On a hazy August afternoon the little steamer Inverness,-Captain, James McTavish-came sailing across Lake Simcoe with her long white bowsprit pointing towards the cedar-fringed gates opening into Lake Algonquin.  She was a trim little craft, painted all blue and white like the water she sailed.  Captain McTavish, who was also her owner, had named her after his birthplace.  He loved the little steamer, and pronounced her name with a tender lingering on the last syllable, and a softening of the consonants, that no mere Sassenach tongue could possibly imitate.

There were not many passengers to-day; the majority were mothers with their children, the latter chasing each other about the deck or clambering into all forbidden and dangerous places, the former sitting in the shade, darning or sewing or embroidering according to their station in life.  A few young ladies sat in groups, and chatted and ate candies, or read and ate candies while one young man, in white flannels and a straw hat waited upon them with stools and wraps and drinks of water, and magazines, fetching and carrying in a most abject manner.  There was always a sad dearth of young men on the Inverness, except on a public holiday; but as the girls said, they could always depend on Alf.  He was Algonquin’s one young gentleman of leisure, and beside having a great deal of money to spend on ice-cream and bon-bons, had also an unlimited amount of good nature to spend with it.

He seemed to be the only one on board who had much to do.  Down below, old Sandy McTavish, the engineer and the captain’s brother, was seated on a nail keg smoking and spinning yarns to a couple of young Indians.  His assistant, Peter McDuff the younger, who did such work as had to be done to make the Inverness move, was lounging against the engine-room door, listening.

Up in the little pilot house in the bow, the captain was also at leisure.  He was perched upon a stool watching, with deep interest and admiration, the young man who was guiding the wheel.

“Ah, ha! ye haven’t forgotten, I see!” he exclaimed proudly, as the strong young hands gave the vessel a wide sweep around a little reedy island.  “I was wondering if you would be remembering the Sand Bar, indeed.”

“I’ve taken the Inverness on too many Sunday-school picnics to forget your lessons, Captain.  There’s the Pine Point shoal next, and after you round that, you head her for the Cedars on the tip of Loon Island, and then straight as the crow flies for the Gates and then Home!  Hurrah!”

He shook his straight broad shoulders with a boyish gesture of impatience, as though he would like to jump overboard and swim home.

“Eh, well, well!  It’s your father will be the happy man, and to think you are coming home to stay, too.”  The captain rubbed his hands along his knees, joyfully.

The young man smiled, but did not answer.  His eager, dark eyes were turned upon the scene ahead, marking every dearly familiar point.  Already he could see, through an opening in the forest, the soft gleam of Lake Algonquin.  There was Rock Bass Island where he and his father and Peter Fiddle used to fish, and the slash in the middle of it whither he rowed Aunt Kirsty every August to help harvest the blackberries.  A soft golden haze hung over the water, reminding him of that illusive gleam he had followed, one evening so long ago, when he set out to find the treasure at the foot of the rainbow.

He smiled at the recollection of his childish fancy.  For he was a man now, with a university degree, and far removed from any such folly.  Nevertheless there was something in the quick movement of his strong brown hands, and the look of impulsive daring in his bright eyes, that hinted that he might be just the lad to launch his canoe on life’s waters and paddle away in haste towards the lure of a rainbow gleam.

When Captain McTavish had answered a stream of questions regarding all and sundry in Algonquin, he left him in charge of the wheel and went rambling over the deck on a hospitable excursion, for he regarded every one on board as his especial guest.  He had aged much in the eighteen years since he had joined the search party for young Roderick McRae.  The Inverness had been overhauled and painted and made smart many times in the years that had elapsed, but her captain had undergone no such renewing process.  But he was still famous from one end of the lakes to the other for the hospitality of the Inverness.  For though his eye had grown dim, it was as kindly as ever, and if his step was not so brisk as in former years, his heart was as swift to help as it had ever been.

He pulled the Algonquin Chronicle out of his pocket, smoothed it out carefully, and moving with his wide swaying stride across the deck to where a young girl was seated alone, he offered it to her as “the finest weekly paper in Canada, whatefer, and a good sound Liberal into the bargain.”

The girl smiled her thanks, and, taking the paper, glanced over it with an indifferent eye.  She was the only stranger on board, and had sat apart ever since she had left Barbay.  Of course every one in Algonquin knew that a new teacher had been appointed for the East Ward.  And as school opened the next day, the passengers on the Inverness had rightly guessed that this must be she.  She had been the subject of much discussion amongst the young ladies, for she was very pretty, and her blue cloth suit was cut after the newest city fashion, and the one young man seemed in danger of presenting himself, and begging to be allowed to fetch and carry for her also.  Several of the older women, with motherly hearts, had spoken to her, but she had continued to sit aloof, discouraging all advances.  It was not because she was of an unsociable nature, but the struggle to keep back the tears of homesickness took all her attention.  There was no place on the little steamer where one might be alone, so she had sat all afternoon, with her back to every one gazing over the water.  Nevertheless many a pretty sight had passed her unnoticed.  Sometimes the Inverness had slipped so close to the shore that the overhanging birches bent down and touched her fair hair with a welcoming caress, and again she ran away out over the tumbling blue waves, where the gulls soared and dipped with a flash of white wings.  But the strange girl’s mind was far away.  She was fairly aching with longing for home-the home that was no more.  And she was longing too for that other home-the beautiful dream home which was to have been hers, but which was now only a dream.  Again and again the tears had gathered, but she had forced them back, striving bravely to give her attention to the passing beauties of land and lake.

Captain Jimmie’s kindly eye had noted the stranger as soon as she had come on board, and he had set himself to make the drooping little figure and the big sad eyes look less forlorn.

He had helped her on board, as she came down from the railway station, her trunk wheeled behind her, and had shaken hands and welcomed her warmly to Algonquin, saying she would be sure to like the school and he knew the Miss Armstrongs would be very kind indeed.

She had looked up in surprise, not yet knowing the wisdom of Algonquin folk concerning the doings of their neighbours.

“Och, indeed I will be knowing all about you,” the captain said, smiling broadly.  “You will be Miss Murray, the young leddy that’s to teach.  Lawyer Ed-that’s Mr. Brians, you know-would be telling me.  And you will be boarding at the Miss Armstrongs’.  They told me I was to be bringing you up,” he added, with an air of proprietorship, that made her feel a little less lonely.  “And indeed,” he added, with the gallant air, which was truly his own, “it is a fortunate pair of ladies the Miss Armstrongs will be, whatefer.”

Many times during the afternoon he had stopped beside her with a kindly word.  And once he sat by her side and pointed out places of interest, while some uncertain pilot at the wheel sent the Inverness unheeded on a happy zigzag course.  Yon was Hughie McArthur’s farm they were passing now.  Hughie had done well.  He was own nephew to the captain, as his eldest sister had married on Old Archie’s Hughie.  Old Archie had been the first settler in these parts, and him and his wife had it hard in the early days.  His father had told him many a time that Old Archie’s wife had walked into where Algonquin now stood-they called it the Gates in those days,-twenty mile away if it was one, with a sack of wheat on her back to be ground at the mill, and back again with the flour, while the eldest girl, then only fifteen, looked after the family and the stock.  That was when Archie was away at the front the time of the rebellion.  Yes, it was hard times for the women folk in those days.  Times was changed now to be sure.  Take Hughie, now, his sister’s son.  That was his new silo over yonder, that she could see.  Hughie had a gasoline engine and it did everything, Hughie said, but get the hired man up in the morning, and he was going to have it fixed so it would do that.  The captain paused, pleased to see that Hughie’s wit was appreciated.  They had the engine fixed to run the churn and the washer, and Hughie’s woman hadn’t anything to do but sit and play the organ or drive herself to town.  And just behind yon strip of timber was where his father had settled first when they came out from Inverness.  All that land she could see now, up to the topmost hill was the township of Oro, and a great place for Highlanders it was in the early days, though he feared it had sadly deteriorated.  Folks said you could scarcely hear the Gaelic at all now.

The captain looked at her now, trying to fix her attention on the little newspaper and he suddenly bethought himself of something else he could do for her and bustled away down the little steep stair.  Whenever the Inverness sighted the entrance to Lake Algonquin of a summer afternoon, Captain Jimmie went immediately below and brewed tea for the whole passenger list.  He had always done it, and this mid-voyage refreshment had come to be one of the institutions of the trip, as indispensable as the coal to run the engine.  He appeared shortly with a huge teapot in one hand and a jug of hot water in the other, calling hospitably, “Come away, and have a cup-a-tea, whatefer.  Come away.”

Mr. Alfred Wilbur, the young man in the white flannels ran to help him.  The fact that he was given to rendering his services at all functions in Algonquin where tea was poured, had brought upon him an ignominious nickname.  His title in full as engraved on his visiting cards, was Alfred Tennyson Wilbur, and a rude young man of the town had taken liberties with the initials, and declared they stood for Afternoon Tea Willie.

It must be confessed that, while Afternoon Tea Willie was the most obliging young man in all Canada, he was not entirely disinterested in his desire to assist the captain to-day.  He saw in that big tea-pot a chance to serve the handsome young lady with the city hat and the smart suit.  He secured a second teapot and was heading her way in bustling haste when the captain, all unconscious, slipped in ahead of him, and the unkind young ladies whom poor Alf had slaved for all afternoon, laughed aloud over his discomfiture.

As soon as the cup-a-tea had been served the captain went back to the pilot house.  They had entered the Channel, a toy river, low-banked and reed-fringed, that led by many a pretty curve into Lake Algonquin.  Two bridges spanned the Channel at its narrowest part, which was named the Gates, and Captain Jimmie allowed no one but himself, however expert, to take the Inverness through here.

Relieved from his duties, Roderick strolled away.  Like the strange girl, he, too, had attracted much attention, especially among the young ladies, and at their bidding Alfred Tennyson had several times attempted to lure him into joining their circle.  But Roderick was shy and constrained in the presence of young ladies.  He had had no time to cultivate their acquaintance in his school and college days, and had admired them only from afar in a diffident way; so when Alfred approached him and begged him once more to come and be introduced he slipped away downstairs to talk with his old boyhood friend, the fireman.

“Hello, Pete, we’ll soon be in Lake Algonquin!” he cried joyfully, as he leaned over the low door and watched the young man heaving coal into the Inverness’s hot jaws.

Young Peter slammed the furnace door and came up to get a breath of cool air.  He put a black hand on Roderick’s arm, “Say, I’m awful glad you’re home, Rod,” he said, smiling broadly.

“And I’m just as awful glad to be home, Pete, old boy.  I say, do you do all the work while the Ancient Mariner there smokes and orders you round?”

The crew of the Inverness, consisting of an engineer and a fireman, was, whether in port or on the high seas, in a state of frank mutiny.  The Ancient Mariner, as every one called Sandy McTavish, was the captain’s elder brother, and he made no secret of the fact that he intended to run the Inverness as he pleased, if he ran her to Davy Jones.  Accordingly he smoked and spun yarns all day long in true nautical fashion, and young Peter McDuff did the work.

But Peter looked at Roderick puzzled, and grinned good naturedly.  He did not understand that there was anything unjust in the arrangement old Sandy had made of the work.  Poor Peter had been born to injustice.  His father was a drunkard and the boy had started life dull of brain and heavy of foot.  His slow mind had not questioned why the burdens of life should have been so unevenly divided.

But Roderick McRae felt something of the tragedy of Peter’s handicapped life.  He put his hands affectionately on the young man’s heavy shoulders.  They had been brought up side by side on the shores of Lake Algonquin, but how different their lots had been!

“Ah, it’s all a hard job for you, Pete, old boy!” he cried.

Peter’s dull eyes lit up.

“Oh, no, it ain’t!  It will be a great job, Rod.  Your father would be getting it for me.  Your father’s been awful good to us, Rod.  Say, tell me about the city.  Is it an awful big place?”

Roderick studied the young man’s heavy face, as he talked.  Here was one of his father’s neighbours of the Jericho Road.  For twenty years or more, he could remember his father struggling to bring Peter Fiddle to a life of sobriety and righteousness and to bring up his son in the same.  And what had he to show for it all?  Old Peter was a worse drunkard than he had been twenty years ago, and poor Young Peter was the hopeless result of that drinking.  Roderick’s kindly heart sympathised with his father’s efforts, but his head pronounced judgment upon them.  He confessed he could see very little use in bothering with the sort of folk that were forever stumbling on the Jericho Roads of life.

Peter went back reluctantly to the engine-room, and Roderick ran up on deck to see the Inverness enter the Gates.  He had not been home for a whole long year, and he was eager as a child to get the first glimpse of Algonquin and the little cove where the old farm lay.

As he was passing round to the wheel-house, he noticed again the young stranger who had come on board at Barbay.  He had been puzzled then by the recollection of having seen her before, and he walked slowly, looking at her and trying to recall where and when it could have been.  As he approached, she turned in his direction, her eyes following the sweep of a gull’s white wing, and he recognised her.  He remembered her quite distinctly, for he could count on his fingers the number of young ladies he had met in his busy college days, and Miss Murray was not one that could be easily forgotten.  He stood at the railing and recalled the scene.  It had been at the home of Mrs. Carruthers, Billy Parker’s aunt.  That kind lady made it a blessed habit to invite hungry students to her home on Sunday nights.  And the suppers she gave!  Billy had taken Roderick that evening, and there were a half-dozen more.  And this Miss Murray had dropped in after church with Richard Wells.  Wells was a medical in his last year, and Roderick had met him often before.  Miss Murray had worn some sort of soft white dress, he remembered, and a big white hat, and she had been very bright and gay then, not sad and pensive as she seemed now.

He did not realise that he was staring intently at her, while he recalled all this, until she turned and looked at him.  She gave a start of surprised recognition mingled with something of dismay.  For an instant she looked irresolute; then she bowed, and Roderick came quickly forward.  She gave him her hand, a vague look in her deep grey-blue eyes.  She remembered him; Roderick’s appearance was too striking to be easily forgotten; but it was plain she could not recall where.

“It was a Sunday evening, last fall-at Mrs. Carruthers’,” he stammered.  She smiled reassuringly.

“Oh, yes, it was stupid of me to forget.  You were in law, weren’t you?”

“Yes, in my last year.  I’m just on my way home now, to practise in Algonquin.  Are you going to visit friends here?”

“No, I’m going to teach.”  She did not seem to want to speak of herself.  “Algonquin is a very pretty place, I hear.”

“It’s is the most lovely place in Canada,” said Roderick enthusiastically.  He was not as shy in her presence as he usually was with young women.  He could not help seeing, that for some unaccountable reason, she was embarrassed at meeting him, and her distress made him forget himself.  He tried to put her at her ease in a flurried way.

“How people scatter!  The half-dozen that were at Mrs. Carruthers’ that night are all over the world.  Billy Parker’s gone to Victoria to practise law, and Withers is in Germany, and Wells,-he graduated with honours, didn’t he?  Where did Dick Wells go?”

Roderick had no sooner uttered the name than he saw he had made a mistake.  The girl’s face flushed; a slow colour creeping up over neck and brow and dyeing her cheeks crimson.  But she looked up at him with brave steady eyes as she answered quietly: 

“I am not sure where he is.  I heard he had gone to Montreal.”  And when she had said it she became as white as the dainty lawn blouse she wore.

Roderick made a blundering attempt to apologise for something, he scarcely knew what, and only made matters worse.

“I-I beg your pardon,” he said, “I shouldn’t have asked-but I thought-we understood-at least I mean Billy said,” he floundered about hopelessly, and she came to his aid.

“That Dr. Wells and I were engaged?” She was looking at him directly now, sitting erect with a sparkle in her eye.

“Yes,” he whispered.

“It was true-then.  But it is not now.”

“I am so sorry I spoke-” faltered Roderick.

“You need not be,” she broke in.  “It was quite natural-only-” she looked at him keenly for a moment as though taking his measure.  “May I ask a favour of you, Mr. McRae?”

“Oh, yes, I should be so glad,” he broke out, anxious to make amends.

“Then if you would be so good as to make no mention of-of this.  I shall be living in Algonquin now for some time probably.”

She stopped falteringly.  She could not confess to this strange young man that she had come away to this little town where no one knew her just to escape the curiosity and pity of acquaintances and friends, and that she was dismayed at meeting one on its very threshold who knew her secret.  She was relieved to find him more anxious to keep it than she herself.

He assured her that he would not even think of it again, and then he stumbled upon a remark about the fishing in Lake Algonquin, and the duck-shooting, two things, he recollected afterwards, in which she could not possibly be interested, and finally he made his escape.  He leaned over the bow, watching the channel opening out its green arms to the Inverness, and tried to recall all that he had heard about Dick Wells.  Billy Parker, who knew all college gossip, had told him much to which he had scarcely listened.  But he remembered something concerning a broken engagement.  Wells was to have been married in June to the pretty Miss Murray, Billy had said.  She had her trousseau all ready, and then Dick had gone on a trip to the Old Country alone.  No one knew the reason, though Billy had declared it was the same old reason-“Another girl.”

Roderick McRae’s chivalry had never before been called into action where young women were concerned.  Now he felt something new and strong rising within him.  He was suddenly filled with the old spirit which sent a knight out upon the highway to do doughty deeds for the honour of a lady, or to right her wrongs.  His warm heart was filled with conflicting emotions, rage at himself for having brought the hurt look into those soft blue eyes, rage at Wells for being the primary cause of it, and underneath all a strange, quite unreasonable, feeling of exhilaration over the fact that he and the girl with the golden hair and the sad eyes had a secret between them.

They were in the Gates now, passing slowly through the railroad bridge.  The softly tinted glassy water of Lake Algonquin, with the green islands mirrored in its clear depths was opening out to view.  The channel too, was clear and still like crystal, save where the swell from the bows of the Inverness rolled away to the low shore and set the bulrushes nodding a stately welcome.  The echoes of the little engine clattered away into the deep woods, startlingly clear.  An ugly brown bittern, with a harsh exclamation of surprise at the intrusion into his quiet domain, shot across the bow and disappeared into the swamp.  A great heron sailed majestically down the channel ahead of the boat, his broad blue wings gleaming in the sunlight.  It was all so still and beautiful that a sense of peace and content awoke in Roderick’s heart.

The Inverness was making her way slowly towards the second bridge.  The channel was very narrow and shallow here and the captain’s little whistle that communicated with the powers below was squeaking frantically.  Just as the bridge began to turn, a man in a mud-splashed buggy dashed up, a moment too late to cross, and stood there holding his horse, which went up indignantly on its heels every time the Inverness snorted.  His fair face was darkened with anger, his blue eyes were blazing.  He leaned over the dashboard and shook his fist at the little wheel-house which held the captain.

“Get along there you, Jimmie McTavish!” He roared in a voice that was rich and musical even in its anger.  “Can’t you see I’m in a hurry, you thundering old mud-turtle?  I could sail a ship across the Atlantic while you are dawdling here.  Get out of my road, I tell you!  I’ve got to be in town before that five train goes out, and here’s that old dromedary of yours stuck in the mud.-How?  What?  Oh, what in the name of ?” He choked, spluttering with wrath, for with a final squeak the Inverness stopped altogether.

The captain darted out of the wheel-house to call down an indignant enquiry of the Ancient Mariner as to the cause of the delay.  Much sailing in all weathers in the keen air of the northern lakes had ruined Captain McTavish’s voice, which, at best, had never been intended for any part but a high soprano.  And now it was almost inaudible with anger.  It ill became the dignity of a sea captain to be thus publicly berated in the presence of his passengers.

“If ye’d whisht ye’re noise,” he screamed, “I’d be movin’ queek enough.  Come away, Sandy!  Come away, Peter, man!”

For all his sailing, the captain was a true landsman, and when under pressure his thin nautical veneer slipped off him, and his language was not of the sea.

“Come away, Sandy,” he called artlessly, “and gee her a bit. Gee!”

“I can have the law on you for obstructing the King’s Highway!” thundered the man on the bridge.

“The water will be jist as much the King’s Highway as the road!” retorted the captain indignantly.  “If you would be leafing other folks’ business alone, and attending to your own, you would be knowing the law better.  It is a rule of the sea that effery vessel-”

“The sea!” the enemy burst in with an overwhelming roar.  “The sea!  A vessel!  A miserable fish pond, and an old tub like that, the sea and a vessel!  Get away with you!  Get out of my sight!”

He waved a hand as if he would wipe the Inverness from off the face of the waters.

During the altercation, Roderick McRae had been leaning far over the railing, striving to attract the attention of the madman in the buggy.  But his voice was drowned in the laughter and cheers of the passengers who were enjoying the battle immensely.  At this moment he put his fingers to his teeth and uttered a long, sharp whistle.  “Ho!  Lawyer Ed!” he shouted.  The man on the bridge started.  His angry face, with the quickness of lightning, broke into radiance.

“Roderick!-Rod!  Are you there?  Hooray!” He caught off his hat and waved it in the air.  “Come on home with me!  I dare you to jump it!”

The Inverness was at a perilous distance from the bridge, but the young man did not hesitate a moment before the half-laughing challenge.  He leaped lightly upon the railing, poised a moment and, with a mighty spring, landed upon the bridge.  The onlookers gave a gasp and then a relieved and admiring cheer.

Another spring put Roderick into the buggy, where his friend hammered him on the back, and they laughed like a couple of school-boys.  And that was what they really were, for though Roderick McRae was nearly twenty-four, he was feeling like a boy in his home-coming joy, and as for Lawyer Ed he hadn’t grown an hour older, either in feeling or appearance, but lived perennially somewhere near the joyous age of eighteen.

Meanwhile the real captain of the Inverness had begun to bestir himself.  The Ancient Mariner cared not the smallest lump of coal that went into the furnace door for the command of his brother-captain; but he had a wholesome fear of Lawyer Ed, and doubted the wisdom of rousing him again.  So he gave an order to Peter, and with a great deal of boiling and churning of the water the Inverness slowly began to move.  The bridge, worked by a dozen youngsters who always roosted there, began to turn into place.  With a defiant yell of her whistle, the Inverness sailed out of the Gates, and the buggy dashed across the bridge and away down the dusty road.  But though Lawyer Ed was bubbling over with good humour now, he turned, Marmion like, to shake his gauntlet of defiance at the retreating vessel, and to call out insulting remarks to which the captain responded with spirit.

“Well inteet,” said the Ancient Mariner, as he settled once more to his pipe, “it will be a great peety that Lawyer Ed has neither the Gawlic nor the profanity, for when he will be getting into a rage he will jist be no use at all, at all!”

All unconscious of his verbal deficiencies, and uproariously happy, Lawyer Ed sped away down the Pine Road towards town.  He had been looking forward for a long time to this day, when Roderick should come back to Algonquin to be his partner.

“It’s great to see you again, Lad,” he exclaimed joyfully, surveying the young man’s fine figure and frank face with pride.  “I was getting nervous for fear you were going West after all.”

“I can’t pretend I didn’t want to go,” he confessed, “though I didn’t like the idea of another fellow in my place in your office.  You see I’m a good bit of a dog in the manger, and when Father’s last letter arrived I felt I must come.”

“That’s right, my boy.  Your place is with your father just now.  And you’re looking as fine and fit as if you’d been away camping.”

“I’m ready for anything.  You and J. P. Thornton can start for the Holy Land to-morrow.”

“I prophesied once, about a score or so years ago; that I’d go when you could manage my practice, and I’ll be hanged if I don’t think it’s coming true.  J. P.’s talking about it, anyway.  Does your arm ever bother you now?”

Roderick doubled up his right fist, stretched out his arm, and slowly drew it up, showing his splendid muscle.  “Sometimes, but not anything to bother about, only a twinge once in a while when it’s damp.  I can still paddle my good canoe, and if you’d like a boxing bout-” he turned and squared up to his friend, receiving a lightning-like blow that nearly knocked him into the road.  And the two went off into an uproarious sparring match like a couple of youngsters.

Lawyer Ed had never yet married though he still made love to every woman, girl and baby in Algonquin.  But Roderick McRae had grown to be like a son to him, filling every desire of his big warm heart, and now the proud day had come when his boy was to be his partner.  He and Angus had talked for hours of the wonderful things that were to be accomplished in the town and church and on the Jericho Road when the Lad came home, and had laid great plans at which the Lad himself only guessed.  They had feared for a time that all were to be ruined when, after his graduation, he had been kept in the city in the employ of a firm, and had received from them an offer of a position in the West.  But he had refused, to their joy, and was to settle in Algonquin and relieve Lawyer Ed of his altogether too burdensome practice.

As they spun along, for the five-o’clock train was still to be caught, the elder man poured out all the news of the town; J. P.’s last great speech, Algonquin’s lacrosse victories, the latest battle in the session,-for Jock McPherson was still a valiant and stubborn objector,-the last tea-meeting at McClintock’s Corners, where the Highland Quartette, of whom Lawyer Ed was leader, had sung, the errand over to Indian Head, where he had just been, etc., etc.  It was not half told when they came to the point in the road opposite Roderick’s home, and the Lad leaped down, promising to run up to the office that night when he went into town for his trunk.

He lost no time on the rest of the journey.  It was a dash through the dim woods where the white Indian Pipes raised their tiny, waxen tapers, and the squirrels skirled indignantly at him from the tree-tops; a leap across the stream where the water-lilies made a fairy bridge of green and gold, a scramble through the underbrush, and he was at the edge of the little pasture-field, and saw the old home buried in orchard trees, and Aunt Kirsty’s garden a blaze of sun-flowers and asters.  And there at the gate, gazing eagerly down the lane in quite the wrong direction, stood his father!

The years had told heavily on the Good Samaritan, and Roderick’s loving eye could detect changes even in the last year of his absence.  Old Angus’s tall figure was stooped and thin, and he carried a staff, but he still held up his head as though facing the skies, and his eyes were as young and as kindly as ever.  The Lad gave a boyish shout and came bounding towards him.  The old man dropped his stick and held out both his hands.  He said not a word, but his eyes spoke very eloquently all his pride and joy and love.  He put his two hands on his son’s head and uttered a low prayer of thanksgiving.

Aunt Kirsty came bustling out as fast as her accumulating flesh would permit.  Poor Aunt Kirsty had grown to a great bulk these later days and could not hurry, but indeed had she used up all the energy on moving forward that she mistakenly put into swaying violently from side to side, she would have made tremendous speed.  Roderick ran to meet her, and she took him into her ample bosom and kissed him and patted him on the back and poured out a dozen Gaelic synonyms for darling, and then shoved him away, and burying her face in her apron, began to cry because he was such a man and not her baby any more!

The father’s heart was too full for words; but after supper when they sat out on the porch in the soft misty twilight, he found many things to ask, and many questions to answer.  Roderick sat on the step facing the lake, filled with a great content.  The sunset gleam of the water through the darkening trees, the soft plaintive call of the phoebes from the woods, the sleepy drone of Bossy’s bell from the pasture, and the scents of the garden made up the atmosphere of home.

“Well, well, and you have come to stay,” his father said for the tenth time, rubbing his hands along his knee in ecstasy, “to stay.”

“It’ll be great to know that I don’t have to run away at the end of the summer, won’t it?”

“It’ll jist be the answer to all my prayers, Lad.  I feel I am no use in the world at all, now that you have made me give up all work.”  He gave his son a glance of loving reproach.  For while Roderick had managed to get his education, he had managed too, to do wonderful things with the little farm, so that his father had long ago given up the work he had resumed after his year’s illness.  And Aunt Kirsty had a servant-girl in the kitchen now, and devoted all her time to her garden and her Bible.

“You’ve jist made your father a useless old body.  But I jist can’t be minding, for I see how you can be taking up all my work.  There’s the Jericho Road waiting for you, Lad.”

The young man smiled indulgently.  “And what do you think I can do there, Father?  Unless Mike Cassidy goes to law as usual.”

“Ah, but is jist you that can.  Edward will be finding great opportunities for helping folk and he has not the time now.  There’s that poor bit English body, Perkins, and his family, and there’s Mike as you say, though Father Tracy would be straightening him up something fine.  But you must jist see that he doesn’t go to law any more.  And then there’s poor Peter Fiddle.”

The younger man laughed.  “Peter is the kind of poor we have with us always, Dad.  Is he behaving any better?”

“Och, indeed I sometime think I see a decided improvement,” exclaimed Old Angus, with the optimism that had refused to give Peter Fiddle up through years of drunkenness and failure.  “We must jist keep hold of him, and the good Lord will save Peter yet, never fear.”

Roderick was silent.  Personally he had no faith in Peter McDuff the elder.  He had gone on through the years fiddling and singing and telling stories, his drunken sprees showing a constantly diminishing interval between.  Every one in Algonquin, except Angus McRae, had given him up long ago, but his old friend still held on to him with a faith which was really the only thing that kept old Peter from complete ruin.  But Roderick had the impatience of youth with failure, and though he had inherited his father’s warm heart, he was not at all happy at the thought of becoming guardian of all the poor unfortunates of the town who in one way or the other had fallen among thieves.

“Eh yes, yes, there is a great ministry for you here, Lad.  I have sometimes been sorry that you did not feel called to the preaching, but I was jist thinking the last time Edward and I talked the work over, that I was glad now you hadn’t.  For you will be able to help the poor folk that need you jist as well here, though I would be far from putting anything above the preaching of the Gospel.  But there will be many ways of preaching the Gospel, Lad, and the lawyer has a great chance.  It will be by jist being neighbour to the folk in want.  Folk go more often to the lawyer or the doctor, Archie Blair says, when they are in trouble, than they do to their minister, and I am afraid it’s true.  And a great many of the folk that will come to you to get you to do their business, Lad, will be folk in trouble, many who have fallen among thieves on the Jericho Road, and you will be pouring in the oil and the wine that the dear Lord has given you, and you will be doing it all in His name.”  He sighed happily.  “Oh, yes, indeed and indeed, it will be a great ministry, Roderick, my son.”

Roderick was silent.  His heart was touched.  He resolved he would do the best he could for any friend of his father who was in trouble.  But his eye was set on far prospects of great achievement, where Algonquin and the Jericho Road had no place.

Their talk was interrupted by Aunt Kirsty, who came to the door to demand of him what he had done with his clothes.  Had he come home, the rascal, with nothing but what was on his back after the six pairs of new socks she had sent him only last spring?

Roderick sprang up.  “My trunk!  It will be on the wharf.  I yelled at Peter to put it off there, just as we were driving away, and said I’d paddle over and get it.  I forgot all about it, Aunt Kirsty.”  The father and son looked at each other and smiled.  It was easy to forget when they were together.

“I’ll go after it right now.  It’s mostly old books and soiled clothes, Auntie, but there’s one nice thing in it.  You ought to see the peach of a shawl I got you.”  He ran in for his cap, and she followed him to the door, scolding him for his foolish extravagance, but not deceiving any one into thinking that she was not highly pleased.

Angus stood long at the water’s edge watching the Lad’s canoe slip away out on the mirror of the lake.  The shore was growing dark, but the water still reflected the rose of the sunset.  The soft dip of his paddle disturbed its stillness and a long golden track marked the road he was taking out into the light.  Away ahead of him, beyond the network of islands, shone the glory of the departing day.  The Lad was paddling straight for the Gleam.  The father’s mind went back to that evening of stormy radiance, when the little fellow had paddled away to find the rainbow gold.

His eyes followed the straight, alert young figure yearningly.  He was praying that in the voyage of life before him, his boy might never be led away by false lights.  He recalled the words of the poem Archie Blair had recited the evening before at a young folks’ meeting in the town.

“Not of the sunlight Not of the moonlight Not of the starlight, Oh young Mariner, Down to the haven, Call your companions Launch your vessel And crowd your canvas And e’er it vanish Over the margin After it; follow it; Follow the gleam!”

It held the burden of his prayer for the Lad; that, ever unswerving, he might follow the true Gleam until he found it, shining on the forehead of the blameless King.