A Cry in the Wilderness

XXI

So Cale knew. This was my first thought when I found myself alone in my room. Cale, then, was the husband of my mother's sister, Jemima Morey, who died before I was born, whose name I had heard but two or three times. My Aunt Keziah's mind grew dull in the strain of circumstance; she was never given a full supply of brains, and her memory weakened as she aged. Had she lived,—I shuddered at the thought,—she would have been imbecile like my grandfather and, doubtless, have lived to his age, ninety. In that case there would have been no life for me here.

"But I am here. I am going to remain here till I am sent away. Nothing that Cale has said shall influence me in this. All that is past—a part of another generation. I have put it all out of my life, once and for all. I live now and here, in Lamoral. I am not my mother; I am Marcia Farrell. I have not her life to answer for, and her life—oh, what she must have suffered!—shall no longer influence mine.

"I am free! I declare myself free from the bondage of past memories, free, and I will to remain so."'

This was my declaration of independence—independence of heredity and its accredited influence; of memories that control the mentality which governs life; freedom from the actuality of past environment. I drew a long free breath. My individual womanhood, this "I" of me, Marcia Farrell, not a composite of ancestral inheritance, asserted itself.

What if my nose resembles my great-grandmother's? I asked, unfurling my revolutionary flag over the moat—untechnically "ditch"—of the stronghold, considered by some impregnable, of present day scientific discovery.

What if I happen to have a temper like my maternal great-aunt's? What if I have a fighting instinct like my paternal ancestors, who may have come over with William the Conqueror as swordsmen or cooks—I don't care which?

What if I handle my crochet needle in a manner very like the brandished spear of Goths, Vandals, and Huns, from all of whom it is perfectly possible that I may count my descent?

What if I show distinctive animal characteristics? Jamie declares I run like a doe and look like a greyhound!

What do I care if, millions of years ago when things on this earth were stickier and hotter than the worst dog-day in New York, this thing that has, in the end, become Marcia Farrell, this half-perfected mechanism of body and mind, had gills like a fish? What do I care if it had?

This "I" of me is distinct from every other "I" on this inhabited globe. This "I" of me has its special work to do, not another's, not my ancestors'. Humble enough it is. It has to feed and clothe my body by labor, the brain regulating the handicraft. It has eyes to see all the beauty, all the ugliness of Life; ears to hear all its harmonies, all its discords; a mind to comprehend how some detail of chaos may find rebirth in order. This "I" of me, my soul, receives through the instruments of the senses, impressions of infinite chaos ordered into laws, not necessarily final, laws beneficial to man and his universe.—Am I to deny the existence of what is called the strange unknown ether, simply because, for ages, the instrument of the wireless was not on hand to give expression to its transmitting power?

I repeated to myself, that I had my own life to live, not my mother's—oh God, forbid! Not my grandfather's—oh, in mercy not! Not my myriad of ancestors' lives; were this so, the mechanism of the brain would give under the strain. But just my own, mine, Marcia Farrell's, here, from day to day in Lamoral; a life lived in thankfulness of spirit for a shelter that is a home; in thankfulness for the modicum of intellect—with its accompanying physical fitness—that enables me to earn my living; in thankfulness for friends; in thankfulness—yes, I dare say it, even in the shadow of Cale's story of my mother's short life—that I love, that I can love.

This is the full text of my declaration of independence, made at twelve of the clock,—I heard it striking in the kitchen below,—on the night of the twentieth of February, nineteen hundred and ten.

From that hour, I lost all desire to know my parentage, to question Doctor Rugvie, to see the papers; all desire to establish the fact that I was a legitimate child. And I lost it because a greater interest, the dominating interest of love, was claiming all my thoughts, ruling my desires, regulating my wishes. My hour had struck and, knowing it, I regulated my clock by Mr. Ewart's timepiece, which is another way of saying I lived, henceforth, not only in his home, but in him and his interests.

All that Cale told us I had known in part, but never had I known the circumstances in detail, freed from the accumulation of gossip. Now, with Delia Beaseley's relation of my birth and its attendant circumstances, the account, except on two points, seemed complete. On one, I intended to ask explanation from Cale, when an opportunity offered; in the second matter, the identity of my father, I took no interest. But to Cale I would speak. Dear old Cale! Had he known me all these months? Why had n't he spoken to me and told me?

As I thought it over, I saw that I had given him no opportunity to question me, or to speak to me, concerning his surmise. He should have it soon—and again look me squarely in the eyes. Dear old Cale!

It was noticeable the next day, that the Doctor was fairly well occupied with his own thoughts. During the hour in which I took my first lesson with skis, I caught him, more than once, looking at me as if searching for enlightenment on some subject, or object, projected, obscure and undefined, from his consciousness. My own high spirits were seemingly inexplicable to him. How could he know that my elation was due to the fact, that the express from Montreal would arrive in eight hours!

"Cale," he said abruptly, while helping me out of some particularly awkward floundering, "when does the mail leave the house for the south bound trains?"

"We cal'late ter get it off 'bout noon; little Pete takes it over."

The Doctor looked at his watch. "Sorry, Marcia, to cut short this fun, especially after my urgent invitation, but I must get some letters off by that mail. We 'll try it again to-morrow."

"Don't mind me, but I don't want to go in; it's great sport, the best yet. Cale, you can stay a little longer, can't you?"

"To be sure; I ain't nothing special on hand fer the rest of the forenoon."

"Then I 'll cut and run," said the Doctor, without ceremony and evidently pressed for time. He "cut" accordingly, his skis carrying him down the incline with what seemed to me dubious velocity.

I turned to Cale and gave him my mittened hand. He guided me well and carefully. I landed, rather to my own surprise, right side up. I was well pleased with this progress; in all conditions of my partial equilibrium, I found the sport exciting.

"You don't look like the same gal I drove up from the steamboat landing thet night four months ago." He looked down at me admiringly from his great height. "Your cheeks are clear pink and white, and your eyes shine; who 'd ever think they was the faded out brown ones, with great black hollers under 'em, thet I see lookin' 'round to find out what kind of a God's country you was in?"

"I like your compliments. Tell me, Cale,"—I smiled straight up into his rugged face, in order to get a look at the small keen gray eyes beneath the bushy eyebrows—"how did you come to think it was I? Tell me."

The tanned cheeks above the whiskers looked suddenly rather yellow. I could n't see his mouth for the frosted beard, but I saw his eyes fill. The hand that was still holding mine to help me up the incline, tightened its clasp. He hesitated a moment before he could answer:

"I did n't know, Marcia, not for plumb sure; an' yet I felt sure, for you was the livin' image of Happy Morey."

"Am I so very like her—in all ways?"

"Like her in looks, all but the eyes; they 're different. But you ain't much like her in your ways—she was what you might call winnin'er; you have ways of your own."

"Did you open the windows of your life so wide for us last night, Cale, just to entice me to fly in and find refuge with you?"

"Marcia," his voice trembled slightly, "I stood it jest as long as I could. I knew you did n't know me from Adam; but I felt as if I could n't live another day in the house with you, 'thout makin' myself known ter you; an' I took thet way ter do it an', meanwhile, satisfy somebody's curiosity 'bout me, fer Jamie can't be beat by any woman for thet. I did n't go off half-cock though, last night, you may bet your life on thet."

"I know you did n't, Cale—and can't we keep this between ourselves?"

"Jest as you say, Marcia. What you say ter me won't go no further. There ain't no one nigher to me than you in all this world—

"Nor than—" I began. I was about to say, "than you to me"; but I cut short the words that would have perjured the new joy in my heart.

Cale apparently took no notice of the unfinished sentence.

"Sometime I want ter know 'bout your life these last ten years—I can't sorter rest easy till I know."

"There is so little to tell. Aunt Keziah died eight years ago; then I went down to New York to earn my living, and worked there till I came here—on a venture."

"It's the best you ever made," he said emphatically. "Get sick of it there?"

"Yes, I should have died if I 'd stayed in that city any longer; it was too much for me."

I felt his hand grasp mine still more closely.

"So 'twas, so 'twas," he said to himself; then to me:

"Guess we won't lose track of one 'nother again, Marcia."

"Not if I can help it, Cale; it is n't my fault that we see each other for the first time in twenty-six years."

"So 't ain't, so 't ain't, poor little soul." I heard a catch in his voice, but I did not spare him.

"How old was I when you left home?"

"'Bout three months, if I remember right."

"Did you ever see me—then?"

"No."

"You did n't have any interest in me?"

"Not much, I 'll own up." Then he added weakly, for he wanted to spare me the truth by gently lying out of it, "I 've heard men don't take to new-born babies as women do; they 're kinder soft ter handle."

"And you saw me for the first time in my life at the steamboat landing?"

"Yes—an' my knees fairly give way beneath me, for I saw Happy standin' before me an' speakin' in the voice I remember so well."

"A long while, twenty-six years, Cale?"

"Don't, Marcia, don't rub it in so!" He was half resentful; and I, having brought him to this point, was satisfied to relent.

"Cale," I said, withdrawing my hand and facing him, as well as I could with my new foot appendages to steer, "I 'll forgive you for not paying any attention to me for twenty-six years, on one condition—"

"What is thet?" His eagerness was almost pathetic.

"That you 'll take me for just what I am, who I am, Marcia Farrell—not Happy Morey; if you don't I shall be unhappy. And you 're to love me for myself, do you hear? Just for myself, and not because I 'm the living image of my mother. Now don't you forget. I give you warning, I shall be insanely jealous if you love me for anybody but myself—and I take it for granted you do love me, don't you, Cale?"

"You know I do, Marcia."

I had him at my mercy and I was merciful.

"Well, then, if I did n't have all this paraphernalia on my feet, I would venture to throw my arms around your neck and give you a good hug—Uncle Cale. As it is I might flop suddenly and fall upon your breast."

"Guess I could stand it if you did,"—he smiled happily, the creases around his eyes deepening to wrinkles,—"but 'twixt you and me, this ain't exactly the place nor the weather for any palaverin'—"

"Palavering! Well, you are ungallant, Cale; I don't dare to call you 'Uncle' now, for fear I might make a slip before the entire family, and that would complicate matters, would n't it?"

"Guess 't would," he replied earnestly; "complicate 'em in a way 't would take more 'n a lawyer's wits ter uncomplicate."

"Then let's go home and see what the Doctor is doing."

"He 's great!"

"Wait till I tell you sometime a secret about him—and me: you 'll think he is greater."

"You don't mean thet, Marcia!"

"Mean what?" I asked a little shortly, for I felt annoyed at his tone of protest and resentment.

"Mean? Wal, thet the Doctor 's sweet on you—"

"Silas C. Marstin, I am angry with you, yes, angry! Do you want to spoil all my fun,—yes, and my happiness,—by just mentioning such an impossible thing?"

"God knows I don't." He spoke, as it seemed, almost on the verge of tears.

"Then never, never—do you hear?—think or mention such a thing again. Promise me."

"I won't, so help me—"

"That 'll do; that's right. Now be sensible and get these skis off, so I can walk to the house like a woman instead of a penguin."

"You ain't goin' to lay it up against me?" he pleaded, as we neared the house.

"No, of course not; only, remember, you 're under oath. I mean all this." I nodded at him gravely.

"An' I mean it too; you won't have nothing to complain of so fur as I 'm concerned."

"Dear old Cale!" I whispered to him as I entered the house, where I found Jamie in a state of suppressed excitement for I had given him no opportunity to advance his theories about what he had heard the night before from Cale.

"I say, Marcia, come on into the office and let's talk; the Doctor is in the living-room, writing for all he is worth."

"I can't; I 'm busy." At which he went off in a huff.

XXII

"Let me take your mail out to little Pete," I said to the Doctor, who was superscribing his last letter, when I came in from the morning's sport.

"Thanks, very much."

He spoke abstractedly; ran over the addresses on several envelopes and handed them to me. I could not help seeing that the one on top was addressed to Delia Beaseley. I fancy he intended I should see it. I felt sure he had written to her for some of the forgotten details of that night in December more than twenty-six years ago.

"He's on the track of that child—me! Cale's story has given him the clew," I said to myself, on noticing his absorption in his own thoughts during dinner and his preoccupation in the afternoon. In the evening he drove over with Cale to meet Mr. Ewart.

I rather enjoyed the course events were taking; it would interest me to watch developments of the Doctor's detective work. In a way, it had all the fascination of a drama of which I felt myself no longer to be an actor, but a spectator.

Jamie cornered me, after the Doctor and Cale drove off to the junction.

"No, you don't!" he said, laughing, as he extended his long arms across the doorway of the living-room to bar my exit. "You will act like a Christian and love your neighbor as yourself this time. Sit down and talk—or I sha'n't be able to finish my last chapter."

Of course I sat down, knowing perfectly well what I was about to hear—at least, I thought I did.

"Marcia—"

"Yes?"

"The more I think of it, the more I am convinced that what Cale told us, and what Doctor Rugvie told us, are two acts in a long drama—tragedy, if you like."

"Well?"

"You are cool, I must say!" He spoke with irritation. "Do you mean to tell me that life, presented in such a manner as those two men—opposite as the poles in standing—presented it, does n't interest you?"

"I have n't the imagination of genius, Jamie."

"Now you know perfectly well there is no imagination about it. It's life, just as Cale said; and it's my belief the Doctor will, in the end, get some track of that girl. If he does, it will be all up with the farm. Did you think of that?"

"No!" I spoke the truth. I was amazed. It never occurred to me to connect the farm project with anything Cale had said.

"I 'll wager he 'll compare notes with Cale on the way over to the station, and I 'm going to refer to the farm plan, if I have the chance after they get back, to see what he 'll say."

"He won't think you 're interfering, will he?"

"He can't." He spoke decidedly. "The farm project affects me, don't you see?"

"Not exactly; how?"

"Why, if—of course it's only an 'if'—the Doctor should find this girl, he would n't for a moment think of taking that money, which in justice if not in the law belongs to her, to further any of his plans. He is n't that kind of a man."

"Of course not; but I don't see how—"

"That's where you are obtuse. Look here, Marcia, how long do you suppose I can stand it to vegetate here in Canada? It's healthy, I agree to that, and doing me no end of good; but I can't see myself living here—existing, yes; but living, no! I'm better, stronger; and even if I were n't, I would n't play the coward either in life or death. As it is, I want to live my life full in my own way, among my own. I want to be in the thick of the fray, even if by being there I should go under a little sooner. I want to mingle with the multitude of men—see into their lives, give them something of mine in reality and through the imagination, and get their point of view into my life. I can't stay on indefinitely here in Canada; and if—if—"

"If what?"

"If the girl should be found, the farm project would amount to nothing. The Doctor sees, just as you and I see, that Ewart is not enthusiastic about it, and he is n't going to settle on Ewart's land with an unwelcome philanthropic scheme. And then—"

"What?" I was becoming impatient.

"Why, then, if it should fall through,—and I 'm selfishly hoping it may,—I'm not in the least bound, don't you know, to stay on here as Ewart's guest. I can go home."

"Home!" I echoed. The thought of losing Jamie had never occurred to me. And if he went, then his mother, also, would go. If they both went, I should have necessarily to leave Lamoral, for I was merely an entail of their presence. Leave Lamoral! I sickened at the thought.

"Oh, no, no, Jamie!" I cried out, rebelling against the prospect of a new upheaval in my life. "I can't spare you—I can't live here without you—"

With every thought centered in Mr. Ewart at that moment, and comprehending as I did the logical result of Mrs. Macleod's leaving the manor and all that it would mean to me, I did not realize what impression my impulsive words might make on her son. In the silence that followed my protest, I had time to realize what I had said.

"I did n't for a moment suppose you felt like this, Marcia."

In a flash I understood the twist in his interpretation of my words and feeling.

"You don't understand—" I began vehemently, then found myself hesitating like a schoolgirl who does not know her lesson. I was ashamed of myself, for Jamie was on the wrong track and must be put right at all costs.

"I think I do." He spoke gently, almost pityingly as it seemed to me then. I boiled inwardly.

"No, you don't; but there 's no time to explain now—I hear the bells—"

"You have good ears; I don't."

"They 're coming! Where 's Mrs. Macleod?"

"Well, they 're not returning from an ocean voyage, even if they are coming; there is no need to run up the Union Jack— Hold on a minute!" He barred the door again with his long arms.

"Let me out—they 're at the door—"

"What if they are?"

I slipped quickly under his arm into the passageway. The dogs were frantic with joy. I wanted to show mine as plainly, perhaps then Jamie might understand! I flung open the door, and, as it happened my voice was the only one to welcome them.

"You 're back so soon!"

"You may well say that," said the Doctor, running up the steps and seeming to bring the whole Arctic region of cold in with him; "I drove over and made good time, I thought; but Ewart took the reins on the way back, and we came home at a clip—nine miles in fifty-two minutes! That's a record. Now, Ewart," he turned to speak to his friend who had stopped to give some order to Cale, "see how well I have heeded your injunction to 'look out' for Miss Farrell."

"And the horses did n't bolt," I said, as I put my hand into his outstretched one.

"Have you gotten over the effects of the aurora?"

The hearty gladness in his voice was reward enough for the restraint I put on myself. I wanted to give him both hands and tell him in so many words that, with his coming, I was "at home" again.

"No, and never shall," I responded joyfully.

"Nor I either.– Where 's Jamie? Oh, Mrs. Macleod," he said, spying her on the upper landing, "I 've taken you unawares for the first time.—Down, comrades, down!—Jamie Macleod, is this the way you welcome a wanderer to his own hearth?"

Jamie's hand grasped his and pumped it well.

"It's queer, Gordon, but you seem to look at your three days of absence from the same point of view that Marcia does."

"How 's that?" he asked quickly, turning to me.

"Just Jamie's nonsense; it's only that I was on the lookout for you, and heard the bells when he failed to."

I knew I was growing reckless, but I did not care—why should I?—if he knew I was glad to see him at home again. I did not care if they all knew it—I must put Jamie right somehow. And what was there to hide? Not my gladness, not my joy, the new elements in my new life—this something I had never before experienced. Somehow, all my resolutions to keep this joy "to myself" went to the winds.

Mr. Ewart made no reply, but I knew I added to his evident pleasure in his return, by my ready and frankly expressed acknowledgement that I was "on the lookout" for him.

That evening was one never to be forgotten. It was a time when the friendship of the four men, Mr. Ewart, Cale, Doctor Rugvie, and Jamie Macleod, towards me, found expression both in jest and earnest; a time when Mrs. Macleod's kindly, if always a little remote interest in me was doubly grateful, for sure of it and its protection I could let the new life, that shortly before had awakened in me, flood my whole being and expand heart, soul and mind with its vital flux. I felt that I made my own place in this household; that I pleased them all; that they liked my speech, whether merry or grave; that they liked my ways because mine, whether I was lighting cigars and pipes for them, or frying griddlecakes at ten o'clock at night on the top of the soapstone stove, in redemption of my promise made months past. The truth is I felt at home, wholly, completely; and they, recognizing it, were glad for me.

With Cale, that evening, I was tender, teasing, arrogant by turns; I had him at my mercy—and his lips were sealed! With Jamie I was absolutely nonsensical, as I dared to be in view of his twisted interpretation of my apparently sentimental, "I can't live without you here etc." I bothered and puzzled him, much to the others' amusement. Into the Doctor's spirit of banter I entered with the enjoyment of a not very "old" girl. I caught him looking at me with the same perplexed expression that he wore when I first smiled at him three months before—and I kept on smiling, as I had cause, hoping the message, oft repeated, would carry in time to his consciousness the recognition that I was, indeed, the daughter of her whom he had befriended more than a quarter of a century ago. The emphatic statement made by Cale and Delia Beaseley that I was her "living image", encouraged me in this line of procedure. To the Master of Lamoral I gave willing service, frying for him delectable griddlecakes, turning them till a golden brown, flapping them over skilfully on his warm plate, and deluging them with incomparable maple syrup from his own sugar "bush". He received this service in the spirit in which I gave it, and the cakes with the appreciation of a man and connoisseur. Mrs. Macleod seconded my efforts in this special line of cooking and enjoyed the fun as much as any one of us.

"There 's no use, I 'm 'full up'," said Jamie with a sigh of exhaustion; he dropped into the sofa corner.

"I kept tally for you, Boy," said the Doctor.

"How many?"

"Eighteen! Apply to me if you 're in trouble at one-thirty to-night." He looked at his watch.

"You scored seventeen fully ten minutes ago, mon vieux," said Mr. Ewart laughing.

"Slander, Marcia! Don't believe it. Three of mine would make only one of yours, Gordon Ewart;—I 've camped enough with you to know your 'capacity', as the freight cars have it. Marcia Farrell, your last 'batch' has been 'petering out', as we say at home. You dropped only one small spoonful for each of the last twenty cakes; the ones you made for Ewart had a complement of two big spoonfuls—they were corkers, no mistake. Hold up your head, Boy!" he admonished the collapsed object on the sofa. "Never say die—here are just four more for us four, amen."

A dismal groan was his only answer. Mr. Ewart, taking turner and bowl from me, declared a truce. The Doctor set the plates on the table. When all was clear about the hearth, on which Cale laid a pine log for a treat, Mr. Ewart announced that he had a surprise in his pocket.

"Jamie, your birthday falls on the twelfth of August, does n't it?"

"Yes; how did you remember that, Gordon?"

"You had a birthday when I was in Crieff with you seventeen years ago—and we celebrated. Have you forgotten?"

"Forgotten!" Jamie came bolt upright, the cakes were as naught, the remembrance of them faded. "Do you think I could ever forget that? You took, or rather trotted me for a long walk over the moors—oh, the pink and the purple heather of them, the black blackness of their bogs, the green greenery of their bracken higher than my head!—to the 'Keltie'; and you held me over the pool to see the whirl and dash of the plunging torrent. I remember the spray made me catch my breath. Then you took me down to the bank of the 'burnie', and found a place to camp—my first camp with you—under a big elm; and there you discovered a flat stone, and two crooked branches for crotches. You took from your mysterious game-basket a gypsy kettle and, filling it at the 'burnie' with the water that tastes like no other in the world, you hung it from the crotch over the flat stone that was our hearth. You made heaven on that spot for a seven-year-old boy, because you let him touch off the fagots. You boiled the water, made tea—such tea!—and brought out of that same basket bannocks and fresh gooseberry jam— Oh, don't, don't mention that birthday! You make me homesick for it; even Marcia's griddlecakes can't help me!"

"We 'll celebrate again this year in the wilds of the Upper Saguenay." Mr. Ewart took from his pocket a paper and, unfolding it, read the terms of a lease of a fish and game preserve in the northern wilderness.

"And the Andrés, father and son, shall be our guides, our cooks, our factotums. The son is half Montagnais; his mother was of that tribe."

"Oh, Ewart!" Jamie's eyes glistened, but his volubility was checked; he felt his friend's thought of him too deeply.

"I secured it while I was away; I have wanted it for the last five years. The Doctor has promised us six weeks, and the camp will be more attractive"—he looked at Mrs. Macleod—"and keep us longer, if you and Miss Farrell will be my guests, and make a home for us in the wilderness. Will you?"

For once in her life Mrs. Macleod did not balk at this direct question involving a decision. I record it to her credit.

"And you?" He turned to me without apparent eagerness, but I caught the flash of pleasure in his eyes when I answered promptly, with enthusiasm:

"It will be something to dream of till it is a reality. I 'll begin making my camp outfit to-morrow; and André père shall teach me to fish and paddle a canoe; his son shall teach me woodcraft, and some Montagnais squaw shall show me how to weave baskets. In those same baskets I will gather the mountain berries for such of the family as may crave them, and—and that wilderness shall be made to blossom like the rose and prove to us, at least, a land flowing with milk and honey."

Mr. Ewart's question about a "home in the wilderness" was the motor power for my flight.

"Amen and amen," cried the Doctor, approving of my soaring. "We 'll return to the Arcadia of the woodsman's simple life."

"Humph!" said Cale. "You'd better add all them contraptions of veils, an' nettin's, and smudge kettles, an' ointments, an' forty kinds of made-up bait—so made-up thet I 've seen a trout, a three pounder, wink at me when he see some of it and wag away up stream as sassy as you please—an' a gross of joss sticks. By George, I 've seen mosquitoes as big as mice—"

"Cale," I made protest; "you spoil all."

"Better wait till you are there, Marcia, before you rhapsodize any more; you did it well, though, I 'll admit," said Jamie, with his most patronizing air.

"So did you rhapsodize over Scotland," I retorted; "and I 'll rhapsodize if I never go; and you 're not to quench my enthusiasm with any of your Scotch mist that I am told is nothing less than a downpour."

"By the way, when is your birthday, Marcia?" said the Doctor, carefully, oh, so carefully, knocking the ash from his cigar into the fireplace. The act was so very cautious that it betrayed to me his restrained expectancy of my answer! "I have an idea it's the last of June."

How light I was of heart in answering him, in giving him the clew he was seeking as I would have made him a gift, fully, freely—for what was it to me now, whether he knew or not?

"Next December, when the north wind blows over the Canada snows, you may remember me, if you will."

"What date?"

I waited intentionally for him to ask that question. I felt that Cale was holding his breath; but I did n't care, and replied without hesitation:

"The third—twenty-seven years. What an age!"

They laughed at me, one and all, the Doctor perhaps a little more heartily than the others. After that he sat, with one exception, silent; but Jamie spoke half impatiently:

"Why did n't you give us a chance to celebrate last December?"

"Nobody asked me about it."

The Doctor spoke for the only time then. "I 'll make a mem of it," he said gayly, taking out his notebook and writing in it. And I saw through his every move—the dear man!

"You might have given us the pleasure of remembering it," said Mrs. Macleod reproachfully.

"Oh, I celebrated it in my own way—and for the first time in my life," I replied, treasuring in my heart that hour in the office with Mr. Ewart when he took my gift of service "gratis".