pale season, watcher in unvexed suspense,

still priestess of the patient middle day,

betwixt wild march's humored petulance

and the warm wooing of green-kilted may.

—archibald lampman.

all day the rain had poured, a real march rain, descending in chill, driving torrents. now and then bursts of wavering sunlight broke through the storm, but the next moment the patch of blue sky was shut out by rolling gray clouds, and followed by another downpour.

in one of the brief sunlit intervals, miss arabella threw a shawl over her head and ran down to long's store for a pound of tea. she was still pale and wan, as she had always been since her illness last fall; but there was a light in her eyes and an expression of quiet determination about her mouth, telling that the little lilac lady's spirit was still on guard over her secret.

it was the hour when silas long and his son were having their early supper, and ella anne kept shop. as the sharp ring of the little bell announced a customer, she came from behind the pigeon-holed partition that served as a post-office. "oh, i say, arabella!" she cried, turning back at the sight of the little wind-blown figure, "mind you, there's a letter for you! who'd ever 'a' thought o' you gettin' a letter?"

miss arabella's sensitive face flushed. "i guess it's a boot advertisement again," she ventured. "i got one year before last."

"no, it ain't." miss long reappeared with the missive, examining it minutely. "them advertising things are open, and this one's sealed. it's got writing on the inside, too, 'stead o' print; i can make that much out through the envelope, only i can't read a word of it. it's from a place called nugget hill. who do you know there?"

miss arabella took the letter, her reticent soul shrinking from the frank inquisitiveness. "i don't know anybody," she said honestly. "i never heard of the place."

"miss weir was in here, a minit ago, an' i showed it to her, an' she said that was the name of a place in the klondyke. who on earth would be writing to you all the way from there?"

miss arabella suddenly crushed the letter into her pocket; her face turned white. "i—i want a pound o' that green tea, ella anne, please," she stammered hurriedly.

"aren't you goin' to read it?" asked miss long, reaching for the tea-scoop.

"i ain't in any hurry," faltered miss arabella, "but i want the tea—quick!"

"well, if you ain't a caution! here, give it to me. i'll read it for you, if you like."

"oh, no, thanks, ella anne, i'd rather wait." there was panic in the little woman's voice. "i—i always wait quite a long while before i open my letters."

"well, my gracious!" grumbled miss long. as she measured out the tea, and bound it up, she kept an inquiring eye upon her customer, and could not help seeing that she was greatly agitated.

"well, sakes! i could no more do that than fly. why, mebby some one's left you a fortune."

miss arabella made no reply. she hurriedly tucked the parcel under her shawl, and forgetting to pay for her purchase, made for the door.

"likely wes an' me'll be over to william's to-night for a sing, so you can run in an' tell us all about it then," miss long called after her.

miss arabella paid no heed. just now she cared not what the future might hold, she must get beyond all prying eyes immediately, and see what that letter contained. she ran along the sodden pathway, splashing unheedingly through the mud and snow, and repeating to herself, over and over again, that he must be living, he must be, after all. without waiting to take off her wet shawl, and all unheeding polly's loud and profane complaint that times were dull, she fled to the safety of her spare bedroom. she pulled down the window-blind, till the place was all in darkness, dragged the chair against the door, sat upon it, and with shaking hand drew the letter from her pocket. her cheeks were pink, her eyes were shining like stars, and she was trembling from head to foot. she opened the envelope with tender care and unfolded the well-filled sheets. her devouring eyes seemed to take them all in at a glance.

no, he was not dead, and he had not forgotten her. but he had long ago given up hope of ever seeing her again; he had felt he had no right to trouble her—such a useless chap as he was. he had never found poor old john mcintyre, nor had he succeeded in anything else, for he had been sick, and had lost all his money, and had years of poverty that made him ashamed to think of her. but his luck had taken a wonderful turn. he had made his pile. he was just on the verge of losing everything again, and going to the dogs last winter, when a fine old chum of his sent him a haul of money. it came just in the nick of time, and not only saved him, but made his fortune. yes, that friend was a bully old chap, but he wasn't going to tell her anything about him just now; there was a big surprise in store for her. and he was a rich man now, and she might wear silk dresses all the rest of her life if she liked. and he was coming home in june, just as fast as the train could carry him, and if it didn't go fast enough he would get out and run ahead. that is, if she wanted him still. did she think she could forgive him? forgive him! miss arabella wiped her eyes to read that again, wondering dimly what it meant. or had she forgotten him in these long years, or was she still waiting? somehow, he couldn't help thinking it would be just like her to wait. and was polly living yet? and could she still say "annie laurie" as he had taught her? and had she kept the blue silk, as she had promised? she must answer right away, and if she did not want him he would not come; but if she did—well, look out—there would be a wedding along about the first of june.

again and again miss arabella read the letter, trying to convince her dazed senses that it was real. when she had succeeded in grasping something of the joyous truth she arose dizzily and went to the dresser drawer. very carefully she took out the roll of blue silk, and laying the letter between its shining folds, she sat down and cried over them.

"you didn't wear out, after all," she sobbed, running her fingers gently over the blue folds, "no, you didn't."

she was roused by the clicking of the front gate, and peeped fearfully under the window-blind. susan was coming! she had paused for a moment to harangue the orphans, who were splashing up and down the middle of the road, knee deep in mud. miss arabella sprang up in a panic. susan would find out. there would be no use trying to hide from her that something tremendous had happened, and she and william and the children would laugh at old aunt arabella's foolishness. and susan would step in, with her strong will, and turn poor martin away, as she had done so long ago. she must get away; she must find some hiding place for her secret. she snatched up the blue silk in frantic haste and bundled it beneath her shawl. like a refuge to a pursued hare, came the thought of elsie cameron. she would run to elsie. a glance at the window showed susan still in violent dispute with the orphans. there was yet time to escape. miss arabella darted for the kitchen, frightening polly into incoherent squalls, tore open the door, and dashed out into the storm. she splashed through the back garden, scrambled recklessly over the fence, and went staggering along the soft, yielding field behind the line of houses. the rain beat in her face, the wind flung her shawl over her head and twisted her thin skirt about her, and she knew, if granny long's telescope spied her, as it was almost sure to do, the whole village would be sure she had gone mad. but she was reckless. the chance of happiness had come with dazzling unexpectedness, and she was like a drowning man, who forgets all else but, the life-line thrown to him. on she ran, like a little brown leaf driven by the wind and rain, her head bent, her shawl clutched closely around her precious bundle.

she was plunging down among the dripping cedars of treasure valley, when she noticed, with dismay, that the stream was flowing high above the stepping-stones. it came roaring out from under the bridge, swift and swollen, with clumps of ice and snow whirling down its oily surface. not a moment did she hesitate, but turned and scrambled up the bank again. she would likely be seen as soon as she crossed the bridge, but she must get to elsie, no matter what the consequences. as she reached the bridge the doctor's buggy came splashing down the street behind her. he smiled, and pulled up beside the little wind-blown figure.

"may i drive you to your destination, miss winters?" he asked.

miss arabella, without a word, scrambled in. the sudden and unexpected relief almost took away her breath. if she had eluded the telescope so far, she was comparatively safe. she gave her rescuer a grateful glance as he tucked the rubber lap-robe about her. then a pang of remorse seized her in the midst of her joy. she had intended the blue silk for elsie's wedding day, and his wedding day, too, of course. how selfish she was to have forgotten! she glanced up at him timidly, feeling as if she were defrauding him of his rights. she remembered, regretfully, that he had looked overworked and very much older during the past few months. her anxiety for him helped to calm her own agitation.

"you must be all wore out, doctor," she said sympathetically. "you've had such an awful winter's work."

dr. allen looked embarrassed. it was not the hard toil of the past winter that had so often made him feel weary. "oh, i'm all right," he said evasively. "and you—the winter seems to have benefited you, miss winters," he continued, looking kindly at her shining eyes and flushed face. "it's a pleasure to see you looking so well, when i remember how ill you were last fall."

the little woman blushed guiltily. "it's—it's the spring, i guess," she stammered; and she was right, for miss arabella's long winter was over, and for her the birds had already begun to sing.

the young man smiled as he helped her out at the camerons' gate. he could not help seeing that she was concealing something beneath her shawl, and was as frightened as though it had been a dynamite bomb. he was amused, and wondered, as he always did when he met miss arabella, what the queer little body was thinking about. he never dreamed that his conduct could have had the smallest effect upon her odd behavior, so blind was he to the far-reaching influence of all human action, good or evil.

her heart once more in her mouth, miss arabella sped up the camerons' lane to the back door. old lady cameron was seated by the sitting-room window, knitting. she wore her best black dress and her lace collar with the big cairngorm brooch; for the minister and his wife were expected to tea. she tapped upon the window-pane with her knitting-needle, and smilingly beckoned miss arabella to come in by the front way. but she shook her head and sped on. she darted up the steps and into the kitchen, without knocking. elsie, in a trim cotton gown and a spotless white apron, was setting the tea-table; and in a warm corner behind the stove uncle hughie, crippled with a bad attack of rheumatism, was rocking in his old arm-chair, and singing the "march o' the cameron men."

"hoots! toots! come away, arabella! come away!" he cried. "eh, hech! and would you be coming over in all the rain? well! well! well! and that would be kind, whatefer."

elsie put down the pitcher of milk she was bringing from the pantry and came forward to remove the visitor's dripping shawl.

"don't, elsie, don't!" whispered miss arabella, clutching it tighter. "come on upstairs. i want to tell you something—something awful."

elsie's big eyes opened wide. "is anything wrong, arabella?" she whispered.

"i—i don't know. no; but somethin' awful's happened, or goin' to happen—i don't know which."

without another word the girl opened the door leading to the hall. she looked in at the sitting-room door as she passed.

"mother, arabella's coming upstairs with me for a few minutes," she called. "we'll be down soon."

she said no more until they were in the privacy of her own bedroom. she placed the trembling visitor in a chair by the window, where occasional bursts of sunlight came through the soft muslin curtains. then she drew up another chair and sat close beside her.

"arabella," she said, "you've heard from him?"

miss arabella hung her head like a schoolgirl caught in a naughty prank. "yes," she whispered guiltily.

elsie flung her arms about the little wet figure. "oh, arabella, dear, i'm so glad! i'm so glad! now aren't you glad i wouldn't let you give me the dress? is he coming home?"

"yes."

"when?"

"next summer—in june."

"oh! and is he well? where does he live? and why didn't—oh, tell me all about it!"

the sympathetic joy was bringing the tears to miss arabella's eyes again. "oh, elsie, you're so awful good! i—would you—would it look kind o' foolish if i was to let you read his letter?"

"not a bit, if you don't mind, you know. i'd really love to see it," she confessed honestly.

miss arabella threw back her shawl and carefully unrolled the blue silk. she took the letter from its folds and then hesitated. "mebby," she began breathlessly, "i—perhaps i'd better read it to you, elsie—because there's parts, you know, that might sound—foolish." she looked at the girl apologetically.

"of course, arabella, i understand." elsie pushed the letter back into her hand. "after all, no third person ought to see a love-letter, you know."

much assured, and still blushing and stammering, miss arabella read aloud a few of the more practical details of the letter. she passed tremulously over the tender passages, and she also omitted the part about martin's receiving help from a friend. somehow, her jealous pride in him forbade that another should know he had not succeeded unaided.

"poor little arabella," whispered the girl when it was finished. "and it's coming true at last. and what a nice name he's got—martin—what's the rest of it?"

"martin heaslip," whispered arabella, as though afraid to utter it.

"martin heaslip—i like the sound of it. and he's rich, too. why, it seems too good to be true."

miss arabella glanced up quickly, and a look of apprehension came over her radiant face. "that's just what i can't help thinking, elsie. don't it seem too good to happen to me?"

"pooh! nonsense!" laughed the other, with the sure hopefulness of youth. "of course it'll happen. you must take your dress to mrs. long right away, and she and ella anne——"

"no! no! no!" miss arabella sat up straight, her eyes dilated with fear. "no, nobody's to know a whisper about it. not anybody! mind, elsie, you promised. oh, elsie, you did!"

"yes, yes, arabella!" cried the girl, alarmed at the agitation she had aroused. "but who's to make your dress and give you a wedding? they must all know some time."

"no, there's nobody to know until it's all over. once, just after he went west, he wrote and ast me to come out, an' he sent the money, an'—an'—susan wouldn't let me go! she made me send the money back. she said i wasn't strong enough to go out and live there, and—she—meant it for kindness, you know, elsie, but—he—i guess he felt bad." miss arabella carefully covered the blue silk from harm, for the tears were dropping again. "anyhow, it, made him think he'd got to get things fixed up awful grand for me, or else he'd 'a' sent for me long ago. and susan wouldn't let me go this time—i know she wouldn't. she'd say i was too old for such foolishness. do you think i look awful old, elsie?" she asked piteously.

"oh, arabella, dear! no! no! you look young and as pretty as a picture!" she exclaimed, truthfully. "but, arabella"—her brow puckered worriedly—"if no one knows, how are you going to do it?"

"i'm going to write and tell him to come for me, and never let on to any one, an' we'll—we'll—what do you call it when they run away?"

"not elope, arabella!" cried elsie in dismay.

"yes, that's it. we'll elope," said miss arabella calmly.

the girl looked at her, and for an instant the vision of the shy, drooping little woman figuring in a runaway match filled her with a desire for laughter. but it was quenched the next instant by the gravity of the situation. what did elsie know of this man, after all? what if the innocent little child-woman were being deceived! that feeling she often experienced, of being far older than arabella, took possession of her.

"arabella," she said gravely, but gently, "are you quite, quite sure that he is kind, and—and—good, and all you could wish him to be?"

miss arabella looked at her in childlike wonder, and then her face lit up with a heavy smile. "oh, my! there's no fear of him!" she cried radiantly.

elsie was silent. she dared not disturb her beautiful faith. "but, arabella," she pleaded, "even if you told susan and bella and all, when he came they would have to let you marry him. and i think it would be better, much better, than to elope. it looks as though you were doing something wrong—and you're not."

miss arabella's head drooped again. she nervously fingered a corner of the blue silk. "it ain't exactly that," she said shyly, "but i kind of feel scared about it, elsie." her voice sank to a whisper. "you see, i've got so used to bein' disappointed that i guess i can't stand anything else for a while," she added, with unconscious pathos. "and i ain't dead sure that it'll happen, you know. it seems as if it was too good to be true, and if it didn't"—her face looked suddenly old and gray—"susan and william and ella anne, an' all the folks, would talk and talk." she shivered. "i can't stand to be talked about, elsie. it was just because i was so scared o' bein' talked about that i got better last fall. and, oh, i want you to make ella anne keep still about my letter, won't you, elsie, please? and you'll not tell, will you?"

"no, arabella, not a soul." she sighed in perplexity. to assist in an elopement! the staid, earnest upbringing of the country girl, coupled with her high sense of duty, made her shrink from the very word.

"and the dress, arabella? shall i help you make it?"

"that's what i was jist thinkin' about. i can't have it made at home, 'cause susan an' bella's in an' out every day. an' you can't have it here, for jean an' the boys'll be home soon, an' they'd find out, an' if lorry sawyer was to get a sight of it, she'd remember all she's forgot. i was thinkin' on the way ever there's jist one woman in the village would make it an' never tell a soul, an' that's——"

elsie nodded. "mrs. munn."

"yes. harriet dressmaked for a long time before munn died; he wasn't no more use than davy. an' she'd make it an' never tell. an' you'd help a little, wouldn't you, an' see that she made it—kind o'—jist a little—fashionable, elsie?"

"yes, arabella; oh, yes." the answer was absently given. the girl's eyes were troubled. but miss arabella gazed at her in perfect faith, feeling sure she was evolving some new style for the fashioning of the blue silk gown.

"elsie, my girl!" old lady cameron's soft voice, with its highland scotch accent, came from the foot of the stairs. "the minister's jist driving across the bridge. come away down, and bring arabella with you."

elsie went into the preparations for arabella's elopement with something of the feeling that she was assisting in a bank robbery. she suffered from a very anxious conscience the day she took the blue silk to mrs. munn. no need to tell that silent lady that the affair must be kept a secret; mrs. munn guarded everything that came her way as if it were a deadly crime in which she was implicated. she seemed not a whit disturbed by the astonishing fact that arabella was going to elope. such a method of getting married quite coincided with her general belief that things should not be talked about. she asked no questions concerning the prospective bridegroom, but promised to make the wedding gown entirely on faith, and if granny long found out she was making anything—well, she'd have to get a spy-glass as long as the sawmill smokestack!

elsie had expected some advice and help from the elder woman, and felt disappointed and worried. the burden of the secret was beginning to weigh on her. suppose she was helping arabella to take a step that would end in life-long unhappiness!

she went slowly homeward, and sat down alone in her little room, sorely perplexed. she was gazing with troubled eyes down the lane, when a light came into them, and a little flush mounted to her cheek. a smart horse and buggy had turned in at the gate, and was passing below her window. the next moment archie came up the stairs with a message. dr. allen wanted to know if she would like a drive.

she came down the steps clad in a long, brown coat, and a little toque with a coquettish bronze wing on it, the color of her hair. dr. allen looked at her approvingly. he had no smallest notion of the details of a woman's dress, but he knew that this one always seemed a wonderful harmony of color.

they sped down the lane and out upon the open, smooth highway. the roads were almost dry now, and in the dun-colored fields and the purple-gray woods there was an air of expectancy, as though the earth knew that a great change was near. it was a glorious, blustering spring day. the wind was working strenuously to keep the sky clear of clouds, and a time of it she was having. a hard-working, tidy body she was, this april afternoon, but she did not go about her work systematically. for no sooner had she swept her great floor a clear, gleaming blue, than, with a careless flourish of her broom, she scattered great rolling heaps of down all over it, and had to go frantically to work and brush them together again. nevertheless, the wind and the clouds, and indeed the whole world, seemed to be having a grand time. the trees swung giddily before the gale, the bare, brown fields were smiling and tidy, and as clean as a floor, and the little streams by the roadside leaped and laughed at the sunlight. only the birds seemed to be in trouble. a gasping robin clung for a moment to an unsteady perch in a lashing elm, and tried his poor little best to get out a few notes. but the frolicsome wind slapped him in the face, and choked him, and he fled before it to the shelter of the woods. everywhere was tremendous rush and bustle and glad hurry, for was not all the world preparing for the arrival of summer? she might come any day now, and the earth must be tidied and swept and washed and dried, to make ready for the glorious paraphernalia of green carpets and curtains, and flower cushions, and endless bric-a-brac, that grand lady was sure to bring.

even gilbert felt the joy of the spring day, and behaved quite cheerfully for a young man who had had his heart broken only the winter before. the two had not driven together since the day they had witnessed sandy mcquarry's waterloo, and they recalled it with laughter, and discussed, with even more merriment, the wonderful sequel. for since sandy had fulfilled his wager, and come back to elmbrook church, and had apparently decided to go softly all the rest of his days, the gossips had noticed patent signs of a strong inclination on his part to go even deeper in his humility, and make a life treaty with his conqueror, and elmbrook was all agog over the unbelievable prospect. since that last drive elsie cameron had dropped some of her reserve, and gilbert felt they were on a friendly footing. he was not so afraid of her now, since he had done his duty, and he found her a most pleasant comrade. they talked of many things, grave and gay. they exchanged reminiscences of schooldays, for they were both canadian born and country bred, and had a wholesome, happy past to recall. in the talk of his boyhood days gilbert was led to tell of his early ambitions, and of the struggle he had had to get an education.

"i went to the public school until i was fourteen, and i always cherished dreams of one day being a doctor. but our farm was small, and our family large, and when father died we older boys had to turn out to earn our living. i got a job that first summer working in a sawmill near home, and there i met my fortune. there was a big, warm-hearted, rollicking chap there, who was foreman, and i thought he was the most wonderful man alive; and upon my word, i rather think so yet. he was just the sort of fellow to be a tremendous hero in the eyes of a youngster of fifteen. he could walk the logs on the river any old way, and could jump and run and throw the shoulder-stone, and do all manner of stunts, away ahead of everybody else. we kids thought he was the greatest thing outside a dime novel; and i tell you, he was a fine chap all through. i've met a good many people of all sorts since those days, but i've never seen the equal of martin heaslip."

"who?" his listener whirled around in her seat, her eyes startled, her lips parted.

"heaslip—martin heaslip. you don't happen to know him, do you?"

"oh, no; not at all!" the answer came in hurried confusion. "i—it was the name—i—please go on. i beg your pardon for the interruption."

"he was a bluenose—one of those scotch-irish nova scotians, the best kind going; but he had lots of relatives over in bruce county; perhaps you knew some of them?"

"no, oh, no! i—it was a mistake."

"well, one day the poor old chap met with rather a serious accident. he was walloping around the mill, as usual, singing a crazy old lumberjack song about 'six brave cana-jen byes,' who broke a lumber jam. martin was always whooping away at that dirge, i think i can hear him yet. i'm not up in musical terms, but i think the tune was a kind of gregorian chant, and as mournful as a dog howling at night. it goes something like this:

'they broke the jam on the garry rocks,

and they met a wat-e-ry grave.'

martin could sing about as well as i can, so you may imagine what a continuous performance of that sort was like. he was bellowing away at this, as usual, never looking where he was stepping, when he stumbled, and fell against the big saw, and the mill going at top speed. i happened to be standing right behind him at the time, and i managed to jerk him back before he went right over; but he cut his foot badly, as it was, poor chap. i had always loved to tinker away at cuts and bruises, so i managed to patch him up a bit, and stop the bleeding, till the doctor came. it was nothing, any one could have done it, but poor old martin made a great fuss over it; and he literally dragged me out of the mill and shoved me back to school. paid every cent of my expenses until i was through my first year at college. after that i got on my own feet. i taught school for a while, and paid my way; but i'll never forget that martin heaslip was the man that gave me my chance. i just fancy i see him now, sailing down the river on the slipperiest log in the bunch, and roaring out his song about a 'wat-er-y grave' as gay as a lark."

the doctor paused, in happy reminiscence. there was a tense silence. at last his companion spoke.

"where is he now?" her voice trembled; she had turned away, and was looking far off over the clean brown fields.

"he was a wandering sort of chap. he went back to nova scotia; then west, somewhere, and the last move was to the klondyke. he's been there for several years now, i fancy; hoping to make a fortune, no doubt."

gilbert paused, slightly confused. he was ashamed to discover how little he really knew about martin. there was no remark from his companion. she could not help noticing his evident embarrassment, and the poverty of his knowledge regarding his old friend, and she was drawing her own damaging conclusions. as the silence continued he glanced at her half inquiringly. there was a look of distress in the golden-brown depths of her eyes.

"are you cold?" he asked, with hasty compunction. "i've been yarning away and forgetting time and place. go on, there, speed! you are not cold?"

"no, not at all, thank you." she answered absently. her mind was busy running over arabella's story, and putting the two tales side by side. so this was "the boy," who had been so generously treated and been so selfish in return; the boy who had repaid martin's generosity with forgetfulness, and had helped to lengthen poor little arabella's years of waiting. her anxiety for arabella had been swept away. she was telling herself that she should be relieved and thankful for that, but, strange to say, her feelings were exactly the opposite.

when gilbert helped her out at her own door she bade him a hurried farewell, and ran up the steps. there was something in her movements like a hurt fawn running for cover. her uncle sat in his accustomed corner by the window, where the sunlight came through a little green hedge of geraniums. his stockinged feet were on the stove damper, his weekly newspaper in his hand.

"ech! hech! elsie, lass!" he cried. "look ye here, now! here's the finest receep for trouble ye ever heard. jist listen!" she paused by his chair and smiled wanly. "there's a long bit in the newspaper here that would be telling that wherever a poisonous weed grows, jist right beside it, mind ye, you will be finding the herb that cures the poison. eh! eh! wouldn't that be jist beautiful, whatefer?" his golden-brown eyes were radiant. "och! hoch! but it takes the almighty to be managing things, indeed! now, last night i would be rastlin' away when the rheumatics wouldn't let me sleep—the rheumatics would be a fine thing to make a body think—i would be rastlin' away about the poison o' sin an' trouble that would be in the world; and here, jist to-day, i would be reading this piece—and hoots! there it is, ye see! yes, yes, it takes the almighty to manage things, indeed! and ye mind he would be coming and living among us, ye see. there it is again: he would jist be the cure planted right among the poison! oh! hoch! yes! yes!"

the girl laid her hand for a minute on his rough shirt-sleeve. "and the rheumatism is bad again, is it, uncle hughie?"

"hoots! not much, not much. it will jist be the april wind—and the doctor would be giving me a fine liniment last time. oh, it is the fine young man he will be, indeed. and you would be out for a drive with him?" he added, in kindly interest.

"yes, uncle." her face flushed, and she moved toward the door leading to the stairs. "yes, i was out for a little drive with dr. allen." she passed out, and closing the door behind her, added softly to herself, "for the last time."

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