Thousands have asked themselves, in some form or other, the same unanswered, unanswerable question.  Helen had done so already, young as she was; when her mother died, and her father seemed slowly breaking down, and the whole world appeared to her full of darkness and woe.  How then must it have appeared to this poor boy?  But, strange to say, that bitter doubt, which so often came into Helen’s heart, never fell from child’s lips at all.  Either he was still a mere child, accepting life just as he saw it, and seeking no solution of its mysteries, or else, though so young, he was still strong enough to keep his doubts to himself, to bear his own burden, and trouble no one.

Or else—­and when she watched his inexpressibly sweet face, which had the look you sometimes see in blind faces, of absolutely untroubled peace, Helen was forced to believe this—­God, who had taken away from him so much, had given him something still more—­a spiritual insight so deep and clear that he was happy in spite of his heavy misfortune.  She never looked at him but she thought involuntarily of the text, out of the only book with which unlearned Helen was very familiar—­that “in heaven their angels do always behold the face of my Father which is in heaven.”

After a fortnight’s stay at the Castle Mr. Menteith felt convinced that his experiment had succeeded, and that, onerous as the duty of guardian was, he might be satisfied to leave his ward under the charge of Mr. Cardross.

“Only, it those Bruces should try to get at him, you must let me know at once.  Remember, I trust you.”

“Certainly, you may.  Has any thing been heard of them lately?”

“Nothing much, beyond the continual applications for advances of the annual sum which the late earl gave them, and which I continue to pay, just to keep them out of the way.”

“They are still abroad?”

“I suppose so; but I hear very little about them.  They were relations on the countess’s side, you know—­it was she who brought the money.  Poor little fellow, what an accumulation it will be by the time he is of age, and what small good it will do him!”

And the honest man sighed as he looked from Mr. Cardross’s dining-room window across the Manse garden, where, under a shady tree, was placed the earl’s little wheel-chair, which was an occasional substitute for Malcolm’s arms.  In it he sat, with a book on his lap, and with the aspect of entire content which was so very touching.  Helen sat beside him on the grass, sewing—­she was always sewing; and, indeed, she had need, if her needle were to keep pace with its requirements in the large family of boys.

“That’s a good girl of yours, and his lordship seems to have taken to her amazingly.  I am very glad, for he had no feminine company at all except Mrs. Campbell, and, good as she is, she isn’t quite the thing—­ not exactly a lady, you see.  Eh, Mr. Cardross—­what a lady his mother was!  We’ll never again see the like of the poor countess, nor, in all human probability, will we ever again see another Countess of Cairnforth.