Angus McRae had been an intimate friend of Edward Brians, ever since the days when the latter was a little boy and the former a young man living on adjoining farms. Angus had, early in life, taken upon himself the rôle of Good Samaritan, watching with especial care over this young neighbour, and many a time the headlong lad might have fallen among thieves had a friend's example and assistance not been always at hand.  
And now Lawyer Ed's mind was busy with schemes for returning a little of that life-long assistance, as he set out for his office the morning after young Roderick's rainbow expedition. "I've got to get some money, and I will get it," he announced to the blooming syringa bush at his door, "if I have to take it by assault and battery."
 
He had come home very late the night before, but he was astir none the less early for that. For though he was usually the last man in the town to go to bed, and often worked nearly all night, he always appeared in good time the next morning, looking as fresh and well-groomed as though he had just come home from a month's vacation.
 
Like all the other professional folk of Algonquin, Lawyer Ed lived up on the hill to the north of the town. His widowed sister kept his house and wondered, with all the rest of the town, why on earth Ed didn't get married. Her brother answered all enquiries on the subject according to the age and sex of the ; and had nearly every young lady in the place convinced that he was secretly pining for her. He came swinging down his steps this bright June morning humming a in his deep voice. He picked a and fastened it in his button-hole and strode down the street, stopping at the gate of every one of his friends—and who wasn't his friend?—to hail the owner and summon him to his work. He ran into "Rosemount," the big brick house where the handsome Miss Armstrongs lived, to make arrangements for a Choral Society practice, he drummed up a half-dozen Sunday-school teachers within the space of two blocks, and he roared across the street to Doctor Archie Blair to be sure not to forget that thae bit bills for the Scotchmen's picnic maun be gotten oot that week. For Lawyer Ed belonged to every of the town in church or state, except the Ladies' Aid—and he often attended even its meetings when he wanted something, and always got what he wanted, too. So, although he had started early, it was rather late when at last he reached the home of his special friend, J. P. Thornton, and hammered loudly on the gate. So late, in fact, that J. P. had gone. He went on alone very much disappointed. When any one in Algonquin was in trouble he went to Lawyer Ed, but when Lawyer Ed was in trouble himself, he went to his old chum, J. P. Thornton. And he was in trouble this morning, none the less deep that it was another's. He looked down the street towards his office, knowing a big day's work awaited him there.
 
"You can just wait," he remarked to the trim red brick building. "I've got to get Angus off my mind;" and he whirled in at the Manse gate and went up the steps in two springs.
 
The Manse was a broad-bosomed, wide-armed house, opposite the church, looking as if it wanted to embrace every one who approached its big . Its appearance was not deceiving. No matter at what hour one went inside its gate, one found at least half the congregation there, the sad ones sitting in the doctor's study, the happy ones spread out over the lawn. As Lawyer Ed remarked, the Lord had purposely given the Leslies no children, so that they might adopt the congregation and bring it up in the way it should go.
 
Mrs. Leslie was at the other end of the garden, cutting roses; she waved a spray at him, heavy with dew, and he took off his hat and made her a profound bow. He would have shouted a greeting to any other woman in Algonquin, but he never roared at Mrs. Leslie. There was something In the stately old-world atmosphere surrounding the lady of the Manse, that made even Lawyer Ed treat her with .
 
The door was open and he went straight in and along the hall towards the minister's study. As he did so a door at the opposite end of the hall opened suddenly and admitted a round black face and an ample red-aproned figure.
 
"Good mawnin', Missy Viney!" drawled the visitor. "I done wanta see de ministah, bress de Lawd!"
 
Viney's white eyeballs and shining teeth flashed him a welcome.
 
"Laws-a-me, Lawya Ed! Is you-all gwine get marrit?"
 
Viney was a fat, jolly young woman, whom Mrs. Leslie had from the little negro settlement in the township of Oro, a few miles from Algonquin. She felt the responsibility of her position , and showed a marked interest in the affairs of every one of the congregation. But of all living things she loved Lawyer Ed most. His presence never failed to put her in the highest spirits, and his bachelorhood was her joke.
 
"Yassum," he answered, hanging his head shyly, "if you done hab me, Viney. I wantin' you for years, but I bin too bashful."
 
Viney screamed and flapped her red at him. "You go 'long, you triflin' lawya-man!" she cried, going off into a of ; but just then the study door opened, the minister's head came out, and the cook's vanished.
 
"Ah, I thought it was you, Edward, by the noise," said Dr. Leslie, smiling. He took his visitor by the hand and drew him in.
 
"Come away, come. I was hoping you would drop in this morning."
 
They sat down, the minister in his arm-chair before his desk. Lawyer Ed balanced on the arm of another, protesting that he must not stay. It was his way when he dropped in at the Manse and remained a couple of hours or so, to about, hat and stick in hand, changing from one chair to another, to assure himself that he was just going. Dr. Leslie understood, and did not urge him to sit down.
 
Though not an old man, the minister had seen Lawyer Ed grow up from the position of a scholar in his Sabbath School, and quite the most and one there, to the superintendency of it, and to a seat in the session; and he had a special fatherly feeling towards his youngest elder. Dr. Leslie was the only man in Algonquin, too, folk said, whom Lawyer Ed feared, and to whose opinion he without argument.
 
"And have you heard from Angus this morning,—or the wee lad?"
 
"Archie came home about an hour ago. The little rascal's all right, except for a sore arm. I guess he nearly put it out of , paddling. Angus was better, too; but I'm bothered about Angus, Dr. Leslie. That's what I came in for."
 
He moved about the room, fingering , picking up books and laying them down again.
 
"Archie Blair says the anxiety was so bad for his heart, that he's got to stop work right away, for all summer anyway, and perhaps longer. And his place is all planted, and yesterday, at my advice, he put a mortgage on it."
 
He stopped before his minister and looked at him with appealing, troubled eyes. "I feel as if I shouldn't have let him, but I didn't anticipate this."
 
Dr. Leslie sat drumming his fingers on the table, his face very grave.
 
"We can't see Angus McRae want, Edward. We're all indebted to him for something—every one of the session, and the minister most of all."
 
"The session!" Lawyer Ed jumped off the arm of the sofa where he had just perched. "There's an idea. If you laid it before them, they'd do something; and J. P. and I'll push it and Archie Blair will help."
 
The minister shook his head. "The session is a big body, Edward, and—" he smiled,—"it has wives and daughters. This must not be talked about. If we help Angus, we mustn't kill him at the same time by hurting his pride."
 
Lawyer Ed a sofa cushion impatiently with his .
 
"There it is, of course! Hang Scotchmen, anyway! You can't treat them like human beings. That thing they call their pride—always your wheels whichever way you go."
 
"Don't the tree from which you sprung, Edward," said the Scotchman, smiling.
 
"Thank the Lord, the limb I grew on had a few good green Irish shamrocks mixed with the thistles. If Angus had been as fortunate we'd have him out of to-morrow."
 
"Angus McRae will be the least of us all. I thought of Paul last night when I saw him, 'troubled on every side, yet not distressed, but not in despair.' We must think of some way in which we can help him quietly—so quietly he may not know it himself. Who has the mortgage?"
 
"Jock McPherson, of course, who else?"
 
The minister's face brightened. "Jock McPherson! Well, well, that is fortunate, Edward. Jock's heart is big enough to put the whole church inside provided you find the right key."
 
"Yes, but it's a job fitting it when you do find it. Some small item in the business will strike him the wrong way and he will get slow and stiff and arise to the occasion with, 'I feel, Mister Moterator, that it is my juty to object.'"
 
His imitation of Mr. McPherson's deliberate manner, when in his sadly frequent rôle of objector in the session, could not but bring a smile to the minister's face.
 
"I have no fear of your not being able to overcome his objections, should any arise. Now, sit down just a few minutes, and let us see what is to be done."
 
The two talked far into the morning, and laid their plans well. Mr. McPherson was to be persuaded to remove the mortgage, and instead, as Angus was in need of the money, to rent the farm. Lawyer Ed was to see that it was let for a goodly sum that would keep its owner beyond anxiety, and whatever Jock stood to lose by the bargain was to be returned to him in whole or part by a little circle of friends. It was a great scheme, of a legal mind, Dr. Leslie said, and Lawyer Ed went away well pleased with it.
 
He went two blocks out of his way, so that he could reach J. P. Thornton's office without passing his own, and spent another hour laying the scheme before him.
 
So, when he finally got to his place of business, clients were buzzing about it like angry bees. But little cared Lawyer Ed. He laughed and joked them all into good humour and dropping into the chair at his desk, he drove through a mass of business in an incredibly short time, telephoning, writing notes, hailing passers-by on the street, and attending to his correspondence, all while he was holding personal interviews,—doing half-a-dozen things at once and doing them as though they were holiday sport.
 
The rush of the day's business kept him from speaking to Jock McPherson until late in the evening, when, at the end of the session meeting, he found himself walking away from the church with Mr. McPherson on one side and his friend, J. P. Thornton, on the other. He felt just a little anxious over the outcome of the interview. He had no fear that Jock would be to help Angus McRae, but he had every fear, and with good reason, that he would want to do it in his own way. If Jock were in a good humour, he would fall in with the plan, if not, he would do exactly as he pleased and spoil everything.
 
And, as ill-luck would have it, when they were coming down the steps under the light from the arc-lamp shining through the leaves, Lawyer Ed made the most unfortunate remark he could have chosen.
 
He was carrying home a Book of Praise under his arm and was humming a in a rich undertone. And the unwise thing he said was: "I'd like to sing the Amen at the end of the , as well as the . What do you say, J. P.?"
 
"An excellent idea, Ed," said Mr. Thornton . "The psalms would sound much more finished—" He stopped suddenly, realising that they had made a fatal mistake. Mr. McPherson had overheard, and uttered a disgusted snort. For he hated the new to the hymns, and looked upon its importation into the church service much as if the use of had been introduced. He was a little man, with a shrewd eye and a slow tongue—but a tongue that could give a deadly thrust when he got ready to use it.
 
"The Aye-men," he said with great deliberation, and when he was most deliberate, he was most to be feared. "Inteet, and you'll be putting that tail to the end o' the psawlms too." He tapped Lawyer Ed on the arm with his spectacle case. "Jist be waiting a bit till you get permission, young man. You and John Thornton are not jist the session."
 
Mr. McPherson was the senior elder, the champion of all things orthodox, and he was inclined to regard Lawyer Ed and J. P. as irresponsible boys.
 
" toot, mon," shouted Lawyer Ed . "What's wrong wi' a bit Aye-men foreby? It's in the Scriptur', 'Let all the people say Amen'—and here you would forbid them!"
 
Jock was a , and Lawyer Ed's habit of addressing him in a Lowland dialect was particularly irritating as the mischievous young elder well knew.
 
"Yus. You know the ferry well indeed, but if you would be reading a little farther you will find that it will be saying, 'How shall he that occupieth the room of the unlearned say Amen?'"
 
This Lawyer Ed and he laughed loudly. "Tut, tut, Jock! It's a small thing to make a fuss about. You and Jimmie McTavish and a lot more of you fellows are dead set against all sorts of things that you accept in the end. Why, man, I can remember the day when you two objected to the little organ in the old church, and you got used to it and liked it."
 
"I liked it? Indeed, and when would that be?"
 
"Well, you stopped kicking, anyway, until we got the big one, which was clean , whatefer."
 
"No, sir." Mr. McPherson's spectacle case tapped the younger man's arm . "I was logical then, as I am now. I objected when the wee thing was brought in, and I objected more when you and the weemin filled up the end o' the church with a machine to turn us all deef. As I say, I was perfectly logical, the greater the organ, the greater the objection."
 
J. P. hid a smile in the darkness and hastened to interpose, for when Jock once got riding his objection hobby he would agree with nothing under the sun.
 
"There's an article in the British Weekly on the evolution of the church service—" he began; but his impetuous friend was on setting Jock right in his own way, and hastened to his destruction.
 
"And on the same principle, the more Amen, the more objection, eh?" he cried laughingly. "But now, look here, if you'll only consider this thing with a fair mind you can't help seeing that, as J. P. says, a or a psalm sounds unfinished without an Amen at the end. Take any hymn for example—"
 
They had reached the McPherson gate by this time, where an arc light, high up in its leafy , was away shedding a white glow over the side-walk and it with an pattern worked out in leaf-shadows. Lawyer Ed paused under the lamp and opened the Book of Praise.
 
"I defy you to find one that isn't improved and finished and rounded off by an Amen at the end." He selected a hymn at , and sang a in his rich voice that poured itself out gloriously on the evening air.
 
"Faith and hope and love we see
Joining hands in ,
But the greatest of the three
And the best is love. Amen."
 
The beautiful words, sung in Lawyer Ed's melodious voice, were enough to move even Jock's orthodox heart. He was silent for a moment, then the noise of a window being raised above their heads interrupted.
 
Mrs. McPherson was accustomed to after-session meetings, and noisy ones too, at her gate. But when they were accompanied by singing and shouting, at the disgraceful hour of eleven P. M. she felt it time to . So she opened the window noisily and if there was a fire anywhere.
 
There was. It blazed up in Lawyer Ed's heart, so was he at this very inopportune interruption, coming just when he thought he saw Jock wavering. He shouted at her to go in and mind her own business.
 
No one in Algonquin what Lawyer Ed said when he was angry, but Mr. McPherson was in no mood to put up with even him. He became deadly slow and deliberate. He turned his back on the turbulent young man, and addressed the open window:
 
"No, it will not be a fire, Mary," he called. "It's just an Eerishman got loose, and we'll haf to let him talk off his noise. He reminds me," he continued, still addressing the window, though it had closed with a bang, "he reminds me of that Chersey cow, my Cousin McNabb had in Islay. She wasn't much for giffin' milk, and it was vurry thin at that, but she was a great musician. You could hear her bawlin' across two ."
 
J. P. Thornton was a jolly young Englishman, very to mirth, and this was too much for him. He turned and laughed aloud. Lawyer Ed glared angrily at him; but Jock's face underwent a twist. He had had no notion of saying anything , he had been too angry for that; but he had learned by experience that he never knew when he was going to make a joke. He was often surprised in the midst of a speech by a burst of laughter from his friends, Lawyer Ed generally first. Then he would pause and survey the path he had travelled, to find that all unconsciously he had stumbled upon a humorous . So when J. P. laughed he stopped to consider. The enemy flew to defend his "bawlin'" and there was no time to see if he really had made a joke. But he was suspicious, and the suspicion put him into a good humour. A sudden inspiration seized him; he caught the book Lawyer Ed was and, opening it, laid it carefully on the top of the gate-post.
 
"It's more feenished and rounded off, with the 'Aye-men, is it?" he enquired with deep . "But you would not be feenishing it after all. If ye're bound and deturmined to put a tail on the end o' the hime, why don't ye sing awl that's in the book. You would be leaving out a bit."
 
He took his glasses from their case, fitted them on, and held the book carefully towards the electric light.
 
"If ye want it feenished, this is the way it should be sung."
 
Now, not even Mrs. Jock, who believed her husband the cleverest man in Algonquin, could say he was a singer, and it was with a terribly that he lifted his voice in the words of the hymn before him:
 
"There are no pardons in the toomb,
And brief is mercy's day.
A-m-e-n-T-h-o-m-a-s-H-a-s-t-i-n-g-s—"
 
The awful "Amen," drawled out to an indefinite length, with the author's name, on the end, was . J. P. broke into a shout of laughter. For a moment, Lawyer Ed's eyes gleamed in the darkness, but only for a moment, then he too gave way, and when Lawyer Ed laughed, a really good laugh, it was a musical performance that did not stop until every one within hearing was joining in the chorus.
 
And then Jock began to realise that he had been witty again. He paused and bethought himself of what he had done, and he too saw how funny it was. He did not laugh right out at first. Jock's mirth, like his wit, was too deliberate for that. He began by uttering a low sort of , which finally worked to the surface in a shaking of his whole sturdy little body. By this time J. P. was leaning against a tree wiping his eyes, and everybody up and down the street was smiling and saying, "That's Lawyer Ed's laugh. What's he up to now, I wonder?" Jock checked his mirth quickly; it was not seemly to rejoice too heartily over one's own humour, but before the joy of it had left, by an turn, J. P. had sent the conversation into its proper channel.
 
"A good joke on you, Ed!" he cried. "I must tell that to Angus McRae. Angus doesn't love the 'Amen' too much either, Jock."
 
"Angus is in great trouble," exclaimed Lawyer Ed, wiping his eyes and trying to look serious. "Did you hear about it, Jock?"
 
Jock had not heard, so the story of little Roderick's rainbow expedition and his father's consequent heart affection was quickly told. And when the splendid plan to help was unfolded, Jock was quick to respond. It was the psychological moment; Thomas Hastings had driven away all and Angus McRae's case was safe.
 
The two friends walked homeward under the shadows of the , the night-air sweet with the perfume of many gardens. They were both very happy, so happy indeed, that, as usual, they walked miles before they finally settled for the night.
 
First, J. P. again that fine article in the British Weekly, and strolled up the hill with his friend while he gave a of it. When they reached the gate, Lawyer Ed remembered that he should have told J. P. about old man Cassidy's will and the trouble Mike was in over it, and so returned to J. P.'s gate. The Cassidy will was finished and J. P. in the midst of another fascinating article on Imperial , when they reached there, and Lawyer Ed made him come up the hill again so that he might hear it. It was their usual manner of going home after a session meeting.
 
"And may I ask," said J. P., when their personal part in the financing of Angus's affairs had been finally settled, and they stood at his gate for the third and last time, "may I ask, if it is not too curious on my part, if you intend to appropriate church funds for your contribution, or just rob the bank?" For J. P. knew well that Lawyer Ed's always kept him on the edge of poverty.
 
"Well, neither. Jock mightn't think the first was orthodox. I don't believe he'd object so strongly to the second, but it mightn't be successful. I think,—yes, I'm afraid, I must draw on the Jerusalem Fund again."
 
"Of course, I knew you would. Let me see; that's seven times we've stayed home from the Holy Land, isn't it?—the perfect number. A person naturally thinks of sevens in connection with Bible places."
 
Lawyer Ed laughed light-heartedly. Ever since the days when these two had tried to sit together in Sunday-school, and been separated by Doctor Leslie, they had planned that some time, they would make a visit together to Bible lands. Many a time since the trip had almost materialised, but Lawyer Ed's money would fade away, or J. P.'s business interfere or some other arise to make them stay at home. The final plans had been laid for the coming autumn, and now it was again to be .
 
But J. P. was not deceived into supposing Lawyer Ed was merely drawing upon a holiday fund.
 
"I believe you have somewhere about five dollars laid away for that trip, haven't you?"
 
"Four-and-a-half, to be correct," said his friend .
 
"I thought so. And where's the rest going to spring from?" He was accustomed to keeping a stern eye on Ed's affairs or the extravagant young man would have given away his house and office and all their contents long ago.
 
Lawyer Ed did not answer for a moment. He looked like a naughty schoolboy caught In a foolish . The came out at last.
 
"I'd almost not to go in with Will Graham's scheme. I don't see how I can leave here just now, that's a fact."
 
"Ed!" cried his friend, half-admiring, half-impatient. "Why, man, it's the chance of your life. Bill's making money so fast he can't keep count of it. You'll be a rich man and a famous one too in a few years if you go in with him, do you realise that?"
 
"Oh, there are lots more chances."
 
"Yes, and they'll slip away like this one. I,—can't I help a little more?"
 
"No. And don't talk any more about it. It's just this way, Jock, I've no choice in the matter. If it was my last cent, and I knew I'd go to jail for it to-morrow, I'd help Angus. I just couldn't see him want. It's all right. I'll stay on in Algonquin a few more years, and we'll see what'll happen. Good-night."
 
"Yes, and good-night to all your ambitions and the Holy Land too."
 
"Not a bit of it! Ambition be hanged. I don't care about that. But we're going to the Holy Land yet, if we put it off until seventy times seven. We'll wait till young Roderick's grown up and pays us back, and then we'll go. Indeed, I'm going to refuse to go to the New Jerusalem until I've seen the old!"
 
He swung away up the street as bright and gay as though he had just accepted a fine new position instead of refusing one. He was so happy that he softly sang the hymn that had opened the good work of the evening. It was very appropriate:
 
"Faith and hope and love we see
Joining hands in unity,
But the greatest of the three
And the best is love."
 
He was passing near Jock's house so he roared out the "Amen" in the hope that the elder had not yet gone to sleep. And Mrs. Leslie's Viney declared the next morning that she done heah dat Lawyah Ed and J. P. Thornton gwine home straight ahead all de bressed night, and she did 'clar dey was still goin' when she put on de oatmeal mush for de breakfus!