CHAPTER XXVII

THE MISSION OF TRUELOVE

Mistress Truelove Taberer, having read in a very clear and gentle voice the Sermon on the Mount to those placid Friends, Tobias and Martha Taberer, closed the book, and went about her household affairs with a quiet step, but a heart that somehow fluttered at every sound without the door.  To still it she began to repeat to herself words she had read:  “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God ... blessed are the peacemakers”—­

Winter sunshine poured in at the windows and door.  Truelove, kneeling to wipe a fleck of dust from her wheel, suddenly, with a catch of her breath and a lifting of her brown eyes, saw in the Scripture she had been repeating a meaning and application hitherto unexpected.  “The peacemaker ... that is one who makes peace,—­in the world, between countries, in families, yea, in the heart of one alone.  Did he not say, last time he came, that with me he forgot this naughty world and all its strife; that if I were always with him”—­

Truelove’s countenance became exalted, her gaze fixed.  “If it were a call”—­she murmured, and for a moment bowed her head upon the wheel; then rose from her knees and went softly through the morning tasks.  When they were over, she took down from a peg and put on a long gray cloak and a gray hood that most becomingly framed her wild-rose face; then came and stood before her father and mother.  “I am going forth to walk by the creekside,” she said, in her sweet voice.  “It may be that I will meet Angus MacLean.”

“If thee does,” answered one tranquil Friend, “thee may tell him that upon next seventh day meeting will be held in this house.”

“Truly,” said the other tranquil Friend, “my heart is drawn toward that young man.  His mind hath been filled with anger and resistance and the turmoil of the world.  It were well if he found peace at last.”

“Surely it were well,” agreed Truelove sweetly, and went out into the crisp winter weather.

The holly, the pine, and the cedar made green places in the woods, and the multitude of leaves underfoot were pleasant to tread.  Clouds were in the sky, but the spaces between were of serenest blue, and in the sunshine the creek flashed diamonds.  Truelove stood upon the bank, and, with her hand shading her eyes, watched MacLean rowing toward her up the creek.

When he had fastened his boat and taken her hand, the two walked soberly on beside the sparkling water until they came to a rude seat built beneath an oak-tree, to which yet clung a number of brown leaves.  Truelove sat down, drawing her cloak about her, for, though the sun shone, the air was keen.  MacLean took off his coat, and kneeling put it beneath her feet.  He laughed at her protest.  “Why, these winds are not bleak!” he said.  “This land knows no true and honest cold.  In my country, night after night have I lain in snow with only my plaid for cover, and heard the spirits call in the icy wind, the kelpie shriek beneath the frozen loch.  I listened; then shut my eyes and dreamed warm of glory and—­true love.”