CHAPTER LXIV

THROUGH THE MIST.

STRENUOUS and eager as Neil was, his boyish strength had its limit, and the agitation of his mind probably hastened the moment when he felt compelled to pause, and deposit his burden on the heather. Effie was no longer a dead weight. She had moved and moaned, clung for an instant more tightly than seemed possible with such fragile arms to her cousin, and then made a sudden struggle to be released, murmuring in a bewildered way, "Oh, what is this? I can walk, I can walk!"

She staggered a step or two, and leaned heavily back on his protecting arm.

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Rest, dear Effie, rest," whispered Neil, and he folded and flung his plaid down on the hill, dank with mist and the dews of morning, and softly lowered her to that resting-place. But, as consciousness returned, grief and horror woke anew in Effie's breast. Her poor little pale face grew wild and strange. She stared. at Neil with eyes that seemed to him to dilate as they gazed. Then she burst into tears; such tears as Neil had never seen shed in his life, for he had neither known and suffered grief himself, nor witnessed it in others. The calm sadness of his mother was a familiar pain to his loving nature; but this, - this dreadful weeping, this young thing dissolved in showers of tears, and shaken by sobs, and wringing those slender hands, and wildly looking through the mist to the unseen sky, calling on God for help was strange and dreadful to him; and what was he to do with her? What could he do?

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She wept, she rocked herself backward and forward, like a reed when the storm sweeps over the loch." Oh, papa! oh, papa! oh, my own father! Oh, to think I shall never, never hear his voice any more! And he said such dreadful things -- things to make God so angry! Oh, such things he said, and such dreadful songs he sang- on the hill in the night-oh, my poor father! my miserable father! oh, dreadful, dreadful things! Oh, God forgive those songs, and all the words he said! He was ill-he did not know. Oh, Neil, cousin Neil, do you think God will forgive? the terrible God! oh, my father! I hear him -I hear him singing still! Eut no, never again! never again! I shall never hear him again! Those dreadful words are the last, the last, the last!"

And the weeping grew more convulsive; and the young heart that beat in Neil's breast seemed as if it would burst for very

pity. "My mother shall take you," he faltered out, as the only comfort he could think of. Then, as he looked despairingly round at the wild plants on the wild hill where those two young creatures sat in that chill mist of morning, he suddenly pressed her little shuddering fingers in his warm eager

grasp.

"Effie," he said, "oh, Effie, try and listen. I cannot tell why it should come to me now - I have not thought of it for years - the memory of a little tradition my mother told me, long, long ago, when I was a child. It was a rider, a bad wild man, a robber, I think, who was careering over ground like this, rough, full of granite stones and slippery places, and his horse threw him, pitched him right overhead, and all that those who ran to help him heard was a frantic curse and a groan, and then silence, for he was dead. But when they came near the place, there was a strange plant grown there, a tall thistle with varigated leaves streaked with white, and upon the leaf, in irregular characters, these lines were traced:

'Betwixt the stirrup and the ground, Mercy was sought—and mercy found!'

My dear Effie, the story is a little wild fable, but God's endless mercy is no fable. Moments to Him may be years of ours, as years of ours are but seconds to Him. He knows the thoughts that would have changed all the heart. Ile knows if the dying would have lived a better life, and lived to serve Him. He knows, -oh, Effie, are you weeping still so bitterly; will nothing comfort you?"

"Oh, my father, my father! The dreadful, dreadful words!" sobbed Effie. "The dreadful, dreadful night! Oh, my heart is broken: my heart is all dark, for ever and ever and ever!"

As she spoke, as she sobbed, as she rocked to and fro, suddenly the mist lifted; the unequalled loveliness of that sight, only visible in the Highlands and among similar mountain scenery, burst on the gaze of the anxious lad, and the desolate girl by his side. The golden glory of sunrise broke over and under the floating clouds; the leaden lake turned blue, and rippled with silver lines; the far-off falls of Torrieburn, the white speck of its dwelling-house, the lovely towers of Glenrossie, and even the grim grey visionary rocks of Clochnaben, all caught a share of the tinging rays; and Neil's beautiful face - as he turned in wonder and admiration to this opening of the golden gates of morning - brightened with a rosy flush half

she had stayed, as she said she would stay, with her parents. But Kenneth ill and dying in the cold mist on the hill-side, Kenneth suffering, and ruined, and alone, was once more suddenly her idol and treasure, "her ain bairn and bonny king o' men." She was ignorant, erring, homely: but love is grand, and holy, and divine; and mother's love, as it is the first, so also in its intensity is it the strongest upon earth. Lovely as is the scriptural promise of complete union between truly-knitted husband and wifethey twain shall be one flesh"-a higher comparison yet waits on mother's love. No fleshly union is spoken of there, but it is made akin to, and one with, the eternal Spirit of God:" As a mother comforteth, so will I comfort you." Inspiration itself gave no more perfect image of love divine. Maggie, then, was there to nurse and comfort Kenneth; cradle-love was with the man forsaken by his untrue Spanish wife, and by the careless friends of dissolute hours; cradle-kisses were once more showered on his brow, and cheek, and pale, swollen lips. And even now, though animal nature preponderated in poor Maggie, and the anxiety of her soul failed to keep her body waking, there was something intensely fond and maternal in the attitude of her leaning head, with its rich masses of golden hair, scarcely yet dimmed with streaks of grey, and the large white arms and clasping hands stretched, even in slumber, across the pillows that supported the unconscious form of her Absalom.

She slept, and the nurse slept - heavily, profoundly.

But there was one sleepless watcher in that room. Effie had been put to bed; Maggie herself had assisted in that ceremony; had first boxed her weary ears for weeping and wishing to stay up, and had then sat down on the narrow bed, and wept with her loudly and grievously; till Effie had almost felt the new mystery of jealousy creep into her soul, as she had felt the new mystery of Death, at the evidence of a love for her father whose passion was so like her own.

And in the silent watches of the night, when the dim light was burning and gleaming down on those other sleepers, and no sound but their heavy breathing made life in the room, Effie glided from her inner chamber, and stood, pale and sad and slender, in her white night-dress, by Kenneth's bed-side.

Then it was that, as he opened his eyes, conscious of outward sight and sounds, he saw her like a white angel ascend and lightly kneel upon his bed; facing him, but with

Such were the words that greeted Kenneth, or seemed to greet him, in the dreamy night. Sweet mournful voice-sweet little mournful face! Is it a vision or reality that haunts him now?

It is reality, Kenneth-it is your own poor child your young helpless daughter, praying thus to God.

All of a sudden, as comes a flash of irradiating light, there came to Kenneth's soul a consciousness unknown before. This was, indeed, his child — his own flesh and blood and spirit; part of himself; the better, the more innocent part of himself. And she was praying-not for herself, not for blessings to her own life, but for HIM. Willing to die, to suffer, to be in "wretched pain!" for his sake; to save him; to rescue him from some unknown evil; from the wrath of God !

With a feeble hollow voice, in the depth and darkness of night, Kenneth called to his child. Effie, my little Effie, is it you?

"Oh, papa! oh, my blessed and beloved papa, yes; oh, father, yes, it is I! I am here."

Then Kenneth said, with a groan, "Pray for me, Effie - I dare not pray for myself." Pray for me." Who shall doubt that God permits children to be our angels on earth? "I say to you, that their angels do always behold the face of our Father which is in heaven." ALWAYS. Not in vague glimpses, as to our baser and more clay-loaded natures, but always. Oh blessed privilege, of dwelling in the light that never is withdrawn!

So in the murky night, while the nurse and poor Maggie slept, God's angels woke; and the slender child, dawning towards womanhood, woke also, and prayed for her wretched father.

And it seemed to Kenneth as if scales fell from his eyes while she prayed. His selfishness his, insolent insubordination, his sinful passion for Gertrude, his want of tenderness and pity to his poor mother the ignorant loving Maggie, with all her faults and all her virtues; his ceaseless ingratitude to his uncle; all smote and stabbed him to the heart sharply as a two-edged sword. God's mercy was dealing with him; God visited him, and spoke to him with that mysterious voice heard by the first sinners in Paradise

"walking in the garden in the cool of the day." And in that midnight hour, on the wings of that child's prayer, the repentance of Kenneth went up to heaven. "Have mercy, Lord, and create a new spirit within me," was all poor Kenneth said, for he was unused to prayer.

But God asks not for human eloquence. The publican who smote on his breast with the brief petition, " God be merciful to me a sinner," went down to his house justified rather than the other. "God forgive me, was Kenneth's murmured prayer. "God have mercy on my dear, dear father," was Effie's simple reiteration of yearning petition. Did the angels hear and bear it to the foot of the Almighty's throne? - Assuredly they did. And in the morning Kenneth lay sad, and weak, but sensible, with his little Effie by him; and he scrupled not to own to that devoted child that he felt as if he had been blind all his life; and that suddenly God had healed him, and caused him to see the selfish, sinful, strange rebellious course which he had taken continually in the bygone years. So Kenneth repented! In feebleness, bitterness, sickness, and humbleness, never to be the same man again; but with a deep and true repentance, abjectly sincere. There are resurrections on earth other than the one which leads from death to immortality. There are illustrations of God's beautiful emblem of divine change in the bursting of the dull chrysalid case to let the winged Psyche forth, other than the one illustration of coffined clay, from which the imprisoned soul escapes and ascends to glory.

The lesser resurrections, of our world, are daily round us. Memories of good; and words of forgotten prayers; and voices of friends neglected; and lessons of life from which we turned impatiently, as children from dry tasks these all may rise again; in no spectral light, but clad in gleams of glory; rise, like the fountain in the desert that quenched the thirst of perishing Ishmael when all around seemed but barren sand; rise, as the good thought rose in the dissolute prodigal's heart while he fed the foul swine despairing; and turn our steps back, like his, into the long-forsaken track of peace, which shall lead at last to our Father's mercy and a heavenly home.

"God has given me the treasure I least deserved," Kenneth said, as he lay with one weak hand locked in his mother's, and the other caressingly folding his child's head to his cheek. "I have this good dear child; and I was such a bad son to you, mother!"

And poor Maggie's wide blue eyes opening in mingled amazement, pity, and passionate affection, she answered in a sort of confused rapture, "Ou! Kenneth, my lad, I loo ye mair than if ye'd been the best son to me that iver lived; but I'll loo ye mair and mair noo that ye're sae sick and sorry."

And sick and sorry Kenneth continued for a long time. It was not to be expected that such a shock, to an already broken constitution, should pass and leave no traces. He spoke with difficulty; walked with dif ficulty; a general and unnatural feebleness, such as is often the forerunner of paralysis, deadened his faculties. He leaned heavily on Effie (who loved to be so leaned upon), and told her, with a smile, she was his "live walking-stick." He sat mute and unoccupied; looking out into space, into vacancy; he was no longer the Kenneth they had known, but another Kenneth altogether.

Dear, inexpressibly dear to them! They judged him not; they blamed him not; they desired only to serve and tend him. And Effie's wistful eyes followed and rested on him as a dog watches for his master; and, in all the little household cares and medical appliances that fell to her lot to perform, she did her spiriting gently," as Ariel in the island of storms before the wand of Prospero was broken.

CHAPTER LXVI.

GERTRUDE HAS A NEW TROUBLE.

WHEN Neil narrated to his mother the events of that agitated morning, he was amazed that she did not express her intention of instantly going to Torrieburn to tend and comfort Ethie, amazed and disappointed.

"Whatever Kenneth has done to anger my father, poor dear Effie cannot have offended him! Indeed, the Torrieburn agent told me of his generous intentions, that in buying Torrieburn it should be settled on Effie: why then can you not go to her? Oh! mother, she is so forlorn and miserable!"

Gertrude wept.

My boy," she said, "you cannot think I do not pity Effie. You shall write to your father what has happened. When he knows

- when he hears She paused, choked with painful emotion.

"When he knows and hears, mother," said Neil, hotly, he will wonder that all