In the rush of preparation for the concert the winter had slipped away, and by the time it was over the days had come when the sun was too ardent¹ for the snow's white resistance, when the roads became soft and almost impassable, and spring began peeping at the wintry world in brilliant sunrises and sunsets.  
When the young minister of Glenoro found that the long winter evenings, in which he had planned to accomplish so much, had gone, he could not help looking back over the past season of feverish² activity with regret. One evening in early spring as he walked down the great stairway that led into Glenoro he was reviewing his winter's work with the feeling of self-dissatisfaction that was so common to him now. Every step he took seemed to lead him into greater depths of despondency.
 
The evening was one which might have raised the most discouraged soul. Before him lay the white valley overspread with the soft radiance of a late winter sunset. The gold of the hilltops where the sun's rays had full play, the soft rose, the delicate green and the faint lilac where the shadows of the valley met and mingled³ with the brightness, the deep purple-and-grey tones of the woods by the river made a picture such as only the magic of winter can paint. The air was motionless, and the smoke from the houses in the village rose in stately columns straight into the still atmosphere, colourless and ethereal in the shadow of the hills, but changing into pearl-white as they rose beyond their rim⁴, and blossoming, where the sun's rays caught them, into gigantic frost-flowers of rose and amethyst⁵ and violet.
 
The noise of children playing on the millpond, the barking of a dog, the musical clang of Peter McNabb's anvil⁶ arose to the hills where the minister walked. Away across the valley a sleigh was moving slowly down the winding⁷ road; he could hear the clear tinkle⁸ of the bells as though they were at his side.
 
But the young man was too absorbed in his own sad reflections to notice his surroundings. He was asking himself what progress he had made in Glenoro with his tremendous activity and his multiplicity of meetings? What had he accomplished⁹ in the past winter? He thought with disgust of the Canadian Patriotic¹⁰ Society. He had given up the revival¹¹ services for the concert and Mr. Watson's romantic nonsense, with the result that it had brought upon him both ridicule¹² and discredit¹³. He could not help wondering, now that he was on such intimate terms with all the young people of the congregation, what was to be the result. Were the pleasant relations he had established to be the means to a better end or was this all? Was he really going to be their pastor¹⁴ in the true sense of the word, or merely an agreeable companion?
 
He sighed deeply over these perplexing and haunting questions. He did not confess, even to himself, however, that their burden was augmented¹⁵ greatly by another problem that had vexed¹⁶ him all winter. It had assumed a graver aspect that very day, owing to a piece of news he had heard at the dinner-table.
 
Peter McNabb, Junior, whose tongue was the McNabb's family skeleton, had started the meal with, "Say, folks, Don Neil's comin' home to-morrow. Neil told me to-day."
 
"Indeed," said the blacksmith as he heaped Mr. Egerton's plate with fried pork and potatoes, "he's home early this spring."
 
"He's jist comin' for the Easter holidays; Sandy sent for him to come an' help with the logs. He's goin' back again after. Sandy an' all his gang are at the camp back o' the lake there waitin' for the ice to break, an' I seen Jimmy Archie Red yisterday, an' he says they're havin' a whale o' a time, drinkin' an' cuttin' up like sin."
 
"Aye, aye," said Peter, Senior, shaking his head sadly, "poor Sandy's goin' like his father, Ah'm afraid; Neil More was too fond o' the drink. Duncan Polite'll be feelin' terrible, if he hears it."
 
"Mebby Don'll straighten them up when he comes," suggested Flora¹⁸, who secretly admired the handsome young student.
 
"Indeed," broke in her mother, busy with the tea-cups, "I'm just afraid Donald's not much better. He seemed to be a steady boy once, but I guess he's got his head turned in the city. They say he's just filled with infidel notions."
 
"I've heard that he don't go to church, since him an' Jessie Hamilton split up last fall," declared Peter, Junior, injudiciously. He turned to his sister a face of indignant reproach. "What on earth are you jabbin' your feet into me for, Flo? It's true, every word. Mack Fraser says Allan wrote home——"
 
"Pass Mr. Egerton the pickles¹⁹, Peter," said Mrs. McNabb, with a warning wink²⁰ from behind the tea-pot. And Peter shoved the cucumbers across the table in sulky silence, wondering why on earth it was that he could never be allowed to speak at the table without some mysterious interruption.
 
But John Egerton understood perfectly²¹, and this evening, as he walked down the hillside, his conscience was once more asking troublesome questions. Was he responsible for Donald's changed conduct? This man who had saved his life, had he really come between him and Jessie? Then there were those wild young men at the lumber²² camp; he knew most of them personally. As their pastor, should he not go to them? That would be rather difficult with Donald there. And then, he asked himself bitterly, what good would he do if he did go? He had always been a good fellow among the boys, but what more? His conscience forbade a satisfactory answer, and his spirits sank to a very low ebb¹⁷.
 
He was aroused from his melancholy²³ heart-searchings by the sight of Duncan Polite's little shanty²⁴ by the roadside, with the sunset glow reflected in flame from the window panes²⁵. He must call and see if the old man's cold were better. He was not at all remiss²⁶ in his duties of this sort and was so kind and sympathetic in time of sickness that he was always welcome. But he had not visited Duncan Polite very often, though the old man had been ill all winter. Ever since the night John Egerton had heard him wrestling in prayer, and had guessed dimly at what manner of man the silent old hermit²⁷ was, he had felt uncomfortable in his presence. But to-night he realised that he should not pass without dropping in just a moment to see how he was progressing.
 
Duncan Polite answered his knock. He had an old plaid of the McDonald tartan over his shoulders, his face was white and emaciated²⁸, and a cough frequently interrupted his utterance²⁹. But his eyes were as bright as ever, and his face full of kindness. He welcomed his young pastor warmly.
 
"Eh, Mr. Egerton," he cried, smiling brightly at this young man who was breaking his heart. "Indeed it would be kind to come and see an old man, and the roads breaking up, whatever. Come away in, come away;" he drew up his best chair to the fire, and set his guest into it, bustling³⁰ around and in every way he could ministering to his comfort.
 
The young man put his feet upon the damper of the stove, and tilted³¹ his chair back in the free and easy manner which had charmed Glenoro. "And how's that troublesome cough to-day, Mr. McDonald? better, I hope?"
 
"Oh jist, jist! It will be nearly gone, indeed. Betsey will be giving me drugs; but hoots³², toots, the weemen must be potterin' about a body. I will not be sick at all, oh no indeed."
 
The minister knew that he ought to ask after Donald, but he could not bring himself to do so. Instead, he said, "I hear your nephew has a fine quantity of logs to bring down to the mill."
 
"Oh that would be Sandy." Duncan's face grew suddenly grave. "Yes, he will be a great lumberman, and Donald will be coming home to-morrow to help him"—he paused and looked at his guest. A great resolution seized him. "Mr. Egerton," he said suddenly.
 
The young man looked up in some surprise. Duncan was leaning forward, his thin hands trembling, his face aglow³³ with eagerness.
 
"Yes?" inquired the visitor encouragingly.
 
Duncan's humility³⁴ was almost overmastering him, but he struggled on. "I will be very bold, to be asking you," he faltered³⁵. "It would be about Sandy and the lads. They would be good lads, but jist a wee bit careless, and I would be thinking they would be listening to the minister——"
 
He had spoken the very thought which had been troubling the young man on the road. "You mean you would like me to visit the camp?" he asked kindly³⁶.
 
Duncan's eyes were burning with hope. "Yes, oh yes! An' jist to be saying a word, you will be knowing best what."
 
He stopped, for his guest had started suddenly and was gazing eagerly out at the window. Duncan did not know that his eye had caught a bewitching glimpse of a blue velvet³⁷ cap, with a wealth of golden brown curls nestling beneath. Jessie was walking into the village alone! The young man rose to his feet. He had scarcely had an opportunity to see the girl or speak to her for nearly a month. Surely there would be no harm in his taking this happy chance of a walk with her.
 
Donald would be home the next day, and it would be the last time.
 
"I am sorry I cannot stay and talk this matter over with you, Mr. McDonald," he said kindly; "it is almost dark and I should have been home much earlier. But if I have a moment to spare I shall run up to the camp and see the boys. Good-night." He hurried to the door, Duncan following him. "I hope your cough will soon be better," he called over his shoulder as he strode down the path, "Good-night!"—and then he was away through the gate and down the dusky road.
 
Duncan sat for a long time after he had left with his head bowed and his face buried in his thin, trembling hands. A racking cough shook his frame occasionally, but he did not rise to mend the dying fire. The room grew chilly³⁸, and at last Collie rose and went to his master.
 
The old man arose slowly at the gentle touch of a cold nose against his face. He replenished³⁹ the fire, and moved listlessly about the room, preparing his supper. His face looked whiter and thinner than before the minister's visit, and his movements were painfully slow. There was something more serious than a persistent⁴⁰ cough undermining Duncan Polite's health.
 
But there was no word or look of complaint from him. He went about his work as usual, tidying the room, and stirring the pot of oatmeal porridge which was cooking for his supper. His habits were of the simplest; a bowl of oatmeal, or pease brose, and a pitcher⁴¹ of milk sufficed for his supper as well as for his breakfast. He set the frugal⁴² meal upon the bare pine table, then lit his one small lamp, which had been well trimmed and polished, and p............