tates, that was vacant.
Before leaving on this long trip to New Zealand, he had only managed
to see Christine for three hours. He had reached Culraine at eight
o'clock. He had run like a deer the mile and quarter which lay between
the railway station and the Ruleson cottage, reaching his goal just as
Christine finished reading a goodnight psalm to her mother. She had
heard his steps afar off, it had seemed as if the comforting words
were read to them--then she was at the open door, and they met in each
other's arms.

Three hours of pure, perfect happiness had followed. Cluny went first
to Margot's side. He knew it was the last time he could ever stand
there. In this world they would see each other no more, and he was
sorrowfully shocked and touched by the change in the handsome woman,
once so vibrant and full of life. Sometimes they had not been very
good friends, but this white, frail image, stretching out hands full
of pleasure and goodwill to him--this gentle mother of the beloved
Christine, won in a moment all his best sympathies. He promised her
everything she asked, and then she sent him away with her blessing.

So it had been three hours of marvelous happiness. They had been
content to forget all things but the joy of each other's presence. To
the last possible minute he had remained with her, and their hopeful
farewell had not been dimmed by a single tear. Since that night, she
had sent no anxious worrying thoughts after him. From every port at
which his ship touched, he had written her long, loving letters, and
now she was beginning to expect his return. Any day she might have a
letter from him, dated Liverpool or Glasgow.

"Lat them talk," she said with a little defiant laugh. "Lat their
tongues tak' their ain ill-way, I'm not feared. There's Norman at my
side, and the Domine not far off, and God aboon us all. I'll speak to
Norman anent the fishing, and if needs be, I can kipper the herring as
weel as Mither did." Then in a moment a wonderful change came over
her, the angry scorn of her attitude, and the proud smile on her
handsome face vanished. She clasped her hands, and with the light of
unconquerable love on her face, she said with tender eagerness--"What
does she do now? Oh dear God, what is Mither doing now? I canna tell.
I canna tell, but it is Thy will, I'm sure o' that." Then the loving
tears that followed this attitude washed away all traces of her scorn
and anger, and she lay down with prayer on