out somewhat neatly. He lit a cigar and stood coolly watching the fight. Where are the Ottawa's, the fellow's friends, said Harry, much excited. I rather think they camp on another street further down. The Ottawa champion was being sorely pressed, and it looked as if in a moment or two more he would be down. What a shame! cried Harry. Well, said the Lieutenant languidly, it's beastly dirty, but the chap's done rather well, so here goes. Smoking his cigar and followed by Harry, he pushed across the street to the crowd and got right up to the fighters.   The astonished crowd stopped fighting and fell back a little. The calm, clear voice of command and Her Majesty's uniform awed them. Mon camarade, said the Lieutenant, removing his cigar and saluting. Rather warm, eh? You bet very warm time was the reply. Better get away, mon ami. The odds are rather against you, said the Lieutenant. Your friends are some distance down the next street. You better go along. So saying he stepped out toward the crowd of gattinos who were consulting and yelling. Excuse me, gentlemen, he said politely waving his little cane. Those immediately in front gave back, allowed the Lieutenant, followed by the Ottawa man and Harry to pass, and immediately closed in behind. They might have escaped had it not been that the Ottawa man found it impossible to refrain from hurling taunts at them and inviting them to battle. They had not gone more than two blocks when there was a rush from behind, and before they could defend themselves they were each in the midst of a crowd fighting for their lives. The principal attack was, of course, made upon the Ottawa man, but the crowd was quite determined to prevent the Lieutenant and Harry from getting near him. In vain they struggled to break through the yelling mass of gattinos who now had become numerous enough to fill the street from wall to wall, and among whom could be seen some few of the Ottawa men trying to force their way toward their champion. By degrees both Harry and Delacy fought their way to the wall and toward each other. Looks as if our man has met his waterloo, said the Lieutenant, waiting for his particular man to come again.  Hello, here they come again. We shall have to try another shot, I suppose, said the Lieutenant, as the crowd which had for a few moments surged down the street now came crushing back with the Ottawa leader and some half-dozen of his followers in the centre. Well, here goes, said Delacy, leaving the wall and plunging into the crowd, followed by Harry, as they reached the centre a voice called out, Abba les Anglais, and immediately the cry, a familiar enough one in those days, was taken up on all sides. The crowd stiffened and the attack upon the centre became more determined than ever.  Make for the wall, keep together, cried Delacy, pushing out toward the side and followed by his company. But, one by one, the Ottawa's were being dragged down and trampled beneath the corked boots of their foes till only two of them, with their leader, beside Harry and Delacy, were left. At length the wall was gained, there they faced about and for a time held their lives safe. But every moment fresh men rushed in upon them, yelling their cries, The Ottawa leader was panting hard and he could not much longer hold his own. His two companions were equally badly off, Harry was pale and bleeding, but still in good heart the lieutenant was unmarked as yet and coolly smoking his cigar, but he knew well that unless help arrived their case was hopeless. We can't run, he remarked calmly, but a dignified and speedy retreat is in order if it can be executed. There is a shop a little distance down here. Let us make for it. But as soon as they moved two more of the Ottawa's were dragged down and trampled on. It begins to look interesting, said the lieutenant to Harry. Sorry you were into this old chap, it was rather my fault. It is so beastly dirty, don't you know? Oh, fault be hanged! cried Harry. It's nobody's fault, but it looks rather serious.  So saying he caught a burly Frenchman under the chin with the straight left-hander and hurled him back upon the crowd. Ah, rather pretty, said the lieutenant mildly. It is not often you can just catch them that way. They were still a few yards from the shop door, but every step of their advance had to be fought. I very much fear we can't make it, said the lieutenant quietly to Harry. We had better back up against the wall here and fate it out. But as he spoke they heard a sound of shouting down the street a little way, which the Ottawa leader at once recognized, and raising his voice he cried, Ottawa! Ottawa! Ottawa! Amois! Swiftly, fiercely came the band of men, some twenty of them, cleaving their way through the crowd like a wedge. At their head, and taller than the others, fought two men whose arms worked with the systematic precision of piston rods, and before whom men fell on either hand as if struck with sledge-hammers. Ottawa! Amois! cried the Ottawa champion again, and the relieving party faced in his direction. I say, said the lieutenant, that first man is uncommonly like your Glengarry friend. What, Ronald? cried Harry. Then we're all right. I swear it is, he said, after a few moments, and then remembering the story of the great fight on the nation, which he had heard from Huey and Mamie, he raised the McDonald War cry. Glengarry! Glengarry! Ronald paused and looked about him. Here, Ronald, yelled Harry, waving his white handkerchief. Then Ronald caught sight of him. Glengarry! he cried, and sprang far into the crowd in Harry's direction. Glengarry! Glengarry! forever! echoed Yankee, for he it was, plunging after his leader. Swift and sharp like the thrust of a lance, the Glengarry men pierced the crowd, which gave back on either side, and soon reached the group at the wall. How in the world did you get here? cried Ronald to Harry. Then, looking about him, cried, Where is Lenoyer? I heard he was being killed by the Gattinos, and I got a few of our men and came along. Lenoyer, that is our Canadian friend, I suppose, said the Lieutenant. He was here a while ago. By Jove, there he is. Surrounded by a crowd of the Gattinos, Lenoy, for he was the leader of the Ottawa's, was being battered about and like to be killed. Glengarry! cried Ronald, and like a lion he leaped upon them, followed by Yankee and the others. Right and left he hurled the crowd aside, and seizing Lenoyer brought him out to his own men. Who are you? gasped Lenoyer. Why know it, he's not possible. Yes, it is Yankee for sure, and the MacDonald gang, but, turning to Ronald, who are you? he said again. Never mind, said Ronald shortly, let us get away now quick. Go on, Yankee. At once, with Yankee leading, the Glengarry man marched off the field of battle, bearing with them the rescued party. There was no time to lose. The enemy far outnumbered them, and would soon return to the attack. But how did you know we were in trouble, Ronald? said Harry, as he marched along. I didn't know anything about you, said Ronald. Someone came and said that the bully of the Ottawa was being killed, so I came along. And just in time, by Jove, said the lieutenant, aroused from his langer for once. It was a ducidly lucky thing, and well done, too, upon my soul. That night, as Ronald and his uncle were in their cabin on the raft, talking over the incidents of the day, and Ronald's plans for the summer, a man stood suddenly in the doorway. I am Louis Lenoyer, he said, and I have some word to say to the young MacDonald. I am sore here, he said, striking his breast. I cannot speak your language, I cannot tell. He stopped short, and the tears came streaming down his face. I cannot tell, he repeated, his breast heaving with mighty sobs. I would be glad to die, to Mac over, to not Mac. I cannot say the word what I do to your father. I would give my life, he said, throwing out both his hands. I would give my life. I cannot say more. Ronald stood looking at him for a few moments in silence when he finished. Then he said slowly and distinctly, my father told me to say that he forgave you everything, and that he prayed the mercy of God for you, and, added Ronald more slowly, I forgive you, too. The Frenchman listened in wonder, greatly moved, but he could only reiterate his words. I cannot speak what I feel here. Sit down, Mr. Lenoyer, said MacDonald Vane, gravely, pointing to a bench, and I will be telling you something. Lenoyer sat down and waited. Do you see that young man there? said MacDonald Vane, pointing to Ronald. He is the strongest man in my gang, and indeed I will not be putting him below myself. Here, Ronald protested. And he has learned to use his hands as I cannot, and of all the men I have ever seen since I went to the woods, there is not one I could put against him.  The Frenchman nodded his head and said, Das so, das pretty sure.  Do you know why? No, not me. Then I will be telling you, it is the grace of God. Lenoyer stared at him, and then MacDonald Vane went on to tell him how his brother had suffered and struggled long, and how the minister's wife had come to him with the message of the forgiveness of the great God, and then he read, from Ronald's English Bible, the story of the unforgiving debtor, explaining it in grave and simple speech. That was why, he concluded, it was because he was forgiven, and on his dying bed he sent you the word of forgiveness, and that too is the very reason I believe why the lad here went to your help this day. I promised the minister's wife I would do you good and not ill when it came to me, said Ronald, but I was not feeling at all like forgiving you. I was afraid to meet you. Afraid? said Lenoyer, wondering that any of that gang should confess to fear. Yes, afraid of what I would do, but now, tonight it is gone, said Ronald simply. I can't tell you how. That's most surprise, exclaimed Lenoyer. Ne comprend pas, I never see like that me. Yes it is wonderful, said MacDonald Vane. It is very wonderful. It is the grace of God, he said again. You macked a good friend with me, asked Lenoyer, rising and putting his hand out to MacDonald Vane. MacDonald Vane rose from his place and stepped toward the Frenchman, and took his hand. Yes, I will be friends with you, he said gravely, and I will seek God's mercy for you. Then Lenoyer turned to Ronald and said, Will you be friend of me? Is it too much? Yes, said Ronald slowly, I will be your friend too. It is a little thing, he added, unconsciously quoting his father's words. Then Lenoyer turned around to MacDonald Vane and, striking an attitude, exclaimed, See, you be my boss, I be your man, what you call slave, I work for nothing, me, that's sure. MacDonald Vane shook his head. You could not belong to us, he said, and explained to him the terms upon which the MacDonald men were engaged. Lenoyer had never heard of such terms. You not drink whiskey? Not too much, said MacDonald Vane. How many glass, one, two, three? I did not know, said MacDonald Vane, it depends upon the man. He must not take more than is good for him. Boom, said Lenoyer, that's good, one glass, he Mac me feel good, two, that's nice, he Mac me feel very funny, three glass, yes, that's Mac me the friend of everybody, four, that's Mac me feel big, I walk the big walk, I am the best man in all the place, that's good place for stop, eh? No, said MacDonald Vane gravely, you need to stop before that. Very good, very good, me stop him me, you tack me on for your man? MacDonald Vane hesitated. Lenoyer came nearer him and, lowering his voice, said, I'm very bad man me, I like to know how you do that, what you say, forgive, you show me how. Come to me next spring, said MacDonald Vane. Bon, said Lenoyer, I be dare on the nation camp. And so he was, and when Mrs. Murray heard of it from MacDonald Vane that summer, she knew that Ronald had kept his word and had done Lenoyer good and not evil. End of Chapter 17