C ameron set down the box of supplies his mother had ordered and sorted through the papers and letters he had picked up at the Bliss post office.

“Not much for you today,” he reported, “except for a week’s supply of papers. But there’s a letter here for Mam—from Margaret Galloway. I dread giving it to her.”

The envelope the young man held in his hand was edged in black.

“Oh no!” Mary’s hand flew to her mouth as if to deny what was clearly spelled out—someone had died. Who else but Hugh Galloway? For the last few months Margaret had been sending increasingly serious reports concerning her father’s health, no doubt hoping to prepare his old nanny for this very time when final word should come.

“Do you think you should go on over with me?” Cameron asked, with a line of concern between his brows.

“I don’t think it’s necessary, son,” Mary decided. “She’s known it’s about to happen. And you can be as much comfort as she needs. Oh, how I wish she’d turn to the Lord for her comfort!”

Cameron tucked the fateful letter into his pocket, gave his mother a hug, and turned to go.

“You’re right, of course. I’ll do my best, but yes, her heavenly Father could be much more comfort than either her earthly daughter or grandson. From what you’ve told me and from what I gather from listening to Mam, this blow is about as heavy on her as if one of her own flesh and blood had died.”

“Yes,” Mary said, knowing it was true but never having been jealous of it, “she has loved Hugh Galloway deeply. This will hit her hard. To think that she should have outlived him. She’s older by, oh . . . I believe she was in her mid-teens when he was born and she was taken on at Heatherstone, helping to look after him and going on to become full nanny.”

“And even more than that to Mr. Hugh’s child—granny, isn’t she?”

Mary sighed. “It was so hard on her to leave Margaret . . . Margo, she calls her. She was born, you know, on the ship coming over—”

“I know, Mother. I well remember.” Cameron counted the shipboard experience among his first memories. Now, lest his mother dip into the grief of her own bairn’s death and burial at sea, Cameron hugged her again, picked up his hat, and turned to go.

“I’ll do my best. Now, do you have eggs for me? One of these days I’ll stock some hens on the Bliss place—Galloway place, that is. Mam isn’t able to look after chickens, that’s for sure, and I haven’t the time. I’m blessed just having her there with me, doing what she can, and she is always good company. She does bake a wonderful oat cake!”

Leaning back comfortably in the buggy, the reins slack in his hands and the horse stepping out toward the Bliss-Galloway place, Cameron wondered again what it was that held his grandmam in such a clutch that she should grow pale of face, ragged of breath, and desperate of countenance, yet stubbornly resist surrendering to the claims of Christ.

His thoughts swung to Mr. Hugh and Mam’s devotion to the man. It was a devotion based on far more than the Galloway estate provision for Kezzie’s old age, though that spoke clearly of the gentleman’s reciprocation of his nurse’s love.

How deeply moved Kezzie had been when, about three years before, “her” Mr. Hugh had written to tell them he was coming for a visit and requested that it not be revealed to anyone back east—Margaret, Cameron supposed. To the surprise of all, Mr. Hugh had been intent on purchasing property, not a homestead that would require his presence for a certain amount of time each year but a place that someone was desiring to sell. Such a place was available, and right here in Bliss—none other than the Bliss place itself.

Old Mr. Bliss, having homesteaded many years ago and having worn himself out in the process of proving up his land, needed to move back east to a daughter who could care for him in his crippled condition, and he had been a ready seller, counting himself unbelievably fortunate to have cash in hand. Except for personal items, everything had been left for the new owner—cattle, horses, machinery, and, of course, the buildings.

Of next importance was to leave the property in good hands. Cameron, then twenty-two years of age and looking for an opportunity to homestead for himself, had listened to Mr. Hugh’s arguments and arrangements and felt his fortunes to be wonderfully blessed and himself favored by the plan. He, Cameron, would farm the Bliss place as if it were his own, actually receiving a salary just like dozens of other Galloway employees, perhaps hundreds of others. Though Cameron hesitated at first to give years of his life to something that would not in the end be his, still he rationalized that, with the funds accumulated, he would be in a position to purchase his own place when the time came. Just when that would be, he had no idea—Mr. Hugh had made no mention of himself retiring here. And now he was, apparently, dead.

Cameron tipped back his hat, put a boot up onto the dash, and considered what this letter would mean to his own future, if it did indeed bring news of Mr. Hugh’s death. Perhaps the place would be sold. If so, perhaps he could be the purchaser. The thought widened his blue eyes and silenced the jaunty whistle abruptly.

He could hardly love the Bliss place more if it were his own, he realized, and something in him stirred with a hope he had not known an hour ago. The new owner, probably the only child of the deceased, Margaret herself, could not be expected to have an interest in the place, much less live here permanently. Soon, in one way or another, his—Cameron’s—future would be decided. If it was to leave the Bliss place, he would find a homestead though it might mean moving some distance away from Bliss and his loved ones. It would be hard on Mam. Not long for this world, her frailty was obvious. Could she survive another harsh winter? Would the sad news of the letter be a means of pointing her toward the Savior who waited so patiently for her? Cameron urged the horse to a trot and soon saw the well-loved outline of the Bliss place ahead.

Surrounded still by bush in spite of much clearing of fields, meadows, and garden space, the buildings were almost snuggled in a leafy embrace. The original Bliss cabin had eventually been replaced by a well-planned, well-built structure furnished for comfortable living, with the kitchen at the far end, the remainder divided into bedrooms. Poplars from its own land had been carefully squared and so tightly fitted that very little chinking had been necessary. Left to color naturally outside, the inside was whitewashed regularly, keeping it bright and, even in dark weather, light, with its deep windows entirely adequate for the purpose—too many homesteaders fretted the winters away in depressing dimness. Each fall storm windows were added to help keep out the cold. It was a comfortable, welcoming house that, with the coming of Mam to stay with him, was indeed a home. Just whose home, now, was questionable. Perhaps the letter would tell.

Mam was in her rocker when Cameron laid the letter in her lap. Her old hand trembled as she held it.

“Mr. Hugh,” she whispered.

“Let me open it for you,” Cameron said gently and did so, replacing the single sheet of paper in his grandmother’s hand.

“Read it, laddie. I’m afraid I can’t see . . . just now.” True, her eyes were full of tears.

Cameron read; read of Mr. Hugh’s final days of illness, his death—a blessing, Margaret admitted, ending months of suffering. He read of Margaret’s despair and her loneliness, in spite of Winfield Craven who, she wrote, “was her rock of Gibraltar at this time.”

Winfield Craven, he read, had pointed out the advantages of an early marriage. Winfield Craven, Margaret said, would take on himself the tremendous responsibilities of the Galloway estate and holdings. Soon, Cameron read, Margaret would sign her letters Mrs. Winfield Craven.

Cameron’s voice died away. Kezzie sat staring into space, back across the years, Cameron supposed. But when she spoke, it was not of Hugh Galloway.

“Did she say,” Mam asked tensely, “‘I’ll see you soon, Granny Kezzie’? Did she finish her letter that way?”

“No, Mam. She finished it, ‘Love always.’”

“Then,” Kezzie said, and the tears started down the withered cheeks, “I’ll never see my angel girl again. And what’s more—you’ll never see her. Mary will never see her. . . .”

“Perhaps she’ll come yet,” Cameron said, trying to comfort his grandmother. “No doubt she’ll inherit everything, including this place—”

“She doesn’t even know about this place.”

“But she will. And it may give her an excuse to come . . . perhaps to sell it.”

But it was meager comfort. Cameron knew as well as Mam that Winfield Craven, known by letter better than Margo could have imagined, would not spend his time and energy and interest on a small Galloway holding in a place far away, reached only by many days of miserable travel, and with only rude accommodations upon arriving.

No, Kezzie was right to loose forever her dream of yet sharing something of life with Margaret Galloway . . . Margo. Seeing the sad acceptance of it in Kezzie’s drooping shoulders and dropped head, Cameron knelt beside her chair, took her hand in his, and once again urged, lovingly, “Mam, don’t you see how much you need Jesus? Only He can comfort your heart. Why, Mam, why won’t you pray with me?” Cameron had long ago faced the possibility of his precious Mam’s death and had tossed reluctance and hesitation to the winds. There was no time to lose, and there was eternity to win, an eternity with the Lord. And so he lovingly and faithfully pressed on Kezzie, again, the claims of Christ.

And, again, he saw the dear face stiffen, saw the blue eyes close, as if in pain, understood the wordless shake of the frizzled gray head.

With his arms around her, Cameron offered up one more prayer for the salvation of his grandmother. “Whatever the means, Lord,” he prayed silently, “bring her to yourself.”