CHAPTER XI.

HOME LIFE.

"Every day and every hour, Every gift and every power, Consecrate to Him alone Who hath claimed you for His own."

MORE than two years have passed since the death of little Minnie Macleod. Life at Benvourd has gone quietly on. Little duties, little cares, and what some would call little pleasures, made up the daily routine of the lives of most of the inhabitants of the neighbourhood.

And yet both in nature and the souls of the inmates of the glen there was growth. Not very visible, perhaps, to an unobservant eye, still the young trees in the pass were reaching upwards, and, all unseen, their roots were striking deeper down, enabling them the better to bear unharmed the wild winter blasts that from time to time swept over them. The river also, though almost imperceptibly, was deepened, the large boulder stones in its channel were getting more firmly fixed in their places than of yore. And in the souls of many of the dwellers there, the words of gospel truth, sown on the September day we have written of, at the field-meeting, were springing up, "first the blade, then the ear," one day to ripen into full corn.

And so it was in Nora's soul: from strength to strength she was going on, ripening gradually in the wisdom which cometh from above, expanding into a noble Christian character—a comfort in her home, and amongst the poor proving a true counsellor and friend.

Snow was on the ground, and a keen, frosty wind was blowing, when one morning she came into the drawing-room at Benvourd, equipped for a walk, fur cuffs on her arms, fur around her neck, and a leather bag in her hand. Very pretty she looked as she peeped in.

"Any messages, auntie?" she said. "I'm off to see old nurse and some, of the poor bodies; and I'll look into the school on my way back, and see how the children are getting on with their work."

"All right, dear," was the reply; "only, do not get cold. And take Cherry with you for company."

"How bright and happy Nora looks," Mrs. Macleod remarked to her husband, as he entered the room shortly after the young girl had set off on her walk.

"Yes," he said; "and yet I had a letter this morning from Mrs. Ross, asking if I did not think it was a mistake to keep Nora moped up here all the winter, when she should be mixing in society and seeing something of the world. Of course an invitation to spend the winter with them follows; and, if you agree with me, I have resolved to let Nora choose for herself."

"Surely she does not look either dull or moped. But if she wishes a change, she shall have it."

In the meantime Nora was tripping down the pass with a glad heart. Never, she thought, had she seen the whole country more beautiful than it looked that day: the snow-crowned hills glistening in the sunlight, and the leafless trees, now sprinkled with snow, glittering like diamonds as the merry little sunbeams played on them, and the river, swollen with the melting snow, rolling swiftly along, making music through the lonely pass. Moping, indeed! The firm step and bright, sparkling eye of the girl told the falsity of that supposition.

Warmly was she welcomed by old nurse. Not long had she been in discovering the change that had taken place in her darling's heart; and many a time now, as she stroked back the golden brown locks off the broad brow, she loved to think that a fairer diadem than that of this world would one day rest there.

On the morning we write of, a more than usually hearty welcome greeted Nora.

"Come in, come in, my lambkin; I'm wantin' sore to see ye. Look ye here; I've had news o' my puir misguided laddie. He's livin', Miss Nora, sore broke down, they write, in mind an' body, but ower prood to say a word to his auld grannie, wha loes him dearly yet, in spite o' a' his faults."

"How got I the news, you ask? Weel, ye see, it's this Duncan Finlay; ye'll mind o' him?—Jean Finlay's son, doon the glen. Weel, he's been in furrin pairts, a sailor lad; an' in the ship comin' hame, wha should he see but Johnny—my Johnny—workin' his passage hame (for it seems he's been i' the Indies, puir laddie); and when he saw Duncan, he made him promise he'd no tell ony o' his folk where he was, or what he was daein'."

"An' at first Duncan had kind o' agreed to that; but when they were nearin' England, Johnny fell sick, an' Duncan has been rale kind to him, got him intil lodgin's, an' tended him like a brither. But my puir laddie's gettin' nee better; an' noo Duncan feels he canna' keep silence ony langer, an' so he wrote to his mither to tell her a' this—And oh, Miss Nora, he says, for a' Johnny appears hardened-like to his hame, he thinks his heart turns fondly to his auld grannie still: for in his sleep, he ca's for me, an' speaks aboot the auld hills an' the bonny pass, whiles fancyin' he's helpin the gentry to fish i' the river, or gangin' wi' them as he's dune mony a time ower the muirs when they're shootin' the grouse. An' aince, missie, only think Duncan writes—" and as she spoke, tears ran down the old woman's cheeks—"he thocht he was in the kirk, an' began singin' oot the words o' the psalm, 'The Lord's my shepherd, I'll not want.'"

"'Deed, Miss Nora, my heart's fair like to break, when I think o' my bairn lyin' in yon great city, among strangers noo; for Duncan has to leave to join his ship again. An' since it's the Lord's will, I canna get to him, I've been thinkin', if only you would write to Maister Ronald, he'd seek him oot and comfort him a bit. See, here's the address I've gotten frae Duncan."

Nora looked at it. "Oh yes, nurse," she said; "I'll write at once to Ronald; I know he and my cousin, Mr. Arbuthnot, often visit among the lodging-houses in London; and Ronald will be so pleased if he can help poor Johnny in any way. Keep up your spirits, nurse; perhaps the illness may be God's way of drawing poor Johnny to himself."

"Ay, ay," was the old woman's reply. "I'm trustin' in him, missie; the Good Shepherd goes into the wilderness after his errin' sheep, an' sometimes, even against their will, carries them home to the fold in his ain lovin' arms. And ye'll write soon, missie, an' tell me whenever ye hear?"

"That I will," said Nora, rising; "but I must run off now, for I have one or two sick people to see down the glen, and auntie told me not to linger too long."

And calling Cherry to come away from the cosy fire, she set off, having cheered up by her bright looks and loving words the heart of the old woman.

Through the pass she wound her way, now running a bit with Cherry, now pausing to look at the river as it danced along, or to note the little birds as they hopped about from spray to spray, picking at the bright berries that yet remained.

Then turning out of the pass, she crossed the highroad, and entered a small cottage in a field, where dwelt a sick child, nigh unto death; but at the sight of the bright young face, she looked up with a smile. Nora produced some little delicacy out of the leather bag, to tempt the failing appetite; then seating herself beside the bed, began, at the child's request, to "sing to her something about heaven."

In the rich, sweet voice with which God had endowed her, she sang of the land where hunger and thirst, pain and sickness are felt no more, and where—

"Christ's presence fills each heart with joy, Tunes every mouth to sing."

And the sweet singing soothed the restless child, and brought a smile of peace to her lips; and when, with a word of prayer, the visit ended, and Nora was out again on the snow-covered earth, the child lay and thought of her bright young visitor and of the happy land of which she had sung.

One or two more visits of love, and then Nora turned into the village school, the face of the teacher lighting up as she entered. She had a kind, merry word for all, praised some and gently chid others; then sat right down among the workers, and told them a story over which eyes that were beginning to look weary sparkled again, and to which the teacher herself listened as eagerly as the little ones. Then followed a simple hymn about the "Happy Land," in which the voices of even the very little ones chimed in sweetly.

And once again Nora was off, having left a good influence behind her. She had had a happy day and an adventure as well; for just as she was leaving the pass, who should she meet but two young girls, nieces of their neighbour, Mrs. Forbes, who, along with their governess, were going to Benvourd with an invitation for her to spend a week at Craiglora, to meet some friends from England who had arrived unexpectedly.

The girls had come so far in the carriage, and were to walk through the pass to Benvourd, but had contrived to take a wrong turn, and being strangers to that part of the country, were wandering about in great perplexity when they met Nora and her dog.

"No doubt," said one of them, "if you had not met us, we would have been benighted, and, perhaps, perished in the snow!"

Nora had laughed at that idea, but made a good joke about the travellers who had lost their way in the Highland pass.

They did not return with her to Benvourd, as they had lost so much time, and were to await the carriage again at a house not far from the pass.

So Nora returned as she had gone out—alone. She looked so bright and merry, as in her eager way she related the day's work, that her uncle and aunt smiled to each other as they thought of Mrs. Ross's idea that she was "moped" in her Highland home. All were much interested as she related that nurse had at last heard of her wandering grandson; and tears of sympathy filled Mrs. Macleod's eyes when she told of the dying child who had asked her to sing about heaven, and her thoughts turned to her little daughter so early called to glory.

In the evening Mr. Macleod gave Nora Mrs. Ross's letter, and told her, he and her aunt gave her full liberty to accept the invitation, if she felt at all inclined to do so.

"We will miss our bright sunbeam," he said, "but only desire that in this matter you should please yourself."

Nora read the letter, laughing over the idea of her moping. "Why, uncle, what does she mean? I am as happy as I can possibly be; and I have so many things to interest me, and people to love, I could not manage to be dull."

Then she said seriously, "Uncle if I am to answer this invitation as I wish, I would really rather not go—at the present, at all events. I know I would have many temptations there to which I am not exposed here; and although I believe Jesus would enable me to resist them, still—" and she lowered her eyes as she spoke—"I am only a beginner yet in the Christian life, and I am fearful I might not prove a loyal banner-bearer in that household. No, uncle; if you and auntie will keep me yet a bit, I would rather not go; though I do wish to go to Mrs. Forbes' if I may. I do so love the dear old lady; and the girls are so nice also. Dull, indeed I only wish Clara were one half as happy a girl as I am! Uncle, I do think people can't be really happy till they have learned to love Jesus. I am sure, when I think of what I was two years ago and what I am now, I can sing truly—"

"'Oh happy day, that fixed my choice On thee, my Saviour and my God!'"

Her uncle drew her into his arms and kissed her tenderly.

"Thank God you can say that, Nora. I do believe your dear mother's prayers are answered for you, that you might be led to seek after the wisdom that is better far than gold and rubies."