Days, months, and years slip smoothly by on the shores of Loch Beg.  Even now, though the cruelly advancing finger of Civilization has touched it, dotted it with genteel villas on either side, plowed it with smoky steam boats, and will shortly frighten the innocent fishes by dropping a marine telegraph wire across the mouth of the loch, it is a peaceful place still.  But when the last Earl of Cairnforth was a child it was all peace.  In summertime a few stray tourists would wander past it, wondering at its beauty; but in winter it had hardly any communication with the outer world.  The Manse, the Castle, and the clachan, with a few outlying farm-houses, comprised the whole of the Cairnforth; and the little peninsula, surrounded on three sides by water, and on the fourth by hills, was sufficiently impregnable and isolated to cause existence to flow on there very quietly, in what townspeople call dullness, and country people repose.

For, whatever repose there may be in country life-real country- there is certainly no monotony.  The perpetual change of seasons, varying the aspect of the outside world every month, every week-nay, almost every day, is a continual interest to observant minds, and especially so to intelligent children, who are as yet lying on the breast of Mother Nature only, nor have begun to feel or understand the darker and sadder interests of human passion and emotion.

The little Earl of Cairnforth was one of these; and many a time, through all the summers of his life; he recalled tenderly that first summer at Cairnforth, when, no longer pent up between walls and roofs, or dragged about in carriages, he learned, by Molcolm’s aid and under Helen’s teaching, to chronicle time in different ways; first by the hyacinths and primroses vanishing, and giving place to the wild roses-those exquisite deep-red roses which belong especially to this country-side; then by the woods-his own woods-growing fragrant with innumerable honeysuckles; and lastly by the heather on the moorland- Scotland’s own flower-which clothes entire hillsides as with a garment of gorgeous purple, and fills the whole atmosphere with the scent of a spice-garden; and when it faded into a soft brown, dying delicately, beautiful to the last, there appeared the brambles, trailing every where, with their pretty yellowing leaves and their delicious berries.  How blithe, even like a mere “callant,” big Malcolm was, when, leaving the earl on the sunny hill-side under Miss Cardross’s charge, he used to wander off, and come back with his hands all torn and scratched, to feed his young master with blackberries!

“He is not unhappy-I am sure the child is not unhappy,” Helen often said to her father, when-as was his way-Mr. Cardross would get fits of uncertainty and downheartedness, and think he was killing his pupil with study, or wearying him, and risking his health by letting him do as much as his energetic mind, always dominant over the frail body, prompted him to do.  “Only let him love his life, and put as much in it as he can, be it long or short, and then it will never be a sad life or a life thrown away.”

“Helen, you’re not clever, but you’re a wise little woman, my dear,” the minister would say, patting the flaxen curls or the busy hands-large and brown, yet with a certain grace about them, too-helpful hands, made to hold children, or tend sick folk, or sustain the feeble steps of old age.  She was “no bonnie” Helen Cardross; it was just a round, rosy, sonsie face, with no features in particular, but she was pleasant to look upon, and inexpressibly pleasant to live with; for it was such a wholesome nature, so entirely free from moods, or fancies, or crochets of any kind-those sad vagaries of ill-health, ill-humor, and ill-conditionedness of every sort, which are sometimes only a misfortune, caused by an unhappy natural temperament, but oftener arise from pure egotism, of which there was not an atom in Helen Cardross.  Her life was like the life of a flower-as natural, unconscious, fresh, and sweet:  she took in every influence about her, and gave out freely all she had to give; desired no better things than she possessed, and where she was planted there she grew.

It was not wonderful that the little earl loved her, and that under her sunshiny soul his life too blossomed out as it might never otherwise have done, but have drooped and faded, and gone back into the darkness, imperfect and unfulfilled; for, though each human life is, in a sense, complete to itself, and must work itself out independently, clinging to no other, still there is a great and beautiful mystery in the way one life seems to influence an other, sometimes for ill, but far, far oftener for good.

Lord Cairnforth was not much with the Cardross boys.  He liked them, and evidently craved after their company, but they were very shy of him.  Sometimes they let Malcolm bring him into their boat, and condescended to row him up and down the loch, a mode of locomotion in which he greatly delighted, for, at best, the shaking of the great lumbering coach was not easy to him, and he always begged to be carried in Malcolm’s arms till he found how pleasantly he could lie in the stern of the Manse boat, and float about on the smooth water, watching the mountains and the shores.

True, he could not stir an inch from where he was laid down, but he lay there so contentedly, enjoying everything, and really looked, what he often said he was, “as happy as a king.”

And by degrees, with a little home persuasion from Helen, the boys got reconciled to his company-found, indeed, that he was not such bad company after all; for often, when they were tired of pulling, and let the boat drift into some quiet little bay, or rock lazily in the middle of the loch, the little earl would begin talking-telling stories, which soon caught the attention of the minister’s boys.  These were either fragments out of the books he had read, which seemed countless to the young Cardrosses, or, what they liked still better, tales “out of his own head;” and these tales were always the last that they would have expected from one like him-wild exploits; wanderings over South American prairies, or shipwrecks on desert islands; astonishing feats of riding, or fighting, or traveling by land and sea-every thing, in short, belonging to that sort of active, energetic, adventurous life, of which the relator could never have had the least experience, and never would have in this world.  Perhaps for that very reason his fancy delighted therein the more.

And his stories were enjoyed by others as much as by himself, which no doubt added to the charm of them.  When winter came, and all the boating days were done, many a night, round the fire of the Manse parlor, or in the “awful eerie” library at the Castle, the earl used to have a whole circle of young people, and some elder ones too, gathered round his wheel-chair, listening to his wonderful tales of adventure by flood and field.

“Why don’t you write them out properly?” the boys would ask sometimes, forgetting-what Helen would never have forgotten.  But he only looked down on his poor helpless fingers and smiled.

However, he had, with great difficulty and pains, managed to learn to write-that is, to sign his name, or indite any short letter to Mr. Menteith or others, which, as he grew older, sometimes became necessary.  But writing was always a great trouble to him; and, fortunately, people were not expected to write much in those days.  Had he been born a little later in his century, the Earl of Cairnforth might have brightened his sad life by putting his imagination forth in print, and becoming a great literary character; as it was, he merely told his tales for his own delight and that of those about him, which possibly was a better thing than fame.

Then he made jokes, too.  Sometimes, in his quiet, dry way, he said such droll things that the Cardross boys fell into shouts of laughter.  He had the rare quality of seeing the comical side of things, without a particle of ill-nature being mixed up with his fun.  His wit danced about as brilliantly and harmlessly as the Northern lights that flashed and flamed of winter nights over the mountains at the head of the loch; and the solid, somewhat heavy Manse boys, gradually growing up to men, often wondered why it was that, miserable as the earl’s life was, or seemed to them, they always felt merrier instead of sadder when they were in his company.

But sometimes when with Helen alone, and more especially as he grew to be a youth in his teens, and yet no bigger, no stronger, and scarcely less helpless than a child, the young earl would let fall a word or two which showed that he was fully and painfully aware of his own condition, and all that it entailed.  It was evident that he had thought much and deeply of the future which lay before him.  If, as now appeared probable, he should live to man’s estate, his life must, at best, be one long endurance, rendered all the sharper and harder to bear because within that helpless body dwelt a soul, which was, more than that of most men, alive to every thing beautiful, noble, active, and good.

However, though he occasionally betrayed these workings of his mind, it was only to Helen, and not to her very much, for he was exceedingly self-contained from his childhood.  He seemed to feel by instinct that to him had been allotted a special solitude of existence, into which, try as tenderly as they would, none could ever fully penetrate, and with which none could wholly sympathize.  It was inevitable in the nature of things.

He apparently accepted the fact as such, and did not attempt to break through it.  He took the strongest interest in other people, and in every thing around him, but he did not seem to expect to have the like returned in any great degree.  Perhaps it was one of those merciful compensations that what he could not have he was made strong enough to do without.

So things went on, without any other variety than an occasional visit from Mr. Menteith or Dr. Hamilton, for seven years, during which the minister’s pupil had acquired every possible learning that his teacher could give, and was fast becoming less a scholar than an equal companion and friend-so familiar and dear, that Mr. Cardross, like all who knew him, had long since almost forgotten that the earl was-what he was.  It seemed the most natural thing in the world that he should sit there in his little chair, doing nothing; absolutely passive to all physical things; but interested in every thing and every body, and, whether at the Manse or the Castle, as completely one of the circle as if he took the most active part therein.  Consulted by one, appealed to by another, joked by a third-he was ever ready with a joke-it was only when strangers happened to see him, and were startled by the sight, that his own immediate friends recognized how different he was from other people.

It was one day when he was about nineteen that Helen, coming in to see him with a message from her father, who wanted to speak to him about some parish matters, found Lord Cairnforth deeply meditating over a letter.  He slipped it aside, however, and it was not until the whole parish question had been discussed and settled, as somehow he and Helen very often did settle the whole affairs of the parish between them, that he brought it out again, fidgeting it out of his pocket with his poor fingers, which seemed a little more helpless than usual.

“Helen, I wish you would read that, and tell me what you think about it”?

It was a letter somewhat painful to read, with the earl sitting by and watching her, but Helen had long learned never to shrink from these sort of things.  He felt them far less if every body else faced them as boldly as he had himself always done.

The letter was from Dr. Hamilton, written after his return from a three days’ visit at Cairnforth Castle.  It explained, after a long apologetic preamble, the burden of which was that the earl was now old enough and thoughtful enough to be the best person to speak to on such a difficult subject, that there had been a certain skillful mechanician lately in Edinburg who declared he would invent some support by which Lord Cairnforth could be made, not indeed to walk-that was impossible- but to be by many degrees more active than now.  But it would be necessary for him to go to London, and there submit to a great amount of trouble and inconvenience-possibly some pain.

“I tell you this last, my dear lord,” continued the good doctor, “because I ought not to deceive you; and because, so far as I have seen, you are a courageous boy-nay, almost a man-or will be soon.  I must forewarn you also that the experiment, is only an experiment- that it may fail; but even in that case you would be only where you were before-no better, no worse, except for the temporary annoyance and suffering.”

“And if it succeeded?” said Helen, almost in a whisper, as she returned the letter.

The earl smiled-a bright, vague, but hopeful smile-“I might be a little more able to do things-to live my life with a little less trouble to myself, and possibly to other people.  Well, Helen?  You don’t speak, but I think your eyes say ‘Try!’”

“Yes, my dear.”  She sometimes, though not often now, lest it might vex him by making him still so much a child, called him “my dear.”

This ended the conversation, which Helen did not communicate to any body, nor referred to again with Lord Cairnforth, though she pondered over it and him continually.

A week after this, Mr. Menteith unexpectedly appeared at the Castle, and after a long consultation with Mr. Cardross, it was agreed that what seemed the evident wish of the earl should be accomplished if possible; that he, Malcolm, Mrs. Campbell, and Mr. Menteith should start for London immediately.

Such a journey was then a very different thing from what it is now, and to so helpless a traveler as Lord Cairnforth its difficulties were doubled.  He had to post the whole distance in his own carriage, which was fitted up so as to be as easy as possible in locomotion, besides being so arranged that he could sleep in it if absolutely necessary, for ordinary beds and ordinary chairs were sometimes very painful to him.  Had he been poor, in all probability he would long ago have died-of sheer suffering.

Fortunately, it was summer time.  He staid at Cairnforth till after his birthday, “for I may never see another,” said he, with that gentle smile which seemed to imply that he would be neither glad nor sorry, and then he started.  He was quite cheerful himself, but Mr. Menteith and Mrs. Campbell looked very anxious.  Malcolm was full of superstitious forebodings, and Helen Cardross and her father, when they bade him good-by and watched the carriage drive slowly from the Castle doors, felt as sad as if they were parting from him, not for London, but for the other world.

Not until he was gone did they recognize how much they missed him:  in the Manse parlor where “the earl’s chair” took its regular place-in the pretty Manse garden, where its wheels had made in the gravel walks deep marks which Helen could not bear to have erased-in his pew at the kirk, where the minister had learned to look Sunday after Sunday for that earnest, listening face.  Mr. Cardross, too, found it dull no longer to have his walk up to the Castle, and his hour or two’s rest in the yet unfinished library, which he and Lord Cairnforth had already begun to consult about, and where the earl was always to be found, sitting at his little table with his books about him, and Malcolm lurking within call, or else placed contentedly by the French window, looking out upon that blaze of beauty into which the countess’s flower-garden had grown.  How little they had thought-the young father and mother, cut off in the midst of their plans, that their poor child would one day so keenly enjoy them all, and have such sore need for these or any other simple and innocent enjoyments.

“Papa, how we do miss him!” said Helen one day as she walked with her father through the Cairnforth woods.  “Who would have thought it when he first came here only a few years ago?”

“Who would indeed?” said the minister, remembering a certain walk he had taken through these very paths nineteen years before, when he had wondered why providence had sent the poor babe into the world at all, and thought how far, far happier it would have been lying dead on its dead mother’s bosom-that beautiful young mother, whose placid face upon the white satin pillows of her coffin Mr. Cardross yet vividly recalled; for he saw it often reflected in the living face of the son, whom, happily, she had died without beholding.

“That was a wise saying of King David’s, ’Let me fall into the hands of the Lord, and not into the hands of men,’” mused Mr. Cardross, who had just been hearing from Mr. Mentieth a long story of his perplexities with “those Bruces,” and had also had lately a few domestic dissensions in his own parish, which did quarrel among itself occasionally, and always brought its quarrels to be settled by the minister.  “It is a strange thing, Helen, my dear, what wonderful peace there often is in great misfortunes.  They are quite different from the petty miseries which people make for themselves.”

“I suppose so.  But do you think, papa, that any good will come out of the London journey?”

“I can not tell; still, it was right to try.  You yourself said it was right to try.”

“Yes;” and then, seeing it was done now, the practical, brave Helen stilled her uncertainties and let the matter rest.

No one was surprised that weeks elapsed before there came any tidings of the travelers.  Then Mr. Menteith wrote, announcing their safe arrival in London, which diffused great joy throughout the parish, for of course every body knew whither Lord Cairnforth had gone, and many knew why.  Scarcely a week passed that some of the far-distant tenantry even, who lived on the other side of the peninsula, did not cross the hills, walking many miles for no reason but to ask at the Manse what was the latest news of “our earl.”

But after the first letter there came no farther tidings, and indeed none were expected.  Mr. Menteith had probably returned to Edinburg, and in those days there was no penny post, and nobody indulged in unnecessary correspondence.  Still, sometimes Helen thought, with a sore uneasiness, “If the earl had had good news to tell, he would have surely told it.  He was always so glad to make any body happy.”

The long summer twilights were ended, and one or two equinoctial gales had whipped the waters of Loch Beg into wild “white horses,” yet still Lord Cairnforth did not return.  At last, one Monday night, when Helen and her father were returning from a three days’ absence at the “preachings’-that is, the half-yearly sacrament-in a neighboring parish, they saw, when they came to the ferry, the glimmer of lights from the Castle windows on the opposite shore of the loch.

“I do believe Lord Cairnforth is come home!”

“Ou ay, Miss Helen,” said Duncan, the ferryman, “his lordship crossed wi’ me the day; an’ I’m thinking, minister,” added the old man confidentially, “that ye suld just gang up to the Castle an’ see him; for it’s ma opinion that the earl’s come back as he gaed awa, nae better and nae waur.”

“What makes you thinks so?  Did he say any thing?”

“Ne’er a word but just ‘How are ye the day, Duncan?’ and he sat and glowered at the hills and the loch, and twa big draps rolled down his puir bit facie-it’s grown sae white and sae sma’, ye ken-and I said, ’My lord, it’s grand to see your lordship back.  Ye’ll no be gaun to London again, I hope?’ ‘Na, na,’ says he; ’na, Duncan, I’m best at hame-best at hame!’ And when Malcolm lifted him, he gied a bit skreigh, as if he’d hurted himself-Minister, I wish I’d thae London doctors here by our loch side,” muttered Duncan between his teeth, and pulling away fiercely at his oar; but the minister said nothing.

He and Helen went silently home, and finding no message, walked on as silently up to the Castle together.