“It has been a great joy, Daniel, to have the laddie with me.  He slept several hours, and when he woke he was so good and full of fun.  At times I imagined he was Alec playing on the floor with his blocks.  He was very sweet when I put him to bed to-night.  He never misses his mother.  How soon a baby forgets.”

“But I venture to say that his mother hasn’t forgotten him,” and the parson’s face grew serious as he recalled that sob of the night before.  “I have been thinking of her all through the day, and wondering who she is, and why she left her baby at our door.”

“And so have I, Daniel.  I had the idea that she would return, and several times I started at the least noise, expecting to see her at the door.”

“I do not wish to deprive the mother of her baby,” the parson thoughtfully mused, “but how I should like to keep him!  He seems to belong to us.  In fact, he has made himself perfectly at home already.”

Parson Dan was astir unusually early the next morning.  He stood before the rectory looking up and down the road, uncertain which course to take in search of the missing Brindle.

“Let me see,” he considered, “that fence is down on the upper side, and most likely those cows have made their way up the road.  I guess I had better hunt there first.”

As he stood there his eyes roamed over the scene before him.  The rectory was situated upon a gentle elevation, surrounded by tall, graceful elms, and large branching maples.  Below the road was the parish church, standing where it had stood for almost one hundred years, amid its setting of elms, maples, and oaks.  Nearby was the cemetery, where the numerous shafts of marble and granite could be plainly seen from the road.  To the right and left were pretty cottages, for the most part closed, as they belonged to people from the city, who, like the swallows, having spent their summer in this beautiful spot, had flitted at the approach of winter.  Beyond stretched the St. John River, one of the finest sheets of water in the province, or even in Eastern Canada.  This morning it appeared like a magic mirror, with not a breath of wind ruffling its placid surface.

Parson Dan’s heart filled with pride and peace as he gazed upon the entrancing scene.  Seldom had it looked so beautiful, and he believed that the early morning hour had much to do with its attractiveness.

“Glorious, glorious!” he murmured, “and so few abroad to see it.  How the spirit of peace is brooding over river and land!  Marvellous are Thy works, O Lord, and Thy mercies are renewed every morning.”

He was aroused from his meditation by the sound of foot-steps upon the road.  Glancing quickly around, he saw a tall, powerfully-built man approaching, carrying in his right hand a large stick, which he brought down upon the ground with a resounding thump.  His clothes were rough; a heavy pair of boots encased his feet, while an old soft felt hat covered a head crowned with a wealth of iron-grey hair.  He seemed like a veritable patriarch of ancient Hebrew days, and this likeness was intensified by his aquiline nose, keen eagle-like eyes, and a long beard sweeping his expansive chest.  A smile lightened his face as he approached.