the first great january snowfall was heralded by a leaden sky and a surly looking sunrise, and early in the forenoon down came the white flakes, thick and fast, whirling this way and that, until the valley and the surrounding hills lay pure and soft under their fairy covering.
in the afternoon miss cotton took her sewing, put a shawl over her head, and ran over to the hamiltons'. she was lonely, and, besides, she had some news to tell.
"here's 'liza comin'," announced maggie to the group sitting around the dining room stove. "chuck full o' news, too, i know. i can tell by the way she's hoppin' along. old mother fraser's jist gone away from there; she's been tellin' her something new about mr. egerton, i guess!"
she ran out to the hall and flung open the door. "hello, 'liza! come along in; we're all here, sarah'n all. it was too snowy for her to go to school. my, but you needn't bring all the snow in; leave a little outdoors for sleighin'."
"if you weren't such a lazy poke, maggie hamilton, you'd have a path shovelled to your gate; it looks like the track to a wigwam!"
"it's jist too bad, 'liza," said mrs. hamilton as she swept the snow from her visitor's feet and skirts. "if i've told them girls once to sweep that path, i've told them a dozen times. where's mary fraser been?"
"up to see old duncan polite." miss cotton spread her cold hands over the stove, and surveyed the four girls sharply. "my, but you're pretendin' to be awful busy! an' maggie sewin', too, as i'm alive! the poor old man's got brownkaties, she says."
sarah covered her face with her french grammar and giggled.
"oh yes, smarty! you've got to snicker at somethin'. i s'pose they've learned you some new-fangled way o' sayin' it at the high school. but brownkaties is good enough for ordinary folks, an' bad enough, too. an' that's what the poor old fellow's got anyhow. they had a doctor out from mapletown, an' betsey neil's been there three nights. he's had a cold all fall, mrs. fraser says, an' wouldn't look after it."
"dear, dear," said mrs. hamilton in distress. "one o' you girls must run up to-morrow with some beef-tea or something. that's too bad. sit close to the fire, 'liza, it's dreadful cold."
"you'd better send jessie up with the stuff," remarked the visitor, planting two trim feet upon the stove damper. "maybe she'll get news o' donald."
"how d'ye know she don't get news anyhow?" demanded maggie.
"well, i got some news i'll bet she never got. don's up sides with you now, miss jessie!"
jessie looked at her with a startled expression in her grey eyes.
"i don't know what you mean," she said with attempted lightness.
"well, mrs. fraser told me to-day that annie got a letter from allan yesterday and he said donald neil was jist gone crazy over a city lady, a real high-flier, too, rich as a jew, mind you; she has a carriage and she calls at the college every afternoon for my gentleman donald and drives him home, coachman and footman and everything. now wouldn't that kill you? i guess nobody in glenoro'll be good enough for don, now; he'll be gittin' stuck up, like all the other folks that take to book-learnin'"—she cast a meaning glance at sarah, who smiled good naturedly. she rather enjoyed being considered proud of her educational attainments.
"well, what do you think o' your old beau now, jessie?" continued the visitor.
jessie's cheeks were very pink, but she returned miss cotton's gaze steadily. "why, i guess he's got a right to do anything he likes," she said indifferently.
"well i should hope so, specially when you've been carryin' on with the minister all fall. i guess don thought two could play at that game." she looked sharply at the girl, in some doubt. she really hoped she did not care, for 'liza cotton's heart was a kindly one, and she never told her tales from malice, but from a sheer inability to be quiet. "you'd better look out you don't lose both your beaux," she added. "you and the minister don't seem so chummy since christmas. did you have a tiff?"
jessie's eyes sparkled, and the garrulous visitor knew she had gone too far. "i think that's my affair," said the girl quietly.
miss cotton laughed easily. "there now, you needn't get mad over it. goodness me, i always thought you were the good-tempered one o' the family; you'll soon be as bad as sarah for firin' up."
sarah flew to defend herself, and incidentally to establish more firmly her reputation as the bad-tempered member of the household, and in the war of words which ensued jessie's embarrassment was forgotten. mrs. hamilton sat and stitched placidly through the altercation, breaking in at last to ask if mrs. fraser had said duncan polite could eat anything. there was some chicken broth in the house she could send up with babbie when she came home from school.
jessie slipped away, when the conversation turned from her affairs and crept upstairs. so this was the reason of don's silence. someone else had her place in his heart. she realised with a sharp pang that it was her own fault. she had trifled with his love, because the minister's attentions flattered her, and now she was reaping her just reward. it was the first real trial of the girl's bright, easy life. but she came of a stock of pioneers, hardy folk, accustomed to shoulder the adversities of life, and she bore her burden bravely. only her mother knew that the news of donald meant more to her than wounded vanity.
every day during duncan polite's illness, mrs. hamilton, as was her custom in all cases of sickness in the village, sent one of the girls to his house with some tempting delicacy, jellies or custards or gruel or beef-tea, the best she could produce. jessie had refused positively, from the first, to take her turn at these errands of mercy; though she had always been very willing under such circumstances in the past. but 'liza cotton's words had aroused a feeling of delicacy regarding a visit to donald's uncle.
but one day she found it impossible to refuse. sarah and the little girls were at school, bella and maggie were away, and her mother was preparing to make the snowy journey up to duncan polite's house, when jessie interfered. she would go this once, she said, but never again.
the morning was clear and bright, the world a dazzling vision of white, with here and there intense blue shadows. above, stretched a cloudless dome of the same deep azure. the air was mild, and the girl let her dark coat fly open, revealing a jaunty scarlet blouse; her cheeks were pink and her eyes bright from the exercise. so it was no wonder that as she passed the mcnabbs' a pair of admiring eyes watched her, their owner wishing he could find some plausible excuse for going up the hill that morning. but it was friday, and his sermon was not yet commenced.
duncan polite saw jessie coming. he was able to sit up at his window by this time and look over his little hedge of blooming geraniums at the glittering white world. one of the little girls had always come formerly, and he had been able to reward her with a wonderful story of the fairies that danced on the heather in the old land, or of bonnie prince charlie, or some other charming personage. but this young lady was different. duncan had scarcely spoken to her since the days she used to sit on his knee and have her turn at the stories. but he had long known that she was donald's sweetheart, and he saw her come with feelings of mingled embarrassment and joy.
he arose quickly with all the natural courtesy that had earned him his name, and had the door wide open, before jessie reached the steps. "oh indeed, indeed, it would be too kind of you and your mother to be troubling," he said deprecatingly, as he took the little tin pail. "come away in, come away!"
"you should not come to the door when you are sick, mr. mcdonald," said the girl kindly. "are you better to-day?"
"oh, yes indeed, yes indeed, i will jist be all right," cried duncan, sweeping the snow from her small, neat boots. "and now you will jist be sitting by the fire for a rest after your long walk."
his tone was so eager that jessie's heart was touched. she took the proffered seat, and duncan in his pleasure and overwhelming hospitality began to cram the stove full of wood.
"oh, i'm not cold, mr. mcdonald," she said, "not a little bit. why, i was hot coming up the hill, the sun is so strong."
duncan smiled at the bright, beautiful face. "ah, it will be good to be young," he said, sinking into his old rocking chair again. "oh yes, indeed. then you will be taking off your things for a little?" he questioned nervously.
the girl slipped off her jacket and fur cap, and sat by the window, her curly head and her bright dress making a pretty picture in the bare little room. duncan regarded her with a wistful admiration.
"oh yes, yes," he sighed. "you will be minding me o' the times when betsey would be a lass, and my father and mother would be here."
jessie's soft grey eyes were full of sympathy. "i suppose everything has changed for you since then, hasn't it?"
duncan nodded. how sadly things had changed for him, the girl could not guess.
"father always says," she continued, "that people aren't nearly as good now as they were in the old times, when mr. mcalpine used to come here. he says we young folks have too good a time." she gave a little half-apologetic laugh.
duncan looked up suddenly with a feeling of joyful surprise. he had not dreamed that this bright young creature would understand or appreciate his troubles, but she had touched the keynote at once. his sensitive nature opened to sympathy as a morning glory to the sunrise: his reticent tongue was immediately loosened.
"i will be afraid that sometimes us old folk will not be giving the young ones the credit they deserve," he said indulgently. "but indeed the lads and lasses in the glen will be doing work in the church we would never be having in my young days. there will be this new society, whatever, the christian endeavour."
jessie looked out through the red and green of the geraniums at the brilliant blue and silver of the landscape. she knew that the purpose of the new society was above reproach, but somehow she could not quite understand just what good it did. "yes," she said vaguely.
"and you will be a member of the church now," duncan ventured gently. "and i would be very glad to see all the young folk that would be coming to the lord's table at the last communion, for it will be a very holy consecration to god."
jessie felt her cheeks growing hot; she looked down at the bare, white floor.
"it will be a fine thing to be giving up the life to the lord's work in youth," continued duncan softly.
the girl looked up with an effort. she knew that her joining the church had had nothing whatever to do with giving up her life to the lord's work. she had taken that step at the last communion because bella and a large number of the young people of the church were doing the same, and because she had arrived at the time of life when, in her opinion, everyone was supposed to join a church; and most of all, because mr. egerton had asked her. he had never said anything about a holy consecration. she knew her catechism perfectly and could repeat whole chapters of the bible; she had never done anything wicked in her life, not even what she considered wicked, and she had supposed these qualifications were sufficient. mr. egerton had given her the impression that he had thought so at least. duncan polite's conception of the act seemed entirely different.
"i know we all joined the church, but it didn't seem,—i didn't think it was like that," she faltered. "i don't think i'm any different."
"oh, indeed, you will be a good lassie, yes indeed, oh, yes! but when the lord calls his chosen to take of his broken body and his shed blood"—he whispered the sacred words tenderly—"he will be expecting them to do much for him."
"i don't think i'm like that. i know i'm not," burst out the girl. "mr. mcdonald"—she looked at him, suddenly resolved to ask him some questions that puzzled her. she had never been able to bring herself to ask her father, and mr. egerton would not understand. "is it wrong for all us girls and boys to belong to the church, and just go on acting the same? i—i like nice clothes, and fun, and—and it's just the same now, i don't see any difference." she stopped, overcome.
duncan's brown eyes were radiating kindness. "my child," he said tenderly, "i will not be wise to tell you these things, but——" he hesitated a moment and a tenderer light came over his face; his voice sank to a whisper—"but if you would be having the vision, the vision of calvary; if you would be seeing how the lord jesus put away his life for us, you would be knowing then that his work is all and these other things will be just nothing."
jessie's bright head drooped, her eyes filled with tears. she was looking at her half-hearted, worldly interest in the work of the master in comparison with duncan polite's devotion. the old man's words were not all; piety creates its surrounding atmosphere, stronger than any verbal expression of it, and duncan's manner said far more than his tongue. he saw her emotion and with his usual tact changed the conversation to lighter subjects. jessie's face grew brighter after that, and she chatted away unreservedly until it was time for her to leave. just before she rose, duncan lifted his old leather-bound bible from the table and glanced at her timidly. "would you be minding if i would read jist a word?" he inquired eagerly.
"oh, i should like it so much," said the girl gently.
duncan opened the book reverently, his face glowing; then he paused and looked at her again. "oh, but it is you will be the fine reader, and my eyes will not be so good, indeed, since this cold, and maybe you would jist be reading this now, and i would be much obliged, whatever."
jessie took the bible, and read where he had indicated. it was the sweet story of mary, who sat at the master's feet. she had read it many times before, but it had never seemed quite the same, for, when she finished, duncan polite said softly, "yes, that will be it, oh yes, indeed, jist to sit at his feet and learn of him."
that was the first of many visits the girl paid the old man. duncan never left his own house, though his sister begged him to spend the winter with her. but the watchman must not leave his post, he felt, and his loneliness was more than compensated for by jessie's visits. through his long, weary convalescence the girl came regularly two or three times a week, with the dainties her mother was in the habit of lavishing upon the sick. at first her sisters teased her about her sudden change of mind regarding visiting duncan polite. maggie declared she liked to go because she had to pass the mcnabbs' and would likely see the minister, but sarah gave it as her opinion that she went to get the latest news of donald.
jessie paid no heed to their raillery beyond smiling enigmatically. they little guessed her real motive. she looked forward to her visits eagerly as the winter progressed. gradually her heart was opening to the old man's teaching. he said very little, but every word he uttered the girl carried away in her heart. the visit always ended by their reading a few verses of the bible together, and one day, before she left, duncan laid his hand gently upon her curls and said softly, "the lord bless thee, and keep thee!" and she went away feeling that a benediction had fallen upon her.
at the time of these visits to duncan polite, jessie was studying, with the other members of the christian endeavour society, the life of christ. the meetings were well attended, and mr. egerton gave them a most graphic and interesting account of the historical and picturesque aspect of the wondrous season upon earth of the son of the most high. but jessie went up to the little shanty on the hilltop for the spiritual side. under duncan's gentle, humble dealing with the divine mystery, the girl gradually came to comprehend, in a measure, what duncan had termed "the vision." she understood, at last, the meaning of the great sacrifice, beside which all possible human sacrifice stands poor and mean. she caught a gleam of the light from calvary, and in its searching effulgent blaze all the faint glitter of worldly achievement grew dim and disappeared.
among other things which she saw for the first time in their proper light was her association with the young minister. she knew now that only her poor pride in the envy she excited had made her desire his attentions. she looked at the man himself with new eyes, and though slow to blame another in her new-found humility, she could not help thinking how different it might have been with her and donald had their pastor had more of the spirit of duncan polite.
but she did not criticise him; her own idle, careless life she found too full of faults to censure another. that life was gradually being turned to higher aims, for a new jessie hamilton had been born that winter, and one who was destined to help fulfil the old watchman's great desire.
