boys by some childish instinct found out Christopher, and got to talking to him, and finally took him off to see a family of fine pups, in which they had a sole proprietorship. They were handsome, kind-hearted boys, and Christopher took to them, as he did to all good children, but yet his heart was sore and bitter. He thought of his wee Robert weeping himself into a fever for the dog his mother had hung, and he felt such a sense of pity and anger stealing into his heart, that he went no more near the house, but, untying his pony, rode

away.

He had indeed need of solitude. This thing that had happened to him was the one dilemma that had never occurred to him as likely to happen. He had always thought of Clarissa as being in her father's house, and bringing up their son among her own people. Then he remembered that the man from Glencrieff whom he had met in New York had told him that Clarissa's father had married a second wife. The whole story was clear, as if written, to him. The stepmother and Clarissa had naturally enough disagreed, a reaction of public feeling had taken place, and Clarissa, to escape the trouble at home and the slighting in the church and village, had come to America. Perhaps she had some hope of finding him in that movement—and Christopher moved uneasily as if the danger yet threatened him-but she had not done so, and had simply allowed circumstances to mould her life.

She had been poor in New York, had taught for a living, and in the capacity of a teacher had come with an officer's family to a Texan fort. So much Robert had told him, and no doubt she believed him dead, and thought herself free, after twelve years, to marry again. That she had waited so long was in itself a commendation in the state of society then prevailing in Texas, and he gave a mental eulogium to those grave, conscientious Presbyterian traditions which had moulded Clarissa's education and influenced her even in the wild life of the Central Texas of fifty years ago.

an

The question for him to answer was somewhat simplified by these reflections. Clarissa had evidently married in good faith, firmly believing her first husband to be dead. She had borne Judge Terry five sons and daughters, and was honoured and recognised wife. Was it his duty to disturb this relation and injure the future of these children, altogether innocent in the circumstance? He asked himself if he was prepared to take again the wife who had so broken up and ruined his former life, and he shut his eyes with a shudder when the question presented itself. No, they had been so unequally yoked that the galling of the yoke had been intolerable to both.

Who was to be benefited if he did reveal himself? No one. Not Robert, not Clarissa, not Judge Terry, not the five children, not himself. If he could have felt sure that "God had joined them together," then he would have known that nothing nor any one ought to put them asunder. But he had married Clarissa against the advice of his friends, and against the convictions of his own heart. The question was rendered more difficult tby the fact that the clouds of war were gathering.

Reports of stormy meetings in Austin and San Antonia had just been received. The judge even at the marriage feast had thought it right to say that "when liberty called, even the bridegroom must leave his bride."

As yet he had taken little interest in the election of the President, but if things came to this pass it would touch even a life as lonely as his. And Judge Terry, amid all that gathering, had pledged himself to maintain with his sword the cause he had chosen. If so, Clarissa and her children would be left without protection. Was

it right now to deprive them of the support and advantage which a name so honoured and powerful gave?

For many a weary, anxious day he pondered these questions. Nor did he fail earnestly to seek the wisdom not in himself. If God would only send him some message, show him some way! But no answer came. No sign was vouchsafed. However, he was not a man of hasty mood, and he durst not move until quite sure that he was right. Then he reflected that in July the bishop would be in San Antonia. Though not of his own church, he knew him to be a holy man, and he resolved, if no clear light had come to him before, to tell him all his perplexity and ask his advice.

But long before July Christopher had succumbed. to a low form of typhoid rheumatic fever, induced by the anxiety of his position. He had never been sick in all his life before, and the pain, and fever, and semi-delirium was a terrible revelation to him of the power and possibilities of humanity as a mere sufferer. But even the Valley of the Shadow of Death has its consolations-secret communings inexpressibly comforting, and human ministrations which touched his heart into childlike love and gratitude.

The doctor watched the disease with patient, careful skill; Inez and Robert scarcely left his side. To both the young people it was a three months full of new and startling life. For as Christopher slowly recovered it was customary to bring his mattress during the greater part of the day on to the sunny verandah, and here Inez sat by his side reading the one Book he loved; and often Robert, hour after hour, lay with shut eyes, listening also. To these two young souls it was a book of wonder; and when Christopher was sleeping, they often sat talking over in whispers the doings of its mighty men. Well would it have been for Robert if his heart had opened to receive the truth in its fulness. By September Christopher was nearly recovered, but great changes had taken place in the interim. The horizon of the country was like that of the sky before a prairie storm. Christopher had had a dream, or seen a vision of a great arch parting in the centre, and of a mighty voice calling for the birds of prey, from the east and the west, and the north and the south. In his own soul he knew that a bloody war was at hand; and at his own door there was a quarrel also, which greatly troubled him. Robert-his son, his unacknowledged, yet dear, dear son-was at open war with his old enemy and rival, Bud Snyder. There seemed to be no way of arranging this dispute.

The first offence had been about cattle, and Christopher, at some personal sacrifice, satisfied the man. Then Snyder made a land claim that was still more unreasonable, and still more difficult to adjust. The captain's peons and cow-boys had a fight with Snyder's whenever they met; and Snyder and the captain were burning to take up the quarrel.

If Robert went into the village, both Christopher and Inez were so wretched and restless that they often walked together half way there to meet him. To save themselves twenty minutes of such agonising suspense was felt by both to be worth the fatigue. Robert, coming galloping home, often thus met them on the moonlight prairie, and was generally much annoyed. "He was no fool," he said, warmly, "he could keep his tongue as well as his rights;" and then he would quite undo any comfort in such assurance by touching his pistol and adding, with a laugh, "besides, Christopher, I am never without my peacemaker."

In the following March the political quarrel was at its bitterest. Families were divided against each other, old friends were enemies, old comrades had taken different sides. Judge Terry had raised a regiment and crossed the Mississippi, and Robert Moray was chafing and moody, and only waiting for the organisation of the army which was to proceed to Arizona.

Christopher was at this time very unhappy. He had found out that a life tied to that of others, by even the tenderest cords, must pay love's toll of care and sorrow. But in his most anxious hours he rarely wished back again his former placid existence. In one respect he was, however, temporarily at rest-Judge Terry was thousands of miles away, he could not interfere with Clarissa then. That question could be left at present. And, indeed, he had plenty else to worry about. Robert, in the excitement of politics and the gathering of men and arms, had quite given up the regular life which he had led since his marriage. His cattle and ranch had lost all charms for him, the work on his new house had ceased, he had himself enlisted every man on it. Every morning he went to the village, and every evening his return at nightfall was more and more uncertain. The old military passion ruled him, he resented anything that seemed to oppose it. Christopher had wisdom enough not only to let him alone, but to advise Inez to avoid tears and complaints. "The good seed has been sown in his heart, my dear," he said; "let us wait for the harvest."

One brilliant morning in October he awoke with a strange depression of spirits. His room seemed full of shadow, in spite of the white sunshine, and he walked sadly in it, thinking, thinking, thinking, but never able to get beyond the one word, Robert. About ten o'clock he was so unaccountably miserable he resolved to go to the doctor's on horseback. He rose, as if suddenly in a hurry, and went to the door. Then he saw a woman coming over the prairie as fast as a fleet horse could bring her. Rarely do sorrows or dangers come unannounced. On the mental wall some mystic hand traces the characters of fear

some vague caution, dim and shadowy, warns us -perhaps the projection of our own thoughtsperhaps some external association. There are, too, unexplained presentiments that no sneer can gainsay. Christopher had awakened from deep sleep with this warning peal from viewless bells in his soul, and he had carried the sorrow as yet unknown to him to the council chamber of the wise and the pitiful One. So now he waited patiently for the messenger of evil.

The woman came swiftly. It was the negro girl who waited on Inez. "Massa Chris'pher! Massa Chris'pher!" she cried, "dars a sight ob trouble ober to Judge Sneed's; and Miss Inez says you must come quick to her, and de cap'an." What is it, Cass ?"

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"De cap'an, he done kill Massa Snyder, and dey has took him ober to Judge Sneed's; and Miss Inez done faint, and faint, and ole massa, he's in de dreffulest passion at de cap'an; and Miss Inez says, 'Go for Chris'pher, Cass, so I'se comed-mighty peart I'se been too."

Christopher heard nothing after the first sentence, "De cap'an, he done kill Massa Snyder." He took the horse the girl had ridden; usually he was not a rapid rider, but he had been in Indian fights and flights, and he could ride if he wished. The girl herself had not been more reckless. In an hour he was in sight of Judge Sneed's long, low house. Just before he reached it he met the sheriff. He said Christopher was wanted on the jury which was to meet at one o'clock to examine into the death of Snyder.

"Sorry to see you this morning, Christopher," said the judge, a man with a grave, handsome face, and one of those gigantic figures only found in the bracing atmosphere of the prairies, or the wild freedom of the woods. "Very sorry indeed for you. Will you go in and speak to the prisoner ?"

"Thank you, judge. I would like that."

Robert Moray leaned against the wall of the apartment. His hands were fastened by a strip of raw hide, and his pistols had been taken from him. His face was white and stern, and his eyes strangely fierce and luminous. Snyder's body lay upon the table, covered with a rough blanket, and he seemed to compel himself to look at it. From an adjoining room came the sound of a woman weeping, and it evidently pained Robert extremely. Christopher!" he said, "I'm very sorrysorry for you and Inez.”

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Oh, the sin of it, Robert! Oh, the sin of it!” “I had to defend myself, or he would have shot me. We had even chances, I won, that's all about it."

"But what a victory! Oh, what a victory!" "Don't fret, Christopher, it hurts me; and tell Inez to stop sobbing and come here. She is in the next room."

Christopher did as he was requested, and then went outside. The neighbours were gathering very slowly. The call had not been one which they liked to answer. No one cared to offend either the friends of Captain Moray or the wild, reckless companions of Bud Snyder. Christopher sat a little apart from the gathering company, and

if any of them had been keen observers they might have noticed a remarkable change in his face. Its calm, gentle expression had given place to a wary, resolute look, which almost dignified the plain small figure and countenance. He was tempted to excuse his son by every plea. After all, was not the blood of " the wild Morays "-Highlanders who had for centuries taken their own from every man's land-in his veins? Some allowance he must make for the lad's inherited tendencies, and, had Christopher known it, he himself was in danger of becoming at that hour as like his ancestor, "the red Lord Angus," as one man can be to another. The restraints of a civilised education, even the long bondage of the Old Man of Sin to faith and prayer, gave way before the overwhelming agitation of a father's love.

By two o'clock the twelve men had dropped in by twos and threes. As they entered they nodded to the judge and then helped themselves to the liquors and cigars provided. Now and then they spoke in monosyllables, and their composure and gravity, and utter absence of hurry, gave a kind of dignity to the proceedings which made up for any lack of ceremony.

It was Christopher's desire to prevent Robert being sent to San Antonia for trial. Here, on the frontier, where he was known and loved, and where every one had at some time been obliged to him, he was sure of whatever favour could be given.

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Judge Sneed opened the case by remarking, Gentlemen, I have summoned you to consider the murder of our fellow-citizen Snyder, who was killed early this morning by Captain Moray."

The doctor answered the remark: "Judge, I think we may say, 'who was justifiably homicided this morning by Captain Moray;' and if the captain is to be tried for that, as a crime, why, then his affairs will keep the county busy for a year or two."

Christopher saw the drift of the defence at once, and in his slow cautious way rose and said, "The doctor is right. The captain has justifiably homicided more Indians than we can count at present, and a man of Snyder's opinions about his neighbour's cattle is as bad as an Indian."

"Indians are Indians," remarked another citizen, "and no one blames a man for wiping out an Indian; but a Christian is a different thing."

"I think any Apache that ever flew an arrow is as good a Christian as Snyder was," said the doctor, warmly; "I don't believe he knew when Sunday came."

"Likely not," replied an old ranger, with his mouth full of tobacco. "How should he? We have no Sunday meeting-houses on these prairies."

"And ef we wanted 'em we'd have 'em, you bet on that. The God of these prairies can't be put inside of four walls."

"Gentlemen," said Christopher, "if stabbing a man on the ground of not being a good Christian

were lawful, we should all be in danger of the knife. In judging Robert Moray we must remember how persistently Snyder has provoked this result, and how many useless concessions have been made to secure peace."

Then, with that clear logical acumen which is the birthright of his race, he went over the relations of the two men as he himself had known them.

Meantime a very different solution of the difficulty was going on inside the cabin. After Christopher had left Inez and Robert together, the latter gave his young wife much prudent advice about business, and then said,

"Inez, my knife is in my left boot; take it out, darling, and cut the thong round my wrist."

She drew out the long bloody knife with a perceptible shudder, and did as he directed. Then Robert folded her one moment to his heart, and the next he was among the men who were debating his fate on the verandah. He gave them one steady comprehensive glance, walked to the pile. of stacked rifles and selected his own, and then untied his horse and mounted him.

"Gentlemen," he said, courteously raising his hat, "when you have tried my case let me know your verdict."

No one stopped him, some even looked approvingly at him, all declined tacitly to take the responsibility and the danger-of interfering with Captain Moray. As he passed out of reach even of a rifle, they began to excuse themselves by excusing him.

"What is the use of upping a good man for a bad one?" asked a large cattle-raiser, whose stock had frequently been "brought back" by Robert.

"Captain Nap has saved the frontier nigh on to fourteen years.

"He's a bit top-lofty, but he's a sight better than. Indians."

"I vote 'justifiable homicide.''

"And I." "And I."

"The captain brought home one hundred head of horses of mine from the Comanche thief, Cochies, on his very last scout."

"And, according to Christopher, his account with Bud Snyder had run 'bout long enough."

Snyder was a scant pattern of a man, anyway." "And the captain has backbone for two men his size. Justifiable,' I say."

"And he's that used to emptying Indian saddles, you can't wonder ef he scores a bad white man easy. 'Justifiable,' I say."

Christopher sat down sick and weary. He was still weak, and the anguish and anxiety were more than he could bear. The discussion was thoroughly broken up by his falling senseless upon his face. A warm and ready sympathy was elicited. "He was that fond of the captain," said Judge Sneed, "but I never thought it would have tripped him up this way. Poor old Christopher!"

They waited until the doctor said he was "all right again," and then in little companies they cattered over the prairie. At sunset Christopher went slowly home. He borrowed a gentle pony, and would let no one accompany him. He could hardly have believed two years ago that anything could again have made him so wretched. He had planned and struggled to keep Robert at home and near him, and his plans had come to worse than nought. The best thing, the only thing, for Robert now was to join some regiment, and go away from the neighbourhood awhile.

He sat down by his hearth-log, and was too ill and wretched to light his pipe. With his head in his hands, he kept murmuring little broken prayers and pitiful confessions of his own weakness, till at last a soft rain of tears, almost childlike in their helpless trouble, soothed the loving and sorrowful old man.

THE

HE many-sided work of the great pioneer British missionaries will perhaps be better understood by the generations to come than it can be by their countrymen of to-day. Some idea of the versatility of faculty, skill, and labour which has been brought to bear upon missionary work in foreign lands has been happily brought within general reach by two books, which have become classics in our literature. Williams's "Narrative of Missionary Enterprises in the South Sea Islands," and Moffat's "Missionary Scenes and Labours in South Africa," have long since found their way to the homes and hearts of Englishspeaking peoples throughout the globe. strangeness of incident and adventure these wonderful records may vie with the works of

For

Robert Moffat

Defoe or Jules Verne, whilst they have the added charm of telling truths far stranger than any fiction. Even to-day the reader feels that the heroism and manifold resources of the chief personages in those memorable stories grow upon him as he reads. The transformation of the native character by directly evangelical means occupies the first place in the pages of Moffat and Williams, and everywhere appears as the great motive power of their lives. But the underlying picture of the Christian missionary as the greatest of civilisers, involuntary as it may be, is in truth inseparable from the portrait. It is perhaps the distinguishing honour of British Protestant missionaries to have exemplified the joint character of the civiliser and the Evangelist, and to have intro