Day unto day her dainty hands
Make life’s soil’d temples clean,
And there’s a wake of glory where
Her spirit pure hath been. 
At midnight through that shadow land
Her living face doth gleam,
The dying kiss her shadow, and
The dead smile in her dream.

GERALD MASSEY.

A little later, Jean, honest woman, suffered an electric shock.  She was brushing out baby Hugh’s curls, that had been disordered by the walk, when she thought she heard Mrs. St. Clair’s footsteps, only it was over-quick like, as she remarked later, “like a bairn running up the stairs,” but she fairly shook with surprise when the door opened, and a rosy, dimpled, smiling creature stood before her.

“Give me the baby, Jean, quick no, never mind his sash, he looks beautiful.  My husband has come, and he wants to see him.  Yes, my boy!  Father has come” nearly smothering him with kisses, which baby Hugh returned by mischievous grabs at her hair.

“Ech, sirs,” began Jean, turning very red; but before she could give vent to her surprise, a big, grand-looking man suddenly entered the old-fashioned room, and took mother and child in his arms before her very eyes.

Jean vanished precipitately, and Mrs. Duncan found her an hour afterward, basting the fowls with a skewer, while the iron ladle lay at her feet, and with a stony, impassive expression on her face which always meant strong disapproval with Jean.

“Well, Jean,” remarked her mistress cheerily, while her white curls bobbed with excitement, “have you heard the news, my woman?  That pretty creature has got her husband, and he is as fine a man as one could ever set eyes on, and that is all a mistake about his not wanting her a parcel of childish rubbish.

“Hoots, lass,” as Jean remained glum and silent, and only picked up the iron spoon with a toss of her head, “you do not look overpleased, and yet we are bidden to rejoice with them that do rejoice.  Why, he is a baronet, Jean, and as rich as Croesus, and she is Lady Redmond, bless her dear heart!  Why, I went into the nursery just now, and it was just a lovely sight, as I told Fergus.  The bairn had been pulling at her hair, and down it came, a tumbling golden-brown mass over her shoulders like the pictures of a woman-angel, and she just laughed in her sonsie way, and tried to gather it up, only Sir Hugh stopped her.  ‘Let it be, Fay, you look beautiful so,’ he says, worshiping her with his eyes.  Oh, it was good to hear him; and then he looks up and sees me, and such a smile comes to his face.  Oh, we understood each other.”  But to all this Jean apparently turned a deaf ear, only when her mistress had finished, but not a moment before, she answered, crossly, how was the tea-supper to be ready for the gentry if folks hindered her with their clavers, at which hint Mrs. Duncan, judging which way the wind blew, prudently withdrew.

But the moment the door closed on her mistress, Jean sat down, and throwing her rough apron over her head, had a good cry.

“Woman-angel indeed,” she sobbed, “and how am I to bide without her and the bairn, and they the verrà light of the house as the saying is?”

But Jean’s grief did not hinder her long.  The fowls were done to a turn, and the rashers of ham grilled to a delicate brown; the tea-supper, always an institution at the Manse, looked a most inviting meal, with piles of oat-cake, freshly baked scones, and other bread stuff, the best silver tea-pot hooded in its satin cozy, and the kettle singing on its brass tripod.

Sir Hugh looked on at the preparations with the zest of a hungry traveler as he sat in the old minister’s arm-chair talking to Fergus; but every moment his eyes turned expectantly to the door.  The young Scotchman smiled as he patted Nero, for he knew their guest was only giving him scant attention.

“I hope Aunt Jeanie is content with ‘the brutal husband’ now,” he thought, with a chuckle of amusement.  “I wonder what my lady is doing all this time.”

My lady had been extremely busy.  First she had put up the hair that baby Hugh’s naughty little fingers had pulled down; then she had gone in quest of a certain dress that reposed at the top of one of the trunks.  Janet had insisted on packing it, but she had never found an opportunity of wearing it.  It was one of those dainty, bewildering combinations of Indian muslin and embroidery and lace, that are so costly and seductive; and when Fay put it on, with a soft spray of primroses, she certainly looked what Fergus called her, “Titania, queen of all the fairies.”

Both the men absolutely started when this brilliant little vision appeared in the homely Manse parlor.  Fergus clapped his big hands softly together and said “Ech, sirs!” under his breath; but Sir Hugh, as he placed a chair for her, whispered in Fay’s ear, “I am afraid I have fallen in love with my own wife” and it was delicious to hear Fay’s low laugh in answer.

What a happy evening that was; and when, some two or three hours later, Fay stood in the moonlight watching Hugh go down the road on his way to the inn, for there was no room for him in the Manse, the parting words were ringing in her ears, “Good-night, my dear one, and dream of me.”

Ah, they were happy tears that Jean’s woman-angel shed by her boy’s cot that night; what prayers, what vows for the future went up from that pure young heart, that at last tasted the joy of knowing itself beloved.  As for Hugh, a waking dream seemed to banish sleep from his eyes.  He could see it all again the green sunshiny hollow, and the shining pool a little listless figure standing under the silver birch.  A tremulous voice breaks the silence “oh, Hugh, I tried so hard to be lost, do not be angry with me” No, no, he will not go back to that.  Stay, he is in the Manse parlor the door opens there is Titania in her spring dress, all smiles and blushes; his Wee Wifie is transformed into the queen of all the fairies.  “God bless her, and make me worthy of her love,” he thinks, humbly, as he recalls her sweet looks and words; and with that brief prayer he slept.

Fay would willingly have remained for a few days with her friends at the Manse; she wanted to show Hugh all her favorite haunts, and to make him better acquainted with the good Samaritans who had so generously sheltered her; but Hugh was anxious to have his wife to himself and to get over the awkwardness of the return home.  He would bring her back in the autumn he promised her; and with that Fay consoled poor Jean.

As for Fergus, he had reason to bless Aunt Jeanie’s hospitality; for Sir Hugh overwhelmed the inhabitants of the Manse with liberal tokens of his gratitude Aunt Jeanie, Fergus, Jean, even pretty Lilian Graham, reaped the effects of English munificence.  Fay had carte blanche to buy anything or everything she thought suitable.  Silk dresses, furs, books, and a telescope long the ambition of the young minister all found their way to the Manse; not to mention the princely gift that made the young couple’s path smooth for many a year to come.  Want of generosity had never been a Redmond failing.  Hugh’s greatest pleasure was to reward the people who had sheltered his lost darling.

It was a painful moment for Hugh’s proud nature when he first crossed the threshold of his old Hall, with Fay looking shy and downcast beside him, but Fay’s simplicity and childishness broke the brief awkwardness; for the moment she saw Mrs. Heron’s comely face she threw her arms round her neck with a little sob, and there was not a dry eye among the assembled servants when she said in her clear young voice “Oh, how glad I am to be amongst you all again.  Was it not good of my husband to bring me back?  You must all help me to make up to him for what he has suffered.”

“It was too much for the master,” observed Ellerton afterward, “he just turned and bolted when my lady said that a man does not care to make a fool of himself before his servants; he would have stood by her if he could, but his feelings were too much for him, and you see he knew that he was to blame.”

But Fay would allow nothing of the kind, when she followed him into the library, and saw him sitting with his face hidden on his folded arms, and the evening sunshine streaming on his bowed figure.

Fay stood looking at him for a moment, and then she quietly drew his head to her shoulder much as though he were baby Hugh, and wanted her motherly consolation.

“My darling husband,” she whispered, “I know it is all my fault, but you have forgiven me you must not let me make you unhappy.”

“Oh,” he said, bitterly, “to think I have brought my wife to this that she should need to apologize to her own servants.  But then they all know you are an angel.”

But she would not let him talk like this.  What were his faults to her was he not her husband?  If he had ill-used her, would she not still have clung to him?  “Dear, it is only because of your goodness and generosity that I am here now,” she said, kissing his hand; “you need not have looked for me, you know;” and then she made him smile by telling him of Ellerton’s quaint speeches; and after that he let himself be consoled.

Years afterward he told her, that the days that followed their return home were their real honey-moon, and she believed him; for they were never apart.

Bonnie Bess hailed her mistress with delight, and Fay resumed her old rides and drives; only her husband was always with her.  Hugh found out, too, that her clear intelligence enabled her to enter into all his work, and after that he never carried out a plan without consulting her; so that Fay called herself the busiest and happiest little woman in the world.

And what of Margaret?

In one of the most crowded courts of the East End of London there is a sister who is known by the name of “Our Sister,” though many patient, high-souled women belonging to the same fraternity work there too.

But “Our Sister” is, par excellence, the favorite, from the crippled little road-sweeper who was run over in Whitechapel Road to the old Irishwoman who sold oranges by day, and indulged in free fights with others of her sex at night.  “And the heavens be her bed, for she is a darlint and an angel,” old Biddy would say; and it would be “tread on the tail of my coat” for it was an Irish quarter if any man or boy jostled “Our Sister” ever so lightly.

“Our Sister” used to smile at the fond credulity and blind worship of these poor creatures.  She was quite unconscious that her pale, beautiful face, bending over them in sickness, was often mistaken for the face of an angel.  “Will there be more like you up yonder?” exclaimed one poor girl, a Magdalene dying, thank God, at the foot of the Cross; “if so, I’ll be fine and glad to go.”

“What do they do without you up there, honey?” asked another, an old negro woman whose life had been as black as her skin; “they will be wanting you bery much, I’m thinking;” and little Tim, dying of his broken bones, whispered as “Our Sister” kissed him, “I am wishing you could die first, Sister, and then it would be first-rate, seeing you along with the gentry at the Gate;” for, to Tim’s ignorant mind, the gentry of heaven were somewhat formidable.  “And what must I say to them, plase your honor? when they come up and says ’Good-morning, Tim;’ but if Sister were along of them she would say, ’It is only Tim, and he never learned manners nohow.’”

Raby would come down sometimes, bringing his wife with him, and talk to Margaret about her work.

“You are very happy, dear,” he said one day to her; “I have often listened to your voice, and somehow it sounds satisfied.”

“Yes,” she returned, quietly, “quite satisfied.  Does that sound strange, Raby?  Oh, how little we know what is good for us.  Once I thought Hugh’s love was everything, but I see now I was wrong.  I suppose I should have been like other women if I had married him; but I should not have tasted the joy I know now.  Oh, how I love my children dirty, degraded, sinful as they are; how I love to spend myself in their service.  God has been good to us, and given us both what He knew we wanted,” and Raby’s low “Amen” was sufficient answer.

There was one who would willingly have shared Margaret’s work, and that was Evelyn Selby; but her place was in the world’s battle-field, and she kept to her post bravely.

Fern, in her perfect happiness, often thought tenderly of the girl to whose noble generosity she owed it all; but for some years she and Evelyn saw little of each other.  Fern often heard of her visits to the cottage where her mother and Fluff lived.  She and Mrs. Trafford had become great friends.  When Evelyn could snatch an hour from her numerous engagements, she liked to visit the orphanage where Mrs. Trafford worked.  Some strange unspoken sympathy had grown up between the girl and the elder woman.

Evelyn’s brave spirit and dauntless courage had carried her through a trial that would have crushed a weaker nature.  Her life was an uncongenial one.  Often she sickened of the hollow round of gayety in which Lady Maltravers passed her days; but she would not waste her strength by complaint.  But by and by, when she had lost the first freshness of her youth, and people had begun to say that Miss Selby would never marry now, Hedley Power crossed her path, and Evelyn found that she could love again.

Mr. Power was very unlike the bright-faced young lover of her youth.  He was a gray-haired man in the prime of middle-age, with grave manners, and a quiet thoughtful face very reticent and undemonstrative; but Evelyn did well when she married him, for he made his wife a happy woman.

“Evelyn is absurdly proud of Hedley,” Lady Maltravers would say; “but then he spoils her, and gives her her way in everything.”  Every one thought it was a pity that they had no children; but Evelyn never owned that she had a wish ungratified.  She contented herself with lavishing her affection on Erle’s two boys.  To them Aunt Evelyn was a miracle of loveliness and kindness; and the children at the orphanage had reason to bless the handsome lady who drove down often to see them.

“I do think Evelyn is happy now,” Fern said one day to Erle, when they had encountered Evelyn and her husband in the Row.

“Of course she is,” he would answer; “much happier than if she had married your humble servant.  Hedley Power is just the man for her.  Now, dear, I must go down to the House, for Hugh and I are on committee;” and the young M. P. ran lightly down-stairs, whistling as he went, after the fashion of Erle Huntingdon.

Yes, Hugh Redmond represented his county now, and Fay had her house in town, where her little fair-haired sons and daughters played with Erle’s boys in the square gardens.

The young Lady Redmond would have been the fashion, but Fay was too shy for such notoriety, and was quite content with her husband’s admiration.  And well she might be, for the face that Hugh Redmond loved best on earth was the face of his Wee Wifie.