“And whose dear hand, under God’s blessing, drove the cloud away, but yours, my child?”

Annie was silent; she only clung the tighter to her uncle’s arm, and Miss Greylston said, with a beaming smile,

“Now, Annie, we see the good purpose God had in sending you here to-day.  You have done for us the blessed work of a peace-maker.”

Annie had always been dear to her uncle and aunt, but from that golden autumn day, she became, if such a thing could be, dearer than ever—­bound to them by an exceedingly sweet tie.

Years went by.  One snowy evening, a merry Christmas party was gathered together in the wide parlour at Greylston Cottage,—­nearly all the nephews and nieces were there.  Mrs. Lennox, the “Sophy” of earlier days, with her husband; Richard Bermond and his pretty little wife were amongst the number; and Annie, dear, bright Annie—­her fair face only the fairer and sweeter for time—­sat, talking in a corner with young Walter Selwyn.  John Greylston went slowly to the window, and pushed aside the curtains, and as he stood there looking out somewhat gravely in the bleak and wintry night, he felt a soft hand touch him, and he turned and found Annie Bermond by his side.

“You looked so lonely, my dear uncle.”

“And that is the reason you deserted Walter?” he said, laughing.  “Well, I will soon send you back to him.  But, look out here first, Annie, and tell me what you see;” and she laid her face close to the window-pane, and, after a minute’s silence, said,

“I see the ground white with snow, the sky gleaming with stars, and the dear old pines, tall and stately as ever.”

“Yes, the pines; that is what I meant, my child.  Ah, they have been my silent monitors ever since that day; you remember it, Annie!  Bless you, child! how much good you did us then.”

But Annie was silently crying beside him.  John Greylton wiped his eyes, and then he called his sister Margaret to the window.

“Annie and I have been looking at the old pines, and you can guess what we were thinking about.  As for myself,” he added, “I never see those trees without feeling saddened and rebuked.  I never recall that season of error, without the deepest shame and grief.  And still the old pines stand.  Well, Madge, one day they will shade our graves; and of late I have thought that day would dawn very soon.”

Annie Bermond let the curtain fall very slowly forward, and buried her face in her hands; but the two old pilgrims by her side, John and Margaret Greylston, looked at each other with a smile of hope and joy.  They had long been “good and faithful servants,” and now they awaited the coming of “the Master,” with a calm, sweet patience, knowing it would be well with them, when He would call them hence.

The pines creaked mournfully in the winter wind, and the stars looked down upon bleak wastes, and snow-shrouded meadows; yet the red blaze heaped blithely on the hearth, taking in, in its fair light, the merry circle sitting side by side, and the thoughtful little group standing so quietly by the window.  And even now the picture fades, and is gone.  The curtain falls—­the story of John and Margaret Greylston is ended.