e subordinate. The young man
was showing signs of an awakening conscience, he affirmed; he had
displayed wonderful interest in the sermons lately and had asked some
very hopeful questions during their last conversation. And beside all
this the young lady was having a good influence on him, for the lad had
missed neither church nor prayer meeting since she came. Indeed, she
was a fine lassie, and wonderfully clear on the essentials; though, of
course, she had a few unsound Anglican doctrines. But Kirsty John's
mother had trained her well in her childhood and she was not far
astray. No, it would be interfering with the inscrutable ways of
Providence to separate these two now, they must just let them be.

So Scotty and Isabel had things all their own way; and, when, at last,
Weaver Jimmie and his wife came and carried the young lady off to the
Oa, her late hostess declared she washed her hands of the whole affair.

But her guest's departure did not bring her entire relief from
responsibility. She could not get away from the suspicion that Miss
Herbert would blame her, and the rumours that came from the Oa were not
calculated to allay her fears. Kirsty John's little lady from the
Grange and Big Malcolm's Scot were always together, the gossips said,
and indeed it was a great wonder the black colt wasn't driven to death.

So to-night Mrs. Cameron was too much worried to notice the beauty of
the landscape. Nearly a month had slipped past since Isabel had left
her; the Herberts had returned to the Grange, and still the young lady
showed no signs of departing. The minister's wife looked out sharply
as they approached Weaver Jimmie's place. If she could catch sight of
her late guest she would delicately hint that propriety demanded that
she go home.

As they entered a little evergreen wood that bordered Weaver Jimmie's
farm, there arose the sound of singing from the road ahead.

A turn around a cedar clump brought into view a solitary figure a few
yards before them--the figure of a little old man, wearing a Scotch
bonnet and wrapped in a gay tartan plaid. It was a bent, homely
figure, but one containing a soul apparently lifted far above earthly
things, for he was pouring forth a psalm, expressive of his joy in the
glory of the evening, and with an ecstasy that might have befitted
Orpheus greeting the dawn.

His voice was high, loud, and cracked; but the words he had chosen
showed that Old Farquhar discerned the