While Tony was absent that morning from home, Mrs. Butler had a visit from Dr. Stewart; he came over, he said, to see Tony, and ask the news of what he had done in England. “I hope, ma'am,” said he,—and there was something dry and reserved in his manner,—“I hope, ma'am, your son has brought you good tidings of his late journey. A big city is a big temptation, and we dinna want temptations in this world of ours.”

“I know it well, doctor,” said she, with a sigh; “and if it had been any other than Tony—Ah, doctor! why do you shake your head? you make me think you 've heard something or other. What is it, sir?”

“It's just nothing at all, Mrs. Butler, but your own fears, and very proper fears too they are, for a young lad that goes away from home for the first time in his life, and to such a place too. Ah me!” cried he, in a soil of apostrophe, “it 's not so easy to be in grace down about Charing Cross and the Hay market.”

“You 're just frightening me, Dr. Stewart; that's what it is you are doing.”

“And I say it again, ma'am, it's yourself is the cause o' it all. But tell me what success he has had,—has he seen Sir Harry Elphinstone?”

“That he has, and seen a greater than Sir Harry; he has come back with a fine place, doctor; he's to be one of the Queen's—I forget whether they call them couriers or messengers—that bring the state despatches all over the world; and, as poor dear Tony says, it's a place that was made for him,—for they don't want Greek or Latin, or any more book-learning than a country gentleman should have.

“What are you sighing about, Dr. Stewart? There's nothing to sigh over getting five, maybe six, hundred a year.”

“I was not sighing; I was only thinkin'. And when is he to begin this new life?”

“If you are sighing over the fall it is for a Butler, one of his kith and kin, taking a very humble place, you may just spare your feelings, doctor, for there are others as good as himself in the same employ.”

“And what does Sir Arthur say to it, ma'am?” asked he, as it were to divert her thoughts into another course.

“Well, if you must know, Dr. Stewart,” said she, drawing herself up and smoothing down her dress with dignity, “we have ventured to take this step without consulting Sir Arthur or any of his family.”

A somewhat long silence ensued. At last she said: “If Tony was at home, doctor, he 'd tell you how kindly his father's old friend received him,—taking up stories of long ago, and calling him Watty, just as he used to do. And so, if they did not give my poor boy a better place, it was because there was nothing just ready at the moment, perhaps,—or nothing to fit him; for, as Sir Harry said laughingly, 'We can't make you a bishop, I fear.'”

“I dinna see anything against it,” muttered the old minister, not sorry for the chance of a shot against Episcopacy.

“I'm thinking, Dr. Stewart,” said she, tartly, “that your rheumatism must be troubling you to-day; and, indeed, I 'm ashamed to say I never asked you how the pains were?”

“I might be better, and I might be worse, ma'am,” was the qualified reply; and again came a pause.

“Tony was saying the other day, doctor,” resumed she, “that if you will try a touch of what he calls the white oils.”

“I 'm very much obliged to him, Mrs. Butler; he put a touch of the same white oils on my pony one day, and the beast that was always a lamb before just kicked me over his head when I got into the saddle.”

“You forget, doctor, you are not a beast of burden yourself.”

“We 're all beasts of burden, ma'am,—all of us,—even the best, if there be any best! heavy laden wi' our sins, and bent down wi' our transgressions. No, no,” added he, with a slight asperity, “I 'll have none of his white oils.”

“Well, you know the proverb, doctor, 'He that winna use the means must bear the moans.'”

“'T is a saying that hasna much sense in it,” said the doctor, crankily; “for who's to say when the means is blessed?”

Here was a point that offered so wide a field for discussion that the old lady did not dare to make a rejoinder.

“I 'll be going to Derry to-morrow, Mrs. Butler,” resumed he, “if I can be of any service to you.”

“Going to Derry, doctor? that's a long road for you!”

“So it is, ma'am; but I'm going to fetch back my dochter Dolly; she's to come by the packet to-morrow evening.”

“Dolly coming home! How is that? You did not expect her, did you?”

“Not till I got her letter this morning; and that's what made me come over to ask if Tony had, maybe, told you something about how she was looking, and what sort of spirits she seemed in; for her letter's very short; only says, 'I 've got a kind of longing to be back again, dear father; as the song says, “It's hame, and it's hame, and it's hame I fain wad be;” and as I know well there will be an open heart and an open door to greet me, I 'm off tonight for Liverpool.'”

“She 's a good girl, and whatever she does it will be surely for the best,” said the old lady.

“I know it well;” and he wiped his eyes as he spoke. “But I 'm sore troubled to think it's maybe her health is breaking, and I wanted to ask Tony about her. D' ye remember, ma'am, how he said she was looking?”

Now, if there was anything thoroughly repugnant to the old lady's habits, it was untruthfulness; and yet, as Tony had not mentioned Dolly since his return, her only escape was by a little evasion, saying, “When he wrote to me his first letter from London, doctor, he said, 'I was sorry to find Dolly looking pale, and I thought thin also; besides,' added he, 'they have cut off her pretty brown hair.'”

“Yes, she told me of that,” sighed the doctor. “And in her last note she says again, 'Dinna think me a fright father dear, for it's growing again, and I 'm not half so ugly as I was three weeks ago;' for the lassie knows it was always a snare to me, and I was ever pleased wi' her bright, cheery face.”

“And a bright, cheery face it was!”

“Ye mind her smile, Mrs. Butler. It was like hearing good news to see it. Her mother had the same.” And the old man's lip trembled, and his cheek too, as a heavy tear rolled slowly down it. “Did it ever strike you, ma'am,” added he, in a calmer tone, “that there's natures in this world gi'en to us just to heal the affections, as there are herbs and plants sent to cure our bodily ailments?”

“It's a blessed thought, doctor.”

“Eh, ma'am, it's more than a thought; it's a solemn truth. But I 'm staying o'er-long; I 've to go over to John Black's and see his sister before I leave; and I 'd like, too, to say a word o' comfort to auld Matty McClintock.”

“You 'll be back for the Sabbath, doctor?” asked she.

“Wi' His help and blessing, ma'am.”

“I was thinking if maybe you and dear Dolly would come and take dinner here—Saturday—there will be nothing ready for you at home; and it would be such a pleasure to Tony before he goes away.”

“T thank you heartily, Mrs. Butler; but our first evening under the auld roof we must e'en have it by ourselves. You 'll no think the worse o' us for this, I am sure, ma'am.”

“Certainly not; then shall we say Monday? Dolly will be rested by that time, and Tony talks of leaving me so soon.”

“I 'll just, wi' your good leave—I 'll just wait till I see Dolly; for maybe she 'll no be ower-strong when she comes. There's nothing I can do for you in Derry, is there?”

“Nothing, sir,—nothing that I think of at this moment,” said she, coldly; for the doctor's refusal of her second invitation had piqued her pride, and whether it was from his depression or some other cause, the doctor himself seemed less cordial than was his wont, and took his leave with more ceremony than usual.

The old lady watched him till he was out of sight, sorely perplexed to divine whether he had really unburdened his conscience of all he had to say, or had yet something on his mind unrevealed. Her kindly nature, however, in the end, mastered all other thoughts; and as she sat down once more to her knitting, she muttered, “Poor man! it's a sore stroke of poverty when the sight of one's only child coming back to them brings the sense of distress and want with it.” The words were not well uttered when she saw Tony coming up the little pathway; he was striding along at his own strong pace, but his hat was drawn down over his brows, and be neither looked right nor left as he went.

“Did you meet the doctor, Tony?” said she, as she opened the door for him.

“No; how should I meet him? I've not been to the Burn Bide.”

“But he has only left the house this minute,—you must have passed each other.”

“I came down the cliff. I was taking a short cut,” said he, as he threw himself into a seat, evidently tired and weary.

“He has been here to say that he's off for Derry to-night with the mail to meet Dolly.”

“To meet Dolly!”

“Yes, she's coming back; and the doctor cannot say why, for she's over that fever she had, and getting stronger every day; and yet she writes, 'You must come and fetch me from Derry, father, for I 'm coming home to you.' And the old man is sore distressed to make out whether she's ill again, or what's the meaning of it. And he thought, if he saw you, it was just possible you could tell him something.”

“What could I tell him? Why should he imagine I could tell him?” said Tony, as a deep crimson flush covered his face.

“Only how she was looking, Tony, and whether you thought she seemed happy where she was living, and if the folk looked kind to her.”

“I thought she looked very sickly, and the people about her—the woman at least—not over-kind. I'm not very sure, too, that Dolly herself was n't of my mind, though she did n't say so. Poor girl!”

“It's the poor old father I pity the most, Tony; he's not far off seventy, if he 's not over it; and sore work he finds it keeping body and soul together; and now he has the poor sick lassie come back to him, wanting many a little comfort, belike, that he can't afford her. Ah, dear! is n't there a deal of misery in this life?”

“Except for the rich,” said Tony, with an almost savage energy. “They certainly have fine times of it. I saw that fellow, Maitland, about an hour ago, lolling beside Alice Lyle—Trafford, I mean, in her carriage, as if he owned the equipage and all it contained; and why? Just because he is rich.”

“He's a fine handsome man, Tony, and has fine manners, and I would not call him a fellow.”

“I would, then; and if he only gives me the chance, I 'll call him a harder name to his face.”

“Tony, Tony, how can you speak so of one that wanted to befriend you?”

“Befriend me, mother! You make me ashamed to bear you say such a word. Befriend me!”

“What's the matter with you, Tony? You are not talking, no, nor looking like yourself. What's befallen you, my dear Tony? You went out this morning so gay and light-hearted, it made me cheery to see you. Ay, and I did what I 've not done for many a day, I sang to myself over my work without knowing it, and now you 're come back as dark as night. What's in it, my boy? tell your poor old mother. What's in it?”

“There's nothing in it, my own little mother, except that I'm a good-for-nothing, discontented dog, that sees himself in a very shabby condition without having the pluck to try and get out of it. I say, mother, when are we to begin our lessons? That confounded river Danube goes between me and my rest. Whether it rises in the Black Sea or the Black Forest is just as great a puzzle to me as whether the word is spelt 'peo' or 'poe' in 'people.'”

“Oh, Tony!”

“It's all very well saying, 'Oh, Tony;' but I tell you, mother, a stupid fellow ought never to be told two ways for anything: never say to him, you can do it in this fashion or in that; but, there's the road straight before you; take care you never go off it.”

“Mr. Maitland made that same remark to me last week.”

“Then don't tell it to me, for I hate him. By the way, there's that gun of his. I forgot to take it back to Lyle Abbey. I think it was precious cool in him to suppose a stranger—a perfect stranger, as I am—would accept a present from him.”

“If you are going to the Abbey, Tony, I wish you 'd leave these books there, and thank my Lady for all her kind attentions to me; and say a word to Sir Arthur, too, to excuse my not seeing him when he called. Tell Gregg, the gardener, not to send me any more vegetables now; it's the scarce season, and they 'll be wanting them for themselves; and if you should chance to see Mr. Lockyer, the steward, just mention to him that the new sluice is just no good at all, and when the rain comes heavy, and the mill is not working, the water comes up to the kitchen door. Are you minding me, Tony?”

“I 'm not sure that I am,” said he, moodily, as he stood examining the lock of the well-finished rifle. “I was to tell Lady Lyle something about cabbages or the mill-race,—which was it?”

“You are not to make a fool of yourself, Tony,” said she, half vexed and half amused. “I 'll keep my message for another day.”

“And you'll do well,” said he; “besides, I'm not very sure that I 'll go further than the gate-lodge;” and so saying, he took his hat, and, with the rifle on his shoulder, strolled out of the room.

“Ah! he 's more like his father every day!” sighed she, as she looked after him; and if there was pride in the memory, there was some pain also.