the church; "and a good winter's work has he put behind him. He is
that queeck, there is not a man like him on the drive; but he is not the
same boy that he was. He will not be telling me anything, but when the
boys will be sporting, he is not with them. He will be reading his book,
or he will be sitting by himself alone. He is like his father in the
courage of him. There is no kind of water he will not face, and no man
on the river would put fear on him. And the strength of him! His arms
are like steel. But," returning to his anxiety, "there is something
wrong with him. He is not at peace with himself, and I wish you could
get speech with him."

"I would like it, too," replied Mrs. Murray. "Perhaps he will come to
me. At any rate, I must wait for that."

At last, when the summer was over, and the harvest all gathered in, the
days were once more shortening for the fall, Ranald drove Lisette one
day to the manse, and went straight to the minister's wife and opened up
his mind to her.

"I cannot keep my promise to my father, Mrs. Murray," he said, going
at once to the heart of his trouble. "I cannot keep the anger out of my
heart. I cannot forgive the man that killed my father. I will be waking
at night with the very joy of feeling my fingers on his throat, and I
feel myself longing for the day when I will meet him face to face and
nothing between us. But," he added, "I promised my father, and I
must keep my word, and that is what I cannot do, for the feeling of
forgiveness is not here," smiting his breast. "I can keep my hands off
him, but the feeling I cannot help."

For a long time Mrs. Murray let him go on without seeking to check the
hot flow of his words and without a word of reproof. Then, when he had
talked himself to silence, she took her Bible and read to him of the
servant who, though forgiven, took his fellow-servant by the throat,
refusing to forgive. And then she turned over the leaves and read once
more: "'God commendeth his love toward us, in that, while we were yet
sinners, Christ died for us.'"

She closed the book and sat silent, waiting for Ranald to speak.

"I know," he said, deliberately; "I have read that often through the
winter, but it does not help the feeling I have. I think it only makes
it worse. There is some one holding my arm, and I want to strike."

"And do you forget," said Mrs. Murray, and her voice was almost stern,
"and do you forget how, for you, God gave His Son to die?"

R