about two weeks after billy perkins had gone north, helen murray went down to willow lane from school to see his family. she had been there only the evening before, and had found them doing well. the faded little mother had never been quite so courageous since minnie's death, but bill's new start had put them beyond the immediate possibility of want and given fresh hope. there had been two very cheery letters from him which helen had read aloud, so the little wife was trying to be happy in her loneliness, and was looking forward hopefully to billy's return in the spring.

but january had set in bitterly cold and there had been a heavy snow fall during the morning. helen feared that eddie might not have been able to get the wood in, so as soon as madame and her flock had departed, she turned down towards willow lane. she had been in algonquin only a little over three months but already the self-forgetting tasks she had set herself, were beginning to work their cure. she had not regained her old joyousness, and often she was still very sad and lonely; but there had come a calm light into her deep eyes, and an expression of sweet courage and strength to her face, that had not been there in the old careless happy days. she was growing very fast, these busy days, though she was quite unconscious of it in her complete absorption in other people's troubles.

she had left the perkins family in such comfortable circumstances, the day before, that she was startled and dismayed to find everything in confusion. the neighbours were running in and out of the open door, the fire was out, the baby was crying, and the little mother lay on the bed prostrated.

"what is it?" cried helen, stopping in the open doorway in dismay. "oh, what's the matter?"

mrs. hurd and judy cassidy were moving helplessly about the room. at the sight of their friend the latter cried out, "now praise the saints, here's the dear young lady. come in, miss murray! och, wurra, wurra, it's a black day for this house, indade!"

gladys was sitting on the old lounge beside the stove awkwardly holding the baby.

"oh, miss murray," she cried shrilly. "somethin' awful's happened! billy perkins's gone to jail. he got drunk and he's been steal—"

her mother shook the broom at her. "hold your tongue," she said sharply. for mrs. perkins, her face grey with suffering, had arisen on the bed. "oh, teacher, is that you!" she cried, bursting into fresh tears. helen went and sat on the edge of the bed, and took her hand. "what is it?" she whispered. "perhaps it's not so bad!" she faltered, making a vague attempt to comfort.

but when the pitiful story came out it was bad enough. mrs. perkins told it between sobs, aided by interpolations from her neighbours. billy had been working steadily up till last saturday, quite happy because he could not get at the drink. but on saturday he went into the village to buy some fresh meat from a farmer for the camp. and there was a jericho road up north too, it seemed, where thieves lay in wait for the unwary. and billy fell among them. he went into the tavern just for a few minutes, leaving the meat on the sleigh outside, and when he came out it was gone. billy had gone on towards the camp despairingly, in dread of losing his job, and praying all the way for some intervention of providence to avert the result of his mistake. for in spite of many a fall before temptation, poor billy, in a blind groping way, clung to the belief that there was a god watching him and caring for him. so he went on, praying desperately, and about half-way to camp there came an answer. right by the roadside, as if dropped there by a miracle, lay a quarter of beef, sticking out of the snow. it was evidently a small cache some one had placed near the trail for a short time, and had billy been in his normal senses he would never have touched it. but the drink was still benumbing his brain, and quickly digging out the miraculous find he loaded it upon his sleigh and hurried to camp.

but retribution swiftly followed. the stolen meat had belonged to the graham camp, and it seemed it was a terrible crime to steal from a rich corporation, much worse than from a half-drunken man like poor billy. the first thief was not arrested, but billy was, and he was sent to jail. he would not be home for ever and ever so long and what was to become of them all, and what was to become of poor billy?

the little wife, accustomed though she was to hardships and griefs, was overcome by this crushing blow. with all his faults and weaknesses, billy was her husband and the stay and support of the family, and besides, she had a dread of jail and its accompanying disgrace. by the time the sad tale was finished, she was worn out with sobs, and sat still, looking straight ahead of her into the fireless stove. but the baby's cries roused her, and she took him in her arms, making a pitiful attempt to chirrup to him. the idiot boy, feeling dimly that something was wrong, came and rubbed his head against her like a faithful dog, whining grievously. she stroked his hair lovingly. "pore eddie," she said, "it'd be better if you an' me an' the biby, was with minnie;" and then with sudden compunction, "but wot would pore bill do without us?"

helen told the sad story at the supper table at rosemount, that evening, and asked for help. miss armstrong promised to send a basket of food down the next day, though she did not approve of the perkins family. she had found that to help that sort of shiftless people only made them worse. why, last christmas, there was one family on willow lane who received five turkeys from the presbyterians alone, and the dorcas society was always sending clothes to that poor unfortunate mrs. perkins. mrs. captain willoughby herself, who was the president, had seen the little perkins girl wearing a dress just in tatters, that had been given to her in perfectly good condition only the week before. wasn't the girl old enough to go out working?

"the little girl died last fall of tuberculosis," said helen, in a low voice. "she was just ten."

miss annabel's big blue eyes suddenly filled. "oh, the poor dear little thing. minnie used to be in my sunday-school class, and i wondered why she hadn't been there for so long. but we've been so dreadfully busy this fall, i simply hadn't time to hunt her up. elinor, we must send a jar of jelly to the poor woman, and i think i shall give her that last winter coat of mine. we'll ask leslie for some, she simply doesn't know what to do with all her old clothes."

"oh, please don't," said helen in distress. she could not explain that which she had so lately learned herself, that what a woman like mrs. perkins needed was not old clothes nor even food, but a friend, and some knowledge of how to get clothes and food. "i don't think she really needs anything to wear just now. if we could get her some light work where she might take the baby, it would be so very much better for her."

both ladies promised to see what could be done, but the misses armstrong, members in good standing of the presbyterian church, kind hearted and fairly well off, had not a minute of time nor a cent of money to spend on people like mrs. perkins. the poor ladies were gradually discovering that the younger set, led by their own niece, and the moneyed people now becoming prominent in algonquin, were slowly assuming the leadership in society. they were in danger of losing their proud position, and every nerve had to be strained to maintain it. what we have we'll hold, had become the despairing motto of the misses armstrong, and its realisation required eternal vigilance.

it was alfred tennyson who once more came to the family's aid, and helen was forced reluctantly to accept his help. he ran up hill and down dale and called upon every lady in the town, till at last he succeeded in getting work for mrs. perkins. mrs. hepburn, lawyer ed's sister, said she might come to her and bring the baby, one day in the week. mrs. t. p. thornton and mrs. blair made like promises, and dr. leslie persuaded mammy viney to let her come to the manse to wash, while viney junior, in high glee, promised to take care of little william henry.

every day, when the little mother went off to her work, with her baby in her arms, angus mcrae drove up to willow lane and took eddie down to the farm. and with endless patience and tenderness he managed to teach the lad a few simple tasks about the house and barn. angus mcrae's home was the refuge of the unfit, for young peter did the chores in the winter when the inverness was in the dock, and old peter came and stayed indefinitely when he was recovering from a drunken spree, and aunt kirsty declared that there was no place where a body could put her foot without stepping on one of angus's wastrels.

roderick came back the week after billy's arrest. as he was the lawyer acting for graham & co. he could not be without some responsibility in billy's sad affair, and old angus awaited his explanation anxiously. he knew there would be an explanation, for the old man was possessed of the perfect assurance that his son was quite as interested in the unfortunate folk that travelled the jericho roads of life as he was himself. but roderick had some difficulty in showing that he was quite innocent.

he could not explain that this trip had been his probation time, and that if he had done his work with a slack hand there would be no hope of greater opportunities opening up before him. the big lumber firm of graham & co., operating in the north, was really under alexander graham's millionaire brother. and this man's lawyer from montreal had been there. he was a great man in roderick's eyes, the head of a firm of continental reputation. he had kept the young man at his side, and had made known to him the significant fact that, one day, if he transacted business with the keenness and faithfulness that seemed to characterise all his actions now, there might be a bigger place awaiting him. the man said very little that was definite, but the lad's sleep had been disturbed by waking dreams of a great future. that his friend, alexander graham, was the mover in this he could not but believe, but he determined to let the people in authority see that he could depend on his own merits. so he had done his work with a rigid adherence to law and rule that commanded the older man's admiration. roderick felt it was unfortunate that poor billy should have come under his disciplining hand at this time, but such cases as his were of daily occurrence in the camp. there was no use trying to carry on a successful business and at the same time coddle a lot of drunks and unfits like billy. he had been compelled to weed out a dozen such during his stay in the north. billy was only one of many, but when he remembered that he must give a report of him to the two people whose opinion he valued far more than the approval of even the great firm of elliot & kent, or of william graham of new york, he felt that here surely was the irony of fate.

"i did my best, dad," he said, his warm heart smitten by the eager look in the old man's eyes. "but i had to protect my clients. there has been so much of that sort of stealing up there lately that stern measures had to be taken, and i was acting for the company." old angus was puzzled. evidently law was a machine which, if you once started operating, you were no longer able to act as a responsible individual. he could not understand any circumstances that would make it impossible to help a man who had fallen by the way as billy had, but then roderick knew about law, and roderick would certainly have done the best possible. his faith in the lad was all unshaken.

but the young man was not so hopeful about miss murray's verdict. she had put billy in his care, and it was but a sorry report he had to make of her trust. he was wondering if he dared call at rosemount and explain his part in the case, when he met her in willow lane. it was a clear wintry evening, and the pines cast long blue shadows across the snowy road ahead. roderick was hurrying home to take supper at the farm, and helen was coming out of the rough little path that led from the perkins' home. she was feeling tired and very sad. she had been reading a letter from the husband in prison, a sorrowful pencilled scrawl, pathetically misspelled, but breathing out true sympathy for his wife and children, and the deepest repentance and self-blame. and at the end of every misconstructed sentence like a wailing refrain were the words, "i done wrong and i deserve all i got, but it's hard on you old girl, and i thought that old angus's son might have got me off."

whether right or wrong, helen felt a sting of resentment, as she looked up and saw roderick swinging down the road towards her. he seemed so big and comfortable in his long winter overcoat, so strong and capable, and yet he had used his strength and skill against billy. her woman's heart refused to see any justice in the case. she did not return the radiant smile with which he greeted her. in spite of his fears, he could not but be glad at the sight of her, with the rosy glow of the sunset lighting up her sweet face and reflected in the gold of her hair.

"i was so sorry to have such news of billy i was afraid to call," he said as humbly as though it was he who had stolen and been committed to prison.

"oh, it's so sad i just can't bear it," she burst forth, the tears filling her eyes. "oh, couldn't you have done something, mr. mcrae?"

roderick was overcome with dismay. "i—i—did all i could," he stammered. "it was impossible to save him. he stole and he had to bear the penalty."

"but you were on the other side," she cried vaguely but indignantly. "i don't see how you could do it."

"but, miss murray!" cried roderick, amazed at her unexpected vehemence. "i was acting for the company i represent. it's unreasonable, if you will pardon me for speaking so strongly, to expect i could sacrifice their interests and allow the law to be broken." he was really pleading his own case. there was a dread of her condemnation in his eyes which she could not mistake. but her heart was too sore for the perkins family to feel any compunction for him.

"i don't understand law i know," she said sadly. "but i can't understand how your father's son could see that poor irresponsible creature sent to jail for the sake of a big rich company. his wife's heart is broken, that's all." she was losing her self-control once more, and she hastily bade him good-evening, and before roderick could speak again she was gone.

the young man walked swiftly homeward; the blackness of the darkening pine forest was nothing to the gloom of his soul. he spent long hours of the night and many of the next day striving to state the case in a way that would justify himself in the girl's eyes. in his extremity he went to lawyer ed for comfort.

"what could i do?" he asked. "what would you have done in that case?"

lawyer ed scratched his head. "i really don't know what a fellow's to do now, rod, that's the truth, when he's doing business for a skinflint like sandy graham. you just have to do as he wants or jump the job, that's a fact."

but roderick did not need to be told that his chief would have jumped any job no matter how big, rather than hurt a poor weakling like billy perkins.

so those were dark days for roderick in spite of all the brilliant prospects opening ahead of him. he could not tell which was harder to bear, his father's perfect faith in him, despite all evidence to the contrary, or the girl's look of reproach, despite all his attempts to set himself right in her eyes. he was learning, too, that not till he had lost her good opinion did he realise that he wanted it more than anything else in the world.

but there were compensations. when he finished his business he received a letter of congratulation from mr. kent, and a commission to do some important work for him. he found some solace, too, in the bright approving eyes of leslie graham. her perfect confidence in him furnished a little balm to his wounded feelings. certainly she was not so exacting, for she cared not at all about the perkinses and all the other troublesome folk on the jericho road.