NARROW circumstances and high spirit drove forth some half-dozen young men and women from the Glen every year, to earn their living in the cities of the South. They carried with them, as a working capital, sound education, unflagging industry, absolute integrity, and an undying attachment to Drumtochty. Their one necessary luxury was a weekly copy of the Muirtown Advertiser, which four servant lasses would share between them and circulate at church doors, carefully wrapt in a page of some common daily, and their one hour of unmixed enjoyment its careful perusal, column by column, from the first word to the last. It would have been foolishness to omit the advertisements, for you might have missed the name of Drumsheugh in connection with a sale of stirks; and although at home no Drumtochty person allowed himself to take an interest in the affairs of Kildrummie or Netheraird, yet the very names of neighbouring parishes sounded kindly at the distance of Glasgow. One paragraph was kept for the last, and read from six to twelve times, because it was headed Drumtochty, and gave an account of the annual ploughing match, or the school examination, or the flower show, or a winter lecture, when Jamie Soutar had proposed the vote of thanks. Poor little news and names hard of pronunciation-; but the girl sitting alone by the kitchen fire—her fellow servants gone to bed—or the settler in the far Northwest—for he also got his Advertiser after long delays—felt the caller air blowing down the Glen, and saw the sun shining on the Tochty below the mill, and went up between the pinks and moss-roses to the dear old door—ah me! the click of the garden gate—and heard again the sound of the Hundredth Psalm in the parish kirk.

If one wished to take a complete census of our people in Glasgow, he had only to attend when Doctor Davidson preached on the fast day, and make his way afterwards to the vestry door.

“There's a gude puckle fouk waitin' tae see ye, sir,” the city beadle would say to the doctor, with much ceremony; “a'm judgin' they 're frae yir ain pairish. Is it yir wull they be admitted?”

Then in they came, craftsmen in stone and iron, clerks in offices and students from the University, housemaids and working men's wives, without distinction of persons, having spent the last ten minutes in exchanging news and magnifying the sermon. The doctor gave a Christian name to each, and some personal message from the Glen, while they, in turn, did their best to reduce his hand to pulp, and declared aloud that preaching like his could not be got outside Drumtochty, to the huge delight of Bigheart, minister of the church, who was also a Chaplain to the Queen and all Scotland.

The Dispersion endured any sacrifice to visit the old Glen, and made their appearance from various places, at regular intervals, like Jews coming up to Jerusalem. An exile was careful to arrive at Muirtown Station on a Friday afternoon, so that he might join the Drumtochty contingent on their way home from market. It is not to be supposed, however, that there was any demonstration when he showed himself on the familiar platform where Drumtochty men compared notes with other parishes at the doors of the Dunleith train.

“Is that you, Robert? ye 'ill be gaein' wast the nicht,” was the only indication Hillocks would give before the general public that he had recognised young Netherton after three years' absence, and then he would complete his judgment on the potato crop as if nothing had happened.

“Ye're there, aifter a', man; a' wes feared the sooth train micht be late,” was all the length even Netherton's paternal feelings would carry him for the time; “did ye see that yir box wes pit in the van?” and the father and son might travel in different compartments to the Junction. Drumtochty retained still some reticence, and did not conduct its emotions in public, but it had a heart. When the van of the Dunleith train had cleared the Junction and Drumtochty was left to itself—for Kildrummie did not really count—it was as when winter melts into spring.

“Hoo are ye, Robert, hoo are ye? gied tae see ye,” Drumsheugh would say, examining the transformed figure from head to foot; “man, a' wud hardly hae kent ye. Come awa an' gie 's yir news,” and the head of the commonwealth led the way to our third with Robert, Drumtochty closing in behind.

Preliminaries were disposed of in the run to Kildrummie, and as the little company made their way through the pine woods, and down one side of the Glen, and over the Tochty bridge, and up the other slope to the parting of the ways, Robert was straitly questioned about the magnitude of the work he did in Glasgow, and the customs of the people, and the wellbeing of every single Drumtochty person in that city, and chiefly as to the sermons he had heard, their texts and treatment. On Sabbath the group at the kirk door would open up at Robert's approach, but he would only nod in a shamefaced way to his friends and pass on; for it was our etiquette that instead of remaining to gossip, a son should on such occasions go in with his mother and sit beside her in the pew, who on her part would mistake the psalm that he might find it for her, and pay such elaborate attention to the sermon that every one knew she was thinking only of her son.

If a Drumtochty man distinguished himself in the great world, then the Glen invested his people with vicarious honour, and gathered greedily every scrap of news. Piggie Walker himself, although only an associate of the parish by marriage and many transactions, would not have visited David Ross in the Upper Glen, with a view to potatoes, without inquiring for David's son the Professor; and after the sale was effected that astute man would settle down with genuine delight to hear the last letter, dated from a Colonial University and containing an account of the Professor's new discovery.

It was Piggie that asked for the letter; David would not have offered to read it for a year's rent. Drumtochty parents with promising sons lived in terror lest secret pride should give them away and they be accused behind their backs of “blawing,” which in a weaker speech is translated boasting.

David considered, with justice, that they ought to take special care, and tried to guide his wife with discretion.

“We maun be cannie wi' John's title, wum-man, for ye ken Professor is a by-ordinar' word; a' coont it equal tae Earl at the verra least; an' it wudna dae tae be aye usin' 't.

“Ye micht say't aince in a conversation, juist lettin' it slip oot by accident this wy, the Professor wes sayin' in his laist letter—a' mean, oor son in Australy'—but a' wud ca' him John at ither times. Pride's an awfu' mischief, Meg.”

“Ye 're as prood as a'm masel, David, and there's nae use ye scoldin' at me for giein' oor laddie the honour he won wi' his brain an' wark,” and the mother flared up. “A'm no feared what the neeburs say. Professor he is, an' Professor a 'll ca' him; ye 'ill maybe be sayin' Jock next, tae show ye 're humble.”

“Dinna tak me up sae shairp, gude wife, or think a' wud mak little o' John; but the Al-michty hesna gien ilka faimily a Professor, an' a'm no wantin' tae hurt oor neeburs, an' them sae ta'en up wi' him themsels. Ye micht read his laist letter again, wumman; there's a bit a've near forgotten.”

Meg went to the drawers where she kept the clothes he wore as a boy, and the silk dress he gave her when he received his great appointment, and the copies of his books bound in morocco, which he sent home with this inscription:

“To my Father and Mother.

“From the Author;” and every scrap of paper about him and from him she had ever received.

The letter is taken from an old stocking, and, as she pretends to some difficulty in finding the place, Meg is obliged to read it for the forty-ninth time throughout from the name of the University at the head to the signature:

“Heart's love to you both from

“Your ever affectionate son,

“John Ross.”

David makes as though he had missed a word now and again in order to prolong the pleasure.

It was not hard to tell that he had such a letter in his pocket on the 'Sabbath, for the kirkyard was very cunning in its sympathy.

“Hoo's the Professor keepin' when ye heard laist, Bogleigh?” Drumsheugh would say, skilfully leading up to the one subject, and careful to give David his territorial designation, although it was a very small farm indeed, “he 'ill send a scrape o' the pen at a time, a 'm ex-peckin', gin he hes a meenut tae spare.”

“Busy or no busy,” answers Bogleigh, “he maks time tae write hame. His mither hes hed a letter frae John aince a week withoot fail sin he left Bogleigh a laddie o' saxteen for Edinburgh.

“They 're no juist twa or three lines, aither, but sax an' aught sheets,” continued David, warming. “An' the names, they cowe a'thing for length an' leamin'. Wud ye believe it, the Professor tells his mither every article he writes, and a' the wark he dis.

“He wes tellin's laist letter aboot some graund discovery he's feenished, an' they 're threatenin' tae gie him a new title for't. A'm no juist sure what it means, but it disna maitter, gin the laddie dis his duty and keep his health,” and David affected to close the subject. “It's fell warm the day.”

“Ye 'll no hae that letter on ye, Bogie?” inquired Jamie Soutar anxiously. “Gin ye cud pit yir hand on't, the neeburs wud like tae hear whatna honour the Professor's gotten.”

“Na, na, Jamie, it disna dae for a body tae be deavin' (deafening) the countryside wi' clavers aboot his bairns; if it hedna been Drumsheugh speirin' for John a' wudna hae said a word, but a'm muckle obleeged, and sae is the laddie, for a' mind hoo he wrote, 'My respects to the neighbours on Sabbath.'”

“That wes rael handsome,” began Whinnie, much impressed by “respects,” “but a' mind the Professor was aye a douce—”

“Div ye think, Bogleigh, that the Professor belongs tae yersel noo an' the gude wife,” broke in Jamie, “juist as if he were some ordinar' man? Na, na; gin a laddie gaes up frae the Glen tae the University, an' comes oot at the tap o' his classes, bringin' hame three medals ilka spring, an' opens secret things in nature that naebody kent afore, an' is selected by Government tae foond places o' learnin' ayont the sea, that laddie belangs tae Drumtochty.

“Div ye mind the day his life wes in the London Times, and Drumsheugh read it at the Junction? 'This eminent man of science was born at Drumtochty in Perthshire, and received his early education at the parish school.'”

“Ye hae't tae a word, Jamie,” said Drumsheugh, and passed his box, in name of the Glen, as it were, to Domsie.

“Oor standin' measure,” concluded Jamie, “leavin' oot Airchie Moncur and masel, will rin tae aboot sax feet, but a' coontit that we gaed up the hill that nicht wi' fower inches a man tae spare. Whar 's that letter, Bogleigh?”

After a feint of seeking it in his trousers, where he was as likely to carry it as the family Bible, David produced it from an inner breast pocket, wrapped in newspaper, and handed it to Domsie without a word.

“Div ye want me tae read it?”—as if this had not been the schoolmaster's due. “Weel, weel, a 'll dae ma best,” and then Domsie laid himself out to do justice to the Professor's letter, while Drumtochty wagged its head in admiration.

“Fellow of the Royal Society,” and Domsie became solemn to the height of reverence; “this cowes a'thing. A'm credibly informed that this is the highest honour given tae leam-in' in oor land; a 'ill be boond the 'll no be anither F.R.S. in sax coonties; may be no mair than twa or three in braid Scotland.”

“It's the graundest thing the Glen's dune yet,” and Jamie took up the strain; “he 's M.A. already, an' some ither letters; ye cudna rin them ower?”

Then Domsie gave John Ross's degrees one by one. “That comes tae five, makin' nae mention o' ither honours; there's thirty-one degrees in the Glen the noo, and John heads the list, if a' micht call a Professor by a laddie's name.”

“Wha hes a better richt?” said the father, with much spirit; “ye laid the foondation o't a', an' he often said that himsel.”

Opinion differed whether David or Domsie looked prouder in kirk that day, but Jamie inclined to Domsie, whom he had detected counting the degrees over again during the chapter.

Four Sundays after David appeared in the kirkyard with such woe upon his face that Drumsheugh could only imagine one reason, and omitted preliminaries.

“Naethin' wrang wi' the Professor, Bogleigh?” and Domsie held his pinch in mid air.

“John wes deein' when this letter left, an' noo he 'ill maybe... be dead an' buried... his mither an' me were ower prood o' him, but ye ken hoo... gude,” and the old man broke down utterly.

They looked helplessly at one another, averting their gaze from the Professors father, and then Drumsheugh took hold of the situation.

“This is no lichtsome, Dauvid, an' the neeburs share yir tribble, but dinna gie up houp and then Drumsheugh read the letter from Australia, while Hillocks and Whinnie, turning their backs on David, sheltered his grief from public view.

“Dear Mr. Ross,—You will have noticed that the last letter from my friend Dr. Ross was written in a feeble hand. He was laid down about three weeks ago with what has turned out to be typhoid fever, and ought not to have seen paper. But we considered the case a mild one, and he was determined to send his usual letter home. Now the disease has taken a bad turn, and he is quite delirious, mentioning his mother and his old schoolmaster by turns, and thinking that he is again in Drumtochty. His colleagues in medicine are consulting twice a day about him, and everything will be done for one we all admire and love. But he is very low, and I think it right to prepare you for what may be bad news.—Believe me, with much respect, yours faithfully,

“Frederick St. Clair.”

“A 've seen a mair cheerfu' letter,” and Drumsheugh looked at the fathers from above his spectacles; “but it micht be waur. A 'll guarantee the Professor 's no as far through wi 't as Saunders, an' yonder he is alive and livin' like,” nodding in the direction where that brawny man propped up the gable of the kirk with his shoulders and maintained a massive silence with Tammas Mitchell.

“Nae doot, nae doot,” said Hillocks, deriving just encouragement from the study of Saunders's figure; “aifter the wy Weelum Maclure brocht Saunders through a' wud houp for the best gin a' wes Bogleigh.”

“Sae a' wud, neeburs,” and David came forth again, “gin we hed oor laddie at hame an' oor ain man tae guide him. But there's nae Weelum Maclure oot yonder—naebody but strangers.”

“We micht ask the doctor tae pit up a prayer,” suggested Hillocks; “it cudna dae ony mischief, an' it's aye a comfort.”

“He daurna dae't,” cried David, whose mind was quickened by grief; “it 'ill be a' ower lang syne, an' it 's no lawfu' tae pray for... the dead.”

“Dinna be feared, Bogie,” said Jamie; “the doctor'ill tak the responsibeelity himsel, and ye may be sure he 'ill get some road oot o' the wood. It wud be a puir kirk the day gin we cudna plead wi' the Almichty for oor Professor.”

“Ye hae the word, Jamie,” said Drumsheugh, “an' a 'll gang in an' tell the doctor masel;” but Whinnie confessed afterwards that he thought this prayer beyond even the doctor.

It followed the petition for the harvest, and this was how it ran—the Free Kirk people had it word for word by Monday—

“Remember, we beseech Thee, most merciful Father, a father and mother who wait with anxious hearts for tidings of their only son, and grant that, before this week be over, Thy servant who is charged with many messages to this parish may bring to them good news from a far country.”

“Didna a' tell ye?” triumphed Jamie, going down to the gate, while Posty, who had required the whole length of the sermon to recognise himself, departed, much lifted, declaring aloud:

“The 'll be nae black edge in the bag next Friday, or a'm no postman o' Drumtochty.”

Letters for Bogleigh were left about two o'clock in a box on the main road two miles distant, and brought up by the scholars in the evening; but it was agreed early in the week that David and his wife should go down and receive the letter from Posty's own hands on Friday. In order not to be late, Meg rose at four that morning—but indeed she need not have gone to bed—and by eight o'clock was afraid they might be late. Three times she took out and rearranged her treasures, and three times broke down utterly, because she would never see her laddie again. They followed Posty from his start outwards, and were comforted about eleven with the thought that he was on the return journey.

“He's fairly aff for hame noo, wumman,” David would say, “an' wheepin' through Neth-eraird; he's no mair than ten mile awa, a'll warrant, an' he's a terrible walker.”

“He 'ill surely no be tastin' at the Netheraird public-hoose, Dauvid, an' loiterin'; a've kent him no be at the box till half three.”

“Na, na, there's nae fear o' Posty the day; a'll be boond he's savin' every meenut; ye mind hoo prood he wes tae bring the letter wi' the Professor's appintment.”

“Isn't it michty tae think we 're pittin' aff the time here,” and Meg began to get ready, “when he's maybe in the pairish already?”

It was exactly a quarter past twelve when the two old people sat down in the shadow of the firs above the box to wait for the first sight of Posty.

“A' daurna meet him, Dauvid, aifter a',” she said; “we 'ill juist watch him pit the letter in, and slip doon when he's gane, an'... oh! but a' ken what it 'ill be.”

“A'm expeckin tae hear John's on the mend masel,” said David manfully, and he set himself to fortify his wife with Saunders's case and the doctor's prayer, till she lifted her head again and watched.

A summer wind passed over the pines, the wood-pigeons cooed above their heads, rabbits ran out and in beside them, the burn below made a pleasant sound, a sense of the Divine Love descended on their hearts.

“The Aimichty,” whispered Meg, “'ill surely no tak awa oor only bairn... an' him dune sae weel... an' sae gude a son... A' wes coontin' on him comin' hame next year... an' seein' him aince mair... afore a' deed.”

A bread cart from Kildrummie lumbered along the road. Maclure passed on Jess at a sharp trot. A company of tourists returning from Glen Urtach sang “Will ye no come back again?” Donald Menzies also sang as he brought a horse from the smiddy, but it was a psalm—

“Can ye no see him yet, Dauvid? a' doot he 's hed an accident; it maun be lang past the 'oor noo. Yonder he is.”

But it was only a tramp, who hesitated at the foot of the upland road, and then continued his way to the village, careless who lived or died, so that he had meat and drink.

Round the distant corner Posty came at last, half an hour before his time and half a mile the hour above his common speed.

“Wull ye gang doon, Meg?”

“A' canna; bring't up tae me when he's past,” and she sat down again and covered her face; “tell me gin it 's come.”

Posty halted and swung round his bag; he took out the packet of road-side letters and dropped four into the box without attention; then he kept a fifth in his hands and hesitated; he held it up against the light as if he would have read its contents.

“He's got it, an', Meg, wumman, a' dinna see... ony black on 't.”

Posty looked at his watch, and said aloud:

“A 'll risk the time; it 'ill no tak mair than an 'oor,” and he leaped the dyke.

“Lord's sake, Bogleigh, is that you? A' wes thinkin' o' whuppin' round yir wy the day for a change; in fac,” and Posty's effort at in difference collapsed, “word's come frae Australy.”

“Wull ye... open't for's? ma hand's... no verra steady, an' the gude wife... hesna her glesses.”

“Mr. David Ross,

“Farmer,

“Bogleigh,

“Drumtochty,

“Scotland.”

read Posty, with official importance; “that's a' richt, at ony rate.”

“He aye sent it tae his mither himsel; juist read the beginning Posty... that 'ill be eneuch.” And David fixed his eyes on the letter, while Meg dared not breathe.

“It affords me unspeakable satisfaction,” began Posty, in a low voice, and then he suddenly lifted it up in victory, “to send good news. The very day I wrote the worst symptoms disappeared, and your son is now on the way to recovery.”

“There 's fower pages, an' a' can read, 'no cause now for alarm, but ye canna better the affset. A' kent what it wud be; the doctor said gude news in his prayer, and that's the verra word.

“Here, Mistress Ross, is the letter, for Bog-leigh's no fit tae tak chairge o 't.... Me? A 've dune naethin' but cairry it.

“A 'll no deny, though, a' wud hae liket fine tae hev seen the inside o't doon bye; sall, as sune as a' passed the boondary o' the pairish the fouk set on me, but a' cud say naethin' mair than this, 'There's an Australy letter, and it's no black-edged.'

“A'm aff noo,” buckling his bag, for Mrs. Ross had risen and was threatening to seize his hand; “an' it 's worth gaein' up the Glen the day wi' sic news. A 'll warrant Domsie's on the road lang syne. Ye 'ill hae the Professor wi' ye in the Kirk again, gude wife, an' the neeburs 'ill be prood tae see ye baith gang in the-gither,” and Posty leapt into the road like a four-year-old.

Beginning at the manse, and continuing unto Drumsheugh, there was not a house along the road where Posty did not give a cry that day, and it was affirmed on credible evidence in the kirkyard next Sabbath that he stood upon a dyke and made Hillocks understand at the distance of two fields' breadth that Drumtochty had still a Professor.