• 6-8 c. chicken broth
• 1 can seasoned, diced tomatoes
• 2 c. cooked chicken or turkey, cubed
• 1 c. carrots, sliced
• 1 c. peas
• 1 c. ravioletti, dry
• 1 T. Italian seasoning
• 1/2 t. garlic powder
• salt and pepper, to taste
• shredded or grated parmesan cheese

Bring all but ravioletti to a boil, add ravioletti and simmer 1 hour on low. Garnish each filled bowl of soup with parmesan cheese.

"My mom's creation."

• 3 t. Russian tea, dry
• pinch ground cloves
• 1/2 t. cinnamon
• 1 T. honey
• milk, to taste

To one hot, prepared bowl cream of wheat, add the above ingredients. Stir until thoroughly mixed. Serve immediately.

"My brother's creation."

• 1/4 - 1/3 c. apple cider
• 1 t. sugar
• 1/8 t. vanilla
• 1 T. honey
• pinch cinnamon, to taste
• pinch ground cloves, to taste
• pinch salt, to taste
• dried cranberries, as desired

To one hot, prepared bowl cream of wheat, add the above ingredients. Stir until thoroughly mixed. Serve immediately.

"My brother's creation."

A Day

~ William L. Stidger

What does it take to make a day?
A lot of love along the way.
It takes a morning and a noon,
A father's voice, a mother's croon;
It takes some task to challenge all
The powers that a man may call
His own: the powers of mind and limb;
A whispered word of love; a hymn
Of hope--a comrade's cheer--
A baby's laughter and a tear;
It takes a dream, a hope, a cry
Of need of brotherhood and love;
A purpose sent from God above;
It takes a sunset in the sky,
The stars of night, the winds that sigh;
It takes a breath of scented air,
A mother's kiss, a baby's prayer.
That is what it takes to make a day;
A lot of love along the way.

Week Two

One Step More

~ James Dillet Freeman

A hill is not too hard to climb,
Taken one step at a time.
One step is not too much to take,
One trip is not too much to make.
One step, one try, one song, one smile
Will shortly stretch into a mile.
And everything worthwhile was done
By small steps taken one by one.
To reach each goal you started for,
Take one step more...take one step more.

Week Three

• Give thanks ~ 2 Thess. 5:7
• Rejoice in the Lord always ~ Phil 4:4
• Understanding what the will of the Lord is ~ Eph. 5:17
• Merry heart doeth good like a medicine ~ Prov. 17:22
• Merry heart maketh a cheerful countenance ~ Prov. 15:13
• Patience of a saint ~ James 5:11
• Yield your body as an acceptable sacrifice of worship to God ~ Romans 12:1
• Be an encourager! ~ Prov. 12:25

Week Four

"The best way to persuade others is with your ears--by listening to them."
~ Dean Rusk

Week Five

The heart is a garden where thought flowers grow,
The thoughts that we think are the seeds that we sow;
Each kind loving thought bears a kind loving deed
While a thought that is selfish is just like a weed.

We must watch what we think the live long day
And pull out the weed thoughts and through them away;
And plant loving seed thoughts so thick in a row
There will be no room for weed thoughts to grow.

~ Author Unknown

"The home is the basic institution of our society. Where it fails, the church fails..., and, indeed, all institutions of...society fails. It is in the home, particularly during the early formative years of life, that the foundations for wholesome attitudes, ideals, habits and appreciations, which so vividly affect mental and emotional balance, are laid."
~ Garland Godfrey

Week Two

"Much as I dislike hypocrisy and much as I advocate the theory of being yourself, I submit it is far better to feign good nature than to be a natural grouch. This is on the theory that the chap who acts as though he were agreeable may some day get the habit!"
~ George C. Hubbs

Week Three

I got up one morning
And rushed right into the day;
I had so much to accomplish
That I didn't take time to pray.

Problems just tumbled about me,
And heavier came each task;
"Why doesn't God help me," I wondered.
He answered, "You didn't ask."

I wanted to see joy and beauty--
But the day toiled on gray and bleak;
I wondered why God didn't show me,
He said, "But you didn't seek."

I tried to come into God's presence,
I used all my keys at the lock;
God gently and lovingly chided,
"My child, you didn't knock."

I woke up early this morning
And paused before entering the day;
I had so much to accomplish
That I had to take time to pray.

~ Author Unknown

Week Four

Uncle Jake's Legacy

~ Charles M. Davis (an excerpt from Daily Guideposts, 1981)

Although Uncle Jake, who did yard work for me, was an uneducated man by our standards, his Scriptural knowledge was amazing. On one occasion he and I were working in my yard. As usual, Uncle Jake was whistling softly as he worked--a gospel hymn. At a pause, I asked what he considered his favorite Bible passage.

He leaned on his spading fork, pushed his sweat-stained hat back and scratched his chin. "Well, sir, I've lots of favorites, but there's one that helped me the most. It's found all through the Good Book, but it's just five ordinary words."

"And what," I asked, "are those five little words?"

"Well, sir, those Bible words are, 'And it came to pass.'" I looked puzzled, so he continued. "Don't you see? It came to pass. It didn't come to stay. I've known a heap of troubles, but they came to pass. They didn't come to stay."

Uncle Jake's homely wisdom has been a lifeline for me when things looked bleak. If trouble singles you out and skies are dark, think about it a bit. It comes to pass, it doesn't come to stay.

"He asked for strength that he might achieve; he was made weak that he might obey. He asked for health that he might do great things; he was given infirmity that he might do better things. He asked for riches that he might be happy; he was given poverty that he might be wise. He asked for power that he might have the praise of men; he was given weakness that he might feel the need of God. He asked for all things that he might enjoy life; he was given Life that he might enjoy all things."
~ Unknown

Week Two

"If man could make a single rose, we should give him an empire; yet roses and flowers no less beautiful are scattered in profusion over the world and no one regards them."
~ Luther

Week Three

Birch Farm Recipe for Happiness

~ Author Unknown

• 1 cup of good thoughts
• 1 cup of kind deeds
• 1 cup of consideration for others
• 2 cups of sacrifice
• 2 cups of well beaten faults
• 3 cups of forgiveness

Mix thoroughly, add tears of joy, sorrow, and sympathy. Flavor with love and kindly service. Fold in 4 cups of prayer and faith. Blend well. Fold into daily life. Bake well with the warmth of human kindness and serve with a smile any time. It will satisfy the hunger of starved souls.

Week Four

"Thou art not the more holy for being praised; nor the more worthless for being dispraised. What thou art, that thou art; neither by words canst thou be made greater than what thou art in the sight of God."
~ Thomas a Kempis

Week Five

"We ought to acquaint ourselves with the beautiful. We ought to contemplate it with rapture and attempt to raise ourselves up to its height. And in order to gain strength for that, we must keep ourselves thoroughly unselfish--we must not make it our own, but rather seek to communicate it; indeed, to make sacrifice of it to those who are dear and precious to us."
~ Goethe

"Life is what happens while you are making other plans."
~ Bill Quiram

Week Two

"The Bible fits man for life and prepares him for death."
~ Daniel Webster

Week Three

"The horse would have a good laugh these days if he could see all those motorists adjusting their shoulder straps."
~ Author Unknown

Week Four

"We are here not to get all we can out of life for ourselves, but to try to make the lives of others happier."
~ William Osler

Week Five

"There is a difference between happiness and wisdom: he who thinks himself happy really is so; but he who thinks himself wise is generally foolish."
~ Colton

Time

~ Sue Humphrey

A long awaited time arrives,
And then it passes on.
The hour of dread;
The moment of delight.
The hard, bright rays
That herald each new day,
The soft, dark shadows
Of the summer night.
Nothing is sure--but time
And its sure passing--
Thus count we off the days of life,
Some dull, some flashing.

Week Two

"A hug is the perfect gift. One size fits all, and nobody minds if you exchange it."
~ Bill Quiram

Week Three

"Nothing is work unless you'd rather be doing something else."
~ Sally Naber

Week Four

Best Gift

~ Elaine V. Emans

Our mother thought she hadn't much To give: a jar of marmalade, A box of cookies, a wooly dog Or bit of lace she had crocheted. But oh, she gave her friendly smile, Her hand to strangers come, and she, Who thought she hadn't much for giving, Gave us generosity.

"Alas! by some degree of woe
We every bliss must gain,
The heart can ne'er transport know
That never feels a pain."

"The primal duties shine aloft like stars."

Perhaps Agnes intended to keep her promise, but they must be very wise and very strong, who can defy surprises that take the heart by storm. One summer night she was in the garden. It had been raining; the rood, the lintels, and the flagged steps were still wet, and the damp misty air was heavy with the scent of flowers. There was a great white rosebush by the stone-wall of the inclosure, and she stood behind it, though a heavy fog had risen from the Esk, and the twilight was fast passing into the dark. She was anxious and expectant, and had come out into the silent place for a few minutes rest.

It had been one of those contrary days when every household event is out of order. The mother and babe were both sick, something was wrong in the byre among the milking cows, the supper was belated, the servants hurried and cross, even Faith was worried and unlike herself. Agnes had felt that for a few moments she must escape the sense of duty, the cry of pain, the hurry of the household work. And if the garden was damp and misty, it was also sweet and quiet, and full of that inexpressible sympathy which makes us feel the friendship of the hills and streams, and the blossoming flowers.

She stood by the rose bush quite still, in a simply receptive mood. Many tangled thread of thought drifted through her mind, and in some slightly conscious way she challenged them, but Roland Graeme was the underlying sentiment that colored all. She knew that the time had arrived for his visit; she wondered what he would do and say; and what her father would do and say, but she did not dare to question her own heart upon the matter.

Suddenly she looked up. A tall figure was coming through the mist and mirk, staight and swiftly toward her. It was too dark to distinguish any peculiar feature, but she knew the poise of the haughty head, and the swing of the rapid tread. Before she could consciously decide on her own movements, she had passed from behind the shadow of the rose bush, Roland had recognized her, and bending across the low wall, had lifted her face to his own, and kissed it.

Then what hurried words of affection followed! What passionate avowals of constancy! What entreaties! What assurances! And yet when all was said, how conscious both were, that love's sweetest meanings are not to be spoken. Roland had been coming direct to Harribee House. He had intended no concealment. Bu Agnes feared her father. She knew that if it came to a question between them she would have to submit. She felt utterly unable to face the moral opposition to her love, and she was quite determined not to give up her lover.

Her disposition precisely suited Roland's views. "I will keep out of sight," he said, "and tomorrow night at Kirtle Bridge, I will be waiting." Then he kissed her again, and stepped back into the misty shadows of Eskside, and so up to the castle.

His visit at this time had been looked forward to very anxiously by the lovers. On it his future depended. He was just of age, and he was aware that he was to receive some small sum of money which had been realized for him by the sale of his father's personal effects. He had no idea as to its amount, but he understood that its receipt would make him the master of his own destiny, and that he need expect no further assistance from his relatives.

He had arrived at Castle Graeme in the afternoon and found his uncle quite prepared to meet him. Their interview was perfectly courteous. If Lord Tilbert had never been affectionate, neither had he no complaint to make when he said "Roland, you are now of age. I claim no further control over you. When your father died, I invested all his personal property in your name and for your benefit. The sum realized was five thousand two hundred pounds. I placed it in the funds, and I have never touched a shilling of it. Your support and education has been ungrudgingly provided for by Miss Graeme and myself, so that the original sum with its accumulated interest, is that your disposal. I advise you to buy a commission in a good marching regiment. But I claim no futher right to interfere in your life. It is now in your own hands."

The words were spoken without apparent feeling of any kind, and with a grave courtesy Lord Graeme knew well how to assume. They impressed the young man with a sense of kindness and gratitude.

"Lord Graeme," he answered, "you have done better for me than many in your place would have done. You are not to blame for the wrong my father did me; and I do not blame you, because you received the advantage of it. Sometimes I have felt that I was an intruder here; but I shall intrude no more, and I ask your pardon for any annoyance I have innocently been the cause of to you."

And Lord Graeme was more moved by the frank speech than he cared to avow; but he said, "Why then, Roland, you are still a Graeme though your ‘scutcheon be barred by others' fault; and look you, I like the brave way in which you take your wrong--and it may be--that it will be righted."

He said the last words looking downward, very slowly, and as if they were reluctantly force from him. "I think your aunt desires to see you before you go away; but you need to not hurry your departure. The red room is still yours."

"It will be better for me to go at once. I have a career to make. I have a friend who will meet me very soon, and we shall return to London together."

"As you will."

To Roland six thousand pounds, more or less, was a large sum of money. He was elated with the prospect of controlling it. And his first thought had been Agnes Harribee. He meant to ask Matthew for his daughter, and he thought the possession of so much money, would remove all the old Covenanter's scruples. But when Agnes made him understand how hopeless the request would be, he was glad to overleap it, and to take the girl he loved, without attempting to satisfy prejudices and ideas with which he had not a particle of sympathy.

And Agnes had the strength which weak women who had arrived at a stubborn point have. She was chided for her long absence, and scarcely heard or heeded. In another day she would have escaped from all the petty trials of her life. It happened to be a very hard day again. In the gray dawn, before she was well awake, she heard her father in the yard; the boys whistling ringing against the upright sickles. It was the first day of harvest, and the light oats trembling on the Esk slopes, were to fall before the reaper.

Some extra hands had been hired for the field work, and there were extra meals to prepare for them—the dew-drink or early glass of beer before going afield, the ten o'clock of bread and bacon; and the bread and cheese for "cheesing time" in mid afternoon. And there had been no extra hands hired for the house work, though the mother was pale and weak from yesterday's suffering, and the babe was cutting his teeth as hardly as very healthy children frequently do.

So it was a hard day and very little rest for any one; besides which the weather was hot and exhausting. The men worked until the dark hour drove them from the field, and Matthew was so weary that he made no attempt to apply the few verses of the psalm he read. So after nine all were asleep but Faith and Agnes, and the fretful babe. Even the mother had fallen into the dead slumber with which nature restores the throbbing nerves. So Faith had brought wee Davie into her own room, and it seemed to Agnes as if the child never would shut his eyes. Thinking of Roland waiting for her on Kirtle Bridge, she grew almost hysterical when she looked at them, wide open as if the hour was noon day.

"Is there naething you can do, to put that bairn to sleep, Faith? I'm maist beside mysel' for an hour's rest. I'll no be fit for a hand's turn the morrow."

"He'll no go to sleep till he's worn himsel' oot. The puir wee laddie has a toothache that would keep men folk waking nae doubt. Tak' your pillow and go and lie down aside Phemie. She'll never heed you."

"Phemie is worse than Davie. She moans and talks and mutters, and has such fearsome dreams, there's no a wink o' sleep where she is."

"Weel then, try the sofa in the best room. Get your first sleep, and ye'll be the better o' it; and then you can mind the bairn, and let me hae an hour or twa afore the day dawn."

No proposal could have suited Agnes better. The latticed window of the best room opened readily by a handle. It was near the ground. Escape that way was easy and noiseless. For the moment she hesitated, then she lifted her pillow.

"And I'll tak the plaid to hap mysel'," she said, "it will be enou' this warm night. Faith, maybe it isna kind to leave you your lane. Davie has been in your arms a' day."

"Dinna think o' that. You are younger than I am, and you need mair sleep; forbye, you were twice to the field today. Nae wonder you are weary."

"You are a kind, kind lassie! Gie me a kiss, Faith."

Oh the years that followed how often Faith thought of the pretty child-like face lifted to her for a moment! How often she reproached herself for the touch of impatience with which she had granted the request. For, somehow, though the words and actions were loving and sweet, there was in Faith's heart a feeling that a little help and patience would have been still more loving and sweet.

But no fear, no presentiment of what the girl was on the point of doing troubled her. She walked mechanically about the room with the child, until suddenly both were so weary and sleepy that she did not remember when they sunk down together upon the bed. It was dawn when she stirred; the half-wakened birds were twittering in the cherry tree that covered that side of the calling of man to another day's labor.

She left the child asleep and went down stairs, but she did not think of Agnes. Even when she remember the girl it was with a kindly pity. "She'll hae the weight o' the running today. I'll let her sleep till Davie wakes."

When Davie awoke she was busy with a pan of milk in the dairy. She put down the horn skimmer and went to the best room. It had an air as empty and desolate as a forsaken nest. There had not been an article disturbed, and the window was wide open. She stood speechless a moment, she could not bear to admit to herself the calamity she feared. Then she thought of her mother.

Before any thing else she felt that she must assure herself of the girl's flight. Cautiously she made inquiries of the servant women and men, but none of them had seen Agness since the previous day. It was quite certain that she was not on the place. Faith let her father eat his breakfast, and give the orders for the day's work, and then she called him into the best room. It was such an unusual proceeding, that he asked querulously: "What are you needing me for, the day, Faith? Is your mother or the little lad waur?"

"It's no them, fayther. It's Agnes."

"What's the matter wi' Agnes?"

"I canna find her high or low, up or down. I'm feared she's gane awa' wi' somebody."

Matthew stared blankly at her a moment, then asked, "Did you see Roland Graeme here aboot, yesterday?"

"I never saw a sight o' him."

"But he was at the castle, and likewise at Mosskirtle. And' the men met him on the hillside. Why dinna you speak?"

"I daurna say what I'm fearing."

"Do you think she has gane wi' him?"

"Ay, I think sae. Oh Agnes! Agnes!"

"If that's your thocht, you'll no dare to be greeting after her. Let her gae. She's a wicked lass, and I'll ware neither tear nor care on her."

But ah what a wretched heart he carried to the harvest field that day! He tried to work in vain. Before noon he was compelled to put down his sickle. The uncertainty made him sick, besides there was a whisper of his trouble among the reapers, and he could not bear the looks of inquiry cast at him. He took a horse and went into Mosskirtle. When near the village he met a group of boys hunting blackberries, and one of them ran to him with a paper.

"I was coming out to Harribee, master, wi' it; but I forgathered wi' Dick Musgrave and the lave, and I forgot a' aboot it, till I saw your braid bonnet at the brig foot."

Matthew heeded not the apology, he was reading the few lines Roland Graeme had written him. Such letters are in spirit all alike. However they may be worded they amount to the same thing--"we wanted our own way and we have taken it," in defiance of every claim of every loving tie, of every duty. As usual also there was a hope of pardon and an offer of any obedience but just the one that included the whole.

The boy had joined his companions again, and Matthew heard their shouts and laughter through his hard mental struggle. A homely commonplace figure he made, sitting motionless on his shaggy pony, within his soul he was doing battle with some of the fiercest griefs and shames that assail humanity.

He thought of his honorable name, and of his spotless kirk record, of the men who would privately rejoice o'er his downcome, of what his neighbors, and his servants, and his friends and enemies, would say. And though he was only a border shepherd, his good name was dearer to him than gold, and these things were of vital importance—besides, he hated the Graemes. The bitterest part of the trial was, that he did not feel as if God had stood by his cause with them. He had been very jealous for the Lord, and for His saints; and the seed of wicked, the very men whom his soul despised, had been permitted to humble him.

He would say nothing about the matter. To his wife he gave Roland's note, but he would not listen either to her entreaties or her laments. Faith was ordered to remove everything out of his sight that could recall a child so selfish and disobedient, or which in any way implied that she had once been a beloved daughter of his household.

Lord Tilbert took the news in a very different fashion. He had stopped at the blacksmith's to have a nail fastened in his horse's shoe, and a foolish fellow told him the story. He felled him to the ground, and then turned to the smith, and asked if it was true.

"True enough, my lord."

"Which daughter was it?"

"The bonnie ane. Maister Roland has aye been rining wild aboot her."

"Agnes Harribee?"

"Just sae."

Then he put down the horse's foot, and Graeme mounted, and galloped away--"like the diel," said the loungers around the anvil.

It was to Terres he went first in his wrath. She listened to his intemperate words with scorn, she mocked at his passion, she irritated him to fury by praising the "do and dare" spirit of Roland who had carried off one of old Harribee's daughters while he, himself, had been hanging around the skirts of the other, like a love-sick schoolboy.

"Upon my word this beardless stripling is a true Graeme," she cried. "I always liked the spirit of the young cock-farthing. I am glad I gave him five hundred pounds."

"Terres, are you mad? Gave him five hundred pounds?"

"I gave it. Why not? The money is my own. A man that can carry off his bride! Indeed I have a great respect for him. I wish I had given him a thousand."

"You are only trying to anger me. When you have exhausted every other human being, you try to torment me."

"Perhaps so; quarreling with you after ordinary people, is like aqua-fortis after brandy. Sometimes I like the aqua-fortis."

"Did you give him five hundred pounds."

"I have said so."

"You have no right to."

"I think we had better not discuss either his or my rights."

"Will you give me five hundred pounds?"

"If you dare run away with Faith Harribee."

"I will do it."

"I defy you. My five hundred is quite safe. Bah! Keep your temper, Tilbert, if you want to keep your good looks. You are positively ugly this morning."

Then he flung himself out of the room with a mouthful of such words as can only be printed with their first and last letters; and Terres met them with a laugh which echoed in his angry heart long after he was out of the reach of her voice.

But most men get more love than they deserve, and when Graeme spoke to his sister in the evening on the same subject, but in a more reasonable manner, he found her just as sympathetic to its mood.

"Don't you think I ought to see Harribee and acquit myself of any blame in Roland's conduct; I feel as if it were my duty, Terres."

"Have you at length made the acquaintance of duty? Why should you see Harribee?"

"The Harribees have been the Graeme's neighbors for nearly a thousand years. Matthew Harribee and I have never been unfriends. All our intercourse has been civil and honorable."

"Depend upon it, he thinks as badly of you as he can do—and I should judge he was able to think very badly indeed of any one not cut on his own pattern. I would not interfere with the old whig. He is sure to regard your sympathy as an impertinence, and answer you according to your folly."

"I don't think so."

"Of course you don't. When a man asks advice he wants, it is not advice he wants, but approbation. Let old Harribee and his troubles alone. Why should you meddle or make in the affairs of a man clearly heart-set against you?"

"Our land and lot has been cast among a dour, stern set. It had been good for the borders if the preachers had never seen them, a sour ill-willy have their own way lot."

"There are many crooked sticks in this world and tempers. When a man is not naturally amiable and conciliating, he ought to be thankful if he can do his quarrelling at home."

Nevertheless, in spite of his sister's advice, when Graeme next met Matthew Harribee he stumbled into the mistake of expressing in a blundering fashion his disapproval of Roland's conduct. Matthew listened to him with a face resentful and dark.

"There's nae need o' words," he said. "If the lass hadna been a wicked lass, she wouldna hae foregathered hersel' wi' ane o' your name and kind. She has gane to her ain. I hae naething further to say anent it."

But Harribee's home was a dismal place during the weeks and months following this event. The name of Agnes had been dropped from the family speech, and the family prayers, but it was not so easy to banish the memory of the girl from the hearts of those who still loved her. One day Faith found her mother in a passion of grief before the big bible.

"See here, Faith!" she sobbed, "by bairn's name has been crossed oot o' The Book! Oh, but your fayther is a hard man! I wonder if God hasna mair pity on us!"

The poor woman sobbed all the night after this discovery. She had been growing daily weaker and weaker and less able to hide emotions which she had hitherto kept between God and her own soul. But she made no complaint, and the household had grown familiar with her pale face, and silence, and weakness. One Sunday she sat in her place at the family evening worship, and Matthew carried her upstairs in his arms.

She never came down them again. When the first snow of the season was whitening the fells and moors, she touched Matthew early one morning and said "wake up, gudeman, and gie me your farewell. I'm going hame! I'm going hame!"

It was a great shock to him. He had not thought of her death. He was almost angry at her eager anticipation of the change. Nor was his grief untinged with remorse. He remembered, when too late, how, in the satisfation of his own anger, he had quite neglected to share her sorrow of her lost daughter.

"You hae dropped my puir Agnes frae your prayers, gudeman," she had said on her last earthly Sabbath, "but I'll soon be whar I can pray for her, e'en on the vera steps o' the altar." And he had seen the the large tears roll down her wan cheeks, and not heeded them. Now God had wiped them away. She would need a comforter no more.

He suffered very much, but it was not Matthew's way to complain of suffering. It was God's will. In the end that always sufficed for him. And there was still the little lad and the farm to live for,--and Faith. Faith was an afterthought, for Faith had never needed thought; she was always the one to take it for others. She had been her mother's right hand and also her father's strength and counselor, although Matthew never thought of her in that light and would have been offended if any one had dared to say so.

But it was Faith's ear the dying mother whispered her last desires. "You'll keep a prayer in your heart for Agnes; and you'll be gude to your fayther, dear, and never let him want any o' his comforts and likings; and Oh, Faith! I'll hae to leave my wee Davie wi' you!"

"You can do it safely, mother. I'll ne'er say a cross word to him. He sall want nae gude thing, nor any bit o' pleasuring I can get for him. Clasp my hand on the promise, mother! Dear mother! Sweet mother! Never fear but Faith will do her duty.

And the dying woman fixed her gaze upon her daughter's brave, true face, and so gazing and smiling, she passed

"Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot Which men call earth,"

into "the palace of eternity."

To be continued...

"Their free-bred soul
Went not with priests to school,
To trim the tippet and the stole
And pray by printed rule.
But they would cast the eager word
From their heart's fiery core,
Smoking and red, as God had stirred
The Hebrew men of Yore."
~ Prof. Blackie

"The world which seems
To lie before us like a lands of dreams
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
No certitude, nor pace, nor help for pain;
And here we are, as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight."

Harribee Home was about three miles from Castle Graeme; a long gray house of rough granite, with a high roof of red tiles, green and yellow with lichens. In front of it, there was an old-fashioned terraced garden, shaded by sombre yew trees and divided through the center by wide grass-grown steps. A strip of rich land lay between the garden and Esk water, and on this spring evening it was all the mist of green with growing corn. But behind the house, and "up the waters" was the vast and desolate places of the shepherds; a great silent table--land of heather and turf, seamed here and there with a green valley, or broken by the catrail-–that mysterious wall and boundary of an unknown race–-while on the horizon, blue and afar off, were the distant mountains that ringed around this "land of the leal."

The house itself was only remarkable for the rude strength of the age in which it was built. Its rooms were all composed of massive stone, and heavy beams and boards of oak, and with closed doors and windows it was capable of being long defended. For before the days of Richard Cameron the Harribees had been noted riders, and their blue bonnets over the English border had meant for the Cumberland or Westmoreland shepherds inevitable scaith and loss. But with the persecuted preachers a new spirit entered the house, and the grim gray keep, that had been so long the gathering-place of wild and lawless men, became a safe rendezvous and resting-place for the hunted saints. For the Harribees were men of whole minds; whatever case they espoused it was theirs, for hands or purse, for life or death.

They had never been counted of noble birth, though as moss-troppers they had held that pre-eminence which among fighting men is ever awarded to personal strength and bravery.

"On the borders were the Harribees, able men, Very, unruly, and very ill to tame,"

had been truly enough said of them until the word of the preachers found them out. Then they had exchanged raiding and riding for a leadership in the ranks of those iron apostles whom God sends in iron times to prepare His way.

On all the slopes around Harribee Home they had stood with the Covenanting men, joining heartily both their solemn chant and their startling war-cry. They had left men at Airs Moss, at Drumclog, and Bothwell Brig. Dunnottair's dungeon solitude had heard their prayers, and the Bass Rock attested their long suffering. Nor was their struggle only a brightly barren one. A single death for truth and freedom makes millions the heritors of truth and freedom, and the men who achieved through martyrdom an independent creed gave to the pastoral Pentland falls, the Lothian plains, and the dales of the border, the noblest of all claims to renown:

"God's saints died here and gained the martyr's crown."

But in worldly matters also the Harribees were not unprosperous. They possessed within the butts and bounds of their estate a thousand acres of land without a due upon it; mostly under cattle and sheep, but growing in the lower and more sheltered valleys sufficient grain and grass for the wants of the farm.

Early in the present century Matthew Harribee came in to his heritage. He was the son of David Harribee who had followed Cumberland's troopers to Culloden. Not without a pang had he drawn his sword against his native prince, and the Stuarts were the enemies of his faith, and "Jerusalem which is above," was the native land of his soul. Between religious conviction and national prejudice, David Harribee could not have a moment's hesitation. Still he thanked God that his son Matthew's life had fallen in pleasanter and more peaceful times; for when he gave up the farm to him persecution was over, liberty of conscience assured, the Stuart dynasty--source of so much woe--nothing but a passionate remembrance.

However, Matthew was heir to the nature and traditions of his family, as well as to their house and land. He was a stern man, living under circumstances when sternness was not the quality most desirable. Every one was respected, though few loved him; but Matthew Harribee was not a man whose happiness depended upon popular estimation. To do his duty and be at peace with his own conscience were more to him than the doffing of bonnets on the roadside or the "cracking" of friends at his ingle.

He did not marry until his father's death made him master of Harribee, and he was then nearly forty years of age; so that people wondered greatly when Maggie Renwick, a timid gentle woman, frail and lovely as a Cheviot blue-bell, chose him from among handsomer and richer suitors. But Maggie made no mistake. Her heart divined that Matthew, though but a silent wooer, loved her with an intensity and depth for which earth had no language and time no measure.

They had many children, but the majority inherited their mother's delicate frame and died early. Two daughters only had reached womanhood, and it was upon the eldest, the fair and stately Faith Harribee, that Lord Tilbert Graeme had set his heart. Agnes, her sister, was but a lassie of seventeen, a bonnie lassie, every one called her, unable to find any other term to express their sense of a beauty more easily felt than described.

Between Agnes and the babe, yet in his mother's arms, there was a wide interval, bridged only by the small green graves in the kirkyard. But this babe was the darling of the house. He had come as the recompense for so many. He was the only living son, the heir to the house, and land, and name. Matthew Harribee's fondest hopes were in him, and for him. A boy-child had always been greatly valued in the dales, and this was a sturdy little fellow, calm and wide-eyed, with the peculiar square, strong countenance, which Matthew in his heart, proudly recognized as the Harribee face.

On that spring night on which Miss Terres Graeme sat lonely in Graeme Castle, haunted by memories she would gladly have put far from her, Agnes Harribee was rocking this babe to sleep. He lay in his wooden cradle and Agnes knelt by his side, gently swaying it, to the song she sang–a simple, rather plaintive little ballad–-but the child seemed to like it. He gazed at her with round, wondering eyes, and made a low, chirming, continuous sound that blended very sweetly with the rustic words and melody:

"Braw, braw, lad on Yarrow braes,
Ye wander thro' the blooming heather,
But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws
Can match the lads of Galla Water.

"But there is ane, a secret ane;
Aboon them a' that I love better,
And I'll be his, and he'll be mine,
The bonnie lad o' Galla Water."

"Whist!" Agnes, dearie. Your fayther doesna lie thae sangs. I wonder whar you learnt them at a'? I wonder at your singing them!"

"I wonder mysel', mither, sometimes. They're down i' my heart someway, and afore I ken they are at my lips, and out of them."

"Is the bairn asleep?"

Ay, he's o'er the border line, God bless him!"

"Then lay the supper cloth, and tell Kirsty to bring in a basket o' peat and a bit o' bright wood for the fire. Your fayther will be cold and hungry when he gets down the fells."

"He is late the night."

"Ay, he is late. There are good many ewes and lambs to fold, and he doesna trust the hired shepherd."

"I'll soon hae a' ready, mither. Sit down and rest yoursel' a wee. You are aye working."

"Weel, that is right, Agnes. Folks must work today, for there's nane can tell hoo far they may be hindered tomorrow. Quick, my lassie! I hear your fayther's voice in the barnyard."

In a few minutes Matthew Harribee entered the house-place. There was a flicker of light on his grave face as he came within the pleasant influence of the cheerful ingle, and the calm eyes lifted with a silent welcome to meet him. But he did not speak at once, and no one dreamed of interfering with his thoughts.

Presently his eyes rested on the sleeping boy and his face softened. The sweet sense of human love gave him the desire for human sympathy, and he said:

"It was vera raw and damp on the fells, and I am gay tired tramping after the ewes. They're wilfu', silly creatures–-the prophet kent us weel when he said, we a' went astray like sheep, ilka ane turning his ain way. It is a true observe. Isaiah would hae been amang the sheep faulds himsel', nae doubt, nae doubt."

"You are a gude shepherd, Matthew, and you are a kind man to the beasts. I heard ye in the stable and the barnyard."

"Ay, I like to see they hae their supper. Evening oats are good morning fodder; and the servant's hand may do, if the master's eye is on it. Noo, I'll hae my ain bite and sup, for I hae a word or twa to say after it. Ca' the lasses in, Maggie. Hae you seen Faith within the hour?"

"Faith is in the dairy. The wark is late tonight, for she went o'er the Kirtle Farm to get a few cuts o' fine yarn for me. She didna get back as soon as she should hae done, and there's a sight of milk now, gudeman. So she is a bit behind-hand tonight."

"Ay, I thocht that."

"But I hear her footfalls--" and with these words Faith Harribee entered. She had on her dairy dress, a striped linsey petticoat, and a calico josey, with the sleeves fastened above the elbows. But no one who looked at Faith thought of her dress. Whatever she wore seemed to be precisely the fitting garment for her, for her figure was so fine, her countenance so brave and bright, her manner so calm, that she inspired at once a sense of strength, and pleasure, and sweet fitness for the occasion.

Yet her mother, who knew every light and shadow of her daughter's face, perceived, or perhaps felt, that something unsual was on Faith's mind. Still she did not connect it with the "word and twa" Matthew Harribe had forespoken, until he said,

"If the day's work is o'er, sit down, lasses. Faith, I hae a question to ask you. How lang hae ye been keeping tryste wi' yonder black lord o' Graeme?"

"Never ance hae I kept tryste with him, father. He met me tonight on Kirtle brow, and he lighted from his horse, and spake some words to me I didna want to hear."

"I thocht that. I was on the Preacher's Stane aboon you, and though I couldna hear his words, I kent weel the meaning o' Graeme's doffing his beaver, and bending his proud head to a bonnie lassie's face. I kent weel what lying flatteries and beguiling words he was saying; and his outstretched hand, ringed wi' diamonds, and gloved wi' kid-skin, I kent weel what way it would lead a silly lass that heeded him."

"I heeded no word he said. And you should think better of Faith Harribee than to mis-doubt her. Graeme asked me to marry him, plump and plain, he asked me to marry him, and I said that was a thing that never could be."

"It was a great honor to you, Faith," said the mother timidly, and a little flash of pleasure stole into her white cheeks.

"You ken naething o' what ye are saying, gude wife;" and Matthew turned almost fiercely on the offending speaker. "If Beelzebub sought you for a mither-in-law, would you mince and mou, and say it was a great honor? Yet diels and bad men are kith and kin, and they think the same thochts, and do the same warks. Wha ever kent a gude Graeme? The sins o' a' their generations are on them. They are fause to baith Scots and English, Stuart and German, and they keepit their heads and their lands by lying and bribery. They were with the brutal Dalzell and Claverhouse against the saints, and their blood is on the doorstep o' Castle Graeme, and on the hand o' its lords; for the present lord has justified his fathers in my ain hearing, and said he would hae done sae, and mair too, had he lived in their day. I dinna doot it, not a minute's space. Sae speak nae mair to him, this nor that, and gie him neither your hand nor your good-day."

"You hae been ceevil to him yoursel', Matthew, and you hae bought and sold with him."

There's a difference, a vera great difference, atween selling a few ewes or a bull-calf to a man, and gieing him your ain daughter, the bairn you pledged to God in baptism, and that was saved by the blood o' the Holy One. Faith Harribee is the seed o' the saints and the martyrs. It would be even down sin to give her to a Graeme!"

"I wouldna gie mysel' to him, fayther; though maybe I dinna think sae badly o' him as you do."

She spoke with a grace and quiet decision, and Matthew felt a little shame over his unusual and uncalled-for excitement. His voice fell into its ordinary tones, and he answered, "I believe you, Faith; so there is nae mair to be said on that head, and we'll settle our hearts wi' a thocht or twa frae God's Book. Gie it to me, and ca' ben the lads an' lasses." They came sleepily in, tired with their hard outdoor labor, and feeling "the exercise" to be just a little trial. But as soon as Matthew opened the volume and said, "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want," the familiar illustration went straight to each comprehension; and with patient bovine faces, on which there was a glimmer of expectation, they looked straight at the master. "My shepherd!" he said, "like as if the Lord had only one sheep and that sheep was you, or you, or me." Then he read the whole psalm through, and added, "Sandy, you and I and Baldy ken weel what silly things sheep are, and what a hard time we shepherds do have wi' them. They're always in trouble, the heat parches them, and the cold freezes them, and the snow smoors them, and the dogs worry them, and the flies are death to them. And just such a worrisome flock the Lord has here in Harribee Home, but He is a shepherd. He says we shall not want. He are to lie down in green pastures by the still waters. You ken vera weel that sheep dinna lie down if they are hungry, or if the torrents are roaring down the fells; sae you can understan' that you are promised baith plenty and safety. Sae gang to your beds and sleep in peace, for there's naething to fear you, wi' such a shepherd--and it willna do you any harm, my lads, if you'll keep mind hoo the Lord tak's tent o' his sheep, and ever try to do your ain sma' duties a bit better the morn. Gude-night, and the Lord be wi' you all." But though thus pleasantly dismissed to sleep, Faith and Agnes did not readily feel able to accept the blessing. Faith perceived that something unpleasant was influencing her sister. She sat, almost sullenly combing her long yellow hair, and there was undoubtedly a rebellious expression upon her usually happy face. And as Agnes was ever ready to talk upon passing events, Faith was astonished at her silence regarding the Graeme's proposal. She did not care to open the subject herself, but she was quite ready to give her confidence to her sister, if Agnes desired it. And she could not help glancing with a curiosity in which there was a slight feeling of offense, at the companion who affected so little interest in a circumstance singular and unexpected.

But though Faith lingered somewhat about her preparations for the night, Agnes sat in the same dour attitude, mechanically passing the comb through her loosened hair, but evidentally unmindful of what her hands were about, and indifferent to every thing but the gloomy and resentful thoughts she was indulging.

At last Faith said, "I'm no caring to wait all night for you, Agnes. Why dinna you come awa' to your bed?"

Agnes answered in a low passionate burst of weeping. She laid her arms upon the small dressing table, buried her face in them, and sobbed with a provoking unreason.

I'll hae to go for mother, Agnes, if you willna tell me what is troubling you. You shouldna be keeping folks waking with a fear you can lighten by a word. Wha is there that loves you as I do? And wha would do mair to pleasure you in a' lawfu' ways? What ails you at a', Agnes?"

She came to her side, and she stooped to the weeping girl whispering her name softly with those light soothing intonations the strong involuntarily use toward the weak.

"I am meeserable, Faith. Fayther's words against the Graeme have maist broken my heart."

Faith's face flushed crimson as she asked, "has he been saying foolish things to you, also, Agnes? Never mind him, dearie, we baith ken, that he is naught at a' but a bad man."

"Oh! You are aye thinking o' yoursel', Faith! What do I care for the Graeme? I hate the vera sight o' him. A hard, cauld uncle is he to poor Roland!"

"Roland! Poor Roland! Agnes, Agnes, I hope you are na heeding Roland Graeme! That would be worse than a'."

"Why would it be worse than a'? Roland has been coming to Harribee ever since he was ten years auld."

"Tak' care o' yourself, Agnes, and dinna say too much. When the lad first came to the castle, a poor motherless, fatherless, friendless bairn, and not a welcome nor a bit o' love for him anywhere, our mother's heart was sorry for him. You ken it was just a mother's pity made her often gie him a full meal, and mend his claithes, and listen to his bairnhood's sorrows. And our fayther had a kind heart, he didna choose to see what he didna care to hinder; but noo Roland is a gay young man, and there's no very good say-so's anent him coming frae London."

"Whose say-so's? Only the black-hearted Graeme's. Roland and I played together many a long summer-day; and I ken what Roland is. He has loved me ever since I was six years auld, and I hae loved him likewise; and he is coming this vera summer to ask fayther to let me marry me. And then to hear the way fayther went on at the Graemes. I dinna think it's Christian to be sae bitter to dead folk. Roland says, if fayther had been born a Graeme he would hae done as the Graemes did."

"You are a wicked lassie to listen to Roland Graeme putting your ain fayther amang the warst men that Scotland e'er saw,-–and there's nae sense either in such reasoning; Nane at a'! It would be as wise like to say if the angel Gabriel had been the deil he would hae done as the deil did. And as for loving a man like Roland Graeme its no to be thought of."

"What for no? Mother wasna sae much opposed to you wedding wi' Roland's uncle. She said it was a great honor. You heard her, Faith?"

"It was a moment's thought o' the castle and the title. It was mother-like to be wishing her child a fine lady, but mother isna ane to give way to a temptation for mair than a moment:-–forbye there would be no honor o' any kind in being the wife o' Roland Graeme. You couldna offer a greater insult to your ain family, and to your forbears."

"I'm no caring for my forbears. Why should I? They dinna care for me."

"You are maybe mista'en, Agnes, anent that; but surely you are caring for your fayther and mother, and yoursel' and wee Davie. Fayther would count your marriage with Roland a disgrace no to be wiped out. It would hurt him through every generation of the Harribees. You must hae heard tell o' the shadow on Roland's birth."

"The puir lad isna to be blamed, nor shamed for his mother, Faith."

"Perhaps no, but it is a sad thing when a man does na like to speak of his ain mother. She was a Roman woman, born under the temporal and spiritual power, baith, o' the Pope; and she was ane o' them women that act in the-a-tres; and fayther wha thinks bad enough o' the Graeme stock, thinks o' Roland as the vera worst o' what was evil to start with. Agnes, dearie, you'll no dream of such a marriage. Naething but shame, and sorrow, and maybe death can follow it. For a blow like that would kill mother; you ken she hasna had a weel day since Davie was born, and her life is her bairns. I cannot think you'd lift your hand against mother."

"I think fayther is the most unreasonable ' mortals. There may be good Graemes, as well as good Harribees."

"You'll no gather any sweet apples off a crab tree; I'm thinking, Agnes."

"I dinna care. I hae promised Roland. And I'll not break faith with him."

She stood bravely to this position for a little while, then under pressure of Faith's entreaties, wavered; and finally amid many tears promised not to see Roland again. When he came to the castle, Faith was to explain every thing to him, and Faith really thought that the tie was but a youthful fancy, and would be easily broken.

To be continued...

While the diamonds and the crystals,
May easily be flawed,
The tiny blood red ruby,
Reminds me most of God.

This awful sinful world,
Is what Christ came to save.
And this tiny little gemstone
Is what to us He gave.

Glimmering like the blood,
Dripping from the cross,
This tiny blood red ruby
Falls gently to the moss.

For us sinners Christ has died,
His love is open wide,
And every time I think of Christ,
A tiny blood red ruby will always come to mind.

It was during these moments of questioning that she heard the still, small voice of her heavenly Father speak to her heart:

"You are a wife and mother because that is what I have called you to be. Much of what you do is hidden from the public eye. But I notice. Most of what you give is done without remuneration. But I am your reward. Your husband cannot be the man I have called him to be without your support. Your influence upon him is greater than you think and more powerful than you will ever know. I bless him through your service and honor him through your love. Your children are precious to Me--even more precious than they are to you. I have entrusted them to your care to raise for Me.

"What you invest in them is an offering to Me.

"You may never be in the public spotlight. But your obedience shines as a bright light before Me.

"Continue on."

"Remember, you are My servant. Do all to please Me."
~ Colossians 3:23, 24

• 1 lb. hamburger
• 1 med. onion (optional), chopped
• 2 cans kidney beans
• 2 cans diced tomatoes
• 1 large can tomato juice
• 1/4 c. chili powder
• dash of red pepper (use sparingly, otherwise it will get very zippy!)
• dash of garlic powder
• salt, to taste
• paprika, to taste

Brown hamburger and onion in a 4 qt. pan. Drain fat. Add beans, tomatoes, and tomato juice. Add spices, stir well. Bring to a boil over medium heat, stirring occasionally. Once boiling, reduce heat to low. Simmer until ready to serve. Serve with crackers, shredded cheddar cheese, corn chips (which are great in it as well), and sour cream.

"This is mostly my mother's recipe, though I add a different blend of spices (which is listed in this recipe)."

• 2 T. olive oil or butter
• 4 large garlic cloves (or to taste), minced
• 1 qt. half and half
• 1 T. Italian seasoning
• 2 T. cornstarch
• 1/2 c. milk
• 1 c. shredded parmesan cheese
• salt and pepper, to taste
• 1 (1 lb) pkg. fettuccine noodles

Saute minced garlic in olive oil or melted butter for two minutes--do not brown garlic. Add half and half. Mix cornstarch with milk and add to sauce. Add seasonings and cheese and cook on low heat, stirring constantly, until thickened.

Serve over cooked fettuccine with steamed vegetables, cooked chicken breasts, or shrimp.