If the “happiest day in all his life” had been the first day the earl spent at Cairnforth Manse, which very likely it was, he took the first possible opportunity of renewing his happiness.

Early on Monday forenoon, while Helen’s ever-active hands were still busy clearing away the six empty porridge plates, and the one tea-cup which had contained the beverage which the minister loved, but which was too dear a luxury for any but the father of the family, Malcolm Campbell’s large shadow was seen darkening the window.

“There’s the earl!” cried Helen, whose quick eye had already caught sight of the white little face muffled up in Malcolm’s plaid, and the soft black curls resting on his shoulder, damp with rain, and blown about by the wind, for it was what they called at Loch Beg a “coarse” day.

“My lord was awful’ set upon coming,” said Malcolm apologetically; “and when my lord taks a thing into his heid, he’ll aye do’t, ye ken.”

“We are very glad to see the earl,” returned the minister, who nevertheless looked a little perplexed; for, while finishing his breakfast, he had been confiding to Helen how very nervous he felt about this morning’s duties at the Castle-how painful it would be to teach a child so afflicted, and how he wished he had thought twice before he undertook the charge.  And Helen had been trying to encourage him by telling him all that had passed between herself and the boy-how intelligent he had seemed, and how eager to learn.  Still, the very fact that they had been discussing him made Mr. Cardross feel slightly confused.  Men shrink so much more than women from any physical suffering or deformity; besides, except those few moments in the church, this was really the first time he had beheld Lord Cairnforth; for on Sundays it was the minister’s habit to pass the whole time between sermons in his study, and not join the family table until tea.

“We are very glad to see the earl at all times,” repeated he, but hesitatingly, as if not sure that he was quite speaking the truth.

“Yes, very glad,” added Helen, hastily, fancying she could detect in the prematurely acute and sensitive face a consciousness that he was not altogether welcome.  “My father was this minute preparing to start for the Castle.”

“My Lord didna like to trouble the minister to be walking out this coarse day,” said Malcolm, with true Highland ingenuity of politeness.  “His lordship thocht that instead o’ Mr. Cardross coming to him, he would just come to Mr. Cardross.”

“No, Malcolm,” interposed the little voice, “it was not exactly that.  I wished for my own sake to come to the Manse again, and to ask if I might come every day and take my lessons here-it’s so dreary in that big library.  I’ll not be much trouble, indeed, sir,” he added, entreatingly; “Malcolm will carry me in and carry me out.  I can sit on almost any sort of chair now; and with this wee bit of stick in my hand I can turn over the leaves of my books my very own self-I assure you I can.”

The minister walked to the window.  He literally could not speak for a minute, he felt so deeply moved, and in his secret heart so very much ashamed of himself.

When he turned round Malcolm had placed the little figure in an arm-chair by the fire, and was busy unswathing the voluminous folds of the plaid in which it had been wrapped.  Helen, after a glance or two, pretended to be equally busy over her daily duty-the common duty of Scotch housewives at that period-of washing up the delicate china with her own neat hands, and putting it safe away in the parlor press; for, as before said, Mr. Cardross’s income was very small, and, like that of most country ministers, very uncertain, his stipend altering year by year, according to the price of corn.  They kept one “lassie” to help, but Helen herself had to do a great deal of the housework.  She went on doing it now, as probably she would in any case, being at once too simple and too proud to be ashamed of it; still, she was glad to seem busy, lest the earl might have fancied she was watching him.

Her feminine instinct had been right.  Now for the first time taken out of his shut-up nursery life, where he himself had been the principal object-where he had no playfellows and no companions save those he had been used to from infancy-removed from this, and brought into ordinary family life, the poor child felt-he could not but feel- the sad, sad difference between himself and all the rest of the world.  His color came and went-he looked anxiously, deprecatingly, at Mr. Cardross.

“I hope, sir, you are not displeased with me for coming to-day.  I shall not be very much trouble to you-at least I will try to be as little trouble as I can.”

“My boy,” said the minister, crossing over to him and laying his hand upon his head, “You will not be the least trouble; and if you were ever so much, I would undertake it for the sake of your father and mother, and-” he added, more to himself than aloud-“for your own.”

That was true.  Nature, which is never without her compensations, had put into this child of ten years old a strange charm, and inexpressible loveableness which springs from lovingness, though every loving nature is not fortunate enough to possess it.  But the earl’s did; and as he looked up into the minister’s face, with that touchingly grateful expression he had, the good man felt his heart melt and brim over at his eyes.

“You don’t dislike me, then, because-because I am not like other boys?”

Mr. Cardross smiled, though his eyes were still dim, and his voice not clear; and with that smile vanished forever the slight repulsion he had felt to the poor child.  He took him permanently into his good heart, and from his manner the earl at once knew that it was so.

He brightened up immediately.

“Now, Malcolm, carry me in; I’m quite ready,” said he, in a tone which indicated that quality, discernible even at so early an age-a “will of his own.”  To see the way he ordered Malcolm about-the big fellow obeying him, with something beyond even the large limits of that feudal respect which his forbears had paid to the earl’s forbears for many a generation, was a sight at once touching and hopeful.

“There-put me into the child’s chair I had at dinner yesterday.  Now fetch me a pillow-or rather roll up your plaid into one-don’t trouble Miss Cardross.  That will make me quite comfortable.  Pull out my books from your pouch, Malcolm, and spread them out on the table, and then go and have a crack with your old friends at the clachan; you can come for me in two hours.”

It was strange to see the little figure giving its orders, and settling itself with the preciseness of an old man at the study-table; but still this removed somewhat of the painful shyness and uncomfortableness from every body, and especially from Mr. Cardross.  He sat himself down in his familiar arm-chair, and looked across the table at his poor little pupil, who seemed at once so helpless and so strong.

Lessons begun.  The child was exceedingly intelligent-precociously, nay, preternaturally so, it appeared to Mr. Cardross, who, like many another learned father, had been blessed with rather stupid boys, who liked any thing better than study, and whom he had with great labor dragged through a course of ordinary English, Latin, and even a fragment of Greek.  But this boy seemed all brains.  His cheeks flushed, his eyes glittered, he learned as if he actually enjoyed learning.  True, as Mr. Cardross soon discovered, his acquirements were not at all in the regular routine of education; he was greatly at fault in many simple things; but the amount of heterogeneous and out-of-the-way knowledge which he had gathered up, from all available sources, was quite marvelous.  And, above all, to teach a boy unto whom learning seemed a pleasure rather than a torment, a favor instead of a punishment, was such an exceeding and novel delight to the good minister, that soon he forgot the crippled figure-the helpless hands that sometimes with fingers, sometimes even with teeth, painfully guided the ingeniously cut forked stick, and the thin face that only too often turned white and weary, but quickly looked up, as if struggling against weakness, and concentrating all attention on the work that was to be done.

At twelve o’clock Helen came in with her father’s lunch-a foaming glass of new milk, warm from the cow.  The little earl looked at it with eager eyes.

“Will I bring you one too?” said Helen.

“Oh-thank you; I am so thirsty.  And, please, would you move me a little-just a very little; I don’t often sit so long in one position.  It won’t trouble you very much, will it?”

“Not at all, if you will only show me how,” stammered Helen, turning hot and red.  But, shaking off her hesitation, she lifted up the poor child tenderly and carefully, shook his pillows and “sorted” him according to her own untranslatable Scotch word, then went quickly out of the room to compose herself, for she had done it all, trembling exceedingly the while.  And yet, somehow, a feeling of great tenderness-tenderer than even she had felt successively toward her own baby brothers, had grown up in her heart toward him, taking away every possible feeling of repulsion on account of his deformity.

She brought back the glass of creamy milk and a bit of oatcake, and laid them beside the earl.  He regarded them wistfully.

“How nice the milk looks!  I am so tired-and so thirsty.  Please- would you give me some?  Just hold the glass, that’s all, and I can manage.”

Helen held it to his lips-the first time she ever did so, but not the last by many.  Years and years from then, when she herself was quite an old woman, she remembered, giving him that drink of milk, and how, afterward, two large soft eyes were turned upon hers so lovingly, so gratefully, as if the poor cripple had drank in something besides milk –­the sweet draught of human affection, not dried up even to such heavily afflicted ones as he.

“Are the lessons all done for to-day, papa?” said she, noticing that, eager as it was, the little face looked very wan and wearied, but also noticing with delight that her father’s expression was brighter and more interested than it had been this long time.

“Done, Helen?  Well, if my pupil is tired, certainly.”

“But I’m not tired, sir.”

Helen shook her motherly head:  “Quite enough for to-day.  You may come back again to-morrow.”

He did come back.  Day after day, in fair weather or foul, big Malcolm was to be seen stepping with his free Highland step-Malcolm was a lissome, handsome young fellow-across the Manse garden, carrying that small frail burden, which all the inhabitants of the clachan had ceased to stare at, and to which they all raised their bonnets or touched their shaggy forelocks.  “It’s the wee earl, ye ken,” and one and all treated with the utmost respect the tiny figure wrapped in a plaid, so that nothing was visible except a small child’s face, which always smiled at sight of other children.

It was surprising in how few days the clachan, and indeed the whole neighborhood, grew accustomed to the appearance of the earl and his sad story.  Perhaps this was partly due to Helen and Mr. Cardross, who, seeing no longer any occasion for mystery, indeed regretting a little that any mystery had ever been made about the matter, took every opportunity of telling every body who inquired the whole facts of the case.

These were few enough and simple enough, though very sad.  The Earl- the last Earl of Cairnforth-was a hopeless cripple for life.  All the consultations of all the doctors had resulted in that conclusion.  It was very unlikely he would ever be better than he was now physically, but mentally he was certainly “a’ richt”-or “a’ there,” as the country-folk express it.  There was, as Mr. Cardross carefully explained to every body, not the slightest ground for supposing him deficient in intellect; on the contrary, his intellect seemed almost painfully acute.  The quickness with which he learned his lessons surpassed that of any boy of his age the minister had ever known; and he noticed every thing around him so closely, and made such intelligent remarks, that to talk with him was like talking with a grown man.  Before the first week was over Mr. Cardross began actually to enjoy the child’s company, and to look forward to lesson hours as the pleasantest hours of his day; for, since the Castle was close, the minister’s lot had been the almost inevitable lot of a country clergyman, whose parish contains many excellent people, who look up to him with the utmost reverence, and for whom he entertains the sincere respect that worth must always feel toward worth, but with whom he had very few intellectual sympathies.  In truth, since Mrs. Cardross died the minister had shut himself up almost entirely, and had scarcely had a single interest out of his own study until the earl came home to Cairnforth.

Now, after lessons, he would occasionally be persuaded to quit that beloved study, and take a walk along the loch side, or across the moor, to show his pupil the country of which he, poor little fellow! was owner and lord.  He did it at first out of pure kindness, to save the earl from the well-meant intrusion of neighbors, but afterward from sheer pleasure in seeing the boy so happy.  To him, mounted in Malcolm’s arms and brought for the first time into contact with the outer world, every thing was a novelty and delight.  And his quick perception let nothing escape him.  He seemed to watch lovingly all nature, from the grand lights and shadows which moved over the mountains, to the little moorland flowers which he made Malcolm stop to gather.  All living things too, from the young rabbit that scudded across their path, to the lark that rose singing up into the wide blue air-he saw and noticed every thing.

But he never once said, what Helen, who, as often as her house duties allowed, delighted to accompany them on these expeditions, was always expecting he would say, Why had God given these soulless creatures legs to run and wings to fly, strength, health, and activity to enjoy existence, and denied all these things to him?  Denied them, not for a week, a month, a year, but for his whole lifetime-a lifetime so short at best;-“few of days, and full of trouble.”  Why could He not have made it a little more happy?

Thousands have asked themselves, in some form or other, the same unanswered, unanswerable question.  Helen had done so already, young as she was; when her mother died, and her father seemed slowly breaking down, and the whole world appeared to her full of darkness and woe.  How then must it have appeared to this poor boy?  But, strange to say, that bitter doubt, which so often came into Helen’s heart, never fell from child’s lips at all.  Either he was still a mere child, accepting life just as he saw it, and seeking no solution of its mysteries, or else, though so young, he was still strong enough to keep his doubts to himself, to bear his own burden, and trouble no one.

Or else-and when she watched his inexpressibly sweet face, which had the look you sometimes see in blind faces, of absolutely untroubled peace, Helen was forced to believe this-God, who had taken away from him so much, had given him something still more-a spiritual insight so deep and clear that he was happy in spite of his heavy misfortune.  She never looked at him but she thought involuntarily of the text, out of the only book with which unlearned Helen was very familiar-that “in heaven their angels do always behold the face of my Father which is in heaven.”

After a fortnight’s stay at the Castle Mr. Menteith felt convinced that his experiment had succeeded, and that, onerous as the duty of guardian was, he might be satisfied to leave his ward under the charge of Mr. Cardross.

“Only, it those Bruces should try to get at him, you must let me know at once.  Remember, I trust you.”

“Certainly, you may.  Has any thing been heard of them lately?”

“Nothing much, beyond the continual applications for advances of the annual sum which the late earl gave them, and which I continue to pay, just to keep them out of the way.”

“They are still abroad?”

“I suppose so; but I hear very little about them.  They were relations on the countess’s side, you know-it was she who brought the money.  Poor little fellow, what an accumulation it will be by the time he is of age, and what small good it will do him!”

And the honest man sighed as he looked from Mr. Cardross’s dining-room window across the Manse garden, where, under a shady tree, was placed the earl’s little wheel-chair, which was an occasional substitute for Malcolm’s arms.  In it he sat, with a book on his lap, and with the aspect of entire content which was so very touching.  Helen sat beside him on the grass, sewing-she was always sewing; and, indeed, she had need, if her needle were to keep pace with its requirements in the large family of boys.

“That’s a good girl of yours, and his lordship seems to have taken to her amazingly.  I am very glad, for he had no feminine company at all except Mrs. Campbell, and, good as she is, she isn’t quite the thing- not exactly a lady, you see.  Eh, Mr. Cardross-what a lady his mother was!  We’ll never again see the like of the poor countess, nor, in all human probability, will we ever again see another Countess of Cairnforth.

“No.”

“Yet,” continued Mr. Menteith, after a long pause, “Dr. Hamilton thinks he may live many years.  Strange to say, his constitution is healthy and sound, and his sweet, placid nature-his mother’s own nature (isn’t he very like her sometimes?)-gives him so much advantage in struggling through every ailment.  If he can be made happy, as you and Helen will, I doubt not, be able to make him, and kept strictly to a wholesome, natural country life here, it is not impossible he may live to enter upon his property.  And then-for the future, God knows!”

“It is well for us,” replied the minister, gravely, “That He does know -every thing.”

“I suppose it is.”

And then for another hour the two good men-one living in the world and the other out of it-both fathers of families, carrying their own burden of cares, and having gone through their own personal sorrows each in his day, talked over, the minutest degree, the present, and, so far as they could divine it, the future of this poor boy, who, through so strange a combination of circumstances, had been left entirely to their charge.

“It is a most responsible charge, Mr. Cardross, and I feel almost selfish in shifting it so much from my own shoulders upon yours.”

“I am willing to undertake it.  Perhaps it may do me good,” returned the minister, with a slight sigh.

“And you will give him the best education you can-your own, in short, which is more than sufficient for Lord Cairnforth; certainly more than the last earl had, or his father either.”

“Possibly,” said Mr. Cardross, who remembered both-stalwart, active, courtly lords of the soil, great at field-sports and festivities, but not over given to study.  “No, the present earl does not take after his progenitors in any way.  You should just see him, Mr. Menteith, over his Virgil; and I have promised to begin Homer with him tomorrow.  It does one’s heart good to see a boy so fond of his books,” added the minister, warming up into an enthusiasm which delighted the other extremely.

“Yes, I think my plan was right,” said he, rubbing his hands.  “It will work well on both sides.  There could not be found any where a better tutor than yourself for the earl.  He never can go much into the world; he may not even live to be of age; still, as long as he does live, his life ought to be made as pleasant-I mean, as little painful to him as possible.  And he ought to be fitted, in case he should live, for as many years as he can fulfill of the duties of his position; its enjoyments, alas! he will never know.”

“I am not so sure of that,” replied Mr. Cardross.  “He loves books; he may turn out a thoroughly educated and accomplished student-perhaps even a man of letters.  To have a thirst for knowledge, and unlimited means to gratify it, is not such a bad thing.  Why,” continued the minister, glancing round on his own poorly-furnished shelves, where every book was bought almost at the sacrifice of a meal, “he will be rich enough to stock from end to end that wilderness of shelves in the half-finished Castle library.  How pleasant that must be!”

Mr. Menteith smiled as if he did not quite comprehend this sort of felicity.  “But, in any case, Lord Cairnforth seems to have, what will be quite as useful to him as brains, a very kindly heart.  He does not shut himself up in a morbid way, but takes an interest in all about him.  Look at him, now, how heartily he is laughing at something your daughter has said.  Really, those two seem quite happy.”

“Helen makes every body happy,” fondly said Helen’s father.

“I believe so.  I shall be sending down one of my big lads to look after her some day.  I’ve eight of them, Mr. Cardross, all to be educated, settled, and wived.  It’s a ‘sair fecht,’ I assure you.”

“I know it; but still it has its compensations.”

“Ay, they’re all strong, likely, braw fellows, who can push their own way in the world and fend for themselves.  Not like-” he glanced over to the group on the grass, and stopped.  Yet at that moment a hearty trill of thoroughly childish laughter seemed to rebuke the regrets of both fathers.

“That child certainly has the sweetest nature-the most remarkable faculty for enjoying other people’s enjoyments, in which he himself can never share.”

“Yes, it was always so, from the time he was a mere infant.  Dr. Hamilton often noticed it, and said it was a good omen.”

“I believe so,” rejoined Mr. Cardross, earnestly.  “I feel sure that if Lord Cairnforth lives, he will neither have a useless nor an unhappy life.”

“Let us hope not.  And yet-poor little fellow!-to be the last Earl of Cairnforth, and to be-such as he is!”

“He is what God made him, what God willed him to be,” said the minister, solemnly.  “We know not why it should be so; we only know that it is, and we can not alter it.  We can not remove from him his heavy cross, but I think we can help him to bear it.”

“You are a good man, Mr. Cardross,” replied the Edinburg writer, huskily, as he rose from his seat, and declining another glass of the claret, of which, under some shallow pretext, he had sent a supply into the minister’s empty cellar, he crossed the grass-plot, and spent the rest of the evening beside his ward and Helen.