CHAPTER XXVI.

THE FIRST LINK LOST AND FOUND.

With a sad heart, Madeline turned her face homeward, for no kind father would brighten Woodcliff again. Uncle Malcolm accompanied them to the steamer, which was to sail for Liverpool on the ninth of September. Malcolm had become deeply attached to the noble youth who was to be the companion of their voyage. Laying his hand upon Roland's shoulder, he gave him his blessing, and placing a packet in his hand, said, "Dinna forget, Roland, this is but your first visit; I maun see ye again, my son," and turning to Madeline with a moistened eye, he added,--"Farewell! my dear young leddy, ye will na neglect my boy, my Roland, I am sure; may God forever bless and comfort ye wi' his choicest gifts."

Madeline bowed her head over the warm and honest hand, as she replied,

"Roland has been my friend and brother ever since I was ten years old; such friendships are not soon forgotten, Mr. Graham."

Bidding Miss Matilda and Edmund a courteous farewell, he took leave of Mrs. Douglass cordially, and left the vessel.

Their passage must necessarily be a sad one; for on board were the remains of Mr. Hamilton, and they could not but be solemn in the presence of the dead. When fairly out at sea, Roland opened the packet placed in his hand by his good friend, and found to his surprise, a scrip containing shares in the Bank of London to the amount of six thousand pounds, accompanying which was the following note:

"To Roland, from a friend that loves him well, assured that he will be a good steward of his Father's gifts." Examining his trunks, he perceived that there was one more than he had brought, with his name on it, and a key hung to the strap--what could it mean? On unlocking it, he found a set of valuable law-books, a full suit of handsome black cloth, a complete set of shirts, neckcloths, gloves, hats, in fine, all that a gentleman needed; and, in addition, a small case which, on opening, contained a very valuable gold watch; and another, with Uncle Malcolm, Mrs. Lindsay, and Annot's pictures.

He was overpowered with gratitude, first to the God of his fathers, and then to the noble friend whom he had raised.

"Looking aloft!" whispered Roland, with a full heart, "I know now my mother's meaning; O, what a legacy she left her son on that death-bed! From what depths of poverty have I been raised! To what a post of honor and prosperity! To God alone be all the glory! When she bade me trust Him, I did not know the noble friend that was then awaiting for me among my native hills, I did not then know Malcolm Graham; but God knew where he was, and led me to him. May he give me grace to be a faithful steward of His many gifts."

Aunt Matilda was still very haughty to Roland, and distant to Mrs. Douglass; for she could not brook the companionship of the "common class," as she styled these, after the society of nobles; she was rather more condescending to Edmund Norris, for she had learned that he belonged to the upper circles of New York.

Madeline was much alone, and, in her deep mourning dress, forbade any approach to light or trifling intercourse.

One evening, having sought a secluded part of the vessel, Roland followed her, and found her looking down into the deep and solemn ocean.

"May I intrude, Madeline?" for they had both agreed to drop the formal titles of ceremony.

"You are welcome, Roland, welcome always; for I spend many sad hours in this lonely vessel, and can never forget the sacred relics that are with us."

"That is a solemn thought, Madeline, but do not let us think of the silent dust; let us look upward to the blessed rest of the immortal part."

"How grandly sublime, Roland, is this rolling ocean! so deep! so vast! so boundless! It reminds one of eternity. I never look down upon its dark waters without hearing from its dashing waves the murmurs of another world; how many have sunk in this deep abyss, and passed hence to their eternity!"

"Do you remember, Madeline, how we used to listen to its music at Woodcliff, when we were boy and girl? What fancies we used to have!"

"Yes, truly! we were singular children, Roland; I was a giddy little kitten; but no one knows what deep and solemn thoughts used to visit me even then;" and turning a bright glance upon Roland's face, "I think the first that I ever remember was from words uttered by you, the boy-sage, as I think now that you always were."

Roland felt his heart throb with emotions of delight at these tender reminiscences, and replied,

"Then you still remember, Madeline, the intercourse of those childish days."

"Remember, Roland! Yes; they will be remembered in the world to come; for your words, your mother's, and dear Effie's are the only ones whose impressions have ever influenced my life."

"What a blessed thought, Madeline! that dear Effie should have so impressed your dear father."

"Yes, Roland, it was a call of mercy; but I knew nothing of it then."

"God leads us by a way that we know not, Madeline; what a blessed thing it is to trust Him! When my mother first taught me these talismanic words, I did not know their power; but I have learned since what they mean. 'Looking aloft,' upward in all things, in sorrow, in perplexity, in adversity, in prosperity, for guidance, for blessing, for comfort; I can trust Him for everything now. When, with her weak and trembling voice, she bade me in that hour of affliction, 'Look aloft,' when my boyish heart sank within me at the prospect of being all alone, I did not know, Madeline, of the dear friend, Malcolm Graham, waiting for me in Scotland; nor did he know of me, but we were waiting for each other; for God knew, Madeline; and He knows and will guide all else that shall befall us;" and then he proceeded to relate some of the most important features of Malcolm's history.

And thus the hours were beguiled until a late time for retiring.

Aunt Matilda called, "Madeline, it is growing late;" and Roland, taking her arm, and placing it within his own, led her to the cabin-door, where he bade her "Good night."

"You seem much interested in the conversation of that youth, Madeline; it is not very proper for a young lady to be sitting alone until so late an hour with a young man."

Madeline's old spirit flushed her cheek, and tightened the proud lip; but she checked herself, as she replied,

"Aunt Matilda, I am not a child now; my actions are free, I believe, of control, so long as I do nothing that I am ashamed of; I always was, and shall be, interested in the conversation of Roland Bruce, and shall consider myself at liberty to talk with him when I please."

"O, I dare say, miss, that he is much more interesting than Lord N----; I have no patience with you, Madeline, to cast away a coronet for such a man as this."

"Aunt Matilda, you must not use such language to me; Roland is to me a very dear friend, and nothing more."

"You cannot say, Madeline, that he had nothing to do with your rejection of Lord N----."

"I cannot be questioned, Aunt Matilda; but I will never slight, or cast aside a friend like Roland Bruce;" and Madeline sought her rest with a disturbed spirit, for she feared that she had spoken improperly to her aunt, and resolved to apologize next day.

She was stirring early in the morning; and, with the old innocence of childhood, she went to her aunt's state-room, and said,

"Aunty, let me in; I have something to say to you."

Aunt Matilda could not resist the pleading voice, and opened the door.

"I am sorry, dear aunt, for what I said last night; will you forgive little Mad-cap's hot speech? it is some of the old temper, aunty, that will get the mastery; when I can sit more humbly at Jesus' feet I shall be better, I hope."

Aunt Matilda kissed the dear girl fondly, as of old, saying,

"I forgive you, my dear; you are the same little coaxing witch that you were when a child; I wonder if you'll ever be anything else."

"I hope I shall always be innocent and truthful as a child, aunty; but I think that it is time I had learned to govern myself more like a woman."

Mrs. Douglass was charmed with the simplicity and frankness of the young heiress; and, although much slighted by Aunt Matilda, Madeline's kindness amply compensated for this lack of courtesy.

"I believe, Madeline, that you would associate with any one," said Aunt Matilda; "however low born or obscure, it matters not to you."

Madeline smiled, as she replied,

"You need never fear, dear aunty; for the vulgar and coarse-minded I despise, though dwelling in a palace; it is 'mind that makes the man;' so you see I come home true American, though I have mingled with the nobles of England."

"Don't you think that the earl's family were lovely and refined?"

"Yes, dear aunt; but I did not love them for their rank; it was for their worth, their education; and, dwelling in a cottage, they would be the same; we saw some, I think, even among the higher classes in England, that were not remarkable for refinement; for instance, the fat baroness that we met at our dress-maker's; don't you remember her vulgar airs when she tried to impress us with her style?"

"Yes; but then you know that she had not always belonged to the haut-ton; she was one of the 'nouveaux riches.'"

"In fine, Aunt Matilda, she was not a genuine lady, and never could be made one; whereas, Mr. Graham is one of nature's noblemen that I used to talk about when a little girl, and he never can be anything else; I have met with a few others just like him, dear aunt;" and Madeline smiled rather archly upon Aunt Matilda.

"She'll never be cured of her plebeian notions," said the lady, with u sigh, as she turned away, "and it all comes from associating with these Bruces."

Madeline smiled again as she took the arm of Mrs. Douglass, and commenced her walk upon the deck.

"I am afraid that we are going to hae a storm," said the latter; "the sky is vera threatening, and the wind sighs heavily, as if mischief were brewing."

"It must be a grand spectacle, Mrs. Douglass, to see the war of the elements; I think that I should like to be in a storm, if it were not too violent."

"What are the signs, Davie?" said Mrs. Douglass to a sailor standing near.

"We shall have squalls before morning, ma'am. Mother Cary's chickens are flying around, and the wind comes from a stormy point of the compass."

Aunt Matilda became nervous as she watched the dark clouds gathering from so many different quarters, and heard the growling of the distant thunder. The wind rose higher and higher, the waves swelled until they rolled and surged in heavy billows in the wake of the ship, which commenced pitching and tossing from side to side; the rain descended in torrents, and, through the speaking-trumpet, the loud tones of the captain giving his orders, and the running to and fro of the seamen, increased the fears of the ladies.

"What do you think of the storm, captain?" inquired Madeline.

"We shall have a fierce tempest, my dear young lady; but we have a good strong ship, don't be alarmed."

Aunt Matilda betook herself to the cabin, and, covering herself up in her berth, trembled with apprehension. Mrs. Douglass and Madeline committed themselves quietly to the care of their Father in Heaven, and Roland paced the deck, with his eye turned anxiously upon the warring elements, and ever and anon walking near the cabin door, hoping to see something of Madeline.

"Is that you, Miss Hamilton?" said the young man, as he thought he distinguished her standing at the cabin door, in the dim light below.

"Shall I come up, Mr. Bruce? it is very close in the cabin."

"Throw on a cloak and hood; I want you to see the storm."

Madeline joined Roland on deck, and, looking around, was awe-struck at the scene. The wind was whistling through the canvas, and the ship reeling to and fro like a drunken man, seeming, to Madeline's fears, almost unmanageable.

"Is there danger, Roland?" she asked, clinging closer to his protecting arm.

"There is always danger in a storm like this, and none are safe but those who are anchored on the Rock of Ages, Madeline," and Roland drew her closer to him, and threw his arm around her to keep her from falling.

"This is a grand spectacle, Roland; we never saw the ocean in such a ferment. How insignificant we seem! how powerless!"

"You remember, Madeline, the sublime verses from the Psalms of David, where he describes the life of the seaman? 'For he commandeth and raiseth the stormy wind, which lifteth up the waves thereof. They mount up to the heaven, they go down again to the depths: their soul is melted because of trouble. They reel to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man, and are at their wits' end. Then they cry unto the Lord in their trouble, and he bringeth them out of their distresses. He maketh the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still.'"

Madeline listened to the rich, deep voice repeating these beautiful words, until, calm and tranquil, she leaned upon that strong arm for security, knowing how he trusted in the Lord. But the hurricane increased, the rain beat fearfully around them, the waves rose mountain high, and, washing over the deck, compelled them to seek shelter below.

"Shall I come in, Madeline?" asked Roland, when he reached the cabin door.

"Yes, yes, Mr. Bruce! come in, don't leave as!" called out Aunt Matilda, who was suffering agonies. "We shall all be lost! oh, hear the wind, how it howls! And how the vessel rocks! Listen! listen, Mr. Bruce, to the crackling timbers! Can the vessel stand this storm?" and Aunt Matilda wrung her hands in despair.

"Be calm, my dear Miss Hamilton," was Roland's answer; "let us commit ourselves to God, there is safety no where else," and he knelt down in the midst of the anxious company, and, in earnest words of fervent trust, he called upon the God of the tempest, and still "Looking aloft," was calm.

Presently, the ship gave a heavy lurch, and rolled over on her side; all were thrown violently down on one side of the cabin, but she did not right again. Edmund Norris ran to the ladies' cabin, for he felt the fearful danger.

"We are going, Mr. Norris!" called Aunt Matilda; "we are sinking, I am sure! O; God, have mercy! have mercy!"

"Not yet, my dear madam. The captain has ordered the main-mast sawed away, and then we shall probably right again."

Roland, seated on the floor of the cabin, held Madeline in his arms. Not a word escaped her lips, for she was quietly reposing upon the promises of her Saviour.

"We are in great danger, Madeline; are you resting upon the Saviour, dearest?" and Roland bent down in agony over the pale face that lay upon his bosom.

"I know it, Roland, but perfect trust fills my heart; and if we go down in the deep water, it is with you, my dearest friend, and we shall enter Heaven together, and never go out again."

It was an hour when the ceremonies of life were all forgotten, and Roland pressed a warm kiss upon the cold forehead and the pale lips that were whispering these precious words. In another minute the ship righted, and the cheers of the sailors resounded throughout the ship.

"Let us thank God, Miss Hamilton," said Roland, as he turned to Aunt Matilda; "for I hope that the storm is subsiding," and he poured out, in their midst, an earnest thanksgiving for the deliverance which he trusted was near. Gradually the storm abated, and, towards morning, the waves sank to their ordinary bed, and the vessel went on her way. A temporary mast had to be erected, but, as they were nearing port, little anxiety was felt.

Madeline blushed when she next met Roland, for she feared that, in the hour of danger, she had betrayed too much; but the sweet remembrance of his whispered words had banished all remaining doubts, and now she knew that Lavinia's tales about Helen Thornly must all be false; for Roland and honor were to her but one name. Edmund Norris had witnessed the scene in the storm, and understood now the silence of his friend whenever he had mentioned the name of Madeline Hamilton.

They were now nearing port. In a few days, speeding up the bay, they were at home. Roland took lodgings for himself and aunt in New York, and Madeline prepared to return to Woodcliff.

"You will go with us, Roland," said Madeline; "we must look to you to aid us in the last said offices for dear papa," and the young man accompanied the party.

"You will come on to see us, Mrs. Douglass," was Madeline's last farewell.

It was a sad return; for, instead of the beloved father, nought remained but the sacred dust to be consigned to the silent grave. The servants gathered in reverence in the hall, as the family entered. Joy at their return was mingled with deep sorrow, for they had all loved kind Mr. Hamilton.

In two days, arrangements were made for the interment; and, in the midst of his own people, and the surrounding neighborhood, he was laid by the side of his departed wife, and the service that he had loved whispered its sublime consolations over his grave. Roland returned to New York, and resumed the active duties of his daily life.

Not long after Madeline's arrival, the old took, coming to her sitting-room, asked to see her for one moment.

"Miss Madeline, there was a strange woman here the other day, inquiring when you would be at home; she spoke some queer language, I don't think it was an Irish tongue, and she called herself Elsie."

"Did she say that she would come again, Betty?" inquired Madeline.

"Yes; I told her when you were expected, and she said that she would come soon. She was very tired and hungry, and I gave her a good supper; that was right, was it not, Miss Madeline?"

"Yes, Betty, do not turn any one away that wants something to eat from Woodcliff; we have a great deal to spare, and it is such a blessed thing to give."

In about a week, Mrs. Douglass came down to pay a visit. Aunt Matilda was polite, for she was too kind-hearted to be rude in her own home.

"Have you heard any thing from Mr. Bruce's father?" inquired Madeline.

"Nae, not yet; but I hae advertised in several papers, an' hope that I may get some tiding afore lang."

"It is strange that he should have left his family so suddenly, Mrs. Douglass."

"He was aye an odd mon, Miss Hamilton, prone to fits of melancholy, an' we often feared that he wud gang crazy."

After she had been a few days at Woodcliff, an old woman called to see her; in going to the hall, what was Mrs. Douglass' surprise to see Elsie Gibson! whom she immediately recognized.

"Is that ye, Elsie?" said the lady, grasping her hand.

"I'm owre glad to see yer face, ma'am; you were aye like yer brither Stephen."

"Can ye tell me ony thing aboot him, Elsie? I hae a fancy that he is still amang us; and I maun find him."

"It hae been a lang time syne he cam to this country, Mrs. Douglass, an' his family had na seen him for years."

"There is property in Scotland which canna be settled until we find the heir, Elsie, an' if ye ken ony thing aboot him, will ye na tell his sister?"

"His loss was published in the papers in America. Mrs. Douglass, an' that is a' that I can say, ma'am."

Elsie would say no more, and spent the rest of her time in making inquiries after her kindred in Scotland.

"Are ye na ganging home, Elsie?" continued Mrs. Douglass, "there is a comfortable hoose waiting for ye wi' your sister, and she is sair grieved that ye bide sae lang awa'."

"As soon as my wark is done in America, I will gang to my ain people, for I hae greeted sair for them; but my wark is na finished yet; fare ye weel, ma'am, I shall see ye ance mair," and Elsie took her departure.

Mrs. Douglass returned to New York, and still continued her advertisements, for it was all that she could do. After she had been there some months, a note reached her from a family in Newark, requesting her to call, as they could give her some information with regard to the person of whom she was in search.

Mr. and Mrs. Antrim were a Scotch couple living quietly outside of Newark, having resided for twenty years in America--Mrs. Antrim, a neat, elderly person, received Mrs. Douglass cordially.

"I saw your advertisement, madam, and it struck me that I might give you some information concerning your lost friend."

"It is my brother, madam, wha is subject to fits of derangement, an' wha I think is in America."

Mrs. Antrim described a mysterious man who had long lived in their neighborhood.

Mrs. Douglass listened with deep interest, for she was sure that she had found her brother.

"When was he here last, Mrs. Antrim?" she inquired.

"Last Monday, and said that he would come this week."

"Can ye accommodate me wi' board for a few weeks?"

"I think that we can; we are not in the habit of taking lodgers, but if it will be the means of bringing this poor man back to his family, I will do it cheerfully."

"I dread seeing him, Mrs. Antrim, for if he kens the face o' his sister, he will ne'er come again."

"We must be very cautious; do not address him, Mrs. Douglass, take no notice of him. I have a little grandson of whom he is very fond; he is the only one that can make him talk; we must watch for opportunities."

Mrs. Douglass provided herself with a pair of green spectacles, and a very plain Quaker dress, that completely metamorphosed her, for the bonnet so entirely hid her face, that her own relations would not have recognized her; this she was to wear whenever the strange visitor should appear.

In a few days, Mrs. Antrim came up to Mrs. Douglass' room.

"He is coming, you had better change your dress."

Mrs. Douglass did not appear until tea-time; she then quietly took her seat at the table, and had time to scrutinize the strange guest. Years had made great changes; the tall form was bent, the black hair was thin, and streaked with gray, the bright eye was dim and wandering, the once rich, dark complexion sallow, and the cheeks hollow and shrivelled; an uncertain flickering smile played around the lips once so stern and firm; but there was no mistaking Stephen Bruce--there was the marked finger, the same voice, and the remains of the same brother that had once sat by her side at her father's board. He talked but little, for he saw that there was a stranger present. The little grandson was at the table.

"Sit by me, George," said the man, as he drew the child next to him, and continued, "shall I gie him some o' these cakes, Mrs. Antrim?"

"Yes, Robert, but not many."

"Where hae ye been a' this week, my little mon? ye hae na' been to see auld Robert ance."

"I have been sick, Robert, and grandma would not let me go out."

The boy was about ten years did, the age that Roland was when his father had disappeared, and had the same dark eyes and hair. The man smoothed the dark hair as he said,

"He is just like ane I luve, Mrs. Antrim."

Mrs. Douglass could scarcely control her feelings, and finding that her food was almost choking her, she arose hastily, and left the room.

"Where has the strange woman gane, Mrs. Antrim? Did I frighten her awa'? What does she wear that bonnet for?"

"She has had weak eyes, and is not very well, Robert."

"I heard her speak aince, Mrs. Antrim; I think that I hae heard the voice afore; let me see," and he placed his finger upon his lip, as he continued, "I can na' remember, but I hae heard it somewhere."

He left soon after tea, and Mrs. Douglass, deeply agitated, declared that it was her lost brother.

"What do you want to do, Mrs. Douglass?"

"To tak' him hame wi' me to Scotland; our property can na' be settled until he gaes."

"I fear that you will have great trouble before you can do this."

Several visits were paid, but still no progress towards acquaintance; at last one day, he said suddenly to Mrs. Antrim,

"Is that a Quaker lady? She seems very quiet, not ane o' the clattering kind o' women. I hae twa books which I ken would please her,--the lives o' George Fox an' William Penn; I wonder if she would come up to my little cottage."

This was wonderful for Robert Duncan, but he seemed to regard the quiet lady with a sort of pity. Mrs. Antrim communicated the news to Mrs. Douglass, and with many charges to conceal her emotion, they walked up to the humble home. It had but two rooms, very plainly furnished--on one side of his sleeping-room hung a shelf of books.

"Will ye sit doon, ma'am?" said Robert to the Quaker lady, and bringing the volumes spoken of, he continued, "I thought that ye might like these books, ma'am; wud ye like to read them?"

Mrs. Douglass replied, in a low tone; "If thee will lend them to me, Robert."

He tried to look under her bonnet, as he said, "It is vera like her voice."

"Whose voice, Robert?" asked Mrs. Antrim

"It dinna matter, ma'am, it can na' be; for she is far awa'."

While they were looking over the other books, two pictures fell out from between the leaves of one. It was but a glance--but it was Mary Gordon's face, and Roland's when a lovely child. Mrs. Douglass was thrown off her guard; she seized the pictures.

"Where did ye get these, Robert Duncan?" and the man, alarmed, gathered up the pictures, and hurried off into the next room. Before they left the cottage, he came back, and with the suspicious glance of returning insanity, said,--

"What do ye ken aboot these pictures? hae ye e'er seen them before?" and before she could reply, Robert had rushed out of the cottage, into a woods near by, and as they returned home, they saw him peeping with a dark countenance at them from behind some trees.

"I fear that we shall not see him soon again," said Mrs. Antrim; "he will have one of his dark spells, and we must let him seek us now."

For weeks no tidings were heard of the poor man, and Mrs. Douglass began to fear that her mission was fruitless. It was some time before he appeared at church again, and bent on avoiding them, he went out at a side door, and they did not force themselves upon his notice.

For several weeks it was the same--Mrs. Antrim hoped, however, that the loneliness of the cottage would bring him to their fireside in search of his little friend George.

A salutation at the church-door, and a walk home with Mrs. Antrim, was the first encouraging sign; and the next afternoon, Robert was seen coming slowly up the garden path.

"I think you had better not appear, Mrs. Douglass, until he asks for you," said the hostess.

"I could na' stay awa' frae little George any mair, Mrs. Antrim; how fares the bairn?"

"He has been asking for you every day, Robert."

The poor man looked pleased, as he caressed the little fellow.

After a few more visits, he asked for Mrs. Douglass.

"Where is the Quaker lady, Mrs. Antrim?"

"She will be here directly, Robert," and Mrs. Douglass appeared without her bonnet; a simple cap alone covered her fine dark hair.

Robert looked long and earnestly at the face, as though he were studying the resemblance to some one whom he had known.

"Did ye always live in America, ma'am?" inquired he.

The question was unexpected.

"I hae been here for some time, Robert."

"Yer dialect is Scotch, ma'am; hae ye iver lived in Scotland?"

"That is my native land, Robert."

No more conversation passed at this time, and he took his leave.

Absent again for some weeks, they sent to inquire, and found that he was very sick.

"I will mak' a desperate trial, Mrs. Antrim; there hae been no progress yet in my mission; an' I maun try anither mode; let me gae this time to see him."

"You may go, Mrs. Douglass, and may God be with you."

Throwing off her Quaker dress, she assumed her former garb, and tremblingly proceeded to the cottage. Robert was very sick; confined entirely to his bed.

She entered, took off her bonnet, and advanced to the bedside.

"Stephen Bruce! my brother Stephen! dinna ye ken yer sister?"

The countenance of the sick man darkened, as he replied,

"Wha are ye that come to fash a puir sick mon by calling him by a wrang name?"

"Dinna ye ken yer ain sister Annie, Stephen?"

"My sister Annie is in Scotland," replied the man, thrown off his guard.

"She is by yer side, Stephen, yer ain loving, faithfu' sister; she has crossed the deep ocean to find ye, an' God be praised, she has na' come in vain."

"Why do ye seek me, Annie? I am but a puir wretched mon; ye canna' want sic a brother."

"Ye are sair distraught, Stephen; I cam to tak' ye hame, that ye may get yer ain, my brother."

"Nane wad want to see a mon that had forsaken wife an' bairns as I hae done, Annie."

"Just consent to gang wi' me, Stephen."

But no words could change the determination of Stephen Bruce; he listened moodily to all his sister's arguments; but all was in vain.

She took her departure, and her heart sank within her when she heard the bolts slide, fastening doors and windows against another entrance.

She sent each day to inquire; he was getting better; but no inducements could persuade him to open his door to the family at Mrs. Antrim's, not even to little George.

In a few days, the cottage was forsaken; and Stephen had vanished from the neighborhood. Thus the link so lately found was lost once more.

In vain Mrs. Douglass sought for tidings; there was no clue whatever to his movements.

"I hae no hope but in Elsie Gibson, Mrs. Antrim; I think that I shall see her soon."

Advertisements were again inserted in the newspaper; but still no news.

At length Elsie made her appearance.

"I hae found my brother, Elsie, an' lost him again; can ye tell me where he is?"

"I need na' be so secret noo, as ye ken that he lives; he has a strange dislike towards his kin, but I hope that we may ow'rcome it, for he is na sae bad as he was."

"Where is he, Elsie?" asked Mrs. Douglass.

"He is aboot tharty miles frae here, wi' an auld woman, who is kind to him."

"What led ye to this country, Elsie?"

"Ye ken the history o' my early days, Annie Douglass; and ye ken fu' well that Elsie ne'er forsakes the ane she luves, though Stephen luved anither. When the tidings o' his loss reached Scotland, I greeted sair for him wha lay buried in the deep sea; but when he appeared suddenly amang us, I saw that his puir mind was a' shattered, for he seemed dark an' gloomy, and could na' bear the sight o' Malcolm Graham. He was aye jealous o' that stricken mon; an' had the notion that Malcolm yet luved his wife wi' a fond an' tender luve. He hid himsel' frae his friends, got some o' his money secretly, bound me by a solemn oath to keep his secret, and then started again for America to watch his wife. I kenned that he was crazy; an' leaving a comfortable hame, where I had enow to live on weel, I cam' owre here; found puir Stephen separated frae his wife and bairns, an' wandering aboot wi'out a hame. I could na persuade him to gae back to his wife; but he employed me to see that their wants were weel supplied. I went out to sarvice, for I had nae ither way to live. At last, the money he had brought was gane; he had become so much warse that he could na' tell me how to write to Scotland; then cam' the dark days. I had to wark vera hard to find a hame for puir Stephen; the only thing that I am sorry for was that I agreed to stop the letters which Mary sent to Scotland, for he was beset wi' the notion that, in this way, she could hear frae Malcolm; an' he was niver at rest until I brought the letters, an' he destroyed them in my sight. Then he seemed a little better; for he felt that he had closed the door for aye between his pure an' holy wife an' the mon that she had luved sae truly. But Stephen luved her a' the time. I used to tak' him sometimes several lang mile just to get a glint o' Mary an' her bairns in her humble cottage. I led him to her grave, an' I saw him weep bitter tears owre the green sod, and owre the grave o' his daughter, Effie; an' I hoped that the warm tears wad wash awa' the cloud owre the puir brain; but it is there yet, Annie; an' I ken o' only ane ither way to lead him hame. I hae told him meikle aboot his son Roland; he luves that boy wi' a' a father's pride; if he could see him, he might prevail on him to gang back to Scotland. I hae helped to bear Stephen's sorrows, Annie, an' a' the pay I ask is just to see him happy; an' that is my mission here, Annie; when I see him wi' his ain people ance mair, an' his puir stricken heart at rest, then I shall gang hame again, an' spend the rest o' my life in preparing for my last journey."

Mrs. Douglass listened with many tears to this sad story, and agreed with Elsie in the fancy that Roland only could persuade his father to return.

She lost no time in writing; Roland came at once, and the three set out to find the heart-broken man.

Elsie entered first. "Stephen, I hae brought a friend, whom ye wad luve to see, an' wha wad luve to see ye."

"Wha is it, Elsie? wha can want to see sic a mon as I?"

"Yer son Roland; as soon as he heard where ye are, he left all, an' is here, langing to see his father."

"Elsie, how can he e'er forget the days o' poverty an' woe that I hae brought upon his mother?"

"He is a Christian, Stephen; he has forgiven a' the past, an' a' that he wants noo is to see his father, an' be a guid an' faithfu' son to him, as he was aye to his departed mother."

"Bring him in, Elsie; I maun see my boy."

Roland entered, and before he could prevent it, Stephen had crawled out of bed, and lay prostrate at the feet of his son.

Roland instantly raised him from the ground.

"Do not kneel to me, my father; I came to seek you as a loving, faithful son."

"I can na look upon yer face, yer young noble face, Roland, for I am na worthy o' sic a son."

"Dear father, let us forget the past; my mother would smile upon this reunion, and now your sorrows are all over; I will cherish and keep you as a true and loyal son."

Stephen Bruce could not resist the generous appeal, but lifting up his voice, the poor man wept; the fountains of the great deep of feeling were broken up, and stormed the bosom of the heart-broken penitent.

Elsie Gibson stood by--poor, faithful Elsie; her mission was accomplished; her woman's unselfish love was all repaid. She knelt by the side of the bed, and wept long and quietly, for hers were the tears of grateful, happy feeling. Roland beckoned to his aunt.

Stephen raised his head, the pale lips quivered, as he said, "come, sister Annie, we are a' as ane again;" and stretching out his arms, he folded in the embrace of a brother's love, the twin-sister of his early days. There was no more need to persuade Stephen to return to Scotland; his anxiety to secure to this honored son all his rights, made him eager to set sail, that he might, in some measure, atone for past neglect.

"You will return to America, my father, as soon as all is settled."

"Yes, my son, I can na' be parted ony mair; I maun look to ye, my boy, for the strong arm; for I am a puir broken doon auld mon, auld before my time;" and Stephen folded his son in his arms with feelings of deepest reverence and love. Elsie! poor faithful Elsie, stood in weeping silence.

"Fareweel, Elsie! guid an' faithfu' friend! ye hae been true through the darkest days, an' God will bless ye;" and Stephen laid his hand upon her head, as he said, "True an' faithfu' may we a' meet abuve." As soon as possible, arrangements were made to leave America; farewells exchanged; and Roland, hastening from the ship, could still glance upward, and say, "Looking aloft!"