he that sees clear is gentlest of his words,
and that's not truth that hath the heart to kill.
—archibald lampman.
the cameron homestead could scarcely be said to belong to elmbrook, but formed a suburb all by itself. it was a comfortable-looking red-brick, set away back in its orchards and fields, and was further cut off from the village by the ravine where the mill-stream ran.
perhaps this was partly the reason why the cameron family seemed a little exclusive. there was a deep suspicion throughout elmbrook that old lady cameron, as she was called, thought herself above ordinary folks, and unconsciously elmbrook thought so, too. the father had died when the children were all little, but she had kept them together through poverty and hardship, imbuing them all with her splendid, self-sacrificing spirit, until now the elder ones had each taken an honorable position in life. james, the eldest, lived on the farm, and had lately paid off the mortgage and built a new house and barn; hugh was a lawyer in a neighboring city; mary was married to a minister—the greatest achievement of all; elsie promised to be a singer, and by making special sacrifices the family had succeeded in giving her a year's training under the best teachers in the land; malcolm was going to be a doctor, had finished his second year with honors, in fact; and jean and archie were still to be given their chance.
old lady cameron's brother-in-law, uncle hughie, was the best-known member of the family. he was the village philosopher, and spent his time hobbling about the farm, doing such odd jobs as his rheumatism would permit, and "rastlin'" out the problem of human life. he was sitting on the milkstand just now, his small, stooped body almost covered by his straw hat, his long beard sweeping his knees. he was swinging his feet, and singing, in a high, quavering voice, his favorite song, "the march o' the cameron men."
when sawed-off wilmott started a cheese factory down on the lake simcoe road each of his patrons had built, just at the gate, a small platform, called a milkstand, from which the cans were collected. the cameron milkstand had a flight of steps leading up to it, and a grove of plum-trees surrounding. it was a fine place to sit, of an evening, for one could be isolated and yet see all that was going on up in the village. here uncle hughie regularly gathered about him a little group of friends. next to the minister, he was considered the most learned man in the community, and the cameron milkstand was a sort of high-class club, where only the serious-minded were admitted, and where one heard all sorts of profound subjects discussed, such as astronomy and the destiny of the british empire.
to-night the club was to assemble for a special purpose. uncle hughie had promised the minister that they would all accompany him down the ravine to give a welcome and a kind word to the poor tramp who had come to live in sandy mcquarry's old shanty by the drowned lands. so the philosopher was waiting for his friends, and as he sang he gazed expectantly up the village street.
from across the ravine, growing purple in the evening shadows, came the sound of children's voices at play, and the joyous bark of a dog. down in the river pasture hoarse shouts, mingled with a dull thud, thud, told that the young men were playing football. women could be seen gossiping across from their home gates, for while the men might gather in groups at the store or the post-office, elmbrook was not sufficiently advanced to have yet felt the woman's club movement. the soft, plashy sound of the little waterfall, pouring down under the bridge, made a charming accompaniment to the mingled harmony.
"oh, there's many a man o' the cameron clan,"
sang uncle hughie.
there was a ring of triumph in his voice, for he had finished the whole line with one start, a most unusual achievement. he generally started on a high key, and as the tune climbed up the word "cameron" was far beyond the range of human voice. he would make a shrieking attempt at it, collapse, and start again, quite cheerfully. but by some strange misunderstanding between his ear and his vocal cords, no matter how deep he might lay the foundations of his song, he would raise upon it such a lofty structure that the pinnacle was sure to be unattainable. he always saw the heights ahead, and made a gasping effort to gain them, his voice strained to its utmost, his face wearing a look of agony. he failed many a time, but invariably succeeded in the end, and with a broad smile of triumph would sweep into the refrain:
"i hear the pibroch sounding, sounding,
deep o'er the mountain and glen."
old uncle hughie's whole pain-racked life had been like that song. he was always striving for the heights, often slipping back, frequently failing just as the top was reached, but ever starting off again with renewed hope and faith, and in the end always attaining.
there was a wild patter of feet down the lane, and a harum-scarum girl, half woman, half child, came scrambling recklessly over the fence, and tumbled upon the ground at his feet. she sprang up and tossed her hair back from her handsome, mischievous face.
"he's coming!" she announced tragically. "where'll i hide? i saw him paddlin' across the creek like a silly old gosling!"
uncle hughie's golden-brown eyes danced with laughter.
"hoots, toots! och, hoch, but it is the foolish lass you will be! poor davy, ech, poor lad! when i would be going sparkin' the lassies, it wasn't running away they would be."
"oh, but then you must have been so handsome and so fine, uncle hughie," said the girl diplomatically. "if i go up into the village will you tell mother you said i might?"
uncle hughie was not impervious to flattery, but he looked doubtful. running up into the village in the evening was strictly forbidden to the younger members of the cameron household.
"i'll jump into the pond if he comes," she declared. "go on, uncle hughie. aw, haven't you got some errand for me?"
"well, well," said the old man indulgently, "let me see. oh, yes, now. you might jist be stepping up to sandy mcquarry's and tell him not to be forgetting that this is the night to go and see poor john mcintyre."
"goody! you're a duck, uncle hughie. john mcintyre—isn't that the tramp you found in the hollow?"
"yes; but indeed i will be thinking that it's no ordinary tramp he will be, whatever. poor man, eh, eh, poor buddy. if ever the lord would be laying his hand heavier on a man than he did on job, that man's john mcintyre, or i will be mistaken. ay, and it would be a fine hielan' name, too—mcintyre."
the girl danced away up the street, dodging skilfully from tree to tree, and keeping a sharp eye on the figure climbing leisurely up the bank of the ravine.
"don't be forgetting, jeannie, child," the old man called after her, "not to let sandy know the minister will be coming."
the girl nodded over her shoulder, and uncle hughie continued his talk to the milkstand.
"ay, yes, oh, yes indeed. the peety of it, the peety of it. well, well. hoots! the almighty will be knowing all about you, john mcintyre. oh, yes, indeed, never fear. i will be thinking he will be meaning you some good yet. oh, yes, yes, never you fear——
"'oh, there's many a man o' the ca——'"
his voice broke on the high note, and he did not start again, for a figure was coming down the street toward the bridge. it was silas long, storekeeper, postmaster and astronomer, with his telescope under his arm. he paused on the bridge, where he was joined by several others. they came straying down the street in aimless fashion, hands in pockets, shoulders drooping. it was the custom to assemble in the most casual manner, for it would never do to confess, even to oneself, that one had started deliberately to spend an evening in idleness.
the group straggled slowly forward, silas long, william winters, the blacksmith, jake sawyer, and a new member of the club, a very small person, whose red, curly hair shone like a halo in the light of the evening sun. holding this little figure by the hand, jake sawyer walked along with a tremendous swagger, the proudest man in the county of simcoe.
another man was strolling toward them across the golden-lighted pasture field. it was john cross, jake sawyer's partner, called spectacle john, to distinguish him from a half dozen other john crosses who didn't wear spectacles. at sight of him uncle hughie sniffed, and ejaculated "huts!" spectacle john was an irishman, of a rather frivolous turn of mind, and the philosopher disapproved of him, and discouraged his attendance. moreover, he and silas long were always at variance, and when the two met the milkstand lost its dignity and became a center of futile argument.
one by one they arrived, and dropped upon the steps of the milkstand or the pile of stones by the gate, with a casual remark about the weather. in elmbrook one did not say "good-morning" or "good-evening," in greeting; but "fine day," "cold night," as the case might be. so as each man sank into his place, with a sigh for the long day's toil, he remarked "fine night," looking far off at the horizon, and uncle hughie also examined that boundary, and remarked "fine." as jake sawyer seated himself, and raised the youngest orphan to his knee, he added proudly, "an' a fine boy, too, eh, folks?"
"oh, yes, indeed! and indeed, yes!" cried uncle hughie, patting the little, curly head, and resorting to the gaelic for terms sufficiently endearing.
"and how many are there in your family now, jake?" inquired spectacle john facetiously. "got another carload shipped since i seen ye last?"
the company laughed heartily. the women of the village regarded the sawyers' large family as a serious problem, but the men treated it as a huge joke.
"aw, i bet my head any one o' yous would be glad to own a family half as smart," remarked jake proudly. "golly, miss weir says that oldest boy kin go through the 'rithmetic like a runaway team; an' as for the girls, well, sirs"—jake slapped his knee—"there jist ain't anythin' they can't' do 'round the house, an' hannah'll tell you the same."
"there don't seem to be much they can't do 'round the mill," grunted spectacle john, whose days were made weary routing his partner's family from his place of business. "you won't raise that oldest boy if he shows his face to me 'round the mill again, i promise you that."
"speakin' o' mills," said william winters, "when i was at neeag'ra falls i seen a mill that you could put this whole village into an' never notice it, an' it run by electricity, too."
the population of the milkstand settled more firmly into its place. when the blacksmith got started on his favorite topic there was no knowing when he might stop. he had visited the toronto exhibition and niagara falls one autumn, and ever since had lived in the afterglow of that achievement. not the most astounding phenomena that the milkstand could produce, either in song or story, but he could far surpass from the wonderful experiences of that visit. the niagara falls mill was only half finished when a new arrival interrupted.
"fine night," said a voice with a deep scottish burr.
"fine," acquiesced the milkstand.
"oh, and it will be you, sandy?" said uncle hughie, making room for the newcomer beside him. "come away, man, come away."
sandy mcquarry was a thick-set man, with a face like a skye terrier. he stood looking down at the contented, round-shouldered assembly, with little columns of smoke curling up from pipes of peace, and his disapproving brows bristled as though he were about to burst into loud barking.
"jeannie said ye wanted me," he remarked, by way of explaining his presence. sandy mcquarry was a busy man, and a great money-maker, and did not want any one to think he could afford to spend his evenings in idle gossip on a milkstand, as some folks did.
"oh, yes, indeed, it would be very kind of you to be troubling. you must jist be coming with us to see that poor mcintyre body now, down in your shanty. and what would you be thinking of him?"
"he's a dour body. ah couldna git a ceevil word oot o' him."
"he would mebby be a good workman, for all?" said uncle hughie insinuatingly.
"ah dinna ken. he's got a bad e'e in his heid, yon man."
"hoots! it's not wicked the man would be!" cried uncle hughie indignantly. "it's a broken heart that ails him, or i'll be mistaken."
"that's jist what i say," agreed jake sawyer. "i jist got one squint at him yisterday, when i was down at the drowned lands, huntin' our oldest"—jake tried in vain to keep the quiver of pride from his voice—"an' he looked to me like a dog that was meant to be good-natured, but had jist been kicked straight ahead till it turned surly."
"i'm thinkin' ye could surely give him some light job, sandy," continued old hughie. "night watchman, now—it's the only job he could be doin', he's that sick, poor body."
sandy mcquarry looked obstinate. "i was thinkin' o' settin' our peter at that job this summer."
"eh? but you could be helping the lord to give the poor man better days, sandy, and that would be grand work, whatever. eh, indeed, indeed, we can never tell, when we do a kind act, how far it will reach." uncle hughie began to grow philosophical. "here would be jake, now, taking all these lambs into his home, and the lord only can tell how much good it will do to other people he will be knowing nothing about. oh, indeed, when we would be giving the lord a helping hand, it would jist be starting all the machinery in the world, and mebby beyond it."
"that there's true, 'ughie, that's true!" cried silas long, laying down his telescope. "wen you're doin' the right thing by your neighbor you're jist 'elpin' along the turnin' o' the earth."
there was an impatient movement from spectacle john. silas had touched their chief point of dispute. the shape and motions of the planet they inhabited had long served as a fierce battle-ground between these two. the astronomer held the generally accepted opinion on these matters, and could prove columbus' theory beyond gainsaying. but, whether from honest disbelief, or a stubborn resolve to disagree with his adversary upon all subjects, spectacle john scouted his arguments as moonshine.
"the turnin' o' the earth!" he repeated scornfully. "you'll never catch me takin' a hand at anny such fool chore as that!"
uncle hughie gazed indignantly over the golden mill-pond and hummed "the march o' the cameron men."
"well, sir, that mcintyre man has a hard row to hoe," said jake sawyer, wisely steering away from the dangerous topic. "it's a caution now, ain't it, how some folks seems to have everything they want in this world, an' others gets all the things nobody wants?"
"man, did you ever think what a queer, botched-up world we live in, anyhow?" inquired william winters, who, whenever he found himself beyond the influence of his well-managed home, was always in a rebellious state. "the minister, now, 'ud like to make ye believe everything's ordered for our good, but it don't look that way to me. gosh! sometimes, when i'm patchin' up somethin' at the shop, i think i could take my hammer an' bang things up into better shape myself than the almighty's done."
"lord love ye, william!" cried silas long in alarm. "take care wot ye're sayin'!"
"well, when i was at neeag'ra falls," persisted the blacksmith, "there was a man preachin' there on the streets that said he didn't believe there was any god at all——"
'"ere, william," interrupted the astronomer, shoving his telescope into winters' hand, as one would give a new toy to a complaining child, "you take a squint through this 'ere spyglass, an' if you ain't convinced in five minutes that there is a god, well, sir, you can smash it, that's all."
sandy mcquarry regarded the blacksmith sternly. for sufficient reasons of his own, he never entered the elmbrook church, but for all that he was as strict in religious matters as he was at gaining a penny in a bargain.
"ye've no right to creeticize the almighty yon way, weeliam," he admonished. "if he wishes to make one vessel to honor, and another, such as this macintyre, to dishonor, it is the lord's wull, an' we maun jist abide by it."
the blacksmith, one eye inside the telescope, paid no attention.
"that's so," agreed spectacle john, with suspicious cordiality, "especially as he's made an occasional vessel jist to hold money."
"that's better than bein' a bag to hold wund, like some folks you admire, john," said sandy mcquarry with deep meaning.
"lookee 'ere, sandy," said silas long solemnly, "criticizin' the minister is next thing to criticizin' the almighty. you'd better take a warnin'." his voice dropped to a whisper. "it ain't safe, sandy, now, that's wot it ain't."
sandy mcquarry grunted scornfully. "ony man," he announced darkly, "that's so licht in his heid that he doesna ken ony better than to liken the land o' burns to a few miles o' barren stones, is no a fit person to expound the word o' god."
the milkstand began to look uncomfortable. there had been a day when sandy mcquarry was an elder in the church, and as stanch a friend as the minister possessed. but just the summer before he had been grievously offended. mr. scott had gone on the annual excursion of the sons of scotland to muskoka. here the endless chain of jeweled lakes, the fairy islands floating on the dark waters, the rugged, barren rocks set in masses of soft greenery, and above all the wild spirit of freedom that pervaded this new beauty land, had enchanted the minister's tired soul. so, upon his return, he had declared in a tea-meeting speech at the church that muskoka reminded him of scotland. the next sabbath sandy mcquarry drove past the elmbrook church and worshiped, fifteen miles away, with the glenoro congregation, and there he had worshiped ever since.
"och, well, indeed," remarked uncle hughie, wisely reverting to an earlier subject, "it will be a question that puzzles the greatest men in the world, why some people must suffer. but, indeed, it is our own selves that will be responsible. and as long as there will be one man sinning in this world the race must suffer. oh, yes, we will not be beginning to learn that lesson yet, but will be fighting against each other! och, hoch! it will be a peety, indeed. but it will all come out right in the end, never you fear. he came to show us how it's done, oh, yes. the almighty will be knowing what he is about, indeed."
"it's my opinion that the almighty lets things go pretty much as they please," grumbled the blacksmith. "when i was at neeag'ra falls——"
"hoots!" cried the philosopher impatiently, "that would be jist child's talk, william. there will be an unerring law governing everything man does, jist as there's a law governing——" he hesitated for a comparison.
"the movements o' this 'ere ball that we're standin' on," finished silas long, with marked emphasis, and a meaning glance at his unbelieving enemy.
"standin' on a ball!" repeated spectacle john wearily. "we'd better all go an' join a circus, an' be done with it!"
"well," said jake sawyer reasonably, "most o' the eddicated folks'll tell you that's what the world is. miss weir, now, was tellin' that to our twins jist to-day."
spectacle john sniffed. "huh! that young graham, that teached here before her, was loony on the same notion. he's sit up half the night argifyin' with me that the earth was spinnin' 'round like a dog after its tail. i uster ask him how it was we didn't tumble off when we was danglin', head downward, in the dark, an' that uster to give him the blind staggers every time. he was a terror for argifyin', though, that chap; an' one night he got me to give in that it was mebby round like a cheese and us livin' on the flat top. it was in sawed-off wilmott's cheese factory he was shootin' off that time. well, i went that far, but further than that there's no livin' man'll get me to go."
a tall figure had crossed the bridge and was nearing the group. there was a perceptible stir, and all conversation ceased. "'ere's the minister," said silas long. "we'd better get started."
"mr. scott's been tryin' all day to get a light job for that mcintyre," said jake sawyer innocently, "but he don't seem to've got anything easy enough yet."
uncle hughie darted a warning glance at the indiscreet miller, but it was too late.
"he'll be well looked after, then, i'm thinkin'," said sandy, promptly rising. "there'll be no need o' me goin' with ye the night, hughie. maister scott'll likely give him a job in"—he paused to let the heavy weight of his sarcasm fall resoundingly—"in muskoky!"
he tramped away, and, climbing the fence, strode across the fields in the direction of his mill.
"ain't 'e a caution, now?" asked silas long in a tone of fear. "you mark my words, now—jist mark my words—that man's goin' to meet a judgment some day. it ain't safe to act like that to the minister, that's wot it ain't."
"fine night," the assembly remarked unanimously. mr. scott was a good-looking man of middle age, tall and straight, with a massive head, covered with thick iron-gray hair. he had deep blue eyes, with little lines at their corners showing they were prone to kindly laughter.
"what's the question to-night?" he asked, the lines around his eyes deepening. "have you found a new star, silas?"
"eh, eh, mebby, mebby," answered uncle hughie. "if it is, it seems to be a fallen one, whatever. we would jist be talkin' about yon poor body we're goin' to see. come away, now."
the milkstand arose leisurely. silas long shouldered his telescope, jake sawyer slung his orphan over his back, and the group turned up cameron's lane, crossed the orchard, and went down the winding pathway into the ravine.
the little stream danced along at their side, touched here and there with the gold of the sunset, the vesper sparrows had gathered for their twilight chorus, and the valley was vibrating with music.
no matter at what hour of the day, or season of the year, it might be viewed, the ravine where the mill-stream ran was a treasure-house to any one who had the seeing eye. long before, when elmbrook was merely a "corners," with one or two houses, there came to the place a queer englishman, who wandered all day about the fields, and painted pictures and read strange, dry books by a man named ruskin. he first entered the valley on an october morning, when it was all gold and crimson, and lay shrouded in a soft violet mist. the man had sat for hours gazing down the winding stream, and afterward he had said it was the golden river, and that the place should be called treasure valley. but sandy mcquarry's father, who was living then, said that onybody with a head on him could see that it was clean ridic'l'us to give a place such a daft name. mcquarry's corners it had been called for years, and mcquarry's corners it would stay. the queer englishman left, and was never heard of again, and old sandy died, and when the post-office came old lady cameron named the place elmbrook; but treasure valley still remained with the little golden river flowing through it, showing new beauties with every recurring season.
about a mile below the village the walls of the ravine disappeared, and the brook was lost in a deep swamp, a maze of tangled foliage and deep pools and idly wandering streams. as the water advanced the forest became submerged, and formed a desolate stretch known as the drowned lands. its slimy, green surface was dotted with rotten stumps and fantastic tree-trunks, pitched together in wild confusion, and above it rose a drear, dead forest of tall pine stems, bleached and scarred, and stripped of every limb. around this silent, ghostly place the swamp formed a ring through which it was dangerous to pass, for near the edge of the drowned lands it was honeycombed with mud holes, into which it was sure death to slip. terrible tales were related of lives lost in this swamp. folks said that a banshee or a will-o'-the-wisp, or some such fearsome creature, wandered to and fro at nights over the surface of the desolate waters, waving her pale lantern and calling for help, or in other ways enticing unwary travelers to their death. some had been lured into the depths by her voice and had never returned.
it was in this drear, lonely place that the tramp had taken up his abode. just where a corduroy road, now abandoned and grass-grown, passed out of the ravine and along the edge of the swamp, stood sandy mcquarry's old lumber shanty, and here uncle hughie cameron and the doctor had taken john mcintyre. before it lay the swamp, and through occasional gaps gleamed the still waters of the drowned lands.
as the visitors emerged from the valley there was a loud hallo from the hill-top, and a small, limping figure came hurrying down the slope. the little fellow perched upon jake sawyer's shoulder gave a squeal of welcome, and jake's face lit up.
"hello, you, tim!" called the big man cordially, as the youngster came limping toward him, "what you been up to now?"
the boy glanced around the group and placed himself as far as possible from spectacle john. "jist been fishin'," he remarked vaguely; "and i'm goin' with you," he added, with that mixture of defiance and appeal which the orphans had already learned was sure to move their foster-parents.
"ye'd better watch out! the banshee'll git ye," threatened spectacle john.
"speakin' o' a banshee," put in the blacksmith, "when i was at neeag'ra falls——" by the time the story was finished the company had come in view of the old shanty.
the sick man was seated in the doorway. his figure had a despairing droop, his eyes were fixed on the forest of dead tree-trunks. there was something of a corresponding dreariness in his whole attitude, as though the waters of tribulation had gone over his life and left it a veritable drowned land, its hopes engulfed, its greenness dead.
the company fell silent as they passed through the bars that served as a gateway and went up the slope to the shanty door. so absorbed was the man in his reflections that he did not notice any one approaching until the minister's foot struck a stone. he turned sharply and arose.
mr. scott had visited him twice as he lay in bed, and the man recognized him with a brief word. but there was no cordiality in the way he put out his hand to meet the minister's proffered one, and he took no notice whatever of the others.
"good-evening," said mr. scott pleasantly. "some of the neighbors thought they would like to drop in and give you a word of welcome to the village. i'm glad to see you are looking much better."
"i am quite better." the man's answer was curt and dry.
he did not offer his visitors a seat, nor ask them to enter, but stood there, bent, shabby and forlorn, and looked at the minister with haggard eyes that besought him to go. but the look only made him more anxious to stay.
"do you mind if we sit a moment?" he asked, glancing at an old log near the doorway.
the man hesitated. "it is a poor thing to refuse a welcome to any man," he said at last, with a quiet dignity, "and in the years that i had a fit roof to my head none was turned away; but"—he paused, as though he disliked to say the words—"but i have spent my life alone these last few years, and i find it better. so i am afraid i cannot offer you a seat, sir."
the minister was as much surprised by the stately manner in which the words were delivered as by the astonishing declaration itself. yet he could not feel angry at his dismissal; the man's eyes awakened only compassion.
"but it is not good for us to shut ourselves away from our fellow-men," he said gently. "we miss much happiness and kindness."
"and cruelty," added john mcintyre, with sharp bitterness. "and as to its being good for me, or otherwise, that matters nothing to any one."
"ah, but that is where you are mistaken," said the minister eagerly. "it matters very much to our father. we are very precious in his sight. the almighty——"
he was interrupted by a harsh laugh.
"hoh!" cried john mcintyre derisively, "what is the use telling that to a man who knows the world? that's a tale for children and old women! what do you know about the almighty's care?" his eyes ran fiercely over his visitor. "you! because you are well fed and well clothed, and prosperous, you think that all the world is the same, and that your god is a miracle of kindness. he may be to you. but there is another side. your god causes the wicked to prosper, and sees the innocent trampled upon, and never puts forth a hand to help. and you call him the almighty! if there is an almighty, then he takes pleasure in the pain of his creatures. he gives them the good things of this life only that he may take them away and enjoy their suffering. and because your turn hasn't come yet you would make me believe that every one is as well off as yourself. hoh! lies! old women's lies!"
the minister stepped back in shocked amazement. he had lived his life among a prosperous, god-fearing people, where such blasphemous words, if ever uttered, were never allowed to reach his ears. nothing aroused his righteous indignation like a slighting reference to the master whom he served, and in his quick resentment he forgot the suffering written on john mcintyre's face.
"how dare you speak so of your master?" he demanded hotly.
the man laughed again, and the minister broke forth in stern rebuke.
people said that when mr. scott denounced sin there was something of the fearless candor of the ancient prophets about him. but in this instance he forgot that the greatest prophet was always gentle and tender in the presence of pain. he denounced john mcintyre roundly for his irreverence, showed him plainly the appalling evil of his ways, and quoted scripture to prove that he was hastening to everlasting perdition.
at the mention of his inevitable destiny john mcintyre interrupted.
"hell!" he shouted. "i've been there for months already!" as he spoke he turned swiftly and caught up an old spade lying by the doorstep. "get out of my sight!" he hissed fiercely, holding the weapon aloft. "leave me, or i'll send you where i'm going! go!" his voice was almost beseeching. "go, before i do you harm!"
the rev. james scott was afraid of no living man, but there was a terrible gleam in john mcintyre's eyes that hinted of insanity. he looked at him a moment and then, with a motion as though washing his hands of him, he turned away. the rest of the company had fallen back from the doorway, and now followed the minister in speechless concern. they tramped along the old grassy road, followed by the call of the whip-poor-will from the darkening hillside above, and the lonely cry of the loon floating across the drowned lands. uncle hughie was the first to break the dismayed silence.
"well! well! well! well! ech! hech! hoots! toots!" he ejaculated incoherently, quite unable to express his feelings.
"man, ain't he a caution?" whispered jake sawyer fearfully.
"gosh! now there's some truth in what he says," remarked the melancholy blacksmith in an undertone.
"d'ye think he would be right in his mind, poor body?" asked uncle hughie, searching for some palliation of john mcintyre's outrageous conduct.
"mebby he's had notions about the earth spinnin' 'round like a top, an' they've drove him loony," suggested spectacle john. "that often happens, they say."
but silas long was too deeply concerned over the tramp's wickedness to pay any heed to this frivolous remark.
the minister was walking ahead, in gloomy silence. his heart was still full of hot indignation, but it was mingled with regret and deep disappointment. he had wanted to do this lonely, sad man good, and in his haste, he feared, he had done him only harm.
but there was one pair of eyes that had regarded john mcintyre's action with perfect approval. those eyes were now looking up at jake sawyer, alight with unholy joy. "say," whispered the eldest orphan, jerking his foster-father's coat, "i like that man. he's awful bad, an' i think he's just bully."
the next day the tale of the tramp's outrageous treatment of the minister flew through elmbrook like the news of a fire in the mill. sandy mcquarry had been away in lakeview all day, and did not hear it until he was seated with his family and the mill-hands at the supper table.
miss euphemia, his sister, who had been his housekeeper since sandy's wife, as folks said, worked herself to death, was the first who dared to broach the subject, any reference to mr. scott being rather hazardous.
"yon's a fearfu' buddy ye've got in yer shanty doon yonder, sandy," she began solemnly. "ah'd no let him sleep there anither nicht."
her brother was busy distributing the fried pork around the table, a performance at which he was an adept. in spite of a keen desire for money-making, sandy was a generous man at his own table, and he had a way of serving his family that was the admiration of the whole mill staff. if a man but held up his plate as a slight indication that he was ready for more, the host could flip him a slice of beef or pork with the dexterity of a sleight-of-hand magician. at his signals, "here, bob, mon!" "hi, peter, lad!" "look oot, sam!" away flew each man's portion, hitting his plate with unerring precision. he had never been known to miss anybody in his life, not even miss euphemia, away at the other end of the table.
he paused now, his fork suspended, and looked at his sister from under his bristling brows. "what's he been doin'?" he demanded.
now that the ice was broken, every one was ready with a different version of the tale. john mcintyre was an infidel and an outcast, and had spoken blasphemy and driven the minister and old hughie cameron and a half dozen others away from his door, threatening them with violence.
the company waited, expecting to hear an order summarily evicting the tramp from his refuge by the drowned lands. but the mill-owner made no comment. "huh!" he remarked, an enigmatic ejaculation that left all in doubt as to his feelings. but the next night the village knew how deep was the elder's resentment against the minister, for early in the evening sandy repaired to the cameron milkstand, and, to the philosopher's joyful amazement, announced that he had decided, after all, to hire john mcintyre as night watchman.
