A Daughter of Fife

He called at the office on his way to the railway station, and he was met

by the manager with an exclamation of peculiar satisfaction. "No one could

be more welcome at this hour, Mr. Allan," he said; "we were all longing

for you. There is bad news from Russia."

"My father?"

"Is very ill. He took a severe cold in a night journey over the Novgorod

Steppe, and he is prostrate with rheumatic fever at Riga. I had just told

Luggan to be ready to leave by to-night's train for Hull. I think that

will be the quickest route."

"I can catch the noon train. I will call in an hour for money and advices,

and go myself."

"That is what I expected as soon as I saw you. Have you heard that Miss

Campbell is very ill?"

"No. Is she at Drumloch? Who is caring for her?"

"She is at Drumloch. Dr. Fleming goes from Glasgow every day to consult

with the Ayr doctor. Her housekeeper, Mrs. Leslie, is an old servant, she

was with Miss Campbell's mother; forbye, Fleming says, she has with her a

young lady friend who never leaves the sick room night or day."

"I was just going out to Drumloch, but that is now neither possible nor

desirable. I could be of no use to Miss Campbell, I can be everything to

my father."

Allan had only one call to make. It was upon a middle-aged man, who had

long been employed by their house in affairs demanding discernment and

secrecy. Few words passed between them. Allan laid a small likeness of

Maggie on the table with a £100 Bank of England note, and said, "Simon

Fraser, I want you to find that young lady for me. If you have good news

when I return, I will give you another hundred pounds."

"Have you any suggestions, Mr. Allan? Is she in Glasgow?"

"I think so. You might watch churches and dressmakers."

"Am I to speak to her?"

"Not a word."

"Shall I go to the office with reports?"

"No. Keep all information until I come for it. Remember the lady is worthy

of the deepest respect. On no account suffer her to discover that you are

doing for me what unavoidable circumstances prevent me from doing myself."

An hour after this interview Allan was on his way to Riga. In every life

there are a few sharp transitions. People pass in a moment, as it were,

from one condition to another, and it seemed to Allan as if he never could

be quite the same again. That intangible, un-namable charm of a happy and

thoughtless youth had suddenly slipped away from him, and he was sure that

at this hour he looked at things as he could not have looked at them a

week before. And yet extremities always find men better than they think

they are. His love and his duty set before Allan, he had not put his own

happiness for one moment before his father's welfare and relief. Without

delay and without grudging he had answered his call for help and sympathy.