Parson Dan chuckled several times as he sipped his hot cocoa before the fire. It was an open fire, and the flames licked around an old dry root which had been brought with other driftwood up from the shore. This brightly-lighted room was a pleasing contrast to the roughness of the night outside, for a strong late October wind was careening over the land. It swirled about the snug Hillcrest rectory, rattling any window which happened to be a little loose, and drawing the forked-tongued flames writhing up the large commodious chimney.
When the third chuckle had been emitted, Mrs. Royal laid aside the paper she had been reading and looked somewhat curiously at her husband.
"The missionary meeting must have been very amusing to-night, Daniel," she remarked. "It is too bad that I didn't go."
"Oh, no, it wasn't the meeting which was amusing," was the reply. "But I must say it was the best one I ever attended. That missionary had a great story to tell and he told it well. There was a good attendance, too, especially for such a cold night. But you can't guess, my dear, who was there."
"The Bishop?"
"No, no," and the parson rubbed his hands in glee and gave another boyish chuckle. "Give it up, eh?" and his eyes sparkled as he turned them upon his wife's puzzled face.
"Yes."
"I thought so. You could never guess, for you would never think of
Captain Josh."
"No, surely not, Daniel!" and Mrs. Royal, now all attention, drew her chair a little closer to the fire. "What in the world took him there to-night? I never knew him to go to church, let alone to a missionary meeting."
"Oh, that is easily explained, dear. His only son, you know, is in the Yukon, and he was anxious to hear about that country. He was certainly the most interested person there, and after the meeting was over, he walked right up to Mr. Dicer and asked him if he had met his son."
"And had he?" Mrs. Royal inquired.
"Yes; knew him well. Now, the way those two men did talk would have done your heart good. To think of Captain Josh chatting with a missionary, when for years he has been so much down on missions and missionaries. That is one on the old captain, and I shall not forget it when I see him again, ho, ho," and Parson Dan leaned back in his comfortable chair and fairly shook with merriment.
"I hope that his interest will keep up," was Mrs. Royal's comment, as she picked up the paper she had laid aside. "Perhaps he will learn that missionaries are of some use in the world after all."
"I am afraid not, Martha," the parson returned, as he reached for his pipe and tobacco lying on a little stand by his side. "It is only his son which made him interested to-night, and that is as far as it goes."
"It might be the beginning, though, Daniel, who can tell? I always liked Jimmy. He and Alec got on so well together. Do you know what day this is?"
"Ay, ay, Martha," and the clergyman's face grew grave, and a slight mistiness dimmed his eyes. "I haven't forgotten it."
"He would have been twenty-five to-day, Daniel."
"I know it, and it seems only yesterday that I went for old Doctor Paddock. It was a night something like this, and I was so afraid that we would not get back in time."
The fire danced cheerily before them, and the clock on the mantel ticked steadily as the two sat for some time in silence, gazing thoughtfully upon the blazing sticks.
"I dreamed last night that I saw him," Mrs. Royal at length remarked. "He was a baby, and had on his little white dress. He looked up into my face and smiled, just like he used to do. I gave a cry of joy and put out my arms to take him. At that I awoke, and he disappeared. Oh, Daniel, we didn't value him enough when we had him—and now he's gone."
"And do you remember, Martha, what plans we made for his future? Our hopes have been sadly shattered."
"We have only his memory with us now, Daniel," was the quiet reply. "I always think of him as a baby, or as a strong manly boy coming home from school. But for that precious recollection I hardly know how I could bear up at all."
Scarcely had she finished speaking, when a faint knock sounded upon the front door. They both started and listened attentively, thinking that perhaps it was only the wind. But when the knock was repeated, Parson Dan rose quickly to his feet, crossed the room and entered the outer hall. As he unlocked and opened the front door, a shaving of cold wind whipped into the room, while the inky night rose suddenly before him like a great perpendicular wall. For a few seconds he could see nothing, but as his eyes became accustomed to the blackness, he beheld a dim form standing before him. Then a large bundle was thrust suddenly into his arms, and the figure disappeared. He thought he heard a sob borne on the night air as he stood in the door-way clutching the burden imposed upon him. But perhaps it was only the wailing of the wind he heard. He was too dazed to be sure of himself as he stood there peering forth into the night, expecting some one to enter, or at least to speak and explain the meaning of this strange behaviour. But none of these things happened, so, still bewildered, he closed the door with his foot and made his way back into the living-room.
"Daniel, Daniel! what are you standing there in the draught for?" his wife remonstrated. "You will get your death of cold."
She ceased abruptly, however, when she saw her husband enter with the strange bundle in his arms.
"What is it?" she gasped, rising quickly to her feet.
"Don't know," was the reply. "It's alive, anyway, whatever it is, for it's beginning to wriggle. Here, take it."
But Mrs. Royal shrank back, and raised her hands as if to protect herself.
"It won't hurt you, dear. What are you afraid of?"
"But it's alive, you say. It might not be safe to have it in the house. Where did it come from?"
Before a reply could be given, the bundle gave a vigorous twist, while a muffled squeal came from beneath the clothes, which almost caused the parson to drop his burden upon the floor. But that sound stirred Mrs. Royal to immediate action. No longer did she hesitate, but stepping forward relieved her husband of his charge.
"It is a baby!" she cried, at the same time drawing aside the shawl and exposing the chubby face of a child nestling within. A pair of bright blue eyes looked up into hers, and a queer little chuckle of delight came from the small rose-bud of a mouth. So pleased was it to have its face uncovered, that it performed the rest of the job itself, and by means of a few strenuous kicks disengaged its feet from their covering and stuck them straight up into the air.
"Bless its little heart!" was Mrs. Royal's motherly comment. "It is going to make itself at home, anyway."
Seating herself before the fire, she laid aside the shawl and straightened out the baby's mussed garments. They were clothes of the plainest, but spotlessly clean.
Parson Dan stood watching his wife with much interest. This little waif of the night appealed to him in a remarkable manner.
"Who do you suppose left it here?" he at last asked. "It is no child of this parish, I feel quite sure of that."
"Perhaps it was an angel who did it," Mrs. Royal replied. "It may be that the good Lord has taken compassion upon our loneliness since we lost Alec and has given us this in his stead."
"No, I cannot believe that, Martha. I do not for a moment doubt that such a thing is possible, oh, no. But that old shawl and those plain clothes do not look much like heavenly robes, do they? I think that the hands which made that little white dress were human hands such as ours, and the sob which I heard to-night was not the sob of an angel but of a heart-broken mother."
"Well, she is the angel, then, whoever she is," Mrs. Royal insisted, "and perhaps she will come for the baby to-morrow."
"Oh, do you think so, Martha?" and there was a note of anxiety in the parson's voice. "How nice it would be to keep it."
"Why do you say 'it,' Daniel? Why don't you say 'her'?"
"I never knew before that it was a 'her,'" and the parson chuckled as he stroked his clean-shaven chin with the fingers of his right hand.
"You didn't?" and his wife looked her surprise. "Why, any one who has the least knowledge of babies can tell a boy from a girl at the first glance. There is always a marked difference in the way they behave."
"Ah, is that so, dear?"
"Certainly. A boy as a rule is cranky when he wakes. But do you notice how good natured this baby is? and how she lies so quietly in my lap, looking wonderingly into the fire? And notice how delicately she is formed; how perfect her face; how slight her neck, and how tiny her arms and hands. Oh, it is always easy for a woman to tell which is which."
"What shall we call her, Martha?" and Parson Dan drew up his chair and sat down.
"I have been thinking of that, Daniel, but have not decided yet. I always liked Deborah; it is such a good strong name."
"It is a good old name, anyway," was the somewhat reluctant assent.
"But she is sure to get 'Debbie,' or 'Deb,' which I dislike very much."
"Oh, that all depends upon what a child is called at home, Daniel. If we begin at once to call her Deborah, people will do the same."
"Very well, Martha, if you wish to call her Deborah, I have no objection. But——"
Here the parson paused, leaned over and picked up a small piece of white paper lying upon the floor. He glanced carelessly at it at first, but as he read the words written thereon his eyes opened wide. He looked at his wife, who was intently watching the baby, and an amused expression broke over his face. Then came the inevitable chuckle.
"What is it now, Daniel?" his wife questioned. "That is the fourth time you've chuckled already to-night. It seems to take very little to amuse you."
"Suppose the baby isn't a girl after all, dear?" the parson replied, ignoring his wife's sarcastic remark.
"Not a girl! What do you mean?"
"Suppose she should be a boy, after all?"
"The idea is ridiculous, Daniel. Don't you suppose I know a girl from a boy?"
"Very well, then, read that," and the clergyman handed her the slip of paper.
"Please take care of Rodney. I will come for him some day. The Lord will reward you even if I can't.
As Mrs. Royal read this brief note, a peculiar expression overspread her face. She uttered no word, but her head drooped lower over the baby and she remained very still. Her husband at once realising how she felt, laid his hand upon hers.
"There, there, dear," he soothed. "I didn't mean to make you feel badly. It was only a little mistake after all, and I am really glad it is a boy, for if will make us think that we have Alec with us again."
Mrs. Royal looked up and brushed away a tear. At that instant the baby gave a vigorous kick, accompanied by a peculiar gurgle of delight, at which the two attendants laughed heartily.
"That's right, little man," and the parson nodded his head approvingly. "You're pleased, too, are you, to know that we've found out that you are a boy? You didn't want to be called Deborah, Debbie, or Deb, did you? Rodney suits you better, eh? How do you like the name, Martha?"
"Very well, indeed," and Mrs. Royal gave a sigh of relief. "It removes quite a load from my mind. But, there," she added, "I must put him to bed. It isn't good for a baby to be up so late. Come, Rodney," and she lifted the little one in her arms, "kiss your——"
"Grandad," the parson assisted as his wife paused. "We shall teach him to call me that, eh? It will be better than 'daddy.'"
"You look after him, Daniel, while I make his bed ready. Don't let him fall. There, that's good," and Mrs. Royal stepped back to view the baby lying in her husband's arms.
Lighting a candle which was standing on tin mantel over the fire-place, she went upstairs and stopped before a door on the left of the hall-way This she opened and softly entered. The room was small, but neat and cosy. Every piece of furniture was in its proper place, and the bed looked as if it had been recently made. The walls were adorned with various articles, from a number of shelves, filled with books for boys, to snow-shoes, fishing-rods, a rifle, and college colours. It had been several years since any one had slept in that room, but not a day had passed during that period that Mrs. Royal had not entered and sat for a while in the big easy chair by the side of the bed. Everything was there just as Alec had left it, though a few things had been added since.
One of these was a crib which had been his. This was standing in a corner of the room with the little pillow and white spread in perfect order. For a few moments Mrs. Royal stood looking down upon the small cot associated with such sweet memories. Then she placed the candle upon a small table and set earnestly to work. First she removed the clothes and mattress and carried the crib into her own room across the hall. Going back for the clothes, she carried them downstairs, and spread them upon the backs of several chairs for them to warm before the fire.
Parson Dan watched her intently, but made no comment. He fully realised how risky it was to speak just then. He knew how much it meant for his wife to disturb that little cot and make it ready for a strange child. Neither did he wish to say anything, for he himself was deeply stirred as memories of other days rushed upon him. When at last Rodney was carefully covered and sound asleep in the crib upstairs, they both stood looking down upon his sweet round face.
"Poor little waif," Mrs. Royal remarked. "He is somebody's child, and perhaps his mother is longing for him at this very moment."
"There is no doubt about it," her husband replied. "That sob which I heard to-night is still ringing in my ears, and I know it was the sob of a heart-broken mother."
The baby awoke bright and early the next morning, in fact too early for Mr. and Mrs. Royal. The former, especially, enjoyed the hour from six to seven, when, as he once said, he obtained his "beauty sleep." But the little stranger of the night was no respecter of persons. He lifted up his voice at the unnatural hour of five, and by means of a series of gurgles, whoops, and complaints, drove all sleep from drowsy eyes. He was not in the least abashed in the presence of strangers, but standing in his crib, he rattled the side, and yelled shouts of baby defiance at the other occupants of the room.
"I didn't know that he could stand alone," the parson remarked as he first saw Rodney scramble to his feet. "How old do you suppose he is?"
"About fourteen months, I should judge, Daniel," his wife replied. "He may be older, though. One can't always tell."
"He's a stirring lad, anyway, Martha, and we shall have our hands full. Won't you need some help, dear? How would it do to get a woman in occasionally to assist with the work, as the baby will take so much of your time?"
"That will not be necessary, Daniel. By the look of things now we shall be up earlier each morning, and one hour then is worth two later in the day."
After the parson had lighted the fire in the cooking-stove, and also the one in the living-room, he went to the barn to milk. He kept one Jersey cow which supplied enough milk for the house. This was a fine animal, and the pride of the neighbourhood, as it had taken the first prize at the large Exhibition held that very fall in the city.
The rectory was situated upon land known as "The Glebe," about fifty acres in extent, which had been granted to the Church by the Crown in Loyalist days. About one-third of this was under cultivation, producing hay and oats for the horse and cow, as well as all the vegetables needed for the table. Several acres were given up to pasturage, while the remainder was wooded. The Royals were, therefore, most comfortably situated, and quite independent. A small orchard provided them with apples, the taste of which was well known to every person in the parish, especially the children, for Parson Dan seldom started forth without his pockets filled with Russets, Pippins, or Fameuse. Mrs. Royal had her hens, and no eggs seemed as large and fresh as the ones she often sent to some sick or aged person, in the parish.
While Mrs. Royal was looking after the baby, the parson fed his horse, "Sweepstakes," and milked "Brindle," the cow. He then turned the latter loose, and drove her down the lane to the feeding-ground beyond.
"There is a stray cow out in the pasture," the clergyman informed his wife as he sipped his coffee.
"Whose is it?" was the somewhat absent-minded reply, for Mrs. Royal's attention was upon Rodney, who was creeping gaily about the floor, examining every nook, and making himself perfectly at home.
"I don't know whose it is," the parson retorted, a little nettled at his wife's question. "I can tell you about every man, woman, and child in this parish; I know all the horses and dogs, and can give you their pedigrees. But I draw a line at cows, pigs, hens, and cats. I am fond enough of them, but there is a limit to the things I can remember. I forget too much as it is. And, by the way, that reminds me that I must go to Hazlewood to-day. Joe Bradley told me last night that his mother is ill, and wishes to see me. He came all the way to the meeting on purpose to tell me, and to think that I nearly forgot all about it! It was that young rascal, though, who did it," and the parson turned his eyes upon the baby. "Do you think that you can make out alone with him, Martha? I fear that I shall be away all day, as there are several other calls I must make at Hazlewood."
"Oh, I shall make out all right," was the reply. "But there are several things you might bring me from the store on your way home. I will make out a list for you, as you would be sure to forget them."
It was almost dusk when Parson Dan returned from his long journey, tired and hungry.
"How is the boy?" he asked as he entered the house, after having stabled Sweepstakes.
"He's as good as gold, Daniel," Mrs. Royal replied. "But I am worried about Brindle. She hasn't come in yet, and I cannot see her anywhere in the pasture."
"She's with that strange cow, no doubt, Martha, and I shall go after her at once. It will be too dark if I wait until supper is over."
Parson Dan was absent for about an hour, and it was dark when he returned to the rectory. He looked disappointed.
"Brindle is gone," was the news he imparted to his wife. "I found where the fence was broken down. That strange cow must have done it, for I never knew Brindle to do such a thing. I wonder how that cow got in there, anyway. It is a complete mystery to me. I tried to follow the cows through the woods, but it got so dark that I was forced to give up the search. I must be off early in the morning or there will be no milk for the wee lad's breakfast."
"And none for our coffee, Daniel," was his wife's reminder. "Milk will be a very poor substitute for cream, but it will be better than nothing."
"That's quite true, Martha. It's been a long time since we've been without milk or cream in the house. But we can stand it better than the baby. Poor little chap, he must not starve, even if we have to borrow some from our neighbours. I hope Rodney has not tired you too much to-day, dear. It has been years since you had the care of a baby."
"It has been a great joy, Daniel, to have the laddie with me. He slept several hours, and when he woke he was so good and full of fun. At times I imagined he was Alec playing on the floor with his blocks. He was very sweet when I put him to bed to-night. He never misses his mother. How soon a baby forgets."
"But I venture to say that his mother hasn't forgotten him," and the parson's face grew serious as he recalled that sob of the night before. "I have been thinking of her all through the day, and wondering who she is, and why she left her baby at our door."
"And so have I, Daniel. I had the idea that she would return, and several times I started at the least noise, expecting to see her at the door."
"I do not wish to deprive the mother of her baby," the parson thoughtfully mused, "but how I should like to keep him! He seems to belong to us. In fact, he has made himself perfectly at home already."
Parson Dan was astir unusually early the next morning. He stood before the rectory looking up and down the road, uncertain which course to take in search of the missing Brindle.
"Let me see," he considered, "that fence is down on the upper side, and most likely those cows have made their way up the road. I guess I had better hunt there first."
As he stood there his eyes roamed over the scene before him. The rectory was situated upon a gentle elevation, surrounded by tall, graceful elms, and large branching maples. Below the road was the parish church, standing where it had stood for almost one hundred years, amid its setting of elms, maples, and oaks. Nearby was the cemetery, where the numerous shafts of marble and granite could be plainly seen from the road. To the right and left were pretty cottages, for the most part closed, as they belonged to people from the city, who, like the swallows, having spent their summer in this beautiful spot, had flitted at the approach of winter. Beyond stretched the St. John River, one of the finest sheets of water in the province, or even in Eastern Canada. This morning it appeared like a magic mirror, with not a breath of wind ruffling its placid surface.
Parson Dan's heart filled with pride and peace as he gazed upon the entrancing scene. Seldom had it looked so beautiful, and he believed that the early morning hour had much to do with its attractiveness.
"Glorious, glorious!" he murmured, "and so few abroad to see it. How the spirit of peace is brooding over river and land! Marvellous are Thy works, O Lord, and Thy mercies are renewed every morning."
He was aroused from his meditation by the sound of foot-steps upon the road. Glancing quickly around, he saw a tall, powerfully-built man approaching, carrying in his right hand a large stick, which he brought down upon the ground with a resounding thump. His clothes were rough; a heavy pair of boots encased his feet, while an old soft felt hat covered a head crowned with a wealth of iron-grey hair. He seemed like a veritable patriarch of ancient Hebrew days, and this likeness was intensified by his aquiline nose, keen eagle-like eyes, and a long beard sweeping his expansive chest. A smile lightened his face as he approached.
"Good mornin', parson," was his cheery greeting. "Ye're abroad early."
"Oh, good morning, captain," was the hearty reply. "We seem to be the only persons astir, eh?"
"More's the pity, parson. Don't see the like of that every day," and the captain waved his stick through the air. "Fine sight, that."
"It certainly is," the clergyman assented, "and how few are abroad to see it. But say, captain, you haven't seen anything of my cow, have you?"
"Ho, ho, that's a sudden jump, isn't it, parson?"
"A sudden what?"
"A sudden jump from the sublime to the ridiculous; from a scene like that to a cow."
"Not when you have no milk or cream, captain. Brindle has broken out of the pasture, and I have no idea where she can be."
"Did ye pray this mornin' that ye might find her, parson?"
"No, I can't say that I did," was the somewhat reluctant reply, for
Parson Dan was well accustomed to Captain Josh's thrusts.
"Ah, that's too bad. The missionary said night before last that we must pray if we expect to receive, didn't he?"
"Yes, captain, he did."
"And he told us more'n that, parson. He said that we couldn't expect to receive unless we gave."
"Yes, he said that also."
"And by jingo, he was right, too," and the captain brought his stick down upon the road with a bang. "I've tried it, and it has turned out just as the missionary said it would."
"You have!" and the clergyman looked his astonishment. "I am so glad, captain, to know that you have come to view things in a different light. I was pleased to see you at the missionary meeting, and I am so thankful that you were benefited by what you heard. Won't you tell me how you proved Mr. Dicer's words to be true?"
"Would ye like to know, parson?" and a sly twinkle shone in the captain's eyes as he asked the question.
"Certainly. Go ahead."
"And ye won't feel hurt?"
"Feel hurt! Why should I?"
"Well, ye see, it concerns yer cow, and no matter how a man might feel about the welfare of others, when it comes to himself and his own personal property, it makes a great difference."
"I do not understand your meaning, captain," and the clergyman's voice had a note of sharpness. "What has the missionary meeting to do with my cow?"
"Considerable, parson, considerable. When I went home from that meetin', sez I to my wife, 'Betsey, I have learned a new wrinkle to-night, which may be of much use to us.' She asked me what I meant, so I up and told her what the missionary had said about givin' and receivin'. He laid it down very plain that unless a man gave to the Lord's work, he couldn't expect to prosper. Now, didn't he?"
"That's what he said," and the clergyman nodded his assent.
"Well, then, sez I to Betsey, 'Betsey, we've never prospered, because we've never given anything.'
"'But what have we to give?' sez she.
"'Nothin' much,' sez I, 'except our old cow Bess.'
"'Oh, we can't give her,' sez she. 'We'll have no milk if we do.'
"'But we'll get more in return,' sez I. 'The missionary said so, and I want to prove his words.' Well, the long and short of it is, that I took Bess early the next mornin' and turned her into your pasture afore you were up. Betsey was lookin' pretty glum when I got back home, but I told her to cheer up, fer the Lord would prosper us as we had given Him our cow."
"Captain Josh Britt!" the parson exclaimed. "I am astonished at you!
How could you think of doing such a thing?"
"Why, what's wrong with that?" and the captain tried to look surprised. "Isn't it scriptural? I thought by givin' Bess to you, I was givin' her to the Church, and in that way she could be used fer the Lord's work."
"Oh, I see," and the clergyman stroked his chin in a thoughtful manner.
"Yes, and I tell ye it succeeded like a charm," the captain continued. "I gave up Bess, and, lo and behold, she came back last sight bringin' another cow with her."
"My cow, eh?" the parson queried.
"Sure. But didn't it prove the missionary's words to be true: 'Give, and ye'll receive more in return?' We gave up our only cow and now we have two."
Parson Dan made no immediate reply, for he was too deeply grieved to speak. His faint hope that a change had come over Captain Josh was now dispelled. For years he had mocked at church-going, and all things connected with religion. And so this was but another of his many tricks. But he must not let this scoffer off without a word of rebuke.
"Captain Josh," and the parson's voice was stern, "when you put your cow into my pasture you knew that she would come back, didn't you?"
"Why, what makes ye think so, parson?"
"Didn't you know that she would break down almost any fence?"
"Yes, I suppose I did."
"And that she would naturally take my cow with her?"
As the captain did not answer, the parson continued.
"You did it merely to make a scoff at religion, and have a joke to tell at the store for others to laugh at. Oh, I know your tricks well enough. I have striven to live peaceably with all men, but you have sorely tried me on various occasions. Whatever good I have done in this parish, you have endeavoured to undo it by your scoffs and actions. I often wonder why you do such things to oppose me."
Into the captain's face came an expression of surprise mingled with anger. He had never heard the clergyman speak to him so plainly before, and he resented it.
"You have had your say, parson, and I have the cow," he retorted, "so we are quits. Come and take her out of my yard if ye dare."
"I don't intend to try, captain. If you wish to injure your own soul by stealing Brindle you may do so. I can get another, only it will be hard on the little chap not to get his milk. I see it is no use for us to continue this conversation any further," and the clergyman turned to go.
"Hold on, parson," the captain cried, as he took a quick step forward.
"D'ye mean the wee lad which was left at yer door t'other night?"
"Why, yes," the clergyman replied, in surprise, as he turned around.
"How did you hear about him?"
"H'm, ye can't keep anything in this place a secret fer twenty-four hours. Trust the women to find out, especially about a baby, ha, ha!"
"Well, what of it?" and the parson looked keenly into the captain's eyes.
"Ob, nothin', except that if the wee chap has to go without his milk because I have Brindle, it makes all the difference in the world, see?"
"And you will let me have the cow without any fuss?"
"Sure. I'll bring her right over, and milk her fer ye, too. And, see here, parson, I didn't mean to offend ye. I know that I am a queer cranky cuss, but I never meant to keep Brindle. I only wanted to have a little fun, that's all. You've gone up a peg in my estimation since I heard that ye'd taken in that poor little waif. Shake on it, and let bygones be bygones."
So there in the middle of the road on this peaceful morning, the two neighbours clasped hands, and as Parson Dan walked slowly back to his house there was a sweet peace in his heart, and his eyes were a little misty as he opened the door.
Parson Dan spent most of the day in visiting his people in the parish, and accordingly had little time to give to Rodney. But after supper he began to romp with the wee man much to Mrs. Royal's amusement. There was considerable excitement for a while as the clergyman, on all-fours, carried the baby through the kitchen, into the dining-room, and back again. The boy shivered with delight as he sat perched upon the broad back. Forgotten were all parish cares as the venerable man gave himself up to the little waif. He had become a child again, and had entered that kingdom where children are the uncrowned monarchs, and the strong and the aged are willing subjects, yea, even most abject slaves.
In the midst of this hilarious frolic, the door of the dining-room, leading into the hall, was suddenly opened, and a woman entered. She was dressed all in black which costume was well in keeping with her face, which bore the same expression it did the day she buried her husband two years before. Her sober face grew a shade more sober as her eyes rested upon the undignified scene before her, and she was about to turn and hurry back out of doors, when the parson caught sight of her. His face, flushed with the excitement of the romp, took a deeper hue when he saw Mrs. Marden standing before him. He scrambled to his feet, and plunked Rodney down upon the floor, much to that young gentleman's disgust. He at once set up a dismal howl, which took Mrs. Royal some time to silence when she had him alone in the kitchen.
"I didn't see you, Mrs. Marden," the parson gasped, as he tried to recover his breath as well as his composure.
"So I observe," was the somewhat sarcastic reply, as the visitor surveyed her rector. "I knocked long and loud, but as there was no response, I took the liberty to enter. I am sorry that I have intruded. Perhaps I had better go."
"No, no, you must not think of such a thing," the parson replied, as he handed her a chair, and then struggled quickly into his coat, which he had cast aside at the beginning of the frolic. He was annoyed at Mrs. Marden's intrusion into the privacy of his family life, especially when he was off guard. He knew that she had come on some important business, as she otherwise never darkened the rectory door.
"You've become quite a family man, so I understand," she began. "It's the first time that I've seen the baby. I suppose you'll put him in the Orphan Home in the city."
"No, I shall do nothing of the sort," was the emphatic reply. "He shall stay here until his mother comes for him."
"H'm," and the widow tossed her head in a knowing manner, "then you'll have him on your hands for a long time. Do you for a moment imagine that a mother who is heartless enough to leave her baby with total strangers, will come for him? Not a bit of it. Mark my word, she's only too glad to be rid of it, and is off somewhere now having a good time. I should be very careful, if I were you, about bringing up such a child. You can't tell who his parents are, and he may inherit all their bad qualities."
The clergyman made no reply. He merely stroked his chin, and thought of the sob he had heard at the door that dark night.
"Such a child," Mrs. Marden continued, in her most doleful voice, "is sure to bring trouble upon you sooner or later. But, then, we all have our troubles, and must expect them. Ever since poor Abner was taken from me my life has been full of trials and tribulations. He was very good to me, and we were so happy."
At this point the widow produced her handkerchief, and wiped away the tears which were flowing down her cheeks. Parson Dan knew, and all the neighbours knew, that if Mrs. Marden's life was "full of trials and tribulations" after her husband's death, Mr. Marden had more than his share of them before he died, due directly to his wife's incessant nagging.
"Yes, I have my troubles," and the widow resumed her tale of woe. "They never cease, for just as soon as one is removed another springs up."
"Why, what's wrong now?" the parson queried.
"What! haven't you heard?" and the visitor looked sharply at the clergyman.
"No, I can't say that I have, especially of late."
"Dear me, and it's the talk of the whole parish. But, then, I suppose you've been so taken up with this new addition to your family that you have had no time to give to the cares of the widow and the fatherless."
A perceptible shade of annoyance passed over Parson Dan's face, and a sharp word of retort sprang to his lips. He repressed this, however, and answered as gently as possible.
"You know, Mrs. Marden," he began, "that often I am the last person to hear what is being said throughout the parish. I try not to listen to all the gossip which takes place, as I have more important things to occupy my mind. So——"
"And you don't consider my troubles important enough to listen to, eh?" Mrs. Marden interrupted. "Well, I declare. I never heard the like of that, and you my clergyman, too."
"Let me explain, please," the parson continued. "As I said, I seldom listen to gossip, because so much of it is of such a frivolous nature. Therefore, when anything of real importance is talked about, as a rule I do not hear that, either. In that way I have missed your story, Mrs. Marden. But when you come yourself to tell me, that makes all the difference, and I am ever ready to listen."
While Parson Dan was thus enduring with considerable patience his wearisome visitor, Rodney was creeping about the kitchen floor in a most lively manner. The dining-room door was ajar, and at last when Mrs. Royal's back was turned, he reached forth a small chubby hand, opened the door and entered. The parson saw him, but paid no attention to his movements. Mrs. Marden, however, who was sitting with her back to the door, was so occupied with her load of troubles that she neither saw nor heard the baby's entrance. On all-fours Rodney glided behind the widow's chair. Here against the wall stood a tall, slender cabinet, the lower shelves of which were filled with books, while above were various knick-knacks, all neatly arranged. It took Rodney but a second to scramble to his feet, and balance himself by clutching firmly at the cabinet which was not fastened to the wall. Then the inevitable happened. The cabinet at first trembled, and then began to fall. Parson Dan saw it coming, and with a cry he leaped to his feet, and caught it as it was about to crash upon Mrs. Marden's head. He could not, however, stop the knick-knacks, and so tea-cups, saucers, work-basket, a china dog, and numerous other articles were showered upon the widow, thus adding to her woes.
With a startled cry Mrs. Marden sprang to her feet, certain that the ceiling had fallen upon her. Hearing the confusion, Mrs. Royal rushed into the room, rescued Rodney unhurt from the ruins, and carried him back into the kitchen. The clergyman at once turned his attention to his visitor.
"I trust that you are not hurt," he remarked. "I am so sorry that this accident happened."
"I'm not hurt," was the feeble response, "but I feel very faint," and the widow sank into a chair, and closed her eyes. "There, I feel better now," she continued, breathing heavily. "Oh, what a shock that gave me! My troubles never cease. Just think, I might have been killed if the good Lord had not stopped that thing from falling."
The clergyman repressed a smile as he well knew that the Lord had nothing to do with it. He kept his thoughts to himself, however, and busied himself with picking up the various articles and broken fragments which strewed the floor.
"What an awful baby he is," Mrs. Marden at length, exclaimed. "If he can do such a terrible thing now, what will he do when he grows up? It is not safe to have such a child in your house."
"Why, any child would have done the same," the parson replied. "He didn't mean any harm."
"He didn't! Why, what else did he mean, then? Children should be taught to behave themselves. I never allowed a child of mine to climb up and pull things over. Poor dear Abner often said that I was the one woman in the whole parish who knew how to bring up children. But, there, I must go. My head is aching badly, and I know that I shall get no rest to-night. Oh, what troubles we poor mortals are heir to in this mundane sphere."
"You must not walk, Mrs. Marden," Parson Dan insisted. "I shall drive you home. It will take me only a few minutes to harness Sweepstakes."
"But I'm afraid it will be too much trouble," was the reply.
"Not at all, not at all, Mrs. Marden, I shall be only too glad to do it." In fact the rector was most anxious to get his visitor out of the house before she began to pour forth her tale of woe, which he believed she had forgotten. But in this he was doomed to disappointment.
"Just a minute, parson," the widow began. "I haven't told you yet the object of my visit here to-night."
"Doesn't your head trouble you too much to bother with it now?" the clergyman asked, trying to look as sympathetic as possible. "Suppose you wait until you feel better."
"No, I can't do that, for it might be too late. Just think what might become of me and my poor fatherless children if I put it off until to-morrow."
"Oh, is it as serious as that, Mrs. Marden?"
"Indeed it is, and it is but another example of how the widow is oppressed. If poor Abner was only alive! But now that he is gone, people think that they can do what they like with a lonely widow."
"What, has any one been trying to injure you, Mrs. Marden?"
"Yes, that's just it. Tom Dunker is the one, and he's trying to get the lighthouse from me."
"Ah, so that's it?" and the parson gave a deep sigh.
"Yes. He's had the promise of it, so I understand. I've looked after that lighthouse ever since Abner died, and I have never failed in my duty once. But Tom Dunker, the sneak, wants it. He's a Government supporter, and thinks he ought to have it for what he did at the last election. Abner voted opposition, and though they let me keep it ever since he died, the Dunkers have been making such a fuss about it that something has to be done to pacify them."
"I am very sorry to hear this, Mrs. Marden," and Parson Dan placed his hand to his forehead. This news troubled him, for he saw breakers ahead.
"I knew that you would be sorry," the widow replied, "and so I have come to ask you to write to headquarters. A letter from you explaining the whole matter will have much effect."