d had ceased to make inquiry, settling down into a state of gloomy,
remorseful grief into which Margaret felt she dare not intrude. He
occasionally met Iola at society functions, but there was an end of all
intimacy between them. His only relief seemed to be in his work, and
he gave himself to that with such feverish energy that his health
broke down, and under Margaret's persuasion he was now at home with his
mother. Thence he had written once to say that his days were one long
agony. She remembered one terrible sentence. "Everything here, the
house, the mill, my father's fiddle, my mother's churn, the woods, the
fields, everything, everything shrieks 'Barney' at me till I am like to
go mad. I must get away from here to some place where he has never been
with me."

It required some considerable skill to secure the Superintendent that
evening for a few minutes alone. In whatever company he was, he was
easily the centre of interest. But Margaret, even in the early days of
the Manse, had been a favourite with him, and he was not a man to forget
his friends. He had the rare gift of gripping them to him with "hooks
of steel." Hence, he had kept in touch with her during the latter years,
pitying the girl's loneliness as much as his admiration for her cheery
courage and her determined independence would allow him. When Margaret
found her opportunity she wasted no time.

"I have a man for you for Windermere," were her opening words.

"You have? Where have you got him? Who is he? And are you willing to
spare him? Few young ladies are. But you are different from most." The
Superintendent was ever a gallant.

"You remember Mr. Boyle who graduated a year ago?" Her words came
hurriedly and there was a slight flush on her cheek. "There was some
trouble about his license at Presbytery. That horrid old Mr. Naismith
was very nasty, and Dick, Mr. Boyle, I mean--we have always been
friends," she hastened to add, explaining her deepening blush, "you know
his mother lived at the Mill near us. Well, since that day in Presbytery
he has never been the same. His work--he is on the Daily Telegraph,
you know--takes him away from--from--well, from Church and that kind of
thing, and from all his friends."

"I understand," said the Superintendent, with grave sympathy.

"And he's got to be very different. He had some trouble, great
trouble, the greatest possible to him. Oh, I may as well tell you. The
brothers--you remember the doctor, Barney?