CHAPTER XXI.

That afternoon Alec Trenholme had essayed to bring his friend John Bates to Chellaston.  Bates was in a very feeble state, bowed with asthma, and exhausted by a cough that seemed to be sapping his life.  Afraid to keep him longer in the lodging they had taken in Quebec, and in the stifling summer heat that was upon, the narrow streets of that city, but uncertain as to what length of journey he would be able to go, Alec started without sending further notice.

As the hours of travel wore on, Bates’s dogged pluck and perseverance had to give way to his bodily weakness, but they had reached a station quite near Chellaston before he allowed himself to be taken out of the train and housed for the night in a railway inn.  In his nervous state the ordeal of meeting fresh friends seemed as great, indeed, as that involved in the remaining journey.  So it came to pass that at dusk on that same evening, Alec Trenholme, having put his friend to bed, joined the loungers on the railway platform in front of the inn, and watched lightning vibrate above the horizon, and saw its sheet-like flames light up the contour of Chellaston Mountain.  He did not know what hill it was; he did not know precisely where he was in relation to his brother’s home; but he soon overheard the name of the hill from two men who were talking about it and about the weather.

“How far to Chellaston?” asked Alec.

They told him that it was only nine miles by road, but the railway went round by a junction.

Alec began to consider the idea of walking over, now that he had disposed of Bates for the night.

“Is the storm coming this way?” he said.

The man who had first answered him pointed to another.  “This gentleman,” he said, “has just come from Chellaston.”

As the remark did not seem to be an answer to his question about the weather, Alec waited to hear its application.  It followed.

The first man drew a little nearer.  “He’s been telling us that the Adventists—­that means folks that are always expecting the end of the world—­all about Chellaston believe the end’s coming to-night.”

Alec made an exclamation.  It was a little like hearing that some one sees a ghost at your elbow.  The idea of proximity is unpleasant, even to the incredulous.  “Why to-night?” he asked.

“Well, I’ll say this much of the notion’s come true,” said the native of Chellaston hastily—­“it’s awful queer weather—­not that I believe it myself,” he added.

“Has the weather been so remarkable as to make them think that?” asked Alec.

“’Tain’t the weather made them think it.  He only said the weather weren’t unlike as if it were coming true.”  As the first man said this, he laughed, to explain that he had nothing to do with the tale or its credence, but the very laugh betrayed more of a tendency to dislike the idea than perfect indifference to it would have warranted.