All afternoon the little town had lain dozing under the lullaby of a June rain.  It was not so much a rain as a gentle dewy mist, touching the lawns and gardens and the maple trees that lined each street into more vivid green, and laying a thick moist carpet over the dust of the highways.  And the little town, ringed by forest and lake, and canopied by maple boughs, had lain there enjoying it, now blinking half-awake in the brief glimpses of sunlight, now curling up again and going to sleep.

In the late afternoon the silent tournament between sunshine and shadow resulted in a conquest for the sun.  His victorious lances swept the enemy from the clean blue skies; they glanced over the lake, lodged in every treetop, and glittered from every church spire.  The little town began to stir.  The yellow dogs, that had slept all afternoon on the shop steps, roused themselves and resumed their fight in the middle of Main Street.  Now and then a clerk ran across to a rival firm to get change for a customer.  A few belated shoppers hurried homeward.  A farmer’s double-buggy backed out of the hotel yard with a scraping sound, and went rattling up the street towards the country.  Everything seemed pervaded with an atmosphere of expectancy, a tense air of unrest, as though the whole place were holding itself in readiness for a summons.

And then it came:  the great consummation of the day’s work.  From the tower of the fire-hall burst forth the loud peal of the town bell.  Six o’clock!  Like the castle of the Sleeping Beauty the town leaped into life.  The whistles of the saw-mills down by the lake broke into shrieks of joy.  The big steam pipe of Thornton’s foundry responded with a delighted roar.  The flour mill, the wheel-factory and the tannery joined in a chorus of yells.  From factory and shop, office and store, came pouring forth the relieved workers, laughing and calling across the street to each other above the din.  There was a noisy tramp, tramp of feet, a hurrying this way and that, a confusion of happy voices.  And over all the clamour, the big bell in the tower continued to fling out far over the town and the lake and the woods the joyous refrain that the day’s work was done, was done, was done.

Near the corner of Main Street, on a leafy thoroughfare that ran up into the region of lawns and gardens, stood a neat row of red-brick office buildings, with wide doors and shiny windows.  Over the widest door and on the shiniest window, in letters of gold, was the legend:  Edward Brians, Barrister, etc.

Never a man passed this door on his homeward way without saluting it.

“Hello, Ed!  Coming home?”-“Hurrah, Ed!  Will you be along if we wait ten minutes?”-“Ed!  Hurry up and come along!”

No one appeared in response to the summons; but from within came refusals, roared out in a thunderous voice, each roar growing more exasperated than the last.

The streets were almost deserted when, at last, the owner of the big voice came to his door.  He was a man of about thirty-five; of middle height, straight, strong and alert.  His fair hair had a tendency towards red, and also towards standing on end, and his bright blue eyes had a tendency to blaze suddenly in wrath or shut up altogether in consuming laughter.  He had practised law in Algonquin for ten years, and as he had been brought up in the town and was related to one-half the population, and loved by the whole of it, he was spoken of familiarly as Lawyer Ed.

A tall man, leading a little boy by the hand, followed him slowly down the steps.  The man was not past middle age, but he was stooped and worn with a life of heavy toil.

“Well, Angus,” Lawyer Ed was saying, his deep musical voice thrilling with sympathy, “that’ll make you comfortable for a while now, until you’re better, anyway.  And there’s no need for me, or any one, to tell you not to worry over it.”

The older man smiled.  “No, no.  Tut, tut!  Worry!  That would be but a poor way to treat the Father’s care, indeed.”  His dark eyes shone with an inner light.  “If He needs my farm, He’ll show me how to lift the mortgage.  And if He needs me to do any more work for Him here, He’ll give me back my health.  But if not-” he paused and his hand went instinctively to the shoulder of the little boy looking up at him with big wondering eyes-“if not-well, well, never fear, He knows the way.  He knows.”

An old light wagon and a horse with hanging head were standing by the sidewalk.  The man clambered slowly to the seat and gathered up the lines.  Lawyer Ed picked up the little boy and swung him up beside his father.  He shook him well before he set him down, boxed his ears, pulled his hair, and finally, diving into his pockets, brought out a big handful of pink “bull’s-eyes” and showered them into his hat.  The little fellow shouted with delight, and having crammed his mouth full, he doubled up his small fists and challenged his friend to another scuffle.

But Lawyer Ed shook his head.

“No!  That’s enough nonsense to-day, you young rascal!  Good-bye, Angus, and-” his musical voice became low and soft-“and God bless you.”

Angus McRae’s smile, as he drove away, was like the sun breaking out over Lake Algonquin, and the lawyer felt as if their positions were reversed, and he had just put a mortgage on his farm and Angus were trying to comfort him.

He stood for a moment on the sidewalk, his bright eyes grown misty, and watched the pair drive down the hill.  Then he looked across the street and saw Doctor Archibald Blair climbing into his mud-splashed buggy, satchel in hand.  Lawyer Ed walked across to him, his shining boots sinking in the soft mud.

By descent Lawyer Ed was partly Scotch, by nature he was entirely Irish.  He possessed a glib tongue of the latter order and his habit was to address every one he met, be he Indian, Highland Scot, or French Canadian, in the dialect which the person was supposed to favour.  So he roared out in his magnificent baritone, as he picked his way among the puddles: 

“Hoot!  Losh!  Is yon yersel’, Aerchie mon?”

Doctor Blair glared down at him from under lowering brows.

“Dear me, Ed, you’re an object of pity, when you try to get that clumsy tongue of yours, hampered as it is by a brogue from Cork, around the most musical sounds of the most musical language under heaven.  Give it up, man!  Give it up!”

“Haud yer whisht!  Or whisht yer blethers!-whichever way that outlandish, heathenish gibberish your forebears jabbered, would have it.  You see, Archie, one great advantage of being Irish-and it’s not your fault that you’re not, man, I don’t blame you-one great advantage is that you can speak all languages with equal ease.  Now a Scotchman’s tongue is like his sense of humour and his brains-a bit hard to wiggle.”

  “’Beware a tongue that’s smoothly hung,
  A heart that warmly seems to feel’” -

quoted Doctor Blair, who was always ready with his Burns.  He shoved his black satchel under the seat, and hauled the muddy lap-robe over his knees.

“Do you want anything in the line of common sense, or did you just come over here to blather?”

“I came to see what you thought of Angus.  Is he very sick?”

“Angus McRae?  Yes he is, Ed, I’m sorry to say.  I felt I ought to tell him to quit work altogether, but he can’t afford it.”

“Is it anything dangerous?”

“Well, if anything should happen-a shock or strain of any kind on his heart-he’d be laid up-maybe put out of business altogether.”

“And to-day he put a mortgage on his place, to help pay the debts of Peter McDuff and a dozen other old leeches that live on him.”

The two friends looked at each other and nodded silently.

“He’s a wonderful man, that Angus McRae,” said Dr. Blair.

“He’s the finest man living!” cried Lawyer Ed, always enthusiastic.  “I owe that man more than I can ever pay-not money, something more valuable-nearly everything I have that’s worth while.”

His friend nodded.  There were few men in Algonquin who were not indebted to Angus McRae for something of value.

“Angus is rich in that sort of wealth,” said Archie Blair.

  “It’s no in titles nor in rank;
  It’s no in wealth like Lon’on bank,
    To purchase peace and rest. 
  It’s no in makin’ muckle mair;
  It’s no in books; it’s no in lear;
    To make us truly blest.’”

“But Angus knows where it is, and he’s not like most people who go to church and sing and pray one day in the week and cheat their neighbours the other six!”

The doctor cracked his whip and drove off in high good humour, for he had made a smart slap at the church, as he always loved to do in Lawyer Ed’s presence, and had escaped before that glib Irishman could answer.  He could catch something roared out behind him, about a man who could stay home from church so that he might be a hypocrite seven days in the week and half the nights too, but he pretended not to hear.

Meanwhile Angus McRae and his little son rattled away down one street and along another and out upon the country road.  Just where the town and country met stretched a row of ragged, tumble-down buildings.  There was an ill-smelling hotel, with two or three loungers smoking on the sagging veranda, a long fence covered with tattered and glaring circus posters, a half-dozen patched and weather-beaten houses and a row of abandoned sheds and barns.

Algonquin proper was a pretty little town, all orchards and gardens and winding hilly streets smothered in trees.  And the dreary wretchedness of its back entrance, as it might be called, was all the more painful in contrast.  Willow Lane, this miserable little street was named; but Angus McRae had long termed it, in his secret heart, the Jericho Road.  For the old tavern at the end of it had proved the downfall of many a traveller on that highway, and many a man had Angus picked up, who had fallen there among thieves.

Every one on the Jericho Road knew him well, and went to him for help in time of trouble and, though they did not realise it, he was indeed their neighbour in precisely the way his Master meant him to be.

The lane turned into the country road, and once more all was fragrance and beauty.  It curved around the southern shore of Lake Algonquin; on one side the forest, dark and cool, its dim floor splashed with golden light, its arches ringing with the call of the Canada bird, on the other side the blue and white of the lake, laughing and tumbling beneath the blue and white of the sky.

When the gleam of the water came into view, the little boy clapped his hands and churned up and down in delight.  The fresh, damp wind fanned his face, and he shouted to the white-winged gulls dipping and soaring out there in their free ocean of air.  He looked up laughingly into his father’s face, but quickly became grave.  His father’s eyes were wistful; he had not spoken for a long time.  The child remembered vague hints of trouble that afternoon in Lawyer Ed’s office.

“You won’t have to work when I get a big man, Daddy,” he said comfortingly.  “I’ll work for you.  An’ I’ll get rich, an’ you’ll have lots an’ lots of money.”

His father smiled down at him lovingly.  “Och, indeed, it’s your father will be the happy man when Roderick grows up.  He’ll have nothing to do at all at all.”

“What was Lawyer Ed doing?” queried the child, after a moment’s thought.  “Is he goin’ to let Jock McPherson take away our house?”

“No, no, child.  You must not be troubling your head with such thoughts.  It was just some business Roderick is not old enough to understand.”

The little fellow sat swinging his short legs and gazing out over the lake, struggling with a vague sense of danger.  He had been brought up on the edge of poverty, but had been joyously unconscious of the fact.  His father, Aunt Kirsty, Collie, his dog, and the farm had been his world, a world of love and enjoyment and plenty.  But now he felt the nearness of some unseen foe, something that had made Lawyer Ed and Doctor Blair look so grave, and was now keeping his father quiet and thoughtful.  He had a notion that it all had something to do with money.

“If you only had a pot o’ gold,” he said at last, still staring out over the lake.

“A pot of gold!” repeated his father, with a laugh.  “And what would be putting that into your foolish little head?”

“A pot o’ gold would buy anything you wanted, Peter says.  He told me about it, Peter Fiddle did.  Once a boy found a pot o’ gold hangin’ on to the end of a rainbow.  There’s always one there, Daddy.  Yes, there is, Peter Fiddle says so.  An’ a boy travelled a long, long way to the end of a rainbow, an’ he found it-the pot o’ gold.  An’ he was rich, an’ he gave money to all the poor people an’ made them happy.”

“And so Peter’s been telling you more fairy-tales, eh?  Well, well, it will be a pretty one.  And now, I suppose the first rainbow you see, you’ll be off to get that pot of gold.”

He nodded excitedly.  “Wouldn’t I just!” he cried.

Angus McRae was not despondent over the mortgage which his ill health and his extravagant expenditure for oil and wine and inn-fees had compelled him to put on his little farm.  He was one of those glad souls, with such a perfect faith in his Father, that he could not but believe that what might seem to be a bane was in reality a blessing.  But he was a little puzzled and thoughtful.  The solution of the problem was in his Father’s hands, of course, but he could not help wondering just how it would be worked out, and if he himself were using his every faculty for the best ends.

The greatest part of his problem was the Lad.  His boy had been the very centre of all his thoughts since the day She had left him, with only faith in God and the Lad’s baby hands to hold him up from despair.  She had always hoped that the Lad would have an education, and Angus had planned that he should.  But if the little farm was to go, the Lad would have to work for his father and Aunt Kirsty just as soon as he was big enough.  And She had always hoped he should be a minister some day, or even, perhaps, a missionary to a heathen land.

And next to the Lad was his ministry to his neighbours.  What was to become of that?  Ministry was not the word Angus McRae would have used in speaking of his humble calling,-the mere working of a little market garden farm and the selling of what it produced.  And yet he had made it a real and beautiful ministry to both God and his fellow-man.  He considered the selling of sweet turnips and sound cabbage and unspotted potatoes to his customers as much a religious rite, as did the most devout Israelite the offering of that which was perfect on the altar of Jéhovah.  For indeed everything Angus sent off his little farm, whether sold for a legitimate price or given away, as it so often was, to a needy neighbour, was truly an offering to the Most High.

So he was a little puzzled, though not at all saddened, by the thought that his ministry was to be curtailed, perhaps stopped.  He had hoped to be always able to give a bag of potatoes to a poor neighbour, or to bring to his home any one who had fallen on the Jericho Road.  But then, if the Father wanted him to stop that, He surely had other work for him.  So he flapped his old horse with the lines and, leaning forward, hummed the hymn that was his watchword in times of stress: 

“My soul, be on thy guard, Ten thousand foes arise, The hosts of sin are pressing hard, To draw thee from the skies!”

The Lad interrupted constantly with eager questions about this flower and that tree, and his old horse demanded much attention, to keep her from turning off the road and regaling herself on the green grass.  He flapped her at regular intervals with the lines, saying in a tone of gentle remonstrance, “Tut, tut, Betsy, get up now, get up.”

Betsy had had so many years’ intimate acquaintance with her master that this encouragement to greater speed had long ago lost its real meaning to her.  She had come to regard its gentle reiteration as a sort of pleasant lullaby, and jogged along more peacefully than ever.

They slowly rounded a curve in the road and came into view of their home, the little weather-beaten house facing the lake, with Aunt Kirsty’s garden a glory of sweet-peas, the long rows of neat vegetable beds sloping down to the water, the straggling lane with the big oak at the gate.  And there was Collie bounding down the lane, uttering yelping barks and twisting himself almost out of joint in his efforts to wag his tale hard enough to express his welcome.  The Lad leaped down and ran to open the gate; Collie knocked him over in his ecstasy, and his father smiled indulgently as the two rolled over and over on the grass.

“Run away in to Aunt Kirsty and tell her we are home, Lad,” he cried, as he drove past to the barn.  The boy put the pin in the old gate and went frolicking along the lane, the dog circling about him.  The lane ran straight past the house down to the water, hedged by an old rail fence and fringed with raspberry and alder bushes.  From it a little gate led into Aunt Kirsty’s garden, which surrounded the house.  The boy paused with his hand on the latch of the gate, looking down at the water.  And then he gave a loud, ecstatic “Oh!” that made Collie bark, and stood perfectly still.  He could see Lake Algonquin spread out before him, stretching away to the north in lovely curves like a great river.  Its gleaming floor was dotted with green, feathery islands.  To the west, in a silver haze, lay the town; to the east, a low, wooded shore where the spire of the little Indian church pointed up like a shining finger out of the green.  Great masses of clouds were piled high in the west, where the sunset was turning all the world into glory.  But it was not the beauty of the scene that was holding the little boy spellbound.  Down there, straight ahead of him, was a most marvellous thing, the fulfilment of his dreams.  Across the radiant water, stretching from some fairy island in the heavens, far over to the opposite shore, hung a rainbow!  And more wonderful still, right down there at its foot, just beyond Wanda Island, gleaming and beckoning, hung the pot of gold!

The Lad’s heart gave a great leap.  There it was, just as Peter Fiddle had described it!  Why should he not go after it, right now, and bring it home to his father?  He went tearing down the hill, Collie leaping at his side.  Peter Fiddle had said that the reason more folks did not get the rainbow gold and be rich and happy ever after, was because they did not go after it right at once.  For the pot of gold did not hang there very long, and might slip into the water with a big splash any minute, and be gone forever.  So the Lad ran in frantic haste, and the dog bounded ahead and nearly rushed into the water, in his mistaken idea that he was to catch the gulls that came swooping so near and were off and away before he could snap.  The old green boat belonging to his father was lying on its side half in the water; the Lad tugged at it madly without moving it an inch.  He glanced about him and spied with delight Peter Fiddle’s canoe lying upside down under the birches.  Peter worked for his father, when not away fishing or playing the fiddle or spinning yarns; and when he went away by land his canoe was always at home, and sometimes the Lad had paddled out in it alone.  He pulled and tugged at it manfully, and after great exertions that left him panting, he managed to launch it.  Collie, just returned from a mad charge after the gulls, leaped in beside him.  The boy seized the paddle and pushed off hurriedly.  He seated himself on the thwart and looked out to get his direction.  Yes, there it still hung, away out there at the end of the island, gleaming bigger and brighter than ever.  The canoe was large, and the paddle clumsy, but he was filled with such a passion to get that gold that he made wonderful progress.  He leaned far over the side, splashing the heavy paddle into, the water, until, what with his unsteady stroke, his dangerous position on the thwart, and Collie’s mad attempts to catch the passing gulls, the wonder was that the rainbow expedition did not come to grief as soon as it was launched.  But the Lad had been brought up on the water, and had already had many a lesson in canoeing from Peter Fiddle, and, after the first excitement, he realised his mistake.  So he slid to his knees and ordered Collie to the bottom of the canoe in front of him.  Then, gazing intently ahead, he paddled, in a zigzag course, out towards the wonderful golden haze.

Somehow it had a strange, elusive way of seeming to be in one place and then appearing in another.  The canoeist grew hot, and panting with his efforts.  The perspiration stood out on his round, rosy face, and the curls on his forehead became wet.  He flung off his hat, and redoubled his efforts.  He bent his head to his task, as his paddle bumped and splashed its way into the water.  When he looked up again, he found, to his dismay, that Wanda Island lay right between him and his shining goal.

This little garden of spruce and cedar had heretofore marked the bounds of his excursions.  His father had often allowed him to go out alone in the boat or Peter’s canoe, but only when he was watching from the fields or the shore, and then he was permitted to go only up and down in the shelter of the island.  But he did not hesitate to go farther, fearing the magic gold might vanish while he lingered.  He revived his flagging energies by picturing his father’s joy and wonder when he returned and came staggering up the path with the money.  And then his father could wear his Sunday blacks every day in the week, and never work any more, but just ride to and from town all day long in a new buggy, a painted one like Doctor Blair’s.  And they would hire Peter Fiddle and young Peter every day in the year to hoe the fields, and they would give away everything they grew.  And the people in Willow Lane would all be good and happy ever after.  Oh, there would never be any trouble of any kind when he came home with that pot of gold!

He paddled manfully round the island, pushing through the reeds of the little bay and just skimming the rocks at the western extremity.  But his arms ached so, that he had to pause a moment to rest.  As he did so, he heard a loud whistle, and the steamer, Inverness, came round a far point and turned her long bowsprit towards the town, lying off to the left in a shining mist.  The boy grabbed his paddle again and redoubled his efforts.  Peter had gone down to Barbay that morning on the Inverness, and was in all likelihood on board, and although the young adventurer intended to reward Peter liberally for the use of his canoe, he felt it would be safer for him to have it on shore before its owner returned.  He took one tremendous splashing stroke, and, as he did so, he felt a strange, sharp pain in his right arm.  It made him cry out so loud that Collie turned quickly to him with a whine of grieved sympathy.  The boy dropped the paddle across his knee and caught his arm.  Gradually the pain left and he took up the paddle again.  But somehow the glory of the expedition seemed to have vanished.  He wanted Aunt Kirsty when that pain came into his arm, more than he wanted all the gold of all the rainbows he had ever seen.  He bent to his paddle with much less vim, and slowly and painfully round the island he came, and out into the open lake.  And then,-where, oh, where, was the pot of gold?  And where was the rainbow?  He seemed to have come out with one stroke of his paddle from a world that was all colour and light to one that was cold, grey and dreary.  He looked about him amazed.  All the beauty of the lake had faded into mist.  The rainbow was gone!  A chill, damp breeze fanned his hot face, coming down from the north, where the clouds had grown black.  The little mariner sat on his heels in the bottom of his canoe and looked about him in dismay.  Surely the pot of gold had not gone.  Perhaps it was hidden away behind those dark clouds and would come gleaming out again right in front of him.  But though he sat and waited, the world only grew greyer and darker.  Collie stood up again and barked defiance at a heron that sailed away overhead, but his little master sharply bade him lie down.  The pain in his arm gave another twinge, and slowly and sadly he took up his paddle and turned his canoe homeward.

As he did so he felt a light breeze lift him.  It came from the north, where those dark clouds had swallowed up his rainbow.  A strange, weird thing was happening up there in those clouds, and the boy paused to watch.  Down the shimmering floor of the lake, sweeping slowly towards him, came a great army.  Stealthy, hurrying shapes, with bent, grey-cowled heads, and trailing garments, rank on rank they stole forward, mystery and fear in their every movement.  Many a time, on an autumn evening, the boy had watched the fog start away up the lake and come stealing down, until the islands and the town and the forest were covered as with a blanket.  But he had never seen anything so awesome as this.  The strange shapes into which the light gusts of wind had driven the mist made them look like an army of ghosts driven out of the haunts of night.  They were bringing night in their train, too.  For as they swept silently onward, everything in earth and lake and sky was blotted out.  One by one the islands vanished; the far-off eastern shore was wiped away as if by some magic hand.  The tower of the little Indian church stood out for a moment above the flood and then sank engulfed; and the next moment the great host had swept over the little sailor and he was walled in and cut off from land and water, alone in a cloudy sea with neither shore nor sky nor surface.  The boy turned swiftly towards his home, and when he saw that it, too, was gone, he uttered a cry of terror.  “Daddy, oh, Daddy!” he wailed.  Collie came close and licked his face and whined, then looked about him and growled disapprovingly at the weird thing that surrounded them.  The boy put his arms tight around the dog’s neck and hugged him.  “Oh, Collie!” he cried, “we’re lost, and I don’t know where home is and where Daddy is.”  It was not the loss of gold that troubled him now.  He stared about him in the greyness, striving to make out some object.  The fog was so thick that he could see only the length of the canoe, but a big, darker mass of shadow in a world of shadows, told him where Wanda Island lay, and grasping his paddle, he started in what he believed to be the direction of home.  He paddled until he was out of breath, rested a moment, then went at it again with all his might.  The pain in his arm returned, but he dared not stop.  And as he worked madly in his efforts to reach home, the gentle wind was slowly but surely carrying him out to the open lake.

Every few minutes the thought of his father would overcome him and he would drop his paddle and, sinking down beside Collie, would sob aloud.  Then he would rise again bravely and go at his task, but each time with feebler efforts.  The pain in his arm, which kept returning at intervals, was sometimes so bad he had to stop and nurse it.  He was wet to the skin now, and Collie’s hair was dripping.  Whenever he rested, he spent the interval calling loudly for his father, while Collie helped him by barking, but though he listened till his ears were strained, only the soft lap, lap, of the waves against the canoe answered.  As night came on the thick pall grew heavier and blacker, and at last he could not see even the length of the canoe.

The sore arm became almost helpless at last, and he could paddle only a few strokes at long intervals.  He slipped down beside Collie, hugging him close, and sobbed out on his sympathetic head his sorrow for the rash venture.  He even confessed that he wished he had left his friend at home.  “Aunt Kirsty and Daddy will be that lonesome, Collie,” he wailed, “without either of us.  But I couldn’t do without you at all, Collie!” he added.  And Collie licked his face again, and whined his appreciation of the compliment.  They seemed to drift on and on for hours and hours.  The boy’s imagination, fed by the wild tales from Peter Fiddle-tales of shipwrecks at sea, and dead men’s bones cast upon haunted islands-, became a prey to every terror.  There were ghosts and goblins out here, and water fairies, that might spirit you away to a land whence there was no returning; and there were those other creatures so terrible that Peter had not dared even to describe them, called “Bawkins.”  He shivered at the thought of them, and clung to the dog, too frightened to cry out.  He had been trying to pray in broken snatches, but now, in his extremity of fear, he felt he must put up a petition of more force.  He scrambled to his knees and tried to get Collie to join him by bowing his head.  But Collie seemed of an altogether irreverent nature, and only licked his little master’s face all the more.  So the Lad gave it up, and, putting his hands together behind the dog’s head, whispered:  “Oh, dear Lord, we’re lost, me and Collie.  Please send Father and Peter Fiddle with the boat to find us.  Please don’t let us get drownded or don’t let the Bawkins get us.  And please don’t mind Collie not prayin’ right, ’cause he’s only a dog, but he’s lost, too; and please bring us safe home.  And oh, Dear Jesus, I’m sorry I came out alone to hunt for the pot o’ gold, but I didn’t know it was so far, and please won’t you make Daddy and Peter Fiddle hurry, ’cause I’m so cold and so hungry and my arm’s awful sore and I can’t paddle no more.  And please, if Peter Fiddle ain’t home yet and has gone off and got drunk, won’t you please send young Peter with Daddy.  And please send them in a hurry.”  He paused, but felt he must end in a more becoming way.  It was his first extemporaneous prayer of any length, and he scarcely knew how to close.  Then he remembered how Dr. Leslie, in the church where he went every Sabbath with his father, was wont to bring his morning petition to a close, so he added, “Only please, please, don’t let Peter Fiddle get drunk to-night-world wifout end.  Amen.”

There were some more tears after that, but not such bitter ones; for Angus McRae’s son could not but believe that God heard prayer, and he waited for his answer in a child’s faith.  “He’s sure to send Daddy soon, Collie,” he said comfortingly; and then, quaveringly, after a few moments of intense listening and waiting, “It wouldn’t be like God not to, now, would it, Collie?”

There was another period of calling into the darkness and of silent waiting, broken only by the wash of the little ripples against the canoe.  And then there was a spasmodic attempt at paddling, followed by another season of prayer and a piteous plea for haste.  Then the Lad bethought himself of his father’s hymn, the one he sang so often when he was in danger; though the son often was puzzled as to what sort of danger it was that assailed his father.  There was no doubt about his own danger just now, so the child lifted a tremulous voice and tried to sing:-

“My soul, be on thy guard, Ten thousand foes arise, The hosts of sin are pressing hard, To draw thee from the skies!”

But the singing was a failure.  He was hoarse with crying and shouting, and fearful that the “Bawkins” would hear, and come and carry his canoe through the air, away, away, to the land of mists and dead people.  And the poor sounds he managed to make seemed to strike Collie as the most grievous thing of all this disastrous voyage, for he put back his head and howled dismally.  So the Lad gave it up and took to praying again, sure that though Father and Aunt Kirsty and Peter Fiddle were far away, that God was near.  He was wet and chilled through now, and was so exhausted that at last his head sank on Collie’s neck.  He was lying there, half asleep, when the dog suddenly gave a leap and a loud bark that roused him in terror.  He clutched Collie and held him down with stern threats.  But his terror changed to wild hope.  Away behind him was a dim yellow light making a long tunnel through the fog.  And down it a far, far voice was calling, “Roderick!  Roderick, my son, where are you?”

“Daddy!  Oh, Daddy!” the boy answered with a hoarse scream.  “Here I am in the canoe with Collie!” There was no need to announce the dog’s presence, for Collie was barking madly and leaping so his little master could hardly hold him.  But he was not nearly so careful as he would have been a few minutes before, for it did not seem to matter even if the canoe did upset, when his father was near!

The next moment a boat swept alongside with a blinding glare of light, and such a crowd of people!-Peter Fiddle at the oars, and young Peter at the rudder, and Lawyer Ed!  And there seemed to be lights suddenly appearing on every side, and the whole lake was ringing with shouts!  But the boy heard only his father’s voice, saw only his outstretched arms.  He fairly tumbled out of the canoe into them, and there sobbed out all his terror and exhaustion, while Collie leaped and barked and tried his best to upset the boat.

“Oh, Daddy,” the little boy sobbed, with the wisdom born of adversity, “I didn’t get the gold-but-I-don’t want anything ever-if I’ve just got you!”