Autumn painted Algonquin in new and splendid tints.  She coloured the maples that lined the streets a dazzling gold, with here and there at the corners, a scarlet tree for variety or one of rose pink or even deep purple.  And when the leaves began to fall the whole world was a bewildering flutter of rainbows.  The November rains came and washed the gorgeous picture away, and the artist went all over it again in soberer tints, soft greys and tender blues with a hint of coming frost in the deep tones of the sky.

October was almost over before the busy, bustling Lawyer Ed had a chance to think of the promise he had made in the summer to Old Angus, and he called J. P. Thornton and Archie Blair and Roderick together into his office one bright morning to enquire what could be done about getting a local option by-law for Algonquin submitted on the next municipal election day.

The general consensus of opinion was that they were too late for the coming election on New Year’s; but that they must start an educational campaign immediately to stir up public opinion on the subject of temperance.  And they would get their petition ready for the spring and march to victory a year from the coming January.

J. P. Thornton, who was the most energetic man on the town council, was busy getting a drain dug through Willow Lane to carry off the disease breeding stagnant waters that lay about the little houses.  And he declared in a fine oratorical outburst, that if they started this temperance campaign early, and dug deep enough, by a year from the next election day, they would have such a trench projected through Algonquin as would carry away in a flood all the foul, death-breeding liquid that inundated their beautiful town, and pour it into the swamps of oblivion.

Lawyer Ed gave a cheer when he was through, and Archie Blair quoted Burns: 

  “Now, Robinson, harrangue na mair,
    But steek your gab forever,
  Or try the wicked town of Ayr,
    For there they’ll think you clever.”

For though, as a citizen, the doctor was convinced that a prohibitory liquor law would be a good thing for Algonquin, personally he was not inclined to look upon the beverage as foul death-breeding liquid.

Roderick McRae sat silently listening to the older man.  He was wondering what Alexander Graham would say, when he found his lawyer arrayed on the side of the temperance forces.  For he knew that his wealthy client had heavy investments in breweries, and also owned secretly, the bigger share of Algonquin’s leading hotel and bar-room.

He was not long left in doubt.  The ladies of the Presbyterian church gave a turkey and pumpkin pie supper on Thanksgiving eve, with a concert in the Sunday-school room after, all for the sum of twenty-five cents, the proceeds to go to a new red carpet and cushions for the choir gallery.  Lawyer Ed was chairman at the concert, of course, and J. P. Thornton was the chief speaker.  And though his address was on Imperialism, a subject through which he had grown quite famous, he branched off into temperance and publicly announced that the local option by-law would be submitted before long in Algonquin, and they had better get ready.

Lawyer Ed, who always made a short speech between each item on the programme, burst forth, almost before J. P. had sat down, with the further announcement, accompanied by a great deal of oratory, that the temperance forces would carry their banner to victory and mount over every difficulty even as his Highland ancestors had stormed the heights of Alma.  For when Lawyer Ed got upon the platform, a strange transformation always came over him.  His Hibernianism fell from him like a garment, and he was over the heather and away like any true born Scot.

The next day, Miss Leslie Graham, in a new autumn suit of ruby velvet and a big plumed hat, dropped in at the office of Brians and McRae and, after chattering merrily for half-an-hour with Roderick, said that her father wanted him to come up the following evening for dinner.

Roderick went, with, as usual, the faint hope that he might see Helen Murray there.  He had not succeeded in meeting her, except casually on the street, since that magic night when he had paddled her home in the moonlight.  But he was, as usual, disappointed.  There was only the Graham family present.  Miss Leslie was as gay and charming as ever, and her mother was slightly less stiff with him.  But Mr. Graham was exceptionally kind and hospitable.  Before returning to the drawing-room after dinner, he carried Roderick off to the library for a little private chat.  There were a few matters of business to be discussed, and when they were finished, Mr. Graham said casually: 

“I suppose you run the affairs of Brians and McRae yourself these days.  I hear Ed’s off after another will-o’-the-wisp as usual.  Let me see, I believe it’s a temperance bee he’s got in his bonnet this time.”

Roderick was silent.  The contemptuous tone nettled him.  He would not discuss Lawyer Ed with Alexander Graham, no matter what the consequence.

“Well, well,” said the host, giving the fire a poke, and laughing good-naturedly.  “Those fellows must do something to take up their time.  But it’s a pity to see them wasting it.  For that thing won’t go here in Algonquin, Rod.  Take my word for it.  And if it did, it would be a great pity, for such a law wouldn’t be kept.  Of course, if Ed Brians and Archie Blair and J. P. Thornton, and a few other fanatics like that, are bound to meddle with other people’s consciences, I suppose we’ll just have to let them do it.  ’If it plazes her, it don’t be hurtin’ me,’ as Mike Cassidy said when Judy hammered him with the broomstick.  I hope they’ll enjoy themselves.”

Roderick looked up quickly.  “It is not a mere pastime with my father.  It is a thing of great moment to him,” he said.

“Oh, well, of course,” said Mr. Graham suavely.  “I can understand that.  Your father is a man who has devoted his life to drunks and outcasts, and he looks on temperance legislation as a refuge for them.  I have no doubt he is quite sincere in the matter.”

“I should just say he is,” said Roderick rather explosively.

“That’s quite true, Rod,” said his patron, a little annoyed.  “But your father, with many another good man, is making a great mistake when he believes people will be benefited by temperance legislation.  Some folks seem to think that if you get local option in a town the millennium has come.”  He lit a cigar, and leaned back with an air of finality.  “I tell you they’re awfully mistaken.  People want liquor and they’ll get it as long as they want it, law or no law.  And they’re going to want it till the end of time.  And if those folks insist upon forcing this by-law upon Algonquin, they will only succeed in giving the town a bad name.  It’s simply ruinous to a place from a business standpoint.”

Roderick had no answer to make.  He was inclined to believe that Graham was right.  He wanted to believe it, for the burden of this thing was annoying him.  He knew that Lawyer Ed would have met the statements with fiery contradictions, and J. P. Thornton would have answered with clear, convincing facts.  But he had given very little thought to the subject, and could not remember any of the arguments.  And he had certainly heard, many, many times that the temperance measure had been a failure in other towns.

He sat silent, his elbows on his knees, his hands locked together, looking into the glowing grate and wishing he didn’t have to be bothered with it all.  What had local option to do with his work, anyway?

And then he realised that his host was talking again.  In the midst of his quiet insinuating remarks, there was a sharp tap on the door, and Leslie swept into the room, very handsome in her soft, trailing white dress.

“I’m just not going to let you two poke here any longer,” she declared, giving her father’s ear a pull.  “You’re spoiling all Rod’s evening, Daddy, by talking business.  His office is for that.  Come right along into the drawing-room this minute, the Baldwin girls have come, and we’re going to have some music.”

The subject of local option was not referred to again that evening, but Roderick realised that, in some subtle way, how, he scarcely knew, his client had conveyed to him the unmistakable intelligence that should he identify himself with the temperance forces in any prominent way, the business of Graham and Company would have to be placed in other hands.

Roderick scarcely understood what had been said until he was walking home in the clear frosty air with time to think it over.

He was miserably uncomfortable the next day when he found his chief buried head and ears in temperance affairs.

“We’ll have to wade into this with high-water boots, ma braw John Hielanman!” he cried radiantly.  “Be jabers! but I do love a fight, and a fine old Donnybrook fair we’re goin’ to have!” And he relapsed into a rich Irish brogue.

“Mr. Graham told me last night he’d like me to go north in a few weeks,” said Roderick in a strained voice.  “I may have to be gone for a month.”

“On that Beaver Landing deal?  Well now, that’s a big thing, Rod!” Lawyer Ed was scribbling madly at his desk while he talked, and calling up some one on the telephone every three minutes.  “You’ve got Sandy Graham all right.  Hello, Central, are you asleep?  I said I wanted J. P. Thornton and I still say it!”-“No you didn’t, I tell you!  Sandy’ll kick over the traces when we get going on this campaign, though.  Not in?  Where in thunder is he?  Tell him to call me the minute he gets back.  Yes, that’s a fact, Rod!” And he slammed the receiver down and took to scribbling furiously again.  “Sandy’ll put on his plug hat and his swallow-tail coat and hike like the limited express for Willoughby’s office the minute he sees our names heading that petition!” He shut his eyes, and, leaning back, laughed in delighted anticipation of losing their most valuable client.

Roderick felt impatient.  To him the affair was no laughing matter.  To lose Graham’s business was unthinkable, to keep out of this troublesome temperance campaign seemed impossible.  One moment he felt he must come out right boldly for the cause, the next he called himself a fool, for letting such a doubtful thing stand in the way of his best interests.

But before the necessity for declaring himself came upon him, the temperance campaign suffered a severe check.  The trouble arose in an unexpected quarter, not from the enemy, but in the ranks of the advancing army itself.  The temperance ship ran against the rock that threatened to split it altogether, on the last Sunday in November.  This day was celebrated as St. Andrew’s Sunday, the day when the society of the Sons of Scotland, with bonnets on their heads, plaidies on their shoulders and heather in their button-holes, paraded to church in a body and had a sermon preached to them by a minister brought up from the city for the purpose of glorifying Scotland and edifying her sons.  As nearly all the Presbyterian congregation of Algonquin was Scotch, every one else was as much edified as the Sons themselves; but there was one prominent exception and that was J. P. Thornton.

Mr. Thornton was an Englishman, born within the sound of Bow Bells, and, like a true Briton, intensely proud of the fact, and though he was as liberal in his general views as he was in politics, and had delivered many a fine speech on Imperialism, yet some stubborn latent prejudice arose in his heart and threatened to overflow every St. Andrew’s Sunday.

It was not that he objected so much to the tartan-and-heather bedecked rows occupying the front pews of the church, on St. Andrew’s Sunday.  He was inclined to look upon them with some lofty amusement, saying that if they liked that sort of child’s play it was no affair of his and they might have it.  But it was the sermon that always put him into a fighting humour.  For never a preacher stood up there on St. Andrew’s Sunday but made some unfortunate reference to Bannockburn and Scots Wha Hae, and a great many other things calculated to rouse any Englishman’s ire.

Mr. Thornton had never openly rebelled, however, and the St. Andrew’s sermon came each year with only a few mild explosions following.  But this year the celebration caused a serious disturbance, and as so often happened, it started with Lawyer Ed.

That lively Irish gentleman had already joined almost every organisation in the town, and there suddenly came to him a great desire to join the Sons of Scotland also.  His mother was a Scottish lady of Highland birth, and he himself had a deep-rooted affection for anything or anybody connected with the land o’ cakes.  So on the eve of this St. Andrew’s celebration he joined the order and became a true Son of Scotland himself.

Mr. Thornton had gone away for a couple of weeks on a business trip and knew nothing of this new departure of his friend.  He came home late on Saturday night before St. Andrew’s Sunday, and went to church the next morning, all unsuspecting that at that moment Ed was falling into line down at the lodge room, his plaidie the brightest, his bonnet the trimmest and his heather sprig the biggest of all the procession.

The Scotchmen had turned out nearly a hundred strong this morning, for the minister from the city was a great man with a continental reputation.  It was a beautifully clear, brilliant day, too, one of those days that only the much maligned November can bring, with dazzling cloudless skies and an exhilarating tang of frost-nipped leaves in the air.  So the Scotchmen were all there, even old Angus McRae and his son, the young Highlander looking very handsome in his regalia.

Jock McPherson and the Captain of the Inverness were there too.  Captain Jimmie was in his glory, but Mr. McPherson looked as if he were preparing to object to everything about him.  Each recurring St. Andrew’s Sunday found the Elder more and more inclined to think that this Sabbath parade was scarcely in keeping with the day.  But he was a true Scot at heart, and no amount of orthodoxy could keep him out of it.  He felt this morning, however, that matters had gone a bit too far, for the warm day had tempted Archie Blair, and he had come out in the kilt, his shameless bare-kneed example followed by Harry Lauder and three other foolish youths of the Highland club.

A few minutes before the hour for the service, when the bells had begun to roll out their invitations from the three church towers, the procession started.  And the Methodists and Baptists and Anglicans kept themselves late for church by lingering on the side-walk to see it pass.  It was worth watching; as very stately and solemn and slow it moved along the street and up to the church door.

Mr. McPherson moved rather stiffly, for Archie Blair was walking beside Lawyer Ed directly in front of him, and the very tilt of his bonnet and the swing of his kilt was a profanation of the day.  Somehow, the doctor did not at all fit in with the Sabbath.  He was a big straight man, long of limb, broad of shoulder and inclined to a generous rotundity, and he swaggered so splendidly when he walked, and held up his bonneted head with such a dashing air, that he gave the distinct impression that the bagpipes were skirling out a gay march as he swung past.

The sight of him on this Sabbath morning struck dismay to Jock’s orthodox soul, clinging tenaciously to its ancient traditions.  Lawyer Ed, too, seemed to have donned the spirit of irreverence with the bonnet, and was conducting himself as no elder of the kirk should have behaved even at a St. Andrew’s banquet.

“Eh, losh Ed, mon,” cried the doctor, loud enough for Jock to hear.  “Ah wush we could hae a bit strathspey frae the pipes to march wi’ to the kirk, foreby.”

Lawyer Ed’s face became forbidding.

“Eh, eh, and that to an elder?  Div ye hear yon, Jock?  It’s the Heilan’s comin’ oot o’ him!”

Jock could not resist a sudden temptation.  That strange twist came over his face, which heralded a far-off joke.  He spoke very slowly.

“It’s what you micht be expecting from the likes o’ him.  It’s written down in his history: 

“The Blairs they are a wicked race, They set theirsels in sad disgrace, They made the pipes and drums to play, Through Algonquin on the Sawbbath day.”

He had paraphrased a bit to suit the occasion, and the doctor laughed so appreciatively that the elder began to feel brighter.

But Jock should have known better than to have set an example of rhyming before Archie Blair.  He turned and looked down at the elder, and the sight of him marching peaceably beside Captain Jimmie reminded him of an old doggerel ballad:  “But man, there’s worse than that written in your own history,” he cried: 

  “O-o-och, Fairshon swore a feud,
    Against ta clan McTavish,
  And marched into their land,
    To murder and to ravish,
  For he did resolve,
    To extirpate ta vipers,
  With four-and-twenty men
    And five-and-twenty pipers!”

“Tut, tut, Doctor,” cried Captain Jimmie, trying to hide a smile beneath his bonnet.  “Be quate man, it’s the Sabbath day.”

“Well, here’s a verse that’s got a quotation from Scripture or at least an allusion to one.  That’s to be expected in the history of the McPhersons.”

  “Fairshon had a son
    That married Noah’s daughter,
  And nearly spoiled ta flood
    By drinking all ta water,
  Which he would have done
    I really do believe it
  Had ta mixture peen
    Only half Glenlevit!”

Lawyer Ed was shaking with unseemly laughter.

“Ye’ll hae to sing it a’ when we eat the haggis the morn’s night,” he suggested.

“I don’t understand how a reference to anything so unholy as the Glenlevit got into the annals of ta Fairshons, Jock,” said Doctor Blair.

Now Jock McPherson was not averse to a drop of Glenlevit himself,-for his stomach’s sake, of course, for the elder could not be unscriptural even in his eating and drinking.  Archie Blair was not averse to it either, though he frankly admitted that it was very bad for his stomach, indeed, and for everybody else’s stomach.

But in the opening temperance campaign the latter had come out avowedly on the side of local option, and was looked upon as one of the party’s strongest speakers, while Jock had not yet declared himself.  It was a delicate subject with Mr. McPherson, and he could not endure to be twitted about it.

He paused at the church steps and laid his hand on the doctor’s velvet sleeve.  He cleared his throat, always a dangerous sign.

“Yes,” he said very slowly, “it will be a ferry fine song indeed, and if Edward would jist be putting big Aye-men on the tail of it to-morrow night, it will sound more feenished.”  The whole procession was waiting to enter the church, but Jock did not hurry.  “As for the Glenlevit, the McPhersons were no more noted for liking their drop than many another clan I might mention.  But they were honest about it.”  He paused again and then said even more deliberately:  “And if you would like to be referring to the Scriptures again, you might be taking a look at your Bible when you get home, you will be finding some ferry good advice in Romans the 2nd chapter and 21st verse.”

He turned away and marched solemnly into the church.  The procession followed and it was then that J. P. Thornton, standing at his post, and wondering why Ed had not long ago appeared to receive the Scotchmen, beheld the amazing spectacle of his Irish friend and very brother, marching in their front rank, bonnet and plaid and all!

J. P. was too dignified to make a demonstration of his outraged feelings in church, but Miss Annabel Armstrong reported afterwards that when she passed him she heard him say something about Edward, that sounded like “You’re too brutish”-or “too bruty” or something like that, and Miss Armstrong said it was exceedingly improper language for an elder to use in church.

J. P. was always in a state of mild irritation when he settled himself to hear the annual St. Andrew’s sermon, but this morning he was decidedly indignant.  By the time the Scotchmen had gone through two long psalms, with Lawyer Ed leading, he was hot and disgusted, and when the sermon came it was like acid poured upon an open wound.

The famous minister from the city made all the mistakes of his St. Andrew’s predecessors and a great many more of his own.  He lingered long at Bannockburn, he recited “Scots Wha Hae” in full, he quoted portions of the death of Wallace and altogether behaved in a way to leave the usually genial English listener with his temper red and raw and anxious for a fight.

Monday evening Lawyer Ed was to have driven out to McClintock’s Corners with his friend, to speak at a tea meeting, and convince the farmers that Algonquin would be a much more desirable place as a market town with a prohibitory liquor law than it was at present.

But Lawyer Ed went to the St. Andrew’s supper instead and ate haggis and listened to the pipes play “The Cock O’ the North,” and Archie Blair recite Burns and Jock McPherson make a speech on Scottish history.

That was more than J. P. could stand.  He telephoned to Roderick early the next morning telling him to inform his chief that he, J. P., would go to no more temperance meetings with him.  If Lawyer Ed wanted help in his campaign let him look for it among his brother Scotchmen.  And the receiver slammed before Roderick could enquire what he meant.

There were storms bursting in other quarters too.  Doctor Blair had spent a good part of the time in church on Sunday morning in a laudable search for the Epistle to the Romans, and had surprised all his brethren by studying the 2nd chapter carefully.  The result, however, was not what a searching of the Scriptures is supposed to produce.  For he telephoned to Roderick the next morning that he could tell Ed, when he came in, that he, Archie Blair, would be hanged if he would waste any more time on local option if that was what people were saying about him.  And Captain Jimmie dropped in immediately after to say that if something wasn’t done to conciliate Jock McPherson he was afraid he would vote against local option altogether.

So the cause of temperance suffered a check.  It proved to be not a very serious one, but it served Roderick.  For it postponed the necessity of his declaring himself on either side, and he hoped that before the day arrived when he must join the issue, his affairs would be less complicated.

Diplomacy was one of Lawyer Ed’s strong features, and he had almost completed a reconciliation between all the aggrieved parties when Roderick left for a business trip to the north.  It was an important commission involving much money, and certain vague statements regarding its outcome made by Mr. Graham had fired the Lad’s imagination.

“Now, I needn’t warn you to do your best, Roderick,” said the man when he bade him good-bye.  “You’ll do that, anyway.  But there’s more than money in this.  There’s an eye on you-”

He would say no more, but Leslie gave him another hint.  He had found her strolling past the office as he ran out to post some letters, the day before his departure.  He was absolutely without conceit, but he could not help noticing that somehow Miss Leslie Graham nearly always happened, by the strangest coincidence, to be on the street just as he was leaving the office.

He walked with her to the post-office and back, and then she declared her fingers were frozen and she would come into the office for ten minutes to warm them.

“So you’re going to fix up things with the British North American Railroad for Daddy, are you?” she said, holding out her gloved fingers over the glowing coal-stove.  “That means that you’ll be getting your fingers into Uncle Will’s business, too.  His lawyer is up at Beaver Landing now.”

“Whose lawyer?” asked Roderick, giving her a chair by the fire and standing before her feeling extremely uncomfortable.

“Uncle Will’s.  You know Uncle Will Graham?  He’s an American now, but he has all sorts of interests in Canada and he’s-well, he’s not exactly President of the B. N. A., but he’s the whole thing in it.  Uncle Will’s coming home next summer, and I’m going to make him take me back to New York with him.”

Roderick’s ambitious heart gave a leap.  Of course he knew about William Graham, the Algonquin man who had gone to the States and made a million or more.

His head was filled with rosy dreams as he walked out to the farm that evening to say good-bye.  He was leaving for only a short time, but the old people were loath to see him go.  Aunt Kirsty drew him up to the hot stove, bewailing the misfortune that was taking him away.

“Dear, dear, dear, and you will be going away up north into the bush,” she said, clapping him on the back, “and you will jist be frozen with the cold indeed, and your poor arm will be bad again.”

“Yes, and the wolves will probably eat me, and a tree will fall on me and I’ll break through the ice and be drowned,” wailed Roderick.  And she shoved him away from her for a foolish gomeril, trying not to smile at him, and declaring it was little he cared that he was leaving her, indeed.

“I have not heard you say anything about the arm for a long time, Lad,” said his father, who was watching him, with shining eyes, from his old rocking-chair.

“Oh, it’s all right, Dad,” he said lightly.  “I haven’t time to notice it.”

He always put off the question thus when Aunt Kirsty was within hearing, but his father’s loving eye noticed that the boy’s hand sometimes sought the arm and held it, as though in pain.

“And you will not be here to help start the great fight,” his father said wistfully, when he had heard all the latest news concerning the temperance campaign, even to the pending disaster.  “But you will be finding a Jericho Road up in the bush, I’ll have no doubt.”

Roderick looked at the saintly old face and his heart smote him.  He felt for a moment that to please his father would surely be worth more than all the success a man could attain in a lifetime.

“And did you get a job for poor Billy, Lad?” his father enquired.

“Billy?  Oh, the Perkins fellow?” Roderick whistled in dismay.  Poor Billy Perkins had not “kept nicely saved,” as his brave little wife had hoped, but had fallen among thieves in the hotel at the corner once more.  Old Angus had rescued him, put him upon his feet again, and had commissioned his son to look for work for Billy, and his son had forgotten about it entirely in the pressure of his work.

“Oh, Dad, that’s a shame,” he cried contritely, “I had so much on my mind getting ready to go, I forgot.  I’ll tell Lawyer Ed about him, and perhaps he can look up something.  I have to start early in the morning or I would yet.”

“Well, well,” said his father cheerfully.  “There now, there is no need to worry, for they have got him a job, but it is away from home and I thought he’d do better here.  The bit wife is lonely since the wee girl died.  But Billy will jist have to go, and it will only be for the winter, anyway.”

“What’s he going to do?”

“It will be in the shanties.  He is not strong enough for the bush, but he will be helping the cook, and the wages will be good.  I’m hoping he will not be able to get near the drink.  Indeed it was the little lassie herself that got him the job,” he added, his eyes shining.  “She’s the great little lady, indeed.”

“Who is, Father?” Roderick spoke absently, his eyes on the fire, his mind on Mr. William Graham and the B. N. A. Railroad.

“The young teacher lady.  She will be down to see poor Mrs. Perkins every day or so since the wee one died.  And the poor bit Gladys!  Eh, she’s jist making a woman out of her indeed.”

Roderick’s eyes came away from the fire.  He was all interest.  “Oh, is she?  Does she visit the folks in Willow Lane?  What is she doing for them?”

“Eh, indeed, what is she not doing?” cried his father.  “It’s jist an angel we’ve got in Willow Lane now, Lad.  I don’t know how she did it, and indeed Father Tracy says he doesn’t know either, but she’s got Judy to cook a hot dinner for Mike every day, and she’s teaching Gladys at nights, and she’s jist saved the poor Perkins bodies from starving.  She showed the wee woman how to make bread, and oh, indeed, I couldn’t be telling you all the good she does!”

Roderick listened absorbedly.  So that was where she kept herself in the evenings.  And that was why he could never meet her any place, no matter how many nights he frittered away at parties in the hope of seeing her.

“And how did she get this job for Billy?” he asked, just for the sake of hearing his father talk about her.

Old Angus smiled knowingly.

“Och, she has a way with her, and she can get anything she wants.  It would be through Alfred Wilbur-the poor lad the boys will be calling such a foolish name.”

“Yes, Afternoon Tea Willie.  What’s he after now?”

“Indeed I think he will be after Miss Murray,” said the old man, his eyes twinkling.  “He seems to be always following her about.  And he managed to get young Fred Hamilton to take Billy up to the camp.  Fred is going up to his father’s shanties with a gang of men in about a week.”

Roderick’s heart sank.  Here was a lost opportunity indeed.  He had failed to help his father, and had missed such a splendid chance to help her.

“If you’ve got anybody else who needs a job, Dad, I’ll try to do better next time,” he said humbly.

“Oh, indeed, there will always be some one needing help,” his father said radiantly.  “Eh, eh, it will be a fine thing for me to know you are helping to care for the poor folk on the Jericho Road.  Jist being neighbour to them.  It’s a great business, the law, for helping a man to be neighbour.”  The old man sat and gazed happily into the fire.

Roderick fidgeted.  He was thinking that some of the work of a lawyer did not consist so much in rescuing the man who had fallen among thieves as falling upon him and stripping him of his raiment.

“Law is a complicated business, Dad,” he said, with a sigh.

There were prayers after that, and a tender farewell and benediction from the old people, and Roderick went away, his heart strangely heavy.  He was to be absent only a short time, perhaps not over two weeks, but he had a feeling that he was bidding his father a lifelong farewell-that he was taking a road that led away from that path in which the man had so carefully guided his young feet.

It was not entirely by accident that Roderick should be walking into Algonquin just as Helen Murray was coming out of the Hurd home.  He had been very wily, for such an innocent young man.  A shadow on the blind, showing the outline of a trim little hat and fluffy hair, had sent him back into the shadows of the Pine Road to stand and shiver until the shadow left the window and the substance came out through the lighted doorway.  Gladys came to the gate, her arm about her teacher’s waist.  They were talking softly.  Gladys’s voice was not so loud nor her look so bold as it once was.  She ran back calling good-night, and the little figure of the teacher went on swiftly up the shaky frosty sidewalk.  A few strides and Roderick was at her side.  She was right under the electric light at the corner when he reached her and she turned swiftly with such a look of annoyance that he stopped aghast.

“Oh, I beg your pardon-” he stammered, but was immensely relieved when she interrupted smiling.

“Oh, is it you, Mr. McRae?  I-didn’t know-I thought it was-some one else,” she stammered.

Roderick looked puzzled, but the next moment he understood.  Just within the rays of the electric light, across the street, was Afternoon Tea Willie, waiting faithfully with chattering teeth and benumbed toes.  He stood and stared at Roderick as they passed, and then slowly followed at a distance, the picture of abject desolation.  Roderick found it almost impossible to keep from laughing, until he began to consider his own case.  He had plunged headlong into her presence, and now he felt he ought to apologise.  He tried to, but she stopped him charmingly.

“Oh, indeed, I wanted to see you, before you go away,” she said, and Roderick felt immensely flattered that she knew so much about his affairs as to be aware that he was going away.

“Yes?  What can I do for you?” he asked shyly.

“I wanted to ask about poor Billy Perkins.  Mr. Wilbur got work for him, you know.”

“Indeed, my father tells me it was you did the good deed,” declared Roderick warmly.

“No, no, I only helped.  But I am anxious about Billy.”  She spoke as though Roderick were as interested in the Perkins family as his father.  “Is there any one up at Mr. Hamilton’s camp, I wonder, who would keep an eye on him.  He is all right if he’s only watched, so that he can’t get whiskey.  There’s young Mr. Hamilton, he’s going, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”  Roderick felt that if the young man mentioned watched Fred Hamilton and kept him from drink it was all that could be expected of him.  However, he might try.  “I’ll speak to him,” he said cordially, “and see if he can do anything for Billy.  I see you’ve taken some of my father’s family under your care,” he added admiringly.

“Oh no.  I’m just helping a little.  I’m afraid I’m not prompted by such unselfish motives as your father is.  I visit down here just for something to do and to keep from being lonely.”

It was the first time she had made any reference to herself.  Roderick seized the opportunity.

“You don’t go out among the young people enough,” he suggested.  She did not answer for a moment.  She could not tell him that she was very seldom invited in the circles where he moved.  She had been doomed to disappointment in Miss Graham’s friendship, for after her first generous outburst the young lady seemed to have forgotten all about her.

“I like to come here,” she said at last.  “I think it’s more worth while.  But don’t talk any more about my affairs.  Tell me something about yours.  Are you going to be long in the woods?”

It was a delightful walk all the way up to Rosemount, for Roderick managed to get up courage to ask if he might go all the way, and even kept her at the gate a few minutes before he said good-bye, and he promised, quite of his own accord, to visit Camp Hamilton if it was not far from Beaver Landing, his headquarters, and when he returned he would report to her Billy’s progress.