PETER Bruce was puzzled by a passenger who travelled from the Junction on a late October day, and spoke with a mixed accent. He would not be more than forty years of age, but his hair was grey, and his face bore the marks of unchangeable sorrow. Although he was not a working man, his clothes were brushed to the bone, and his bag could not contain many luxuries. There was not any doubt about his class, yet he did not seem willing to enter the third, but wandered up and down the train, as if looking for a lost carriage. As he passed beyond the van he appeared to have found what he was seeking, and Peter came upon him examining the old Kildrummie third, wherein Jamie Sou-tar had so often held forth, and which was now planted down on the side of the line as a storehouse for tools and lamps. The stranger walked round the forlorn remains and peered in at a window, as if to see the place where he or some one else he knew had sat.

“Ye ken the auld third,” said Peter, anxious to give a lead; “it 's been aff the rails for mair than twal years; it gies me a turn at times tae see it sittin' there like a freend that's fa'en back in the warld.”

As the stranger gave no sign, Peter attached himself to his door—under pretext of collecting the tickets—and dealt skilfully with the mystery. He went over the improvements in Kildrummie, enlarging on the new U. P. kirk and the extension of the Gasworks. When these stirring tales produced no effect, the conclusion was plain.

“It's a fell step tae Drumtochty, an' ye 'll be the better o' the dogcairt. Sandie 's still tae the fore, though he's failin' like's a'; wull a' tell the engine driver tae whustle for't?”

“No, I 'll walk... better folk than I have tramped that road... with loads, too.” And then, as he left the station, the unknown said, as if recollecting his native tongue, “Gude day, Peter; it is a comfort tae sae ae kent face aifter mony changes.”

Something hindered the question on Peter's lips, but he watched the slender figure—which seemed bent with an invisible burden—till it disappeared, and then the old man shook his head.

“It beats me tae pit a name on him, an' he didna want tae be askit; but whaever he may be, he 's sair stricken. Yon's the saddest face 'at hes come up frae the Junction sin a' hoddit Flora Campbell in the second. An' a'm judgin' he 'ill be waur tae comfort.”

The road to Drumtochty, after it had thrown off Kildrummie, climbed a hill, and passed through an open country till it plunged into the pine woods. The wind was fresh, blowing down from the Grampians, with a suggestion of frost, and the ground was firm underfoot. The pungent scent of ripe turnips was in the air, mingled, as one passed a stackyard, with the smell of the newly gathered grain, whose scattered remains clung to the hedges. As the lonely man passed one homestead, a tramp was leaving the door, pursued with contempt.

“Awa wi' ye, or a'll louse the dog,” an honest woman was saying. “Gin ye were a puir helpless body a 'd gie ye meat an' drink, but an able-bodied man sud be ashamed tae beg. Hae ye nae speerit that ye wud hang upon ither fouk for yir livin'?”

The vagabond only bent his head and went on his way, but so keen was the housewife's tongue that it brought a faint flush of shame to his cheek. As soon as she had gone in again, and the two men were alone on the road, the one with the sad face gave some silver to the outcast.

“Don't thank me—begin again somewhere... I was a tramp myself once,” and he hurried on as one haunted by the past.

His pace slackened as he entered the pines, and the kindly shelter and the sweet fragrance seemed to give him peace. In the centre of the wood there was an open space, with a pool and a clump of gorse. He sat down and rested his' head on his hands for a while; then he took two letters out of his pocket that were almost worn away with handling, and this was the first he read:

“Ye mind that the laist time we met wes in Drumtochty kirkyaird, an' that I said hard things tae ye aboot yir laziness and yir conduct tae yir grandmither. Weel, a 'm sorry for ma words this day, no that they werena true, for ye ken they were, but because a 've tae send waesome news tae ye, an' a' wush a kinder man hed been the writer.

“Ye ken that yir sister Lily gaed up tae London an' took a place. Weel, she hes served wi' sic faithfulness that she 'ill no be here tae welcome ye gin ye come back again. A' happened tae be in London at the time, and wes wi' Lily when she slippit awa, an' she bade me tell ye no tae lose hert, for ae body at least believed in ye, an' wes expeck in' ye tae turn oot weel.

“A' wush that were a', for it's eneuch for ye tae bear, gin ye be a man an' hae a memory. But tribbles aye rin in pairs. Yir grandmither kept up till the beerial wes ower, an' then she took tae her bed for a week. A 'll never be up again,' she said tae me, 'an' a 'll no be lang here.' We laid her aside Lily, an' she sent the same word tae ye wi' her last breath: 'Tell Chairlie a' wes thinkin' aboot him till the end, an' that a'm sure ma lassie's bairn 'ill come richt some day.'

“This letter 'ill gie ye a sair hert for mony a day, but ye wull coont the sairness a blessing an' no an ill. Never lat it slip frae yir mind that twa true weemen loved ye an' prayed for ye till the laist, deem' wi' yir name on their lips. Ye 'ill be a man yet, Chairlie.

“Dinna answer this letter—answer yon fond herts that luve an' pray for ye. Gin ye be ever in tribble, lat me ken. A' wes yir grand-mither's freend and Lily's freend; sae lang as a'm here, coont me yir freend for their sake.

“James Soutar.”

It was half an hour before he read the second letter.

“Dear Chairlie,—A 'm verra sober noo, an' canna rise; but gin ony medeecine cud hae cured me, it wud hae been yir letter. A' thae years a've been sure ye were fechtin' yir battle, an' that some day news wud come o' yir victory.

“Man, ye've dune weel—a pairtner, wi' a hoose o' yir ain, an' sic an income. Ye aye hed brains, an' noo ye've turned them tae accoont. A' withdraw every word a' ca'd ye, for ye 're an honour noo tae Drumtochty. Gin they hed only been spared tae ken o' yir success!

“A 've divided the money amang yir sisters in Muirtown, and Doctor Davidson 'ill pit the lave intae a fund tae help puir laddies wi' their education. Yir name 'ill never appear, but a 'm prood tae think o' yir leeberality, and mony will bless ye. Afore this reaches ye in America a 'll be awa, and ithers roond me are near their lang hame. Ye 'ill maybe tak a thocht o' veesiting the Glen some day, but a' doot the neeburs that githered in the kirkyaird 'ill no be here tae wush ye weel, as a' dae this day. A 'm glad a' lived tae get yir letter. God be wi' ye.”

The letter dropped from his hand, and the exile looked into the far distance with something between a smile and a tear.

“They were gude men 'at githered ablow the beech-tree in the kirkyaird on a Sabbath mornin',” he said aloud, and the new accent had now lost itself altogether in an older tongue; “and there wesna a truer hert amang them a' than Jamie. Gin he hed been'spared tae gie me a shak o' his hand, a' wud hae been comforted; an' aifter him a' wud like a word,

“James Soutar.”

Frae Drumsheugh.

A' wunner gin he be still tae the fore.

“Na, na,” and his head fell on his chest, “it's no possible; o' a' the generation 'at condemned me, no ane 'ill be leevin' tae say forgiven. But a' cudna hae come hame suner—till a' hed redeemed masel.”

He caught the sound of a cart from the Glen, and a sudden fear overcame him at the meet-of the first Drumtochty man. His first movement was to the shelter of the wood; then he lay down behind the gorse and watched the bend of the road. It was a double cart, laden with potatoes for Kildrummie station, and the very horses had a homely look; while the driver was singing in a deep, mellow voice, “Should auld acquaintance be forgot.” The light was on his face, and the wanderer recognised him at once. They had been at school together, and were of the same age, but there was not a grey hair in young Burnbrae's beard, nor a line on his face.

As the cart passed, Grant watched the tram, and marked that the Christian name was in fresh paint.

“It 's James, no John, noo. Burnbrae hesna feenished his lease, an' a'm thinkin' Jean 'ill no hae lasted long aifter him. He wes a gude man, an' he hed gude sons.”

The cart was a mile on the road, and Burn-brae's song had long died into silence among the pines, before Grant rose from the ground and went on his way.

There is a certain point where the road from Kildrummie disentangles itself from the wood, and begins the descent to Tochty Bridge. Drumtochty exiles used to stand there for a space and rest their eyes on the Glen which they could now see, from the hills that made its western wall to the woods of Tochty that began below the parish kirk, and though each man might not be able to detect the old home, he had some landmark—a tree or a rise of the hill—to distinguish the spot where he was born, and if such were still his good fortune, where true hearts were waiting to bid him welcome. Two Drumtochty students returning in the spring with their honours might talk of learned studies and resume their debates coming through the wood, but as the trees thinned conversation languished, and then the lads would go over to the style. No man said aught unto his neighbour as they drank in the Glen, but when they turned and went down the hill, a change had come over them.

“Man, Dauvid,” Ross would say—with three medals to give to his mother, who had been all day making ready for his arrival, and was already watching the upland road—“far or near, ye 'ill never fin' a bonnier burn than the Tochty; see yonder the glisk o 't through the bridge as it whummels ower the stanes and shimmers in the evening licht.”

“An' Hillocks's haughs,” cried Baxter, who was supposed to think in Hebrew and had won a Fellowship for foreign travel, “are green an' sweet the nicht, wi' the bank o' birks ahint them, an' a' saw the hill abune yir hame, Jock, an' it wes glistenin' like the sea.”

Quite suddenly, at the sight of the Glen, and for the breath of it in their lungs, they had become Drumtochty again, to the names they had called one another in Domsie's school, and as they came to the bottom of the hill, they raced to see who first would reach the crest of the ancient bridge that might have been Marshal Wade's for its steepness, and then were met on the other side by Hillocks, who gave them joyful greeting in name of the parish. But not even Hillocks, with all his blandishments, could wile them within doors that evening. John Ross saw his mother shading her eyes at the garden gate and wearying for the sight of his head above the hill, and already David Baxter seemed to hear his father's voice, “God bless ye, laddie; welcome hame, and weel dune.” For the choice reward of a true man's work is not the applause of the street, which comes and goes, but the pride of them that love him.

What might have been so came upon this emigrant as he gazed upon the Glen, that the driver of the Kildrummie bread cart, a man quite below the average of Drumtochty intelligence, was struck by the hopelessness of his attitude, and refrained from a remark on the completion of harvest which he had been offering freely all day. They were threshing at Hillocks's farm that day, and across the river Grant saw the pleasant bustle in the stackyard and heard the hum of the mill. It used to be believed that Hillocks held a strategic position of such commanding power that no one had ever crossed that bridge without his supervision—except on Friday when he was in Muirtown—and so strong was the wayfarer's longing for some face of the former time, that he loitered opposite the barn door, in hopes that a battered hat, dating from the middle of the century and utilised at times for the protection of potatoes, might appear, and a voice be heard, “A 've seen a waur day, ye 'ill be gaein' up the Glen,” merely as a preliminary to more searching investigation at what was the frontier of Drumtochty. Hillocks also must be dead, and as for the others, they were too busy with their work to give any heed to a stranger. A gust of wind catching up the chaff, whirled it across the yard and powdered his coat. The prodigal accepted the omen, and turned himself to the hill that went up to Mary's cottage.

He had planned to pass the place, and then from the footpath to the kirkyard to have looked down on the home of his boyhood, but he need not have taken precautions. No one was there to question or recognise him; Mary's little house was empty and forsaken. The thatch had fallen in with the weight of winter snows, the garden gate was lying on the walk, the scrap of ground once so carefully kept was overgrown with weeds. Grant opened the unlatched door—taking off his hat—and stood in the desolate kitchen. He sat down on the edge of the box-bed no one had thought it worth while to remove, and covered his face while memory awoke. The fire again burned on the hearth, and was reflected from the dishes on the opposite wall; the table was spread for supper, and he saw his wooden bicker with the black horn spoon beside it; Mary sat in her deep old armchair, and stirred the porridge sputtering in the pot; a rosy-cheeked laddie curled in a heap at his grandmother's feet saw great marvels in the magic firelight.

“Get up, Chairlie, an' we 'ill tak oor supper, an' then ye'ill feenish yir lessons. Domsie says ye hae the makin' o' a scholar, gin ye work hard eneuch, an' a' ken ye 'ill dae that for yir auld grannie's sake an' yir puir mither's, wunna ye, ma mannie?” but when her hand fell on his head, he rose suddenly and made for the other room, the “ben” of this humble home.

A little bit of carpet on the floor; four horsehair chairs, one with David and Goliath in crochet-work on its back; a brass fender that had often revealed to Mary the secret pride of the human heart; shells on the mantel-piece in which an inland laddie could hear the roar of the sea, with peacock's feathers also, and a spotted china dog which was an almost speaking likeness of the minister of Kildrummie; a mahogany chest of drawers—the chairs were only birch, but we can't have everything in this world—whereon lay the Family Bible and the Pilgrim s Progress and Rutherford's Letters, besides a box with views of the London Exhibition that were an endless joy. This was what rose before his eyes, in that empty place. Within the drawers were kept the Sabbath clothes, and in this room a laddie was dressed for kirk, after a searching and remorseless scrubbing in the “but,” and here he must sit motionless till it was time to start, while Mary, giving last touches to the fire and herself, maintained a running exhortation, “Gin ye brak that collar or rumple yir hair, peety ye, the 'ill be nae peppermint-drop for you in the sermon the day.” Here also an old woman whose hands were hard with work opened a secret place in those drawers, and gave a young man whose hands were white her last penny.

“Ye 'ill be carefu', Chairlie, an' a'll try tae send ye somethin' till ye can dae for yirsel, an', laddie, dinna forget... yer Bible nor yir hame, for we expect ye tae be a credit tae 's a'.” Have mercy, O God!

Within and without it was one desolation—full of bitter memories and silent reproaches—save in one corner, where a hardy rose-tree had held its own, and had opened the last flower of the year. With a tender, thankful heart, the repentant prodigal plucked its whiteness, and wrapped it in Jamie's letters.

Our kirkyard was' on a height facing the south, with the massy Tochty woods on one side and the manse on the other, while down below—a meadow between—the river ran, so that its sound could just be heard in clear weather. From its vantage one could see the Ochils as well as one of the Lomonds, and was only cut off from the Sidlaws by Tochty woods. It was not well kept, after the town's fashion, having no walk, save the broad track to the kirk door and a narrower one to the manse garden; no cypresses or weeping willows or beds of flowers—only four or five big trees had flung their kindly shadow for generations over the place where the fathers of the Glen took their long rest; no urns, obelisks, broken columns, and such-like pagan monuments, but grey, worn stones, some lying flat, some standing on end, with a name and date, and two crosses, one to George Howe, the Glen's lost scholar, and the other to William Maclure, who had loved the Glen even unto death. There was also a marble tablet let into the eastern wall of the church, where the first ray of the sun fell,

Beside the beech-tree where the fathers used to stand were two stones. The newer had on it simply “Lachlan Campbell,” for it was Lachlan's wish that he should be buried with Drumtochty. “They are good people, Flora,” he said the day he died, “and they dealt kindly by us in the time of our trouble.” But the older was covered with names, and these were the last, which filled up the space and left no space for another:

Charlie knelt on the turf before the stone, and, taking off his hat, prayed God his sins might be forgiven, and that one day he might meet the trusting hearts that had not despaired of his return.

He rose uncomforted, however, and stood beneath the beech, where Jamie Soutar had once lashed him for his unmanliness. Looking down, he saw the fields swept clean of grain; he heard the sad murmur of the water, that laughed at the shortness of life; withered leaves fell at his feet, and the October sun faded from the kirkyard. A chill struck to his heart, because there was none to receive his repentance, none to stretch out to him a human hand, and bid him go in peace.

He was minded to creep away softly and leave Drumtochty forever—his heart full of a vain regret—when he found there was another mourner in the kirkyard. An old man was carefully cleaning the letters of Maclure's name, and he heard him saying aloud:

“It disna maitter though, for he 's in oor herts an' canna be forgotten. Ye 've hed a gude sleep, Weelum, an' sair ye needed it. Some o's 'ill no be lang o' followin' ye noo.”

Then he went over to Geordie's grave and read a fresh inscription:

Margaret Howe, his mother.

“They're thegither noo,” he said softly, “an' content. O Marget, Marget,” and the voice was full of tears, “there wes nane like ye.”

As he turned to go, the two men met, and Grant recognised Drumsheugh.

“Gude nicht, Drumsheugh,” he said; “a' ken yir face, though ye hae forgotten mine, an' nae doot it 's sair changed wi' sin and sorrow.”

“Are ye Drumtochty?” and Drumsheugh examined Charlie closely; “there wes a day when a' cud hae pit his name on every man that cam oot o' the Glen in ma time, but ma een are no what they were, an' a'm failin' fast masel.”

“Ay, a' wes born an' bred in Drumtochty, though the pairish micht weel be ashamed o' ma name. A' cam tae visit ma dead, an' a'm gaein' awa for gude. Naebody hes seen me but yersel, an' a 'll no deny a 'm pleased tae get a sicht o' yir face.”

“Ye're no,” and then Drumsheugh held out his hand, “Chairlie Grant. Man, a'm gled a' cam intae the kirkyaird this day, and wes here tae meet ye. A' bid ye welcome for the Glen and them 'at's gane.”

“A'm no worthy, Drumsheugh, either o' them 'at's livin' or them 'at's dead, but Gude kens a've repentit, an' the grip o' an honest hand, an' maist o' a' yir ain, 'ill gie me hert for the days tae come.”

“Nane o's is worthy o' some of them 'at's lyin' here, Chairlie, naither you nor me, but it's no them 'at will be hardest on oor fauts. Na, na, they ken an' luve ower muckle, an' a 'm houpin' that's sae... wi' the Almichty.

“Man, Chairlie, it did me gude tae hear that ye hed played the man in Ameriky, and that ye didna forget the puir laddies o' Drumtochty. Ay, Jamie telt me afore he deed, an' prood he wes aboot ye. 'Lily's gotten her wish,' he said; 'a' kent she wud.'

“He wes sure ye wud veesit the auld Glen some day, an' wes feared there wudna be a freend tae gie ye a word. Ye wes tae slip awa tae Muirtown the nicht withoot a word, an' nane o's tae ken ye hed been here? Na, na, gin there be a cauld hearth in yir auld hame, there 's a warm corner in ma hoose for Lily's brither,” and so they went home together.

When they arrived, Saunders was finishing the last stack, and broke suddenly into speech.

“Ye thocht, Drumsheugh, we would never get that late puckle in, but here it is, safe and soond, an' a'll warrant it 'ill buke (bulk) as weel as ony in the threshin'.”

“Ye're richt, Saunders, and a bonnie stack it maks;” and then Charlie Grant went in with Drumsheugh to the warmth and the kindly light, while the darkness fell upon the empty harvest field, from which the last sheaf had been safely garnered.