Mary Robertson's brave fight to bring up her orphaned grandchildren had won her the silent respect of the Glen, and when it was reported that Lily had obtained a place in London, and would leave in three weeks, the fathers gave themselves to the incident on all its sides.

“Nae wumman in the pairish hes dune her duty better than Mary,” said Drumsheugh, with authority. “She's been an example tae every man o's. It's auchteen year laist Martinmas sin' her dochter's man ran aff and his puir wife came hame tae dee, leavin' her mother wi' the chairge o' sax young bairns. Ye canna dae't withoot help, Mary,' says I tae her: 'ye 'ill need a bit allooance frae the pairish, an' a 'll get it for ye next Boord. A shilling a week ilka bairn 'ill gang a lang wy in yir hands.'

“'Thank ye, Drumsheugh.' She wes standing at her gate, and drew herself up straicht. 'An' a' the neeburs hev been freendly; but? there's never been ane o' ma bluid on the pairish, an' there never wull be sae lang as the Almichty leaves me ma reason and twa airms.

“'Mary had a puir life o't, an' she deed o' the disgrace her man pit on her. “A'm gaein' awa,” she said tae me, “an' a've juist ae thing tae ask, mither; dinna lat the bairns gae on the pairish; bring them up tae wark and tae respeck themsels.” A' gied her ma word, an' a 'll keep it.' She lookit graund, fouks,” wound up Drumsheugh.

“She's rael Drumtochty, is Mary,” remarked Jamie Soutar; “for doonricht pride an' thraun-ness ye 'ill no get their marra in Scotland. What for did she no tak the allooance? She wud hae been a gude few notes the better a' thae years: mony an 'oor's wark she micht hae spared hersel'.

“Noo gin Mary hed been a wumman wi' a proper speerit o' humility and kent her place, she wud hae gruppit a' she cud get, and beggit frae the neeburs, an' gotten on better than ever. But if she didna sit up at nicht makin' the bairns' claithes, and wark in the fields a' day tae earn their schuling, an' a' tae keep her independence, as they ca't. A 've seen Mary come intae kirk wi' the sax bairns afore her, an' she cudna hae cairried her head higher hed she been the Coontess o' Kilspindie.

“A'm judgin' this kind o' speerit's in the verra air o' the Glen, for there's juist twa auld weemen on the pairish; ane o' them's blind, the ither's had a stroke; naither o' them hes a freend, an' baith o' them murn every day they canna wark.”

“Mary's an able wumman,” broke in Hillocks, who was much given to practical detail; “a've seen her hens layin' in the dead o' winter, and she hed a coo, a' mind, 'at gied half as muckle milk again as ony coo in oor toon. As for plannin' she got ma Sunday blacks when they were gey far through wi't, an' gin she didna juist mak a jacket for Chairlie 'at did him for ten year; a'm dootin' she hes tae pay for him yet: he's no the help he micht hae been as far as a' can mak oot; eh, Drumsheugh?”

“Gin it wesna for him daein' naethin' and livin' on his faimily, Hillocks, Lily micht stay wi' her grannie, an' keep Mary comfortable in her auld age. But they aye cover him, baith his grannie and his sister, till ye wud think there wes never a better-daein' lad gied oot o' the Glen. Whatever they say among themsels, they 'ill no say a word ootside.”

What they did say in Mary Robertson's cottage that evening was sad enough.

“Weel, weel, lassie, there wes sax tae begin wi', an' twa died o' the dipthery—eh, but Doctor Maclure wes kind that time—and twa mairried and gied awa, an' Chairlie... in Ameriky, an' there's juist yersel left, and I wes trustin' ye wud stay wi' yir auld grannie an' close her een.”

“Dinna speak that foolish wy, grannie,” but Lily's voice had a break in it. “Ye 're lookin' fresher than mony a young wumman, an' ye ken a'm tae get hame at a time, maybe ilka three year.”

“It's a lang road, Lily, tae Lunnon, an' ill tae traivel; a' may be dead and buried afore ye come back, an' a 'll be terrible lonely, juist like a bird when the young anes are ta'en awa.”

“Gin ye say anither word a 'll fling up ma place, an' never gang in tae service ava; it's no ma wush tae leave the Glen an' gang sae far frae hame. But we maun py the man in Muirtown what Chairlie borrowed, else oor name 'ill be disgraced.”

“It's disgraced eneuch already with sic a useless fellow; he's his faither ower again—a fair face, a weel-dressed back, a cunning tongue, an' a fause heart. There's no a drop o' Robertson bluid in him, lassie; there's times a' wish he was dead,” and Mary's voice trembled with passion.

“Wisht, wisht, grannie; he's mither's only son, an' she wes prood o' him, a've heard ye say, an' he 'ill maybe mend; div ye ken a' wes juist imaginin' that he set tae work and githered a lot o' siller, an' paid back a' ye hae dune for him.

“Ye 'ill no be angry, but a' telt Marget Hoo ae day aboot oor tribble an' ma houp o' Chairlie—for ye canna look at Marget an' no want tae unburden yersel—an' she said, 'Dinna be ashamed o' yir dreams, Lily; they 'ill a' come true some day, for we canna think better than God wull dae.'”

“Marget Hoo is nearer the heart o' things than onybody in the Glen, an' a'm prayin' she may be richt. Get the bukes; it's time for oor readin'.” And Mary asked that “the heart o' him that wes far awa micht be turned tae gudeness, an' that he micht be a kind brother to his sister.”

No girl had gone to service in London before, and the Glen took a general interest in Lily's outfit. The wricht made her kist of sound, well-seasoned wood, and the Glen, looking in from time to time, highly approved of its strength and security. Sandie was particularly proud of an inner compartment which he had contrived with much ingenuity, and which was secured by a padlock whose key defied imitation.

“Noo, you see, if ony ill-conditioned wratch got intae the kist, he micht get a goon or a jaicket, but he wudna be able tae titch her siller. Na, na, what she wins she keeps; ma certes, that boxie 'ill beat them.”

“Ye ken what ye're aboot, wricht,” said Hillocks, who felt that one going to distant parts could hardly take too many precautions, “an' ye've turned oot a wise-like kist; sall, Lily, 'ill dae weel gin she fill it.”

Concerning the filling long and anxious consultations were held in Mary's kitchen, and Elspeth Macfadyen was called in as a specialist, because she had been once in service herself, and because her sister was cook in the house of the Provost of Muirtown.

“We maunna gang a saxpence intae debt,” and Mary laid down preliminary conditions, “an' a'thing sud be genuine, in an' oot—nae show on the back and poverty ablow; that's puir cleidin' (clothing) for Christian fouk.”

“Lily 's savit aucht pund at the Lodge, an' a' can spare twa or three. How mony dresses an' sic-like 'ill she need tae begin respectable, for the hoose an' the kirk?”

“Lily 'ill need twa prints for certain, an' ae black dress for the house, an' anither dress for gaein' oot tae kirk or tae see her freends. She wud be better o' a third print an' a second oot-side goon—for a bit change, ye ken. Then she maun hae a bonnet for Sabbath an' a hat tae gae oot a message in forby. The ither things she 'ill hae already,” for Elspeth had been going over the matter carefully for weeks; “ye 'ill be getting her things at Muirtown, an' a 'll be gied to gie ye ony help in ma poor.”

Three hours did they spend next Friday in the Muirtown shop, examining, selecting, calculating, till Lily's humble outfit was complete and Elspeth's full list overtaken, save the third print and a merino gown on which Mary had set her heart.

“We haena the means,” and Mary went over the figures again on her fingers, “an' sae ye maun juist wait. Gin the price o' butter keeps up, ye 'ill hae them afore the New Year, an' a 'll send them up in a bit parcel.... Havers, what sud a' stairve masel for? nae fear o' that; but keep's a' what's Drumsheugh aifter here?”

“Hoo are ye a' the day?” said the great man, fresh from a victory over a horse-dealer, in which he had wrested a price beyond the highest expectation of Drumtochty; “can ye gie me a hand wi' twa or three bit trokes, Elspeth?” and the two disappeared into the recesses of the shop.

“A' heard ye were here, an' a' wes wonderin' hoo the siller wes haudin' oot; naebody daur offer half-a-croon tae Mary; but she michtna mind Lily gettin' a bit present frae a neebur, juist tae hansel her new kist, ye ken,” and Drumsheugh pressed two notes into Elspeth's hands, and escaped from the strange place by a side door. When the parcel was opened that evening, for the joy of going over its contents, Mary turned on Elspeth in fierce wrath.

“What did ye dae this for, Elspeth Macfadyen? an' behind ma back. Ye ken a' didna pay for thae twa, and that a 'll no tak an ounce o' tea let alane twa goons withoot payment. Pit the goons up, Lily, an' a 'll gie them back the mornin', though a' hae tae walk the hale twal mile tae Muirtown.”

“Dinna be sae hysty, Mary.” Elspeth was provokingly calm. “Ye needna be feared that Drumsheugh didna pay for his order, and if he wanted tae gie the lassie a fairin', a' see nae use in flinging it back in his face; but ye maunna lat on tae himsel for the warld, or tell a livin' soul.”

When Lily's box was packed on Thursday evening, her grandmother would have slipped in all the household treasures that could be introduced between layers of soft goods, and sent the eight-day clock had it been a suitable equipment for a young woman entering service in London. The box was taken down to Kildrummie station in one of Drumsheugh's carts, padded round with straw lest the paint be scratched, but Hillocks came with his dog-cart and drove Lily down in state, carrying in her right hand a bunch of flowers from Jamie Sou-tar's garden, and in the other a basket containing a comb of honey left by Posty, without remark, a dozen eggs from Burnbrae, and two pounds of perfect butter from Mary's hand. These were intended as a friendly offering from the Glen to Lily's new household that she might not appear empty-handed, but the peppermints that filled her pocket were for herself, and the white milk scones on the top of the bag, with a bottle of milk, were to sustain Lily on the long journey. Mary shook hands with Lily twice, once at the cottage door and again after she had taken her place beside Hillocks, but Mary did not kiss Lily, for whom she would have died, and whom she did not expect to see again in this life; nor were their farewell words affecting.

“See that ye hae yir box richt libelled, Lily, an' ye 'ill need tae watch it at the junctions; keep the basket wi' the eggs in yir hands, for fear somebody sits on't; an', Lily, wumman, for ony sake haud yir goon aff the wheel when ye 're gettin' doon at Kildrummie. Is't comin' tae a shoor, Hillocks?”

“A' wudna say but there micht be a scowie afore nicht; it 'ill freshen the neeps fine.” And so Lily departed.

“But Mary went to a knowe that commanded the road, and watched Hillocks's dogcart cross Tochty bridge and go up the other side till it disappeared into the dark fir woods on the ridge. Then she went back to the kitchen, where everything spoke of her girl, and sat down by the lonely fireside and wept.

“It was a curious coincidence that Jamie Soutar had some “troke” in Muirtown that day, and travelled in the same carriage with Lily, beguiling her from sorrow with quaint stories and indirect shrewd advice. As he was rather early for his business, he had nothing better to do than see Lily off by the London express, adding to her commissariat a package of sweets from the refreshment room, and an illustrated paper from the bookstall. He shambled along beside her carriage to the extreme edge of the platform, and the last thing Lily Grant saw as she went forth into a strange land was Jamie waving his hand. It showed that the old man's memory was beginning to fail that, instead of going down to the town, he went back by the midday train to Kildrummie, giving Mary a cry in the evening, and assuring her that Lily was so far on her journey in “graund heart.”

It was covenanted between them that Lily should send Mary a “scrape o' the pen” on arrival—as an assurance that she was safe, and the eggs—and should write in a while at full length, when she had settled down to her work and found a kirk. The Glen waited for this letter with expectation, and regarded it as common property, so that when Posty delivered it to Mary he sat down without invitation, and indicated that he was ready to receive any titbits she might offer for his use.

“Lily's keepin' her health, but she's no awfu' ta'en up wi' the climate o' London; wud ye believe it, they hae the gas lichtit by two o'clock in the aifternoon, an' the fog's eneuch tae smoor ye; it's no veecious cauld though.”

“There's waur things than cauld,” said Posty, who had started that morning in twenty degrees of frost; “is she wearyin'?”

“Whiles a'm dootin', puir lassie; when she hes half an 'oor tae hersel, she gaes up tae her room and taks oot a pokie (bag) o' rose leaves we dried in the simmer. The smell o' them brings up oor bit gairden and me stannin', as plain as day, at the door. Fouk tak notions, a 've heard, when they 're far frae hame,” added Mary, by way of apology.

“Ay, ay,” and Posty looked steadily from him.

“It's eatin' an' drinkin' frae mornin' till nicht, Lily says; an' the verra servants hae meat three times a day, wi' beer tae their dinner. An' the wyste cowes a'; she says Elspeth Macfadyen wud get her livin' frae amang their feet.”

“A' dinna think muckle o' beer,” observed Posty; “there 's nae fusion in't; naither heat for the stamach nor shairpness for the intel-leck.”

“A set o' extravagant hizzies,” continued Mary; “fur on their jaickets, like leddies, an' no a penny in the bank. The meenut they get their wages, aff tae spend them on finery. Ane o' them borrowed five shillings frae Lily tae get her boots soled.”

“Lord's sake, that's no cannie,” and Posty awoke to the dangers that beset a young girl's path in the great Babylon; “tell Lily, whatever she dis, tae keep her haud o' her siller.”

“Ye 're richt there, Posty. Lily's juist ower saft-hearted, and she hes a gey lot o' trimmies tae deal wi'. Wud ye credit it, ilka ane o' them hes 'Miss' on her letters, an' gin freends come tae see them they maun ask for Miss this an' that; a' pit 'Lily Grant, Hoosemaid,' on ma letters.”

“Ye're wrang there, Mary,” interrupted Posty; “what for sud ye ca' doon yir ain, an' her sic a fine lassie? Ma opeenion is that a Drumtochty wumman hes as gude a richt tae Miss as her neeburs. Sall, gin a' catch ye sendin' aff anither 'Lily,' a'll whup in the Miss masel; but is there nae word aboot the kirks?” for Posty felt that these trifling details were keeping them from the heart of the matter.

“A'm comin' tae that, an' it's worth hear-in', for the ignorance o' thae London fouk is by ordinar. When she askit the near road tae the kirk, naebody in the hoose cud tell her whether it wes east or wast.”

Posty wagged his head in pity.

“So she gied oot and fell in wi' a polisman, an' as luck wud hae it, he wes a Scotchman. 'Come awa, lassie,' he said; 'a' see whar ye 've frae; it 's a mercy ye didna fa' intae the hands o' some of ma neeburs; they micht hae sent ye aff tae the Methodies, an' they wud hae gien ye a fricht wi' cryin' Hallelujah.'”

“A graund body for a' that,” interpolated Posty, “but clean astray on the decrees.”

“'Yonder 's the place,' says he, 'an' ye pit yir collection in a plate at the door—there 's nae ladles—but there 's a couthie wumman keeps the door in the gallery, an' she 'ill gie ye a seat.'

“She kent it wes her ain place when she saw a properly ordained minister in the pulpit, wi' his black goon and bonnie white bands; and when they started the Hundredth Psalm, her heart cam intae her mooth, an' she cudna sing a word.”

“Wes there an organ?” demanded Posty, with the manner of one who has a duty to perform, and must be on his guard against sentiment.

“A 'll no tell ye a lee, Posty, there wes, an' of coorse Lily didna like it, but she wes terrible pleased wi' the sermon. As for the organ, it juist boomilled awa, an' she never lat on she heard it.”

“Dis she gie the texts an' diveesions?” and Posty smacked his lips.

“It's no likely she wud forget that, aifter gaein' ower them ilka Sabbath nicht here sin she wes a wee bairnie. 'Faith without works is dead.' James, ye ken.”

“Ay, ay,” cried Posty, impatiently; “a testin' text; ye cudna hae a better tae jidge a a man by; hoo wes 't handled?”

“Three heads. First, 'True religion is a principle in the soul'—Posty nodded, 'that's faith.' Second, 'It is a practice in the life'—'warks.' murmured Posty. Third, 'Without a principle in the soul, there can't be a practice in the life.'”

“A' see naethin' wrang there, Mary; it's maybe no verra oreeginal, but that's naither here nor there; gin ye stand on yir head ye can aye see a new glen; it wis soond an' instructive. Did he titch on Paul and James? he wud be sure tae be reconcilin' them, gin he be ablow forty.”

“That's a' she writes on the sermon, but she gied intae the vestry wi' her lines, an' the minister wes rael kind tae her when he heard her tongue.

“His English slippit aff in a meenut, an' oot cam the auld tongue; he's a Perthshire man himsel, though frae the sooth end, an' his wife's second cousin is merried tae the minister o' Kildrummie's brother, so ye micht say he wes conneckit wi' Drumtochty.

“He telt her tae coont him a freend noo that she wes amang strangers, an' tae send for him in tribble, an' Lily declares that she gaed back that mornin' wi' her heart fu' of comfort an' gledness. So ye may tell the neeburs that Lily's daein' weel in London. She sends her respects tae Drumsheugh, and ye'ill say tae Jamie Soutar that Lily wes askin' for him.”

When Posty departed, Mary read the last part of Lily's letter slowly to herself.

“The minister's prayer took in a' kinds o' fouk, an' ae peteetion, a' thocht, wes for us, grannie: 'Remember any one about whom his friends are anxious '—and he stopped for half a meenut. Ye cud hae heard a preen (pin) fall, an' a' said tae masel, 'Chairlie.'

“Dinna be ower cast doon aboot him, nor gie up houp; he's young an' thochtless, an' he 'ill maybe tak a turn sune.

“A've savit five pund aff ma wages, an' a'm sendin't in a note, for a' didna want the fouk at the post-office tae ken oor affairs.

“Noo, gin ye be writin' Chairlie, will ye slip in a pund juist as a bit reminder o' his sister, an' the ither fower 'ill help tae py the Muirtown debt.

“Dinna think a'm scrimpin' masel or daein' onything mean. Aifter a've spent sax pund a year on claithes and little trokes, and three on ma kirk, a 'll hae aucht ower for the debt.

“When the laist penny's paid o' Chairlie's debt a 'll buy the best black silk in London for ye; an' gin a'm spared tae come hame tae the summer Sacrament, we 'ill gang thegither tae the table.”

“Twa silly weemen,” said Mary to herself, “for he's juist a ne'er-dae-weel... an' yet, gin he cam in noo, a' wud gie him the claithes aff ma back, an' sae wud Lily. For the look in his een an' the soon' o' his voice.”

II.—HOW SHE CAME HOME

When Jamie Soutar dropped into the smithy-one spring evening with an impracticable padlock, and mentioned casually that he was going to London next day, the assembled neighbours lost power of speech.

“Did ye say London, Jamie?” Hillocks was understood to have shown great presence of mind in unparalleled circumstances; “an' are ye in yir senses?”

“As sune as ye recover yir strength, smith,” said Jamie, taking no notice of fatuous questions, “a 'll be obleeged gin ye wud turn the key in this lock. It's a wee dour tae manage; a' hevna used ma bag sin a' gaed tae the saut water saxteen year past.”

“Did ye ever hear the like?” and the smith looked round the circle for support, refusing to treat Jamie's demand as an ordinary matter of business.

“What are ye glowerin' at me for as if a' wes a fairlie?” and Jamie affected anger; “hes a Drumtochty man no as muckle richt tae see the metropolis o' the country as ither fouk, gin he can pay his fare up an' doon?

“A've been wantin' tae see the Tooer o' London, whar mony a lord hes pairted wi' his heid, an' Westminster Abbey, whar the michty dead are lyin', an' the Hooses o' Parliament, whar they haver a hale nicht through, an' the streets, whar the soond o' feet never ceases.

“The fact is,” and Jamie tasted the situation to the full, “a 'm anxious tae improve ma mind, an' gin ye speak me fair a 'll maybe gie the Glen a lecture in the schulehoose in the winter time wi' a magic-lantern, ye ken.”

The neighbours regarded him with horror, and, after he had departed, united their wisdom to solve the mystery.

“Jamie's by himsel in the Glen,” summed up Hillocks, “an' hes a wy o' his ain. Ma thocht is that he juist took a notion o' seein' London, an' noo that we 've contered (opposed) him, Jamie 'ill go, gin it cost him ten notes.”

On his way home Jamie gave Mary Robertson a cry, who was sitting very lonesome and sad-like before her door.

“Hoo are ye, Mary? the smell o' spring's in the air, an' the buds are burstin' bonnie. Ye 'ill no hae heard that a 'm aff tae London the morrow, juist for a ploy, ye ken, tae see the wonders.”

As Mary only stared at him, Jamie offered explanations in atonement for his foolishness.

“Ye see a 've aye hed an ambeetion tae see the big warld that lies ootside oor bit Glen, for its far awa' soon' hes been often in ma ear. A 've savit a note or twa, an' a 'll get a glimpse afore a' dee.”

“It's a Providence, an' naethin' less than an answer tae prayer,” broke in Mary, in great agitation; “here hev I been murnin' that a' cudna get tae London masel, an' that a' kent naebody there, till ma heart wes weary in ma breist.

“Naethin' is sairer, Jamie, than tae ken that ane ye luve is lyin' ill amang strangers, wi' naebody o' her bluid tae speak a couthy word tae her, puir lassie, or gie her a drink. A' wes juist seein' her lyin' alane at the top of the big hoose, an' wushin' she wes wi 's a' in the Glen.”

“Posty said something aboot Lily bein' a wee sober,” Jamie remarked, with much composure, as if the matter had just come into his memory; “an' noo a' mind ye expeckit her hame for a holiday laist August. She wudna be wantin' tae traivel sae far north, a'm jalousin'.”

“Traivel!” cried Mary; “naebody cares for a long road gin it brings us hame; an' Lily wes coontin' she would come up wi' the Drumtochty fouk on the first Friday o' laist August. A' wes cleanin' up the place for a month tae hae 't snod, but she didna come, an' a'm fearin' she 'ill no be here again; a' hed a feelin' frae the beginnin' a' wud never see Lily again.

“Her letter cam on a Thursday afternoon when I was beginnin' tae air the sheets for her bed, an' when Posty gave it, I got a turn.

“Lily's no comin,' sit doon,” a' sed.

“Scarlet fever broke oot amang the bairns in the family, an' she thocht it her duty tae stay and help, for the hoose wes fu' o' nurses, an' the cairryin' wes by ordinar.”

“It wes a sacrifice,” said Jamie. “Lily never eneuch cared for hersel; the wark wud tell on her a 'll warrant.”

“Ma opeenion is that she's never got the better o' that month, an, Jamie, a' hevna likit her letters a' winter. It 's little she says aboot hersel, but she 's hed a hoast (cough) for sax months, an' a' gither her breath 's failin'.

“Jamie, a' hevna said it tae a livin' soul, but a 've hed a warnin' no langer back than laist nicht. Lily's deein', an' it wes London 'at hes killed her.

“Ye 'ill gae tae see her, Jamie; ye aye were a gude friend tae Lily, an' she likit ye weel. Write hoo she is, an' bring her back wi' you gin she can traivel, that a' may see her again, if it be the Lord's wull.”

“Dinna be feared o' that, Mary; a'll no come back withoot Lily,” and Jamie's air of resolution was some consolation.

Before he left, Jamie visited a sheltered nook in Tochty woods, and when he inquired for Lily Grant next day at the door of a London West-End house, there was a bunch of fresh primroses in his hand.

“Disna live here noo, did ye say? then what hae ye dune wi' Lily? a' maun get tae the boddom o' this,” and Jamie passed into the hall, the majestic personage at the door having no strength left to resist.

“Tell yir mistress this meenut that a freend hes come frae Drumtochty tae ask news of Lily Grant, an' wull wait till he gets them,” and Jamie's personality was so irresistible that the personage counselled an immediate audience.

“Grant's father, I suppose?” began Lily's mistress, with suspicious fluency. “No? Ah, then, some relative, no doubt? how good of you to call, and so convenient, too, for I wanted to see some of her family. She was an excellent servant, and so nice in the house; the others were quite devoted to her. But I never thought her strong. Don't you think London is trying to country-girls?”

Jamie did not offer any opinion.

“One of the children caught that horrid scarlet fever, and in the beginning of August, of all times, when we were going down to Scotland. Some of the servants had left, and the child had to be nursed here; there was lots of work, and it fell on Grant.

“She was going at that very time to her home—Drum something or other; or was it Ben?—it's always the one or the other when it isn't Mac.”

“Drumtochty is the name o' Lily's hame, an' her auld grandmither wes lookin' for her aifter three years' service.”

“Quite so; and that 's just what I said to her. 'Take your holiday, Grant, and we'll worry on somehow,' but she wouldn't go. We thought it so pretty of her, for servants are generally so selfish; and she really did wonderfully, as much as three women, do you know?”

“If it wudna hurry ye, wud ye tell me her address in London?”

“Of course; I 'm coming to that, but I felt you would like to hear all about her, for we had a great idea of Grant. It was a cold it began with, and one day I heard her coughing, and told her she must positively see a doctor; but Grant was very obstinate at times, and she never went.”

“It's possible that she didna ken ane. An' what cam o' her cough?”

“It was too dreadful, and they ought not to have taken me to the room. I could not sleep all night. Grant had broken a blood-vessel, and they thought she was dying.”

“Is Lily deid?” demanded Jamie.

“Oh no; how could you fancy such a thing? But our doctor said it was a very bad case, and that she could not live above a week. We were desolated to part with her, but of course she could not remain,—I mean, we knew she would receive more attention in a hospital. So you understand——”

“A' dae,” broke in Jamie, “fine; Lily workit for you an' yir bairns in a time o' need till a' the strength she brocht wi' her wes gane, an' then, when she wes like tae dee, ye turned her oot as ye wudna hae dune wi' ane o' yir horses. Ye 've a graund hoose an' cairry a high heid, but ye 've a puir, meeserable cratur, no worthy to be compared wi' the lass ye hev dune tae deith.”

“You have no right——” but Jamie's eyes went through her and she fell away; “she can—have her wages for—two months.”

“No one penny o' yir siller wull she touch beyond her lawful due; gie me the name o' the hospital, an' a 'll tak care o' oor puir lass ma-sel.”

When Jamie was told at the hospital that Lily had been taken away again in the ambulance next day to the house of the visiting physician, his wrath had no restraint.

“Is there nae place in this ceety whar a freendless lassie can rest till she gaes tae her laist hame?” and Jamie set off for the physician, refusing to hear any explanation.

“Hev a' an appointment wi' Sir Andra? Yes, a' hev, an' for this verra meenut.” So again he got access, for the virile strength that was in him.

“We have done all we could for her, but she has only a day to live,” said Sir Andrew, a little man, with the manner of a great heart; “she will be glad to see you, for the lassie has been wearying for a sight of some kent face.”

“Ye 're Scotch,” said Jamie, as they went upstairs, softening and beginning to suspect that he might be mistaken about things for once in his life; “hoo did ye bring Lily tae yir ain hoose?”

“Never mind that just now,” said Sir Andrew. “Wait till I prepare Lily for your coming,” and Jamie owned the sudden tone of authority.'

“One of your old friends has come to see you, Lily”—Jamie noted how gentle and caressing was the voice—“but you must not speak above a whisper nor excite yourself. Just step into the next room, nurse.”

“Jamie,” and a flush of joy came over the pale, thin face, that he would hardly have recognised, “this is gude... o' ye... tae come sae far,... a' wes wantin'... tae see a Drumtochty face afore a'-” Then the tears choked her words.

“Ou ay,” began Jamie with deliberation. “You see a' wes up lookin' aifter some o' Drumsheugh's fat cattle that he sent aff tae the London market, so of course a' cudna be here withoot giein' ye a cry.

“It wes a ploy tae find ye, just like hide-an'-seek, but, ma certes, ye hev got a fine hame at laist,” and Jamie appraised the dainty bed, the soft carpet, the little table with ice and fruit and flowers, at their untold value of kindness.

“Div ye no ken, Jamie, that a'm——” But Lily still found the words hard to say at three-and-twenty.

“Ye mean that ye hevna been takin' care o' yirsel, an' a' can see that masel,” but he was looking everywhere except at Lily, who was waiting to catch his eye. “Ye 'ill need to gither yir strength again an' come back wi' me tae Drumtochty.

“Ye ken whar thae floors grew, Lily,” and

Jamie hastily produced his primroses; “a' thocht ye micht like a sicht o' them.”

“Doon ablow the Lodge in the Tochty woods.... whar the river taks a turn... an' the sun is shinin' bonnie noo... an' a birk stands abune the bank an' dips intae the water.”

“The verra place, a couthy corner whar the first primroses coom oot. Ye hevna forgot the auld Glen, Lily. Dinna greet, lassie, or Sir An-dra 'ill be angry. Ye may be sure he 'ill dae a' he can for ye.”

“He hes, Jamie, an' mair than a' can tell; a' wud like Grannie an'... the fouk tae ken hoo a 'ave been treated... as if a' wes a leddy, an' his ain blude.

“When they laid me in the bed at the hospital, an' a' githered that... it wudna be lang, an' awfu' longin' cam intae ma hert... for a quiet place tae... dee in.

“It was a graund airy room, an' everybody wes kind, an' a' hed a'thing ye cud wish for, but... it gied against ma nature tae... wi' a' thae strangers in the room; oor hooses are wee, but they 're oor ain.”

Jamie nodded; he appreciated the horror of dying in a public place.

“Sir Andra cam roond and heard the accoont, an' he saw me greetin'—a' cudna help it, Jamie,—an' he read ma name at the tap o' the bed.

“'You 're from my country,' he said, but he didna need tae tell me, for a' caught the soond in his voice, an' ma hert warmed; 'don't be cast down, Lily;' a' coontit it kind tae use ma name; 'we 'ill do all we can for you.'

“'A' ken a'm deein',' a' said, 'an' a'm no feared, but a' canna thole the thocht o' slippin' awa in a hospital; it wud hae been different at hame.'

“'Ye 'ill no want a hame here, Lily;' it wes braid Scotch noo, an' it never soonded sae sweet; “an', Jamie”—here the whisper was so low, Jamie had to bend his head—“a' saw the tears in his een.”

“Rest a wee, Lily; a 'm followin'; sae he took ye tae his ain hoose an' pit ye in the best room, an' they've waitit on ye as if ye were his ain dochter;... ye dinna need tae speak; a' wudna say but Sir Andra micht be a Christian o' the auld kind, a' mean, 'I was a stranger, and ye took Me in.'”

“Jamie,” whispered Lily, before he left, “there's juist ae thing hurtin' me a wee; it's the wy ma mistress... hes treated me. A' tried tae be faithfu', though maybe a' didna answer the bells sae quick the laist sax months,... an' a' thocht she micht... hae peetied a lone cratur mair.

“It's no that a' hev ony cause o' complaint aboot wages or keep—a' wes twice raised, Jamie, an' hed a'thing a' needed, an' a'm no hurt aboot bein' cairried tae the hospital, for there were five stairs tae ma room, an'... it wudna hae been handy tae wait on me.

“Na, na, Jamie, a'm no onreasonable, but... a' houpit she wud hae come tae see me or... sent a bit word; gin a body's sober (weak) like me, ye like tae be remembered; it... minds you o' the luve o' God, Jamie,” and Lily turned her face away. “A' wes prayin' tae see a Drumtochty face aince mair, an' a've gotten that, an' gin ma mistress hed juist said,... “Ye've dune as weel as ye cud,... a' wudna ask mair.”

“Ye hae't then, Lily,” said Jamie, takingan instant resolution, “for a've been tae see yir mistress, an' a' wes fair... ashamed the wy she spoke aboot ye, being Drumtochty masel, an' no' wantin' tae show pride.

“As sure 's a'm here, she cudna find words for her thochts o' ye; it wes naethin' but yir faithfulness an' yir gude wark, hoo a'body liket ye an' hoo gratefu' she wes to you. A' wes that affeckit that a' hed tae leave.

“What wud ye say, wumman, gin yon graund lady hes been twice a-day at the hospital speirin' for you, kerridge an' a', mind ye; but ye ken they 're terrible busy in thae places, an' canna aye get time tae cairry the messages.

“But that's no a',” for the glow on Lily's face was kindling Jamie's inspiration, and he saw no use for economy in a good work. “What think ye o' this for a luck-penny? twenty pund exact, an' a' in goud; it looks bonnie glintin' in the licht,” and Jamie emptied on the table the store of sovereigns he had brought from Muirtown bank, without shame.

“The mistress surely never sent that... tae me?” Lily whispered.

“Maybe a' pickit it up on the street; they think awa in the country the verra streets are goud here. 'Give her this from us all,' were her verra words,” said Jamie, whose conscience had abandoned the unequal struggle with his heart. “'Tell her that she's to get whatever she likes with it, and to go down to her home for a long holiday.'”

“Did ye thank her, Jamie? Nae man hes a better tongue.”

“Ma tongue never servit me better; sall, ye wud hae been astonished gin ye hed herd me,” with the emphasis of one who stood at last on the rock of truth.

“A'm rael content noo,” Lily said, “but a' canna speak mair, an' a've something tae say that 'ill no keep till the morn.” and Jamie promised to return that evening.

Jamie waited in the hall till the last of the famous physician's patients had gone; then he went in and said:

“When a' entered this hoose ma hert wes sair, for a' thocht a defenceless lassie hed been ill-used in her straits, an' noo a' wud like to apologeese for ma hot words. Ye've dune a gude work the day that's no for the like o' me to speak aboot, but it 'ill hae its reward frae the Father o' the fatherless.”

“Toots, man, what nonsense is this you 're talking?” said Sir Andrew; “you don't understand the situation. The fact is, I wanted to study Lily's case, and it was handier to have her in my house. Just medical selfishness, you know.”

“A' micht hae thocht o' that,” and the intelligence in Jamie's eye was so sympathetic that Sir Andrew quailed before it. “We hev a doctor in oor pairish that's yir verra marra (equal), aye practeesin' on the sick fouk, and for lookin' aifter himsel he passes belief.”

“Juist Weelum Maclure ower again,” Jamie meditated, as he went along the street. “London or Drumtochty, great physeecian or puir country doctor, there's no ane o' them tae mend anither for doonricht gudeness. There's naebody 'ill hae a chance wi' them at the latter end; an' for leein' tae, a' believe Sir Andra wud beat Weelum himsel.”

When Jamie returned, Lily had arranged her store of gold in little heaps, and began at once to give directions.

“Ye maun py ma debts first, ye ken, Jamie; a' cudna... leave, thinkin' thpit a' wes awin' a penny tae onybody. Grannie aye brocht us up tae live sae that we cud look a'body in the face, and exceptin' Chairlie....

“Twal shilling tae the shoemaker, an honest, well-daein' man; mony a time he's telt me aboot John Wesley: and a pund tae the dressmaker; it's no a' for masel; there wes anither Scotch lassie,... but that disna maitter. Cud ye pay thae accounts the nicht, for the dressmaker 'ill be needin' her money?... It wes ma tribble hindered me;... a' started ae day, an' the catch in ma side,... a' hed tae come back.

“Noo there 's ma kirk, an' we maunna forget it, for a 've been rael happy there; ma sittin' wes due the beginnin' o' the month, and a' aye gied ten shillings tae the missions; an', Jamie, they were speakin' o' presentin' the minister wi' some bit token o' respect aifter bein' twenty-five years here. Pit me doon for a pund—no ma name, ye ken; that wud be forward; juist... 'A gratefu' servant lass.'

“Ye 'ill get some bonnie hankerchief or siclike for the nurse; it wudna dae tae offer her siller; an' dinna forget the hoosemaid, for she's hed a sair trachle wi' me. As for Sir Andra,... naething can py him.

“Here's five pund, and ye 'ill gie't tae Grannie; she kens wha it's for; it 'ill juist feenish the debt...

“Ye can haud yir tongue, Jamie. Wull ye write a line tae Chairlie, an' say... that a' wes thinkin' o' him at the end, an' expectin' him tae be a credit tae his fouk... some day; an', Jamie, gin he ever come back in his richt mind tae the Glen, ye 'ill... no be hard on him like ye wes laist time?”

“Chairlie 'ill no want a freend gin a' be leevin', Lily; is that a'? for ye 're tirin' yersel.”

“There's ae thing mair, but a'm dootin' it's no richt o' me tae waste Grannie's siller on't, for a' wantit tae leave her somethin' wiselike;... but, O Jamie, a've taken a longin'... tae lie in Drumtochty kirkyaird wi' ma mither an' Grannie.

“A' ken it's a notion, but a' dinna like thae cemetairies wi' their gravel roadies, an' their big monuments, an' the croods o' careless fouk, an' the hooses pressin' on them frae every side.”

“A' promised Mary,” broke in Jamie, “that a' wud bring ye hame, an a 'll keep ma word, Lily; gin it be God's wull tae tak yir soul tae Himsel, yir body 'ill be laid wi' yir ain fouk,” and Jamie left hurriedly.

Next morning Sir Andrew and the minister were standing by Lily's bedside, and only looked at him when he joined them.

“Jamie,... thank ye a',... ower gude tae... a servant lass,... tell them... at hame.”

Each man bade her good-bye, and the minister said certain words which shall not be written.

“Thae... weary stairs,” and she breathed heavily for a time; then, with a sigh of relief, “A'm comin'.”

“Lily has reached the... landing,” said Sir Andrew, and as they went downstairs no man would have looked at his neighbour's face for a ransom.

“A' wrote that verra nicht tae Drumsheugh,” Jamie explained to our guard between the Junction and Kildrummie; “an a 'm no sure but he 'ill be doon himsel wi' a neebur or twa juist tae gie Lily a respectable funeral, for she hes nae man o' her bluide tae come.

“Div ye see onything, Peter?” Jamie was in a fever of anxiety; “the Kildrummie hearse stands heich, an' it sud be there, besides the mourners.”

“Kildrummie platform's black,” cried Peter from the footboard; “the 'ill be twal gin there be a man; ye stick by ane anither weel up the wy; it's no often a servant is brocht hame for beerial; a' dinna mind a case sin the line opened.”

While they went through Kildrummie, Jamie walked alone behind the hearse as chief mourner, with a jealously regulated space of five feet between him and the neighbours; but as soon as the pine woods had swallowed up the procession, he dropped behind, and was once more approachable.

“Ye 've had a time o 't,” said Hillocks, treating Jamie as an ordinary man again; “wha wud hae thocht this wes tae be the end o' yir London jaunt? Sall!” and Hillocks felt himself unable to grapple with the situation.

“This is juist naethin',” with vague allusion to the arrival by railway and the Kildrummie hearse; “no worth mentionin' wi' the beginnin' o' the beerial at the ither end,” and Jamie chose Whinnie's box, out of three offered, to brace him for descriptive narrative.

“Ye maun understand,” began Jamie, knowing that he had at least four miles before it would be necessary for him to resume his position of solitary dignity, “that as sune as Lily turned ill she was taken tae the hoose o' a great London doctor, an' Sir Andra waited on her himsel; there 's maybe no' anither o' his patients withoot a title; a' herd him speak o' a Duchess ae day.

“When it wes a' over, puir lassie, if they didna fecht tae py for the beerial. The minister threipit wi' me that he hed a fund at his kirk for sic objects, a sonsy man wi' a face that pit ye in mind o' hame to look at it, but a' saw through his fund; it 's fearsome hoo Scotch folk 'ill lee tae cover gude deeds.”

“Div ye think he wud hae py'd it oot o' his ain pocket?” interrupted Hillocks.

“'Na, na,' at' said tae the minister,' for Hillocks was beneath notice, 'ye maun lat her mistress bear the beerial '—twenty pund, as a'm on this road, she gied; 'a faithfu' servant, she 's tae want for nothing;' it wes handsome, an' 'ill be maist comfortin' tae Mary.

“Ye saw the coffin for yersels,” and Jamie now gave himself to details; “the London hearse hed gless sides and twa horses, then a mourning-coach wi' the minister an' me; but that's the least o 't. What think ye cam next?”

“Some o' the neeburs walkin' maybe,” suggested Whinnie.

“Walkin',” repeated Jamie, with much bitterness, as of one who despaired of Drumtochty, and saw no use in wasting his breath; “juist so: ye 've hed mair rain here than in England.”

“Never mind Whinnie, Jamie,” intervened Drumsheugh; “we maun hae the rest o' the funeral; wes there another coach?”

“What wud ye say,” and Jamie spoke with much solemnity, “tae a private kerridge, an' mair than ane? Ay, ye may look.” allowing himself some freedom of recollection. “Sir Andra's wes next tae the coach, wi' the blinds drawn doon, and aifter it an elder's frae her kirk. He heard o' Lily through the minister, an' naething wud sateesfy him but tae dae her sic honour as he cud.

“Gaein' roond the corners o' the streets—a' cudna help it, neeburs—a' juist took a glisk oot at the window, an' when a' saw the banker's horses wi' the silver harness, a' wushed ye hed been there; sic respect tae a Drumtochty lass.

“Ye saw the lilies on the coffin,” wound up Jamie, doing his best to maintain a chastened tone. “Did ye catch the writin'—

Sir Andra's ain hand; an' Lily got nae mair than her due.”

When Jamie parted with Drumsheugh on the way home, and turned down the road to Mary's cottage, to give her the lilies and a full account of her lassie, Drumsheugh watched him till he disappeared.

“Thirty pund wes what he drew frae the Muirtown bank oot o' his savings, for the clerk telt me himsel, and naebody jalouses the trick. It 's the cleverest thing Jamie ever did, an' ane o' the best a've seen in Drumtochty.”

Drumtochty had a legitimate curiosity regarding the history of any new tenant, and Hillocks was invaluable on such occasion, being able to collect a complete biography during a casual conversation on the state of markets. No details of family or business were left out in the end, but there was an unwritten law of precedence, and Hillocks himself would not have condescended on the rent till he had satisfied himself as to the incomer's religion. Church connection was universal and unalterable in the Glen. When Lachlan Campbell had his argument with Carmichael, he still sat in his place in the Free Kirk, and although Peter Macintosh absented himself for a month from the Parish Kirk over the pew question, he was careful to explain to the doctor that he had not forgotten himself so far as to become a renegade.

“Na, na, a'm no coming back,” Peter had said after the doctor had done his best, “till ye 're dune wi' that stove, an' ye needna prig (plead) wi' me ony langer. What is the gude o' being a Presbyterian gin ye canna object? but a 'll give ye this sateesfaction, that though fa' dinna darken the kirk door for the lave o' ma life, a 'll no gang ony ither place.”

An immigrant was the only change in our church circles, and the kirkyard waited for the news of Milton's creed with appreciable interest.

“Weel, Hillocks?” inquired Drumsheugh, considering it unnecessary in the circumstances to define his question.

“Ou aye,” for Hillocks accepted his responsibility, “a' gied Tammas Bisset a cry laist Friday, him 'at hes the grocer's shop in the Sooth Street an' a' the news o' Muirtown, juist tae hear the price o' butter, and a' happened tae licht on Milton an' tae say he wud be an addee-tion tae oor kirk.”

“Did ye though?” cried Whinnie, in admiration of Hillocks's opening move; “that wes rael cannie, but hoo did ye ken?”

“'Gin he be a help tae Drumtochty Kirk,' says Tammas”—Hillocks never turned out of his way for Whinnie—“'it 's mair than he wes tae the Auld Kirk here in twenty year.'”

“The Free Kirk 'ill be pleased then,” broke in Whinnie, who was incorrigible; “they 'ill mak him a deacon: they're terrible for the Sustentation Fund.”

“'It's no lost, Tammas, that a freend gets,' says I,” continued Hillocks, “'an' we 'ill no grudge him tae the Free Kirk; na, na, we're no sae veecious that wy in the Glen as ye are in Muirtown. Ilka man sud hae his ain principle and py his debts.

“' He coonted the Free Kirk waur than the auld here, an' a'm thinkin' he's ower pleased wi' himself tae change up by; he 'ill show ye some new fashions, a'm judgin',' says Tammas.” And Hillocks ceased, that the fathers might face the prospect of a new religion.

“It 's no chancy,” observed Whinnie, collecting their mind.

“There wes a man doon Dunleith wy in ma father's time,” began Drumsheugh, ransacking ancient history for parallels, “'at wud hae naethin' tae dae wi' kirks. He preached himsel in the kitchen, an' bapteezed his faimily in the mill dam. They ca'd him a dookie (Baptist), but a 've heard there's mair than ae kind; what wud he be, Jamie?”

“Parteeklar Baptist,” replied that oracle; “he buried his wife in the stackyaird, an' opened vials for a year; gin Milton be o' that persuasion, it 'ill be a variety in the Glen; it 'ill keep's frae wearyin'.”

“The Dunleith man aye paid twenty shillings in the pund, at ony rate,” Drumsheugh wound up, “an' his word wi' a horse wes a warranty: a' dinna like orra releegions masel, but the 'll aye be some camsteary (unmanageable) craturs in the warld,” and the kirkyard tried to be hopeful.

Milton's first visit to the kirk was disappointing, and stretched Drumtochty's courtesy near unto the breaking. Hillocks, indeed, read Milton's future career in his conduct that day, and indulged in mournful prophecies at the smiddy next evening.

“Ye're richt eneuch, smith; that's juist what he did, an' a' took his measure that meenut. When he telt Drumsheugh that it wes nae time tae be speakin' o' hairst at the kirk door, an' offered us a bookie each, a' saw there wes somethin' far wrang wi' him. As sure as a'm stannin' here, he 'ill be a tribble in the pairish.

“The Milton seat is afore oors, an' a' saw a' he did, frae the beginnin' o' the sermon tae the end, an' a' tell ye his conduct wes scandalous. Ae meenut he wud shak his head at the doctor, as if he kent better than the verra minister; the next he wud be fleein' through his Bible aifter a text. He wes never at peace, naither sittin' nor standin'; he's juist an etter-cap. There's nae peace whar yon man is, a 'll warrant; a' never closed an ee laist Sabbath.”

It was into Jamie's hands Milton fell when he reviewed the sermon on the way home, and expressed his suspicion of ministers who selected texts on subjects like Mercy and Justice.

“We aye get that sermon aboot the latter end o' hairst, Milton, an' it's pop'lar; the fouk hae a great notion o' a gude life up here, an' they 're ill tae change. A'm no sayin' but ye 're richt, though, an' it 'ill be a help tae hae yir creeticism.

“Drumtochty is clean infatuat aboot the doctor, an' canna see onything wrang in him. He's been a' his days in the Glen, an' though he's no sae stirrin' as he micht be, the mischief o't is that he aye lives a' he preaches, an' the stupid bodies canna see the want.

“As for texts, the doctor 's nae doot aggravatin'; there's times a've wanted tae hae the Sermon on the Mount torn oot o' the Bible an' gude bits o' the Prophets; he's aye flingin' them in oor faces. Milton, a' tell ye,” and Jamie stood still on the road to give solemnity to his description of Doctor Davidson's defects, “if there's a moral text atween the boords o' the Bible, he 'ill hae a haud o 't.”

“A'm rael pleased tae hear sic soond views, Mister—”

“Soutar is ma name—Jamie maist commonly.”

“Soutar,” and Milton might be excused falling into the snare, “ye ken the difference atween a show o' warks an' the root o' the maitter. A' wes astonished at yir elder; when a' pointed oot the defects in the sermon, he said, 'Gin we dae a' the doctor telt us, we 'ill no be far wrang;' ye micht as weel be a heathen.'

“Drumsheugh is nae standard,” Jamie explained; “he's sae begottit (taken up) wi' the commandments that a'm feared o' him. He's clever at a bargain, but gin he thocht he hed cheatit onybody, Drumsheugh wudna sleep; it 's clean legalism.

“Ye micht try the Free Kirk, Milton; they 've a new man, an' he 's warmer than the doctor; he 's fund oot anither Isaiah, an' he's sae learned that he 'ill maybe hae twa Robbie Burns' yet; but that 's naither here nor there; he's young an' fu' o' speerit; gie him a trial,” Jamie discovered with much interest that Milton had been examining the Free Church, and had expressed his strong dissatisfaction, some said because of grossly erroneous doctrine, others because Carmichael had refused to allow him to preach. Doctrine was the ground he alleged to Jamie, who looked in to see how he had got settled and what he thought of things.

“A' peety this Glen,” he said, with solemnity; “ae place it 's cauld morality, an' the ither it's fause teaching. Div ye ken what a' heard wi' ma ain ears laist Sabbath frae Maister Carmichael?”

Jamie was understood to declare his conviction that a man who was not satisfied with one Isaiah might be capable of anything.

“Ye ken verra weel,” for Milton believed Jamie a kindred spirit at this stage, “that we 're a' here on probation, and that few are chosen, juist a handfu' here and there; no on accoont o' ony excellence in oorsels, so we maunna boast.”

“Verra comfortin' for the handfu',” murmured Jamie, his eyes fixed on the roof.

“Weel, gin yon young man didna declare in sae mony words that we were a' God's bairns, an' that He wes gaein' tae dae the best He cud wi' every ane o's. What think ye o' that?—nae difference atween the elect an' the ithers, nae preeveleges nor advantages; it's against baith scriptur an' reason.”

“He wes maybe mixin' up the Almichty wi' his ain father,” suggested Jamie; “a 've heard ignorant fouk say that a' the differ is that the Almichty is no waur than oor ain father, but oot o' a' sicht kinder. But whar wud ye be gin ye allooed the like o' that? half o' the doctrines wud hae tae be reformed,” and Jamie departed, full of condolence with Milton.

It was not wonderful after these trying experiences that Milton became a separatist, and edified himself and his household in his kitchen.

Perhaps the Glen might also be excused on their part for taking a somewhat severe view of this schismatic proceeding and being greatly stirred by a sermon of the doctor's—prepared especially for the occasion—in which the sin of Korah, Dathan, and Abiram was powerfully expounded, and Milton's corn room described as a “Plymouthistic hut.”

“Ma certes,” said Hillocks to Jamie on the way home, “the doctor's roosed. Yon wes an awfu' name he cam oot wi'; it's no verra cannie tae hae onything tae dae wi' thae preachin', paitterin' craturs.”

“There wes a sough through the pairish, Hillocks, that ye were ower by sittin' in the cauf-hoose (chaff-house) yersel laist week, an' that ye were extraordinar' ta'en up wi' Milton. Elspeth Macfadyen wes threipin' (insisting) that you an' Milton were thinkin' o' starting a new kirk. Miltonites wud be a graund name; a' dinna think it 's been used yet.”

“Elspeth's tongue's nae scannel.” Hillocks's curiosity had led him astray, and he was now much ashamed. “A' juist lookit in ae forenicht tae see what kin o' collie-shangie Milton wes cairryin' on, an' a' wes fair disgustit. He ran the hale time frae Daniel tae the Revelations, an' it wes a' aboot beasts frae beginnin' tae end. A rammelin' idiot, nae-thin' else,” and Hillocks offered up Milton as a sacrifice to the indignation of the Glen.

Shortly afterwards Hillocks began to make dark allusions that excited a distinct interest, and invested his conversation with a piquant flavour.

“It wes an ill day when his lordship lat yon man intae the pairish,” and he shook his head with an air of gloomy mystery. “A' wush a' saw him oot o 't withoot mischief. Oor fouk hev been weel brocht up, an' they 're no what ye wud ca' simple, but there s nae sayin'; weemen are easily carried.”

“Ay, ay,” said Jamie encouragingly.

“A'm telt,” continued Hillocks, “that the wratches are that cunnin' an' plausible they wud wile a bird aff a tree; they got intae a pairish in the Carse, and afore the year wes oot gin they didna whup aff three servant lassies tae Ameriky.”

“Div ye mean tae say that Milton...” and the fathers noticed how Jamie was guiding Hillocks to his point.

“Ye've said the word, Jamie, an' it's a gey like business for Drumtochty,” and it was known in twenty-four hours up as far as Glen Urtach that Hillocks had hunted Milton's religion to earth, and found him out to be a Morman.

This was considered one of Jamie's most successful efforts, and the Glen derived so much pure delight from the very sight of Milton for some weeks that he might have become popular had it not been for an amazing combination of qualities.

“His tracts are irritatin', an' no what we've been accustomed tae in Drumtochty”—Drums-heugh was giving judgment in the kirkyard—“but a' cud thole them. What a' canna pit up wi' is his whinin' an' leein'. A' never heard as muckle aboot conscience an' never saw sae little o't in this pairish.”

It was a tribute in its way to Milton that he alone of all men aroused the dislike of the kindest of parishes, so that men fled from before his face. Hillocks, who was never happy unless he had two extra on his dogcart, and unto that end only drew the line at tramps, would pass with a bare compliment on board, and drop the scantiest salutation.

“Hoo are ye the day, Milton? a' doot it's threatenin' a shoor.”

Drumsheugh had been known to disappear into a potato field at Milton's approach, under pretence of examining the tubers, while Bumbrae, who was incarnate charity, and prejudiced in favour of anything calling itself religion, abandoned this “professor” in regretful silence. Drumtochty was careful not to seat themselves in the third until Milton had taken his place, when they chose another compartment, until at last Peter used to put in this superior man with Kildrummie to avoid delay. It was long before Milton realised that Drumtochty did not consider his company a privilege, and then he was much lifted, seeing clearly the working of conscience in a benighted district.

“Milton hes been giein' oot in Muirtown that he's thankfu' he wes sent tae Drumtochty,” Jamie announced one Sabbath, with chastened delight, “an' that his example wes affectin' us already. 'They daurna face me in the verra train,' says he tae Tammas Bisset; 'it's the first time yon fouk ever came across a speeritual man. They're beginnin' tae revile, an' we ken what that means; a' never thocht a' wud hae the honour of persecution for righteousness' sake.' That 's his ain mind on't, an' it's a comfort tae think that Milton's contented.”

“A've kent anc or twa fair leears in ma time,” reflected Hillocks, “but for a bare-face—”

“Persecuted is a lairge word,” broke in Drumsheugh, “ay, an' a graund tae, an' no fit for Milton's mooth. Gin he named it tae me, a'd teach him anither story. A foumart (pole cat) micht as weel speak o' persecution when he's hunted aff the hillside.

“Na, na,” and Drumsheugh set himself to state the case once for all, “we 've oor faults maybe in Drumtochty,” going as far by way of concession as could be expected, “but we 're no juist born fules; we 've as muckle sense as the chuckies, 'at ken the differ atween corn an' chaff wi' a luke.”

Jamie indicated by a nod that Drumsheugh was on the track.

“Noo there's ane o' oor neeburs,” proceeding to illustration, “'at lectures against drink frae ae new year tae anither. He's a true man, an' he luves the Glen, an' naebody 'ill say an ill word o' Airchie Moncur—no in this kirk-yaird at ony rate.”

“A fine bit craiturie,” interjected Hillocks, whom Archie had often besought in vain to take the pledge for example's sake, being an elder.

“Weel,” resumed Drumsheugh, “there's anither neebur, an' a 'm telt that his prayer is little ahint the minister's at the Free Kirk meetin's, and a' believe it, for a gude life is bund tae yield a good prayer. Is there a man here that wudna be gled tae stand wi' Burnbrae in the Jidgment?”

“A'm intendin' tae keep as close as a' can masel,” said Jamie, and there was a general feeling that it would be a wise line.

“It's no Milton's preachin' Drumtochty disna like, but his leein', an' that Drumtochty canna abide. Nae man,” summed up Drumsheugh, “hes ony richt tae speak aboot re-leegion ye canna trust in the market.”

So it came to pass that Milton counted Drumtochty as an outcast place, because they did not speak about the affairs of the life to come, and Drumtochty would have nothing to do with Milton, because he was not straight in the affairs of the life which now is. Milton might have gone down to the grave condemning and condemned had it not been for his sore sickness, which brought him to the dust of death, and afforded Drumsheugh the opportunity for his most beneficent achievement.

“They think he may come roond wi' care,” reported Drumsheugh, “but he 'ill be wakely for twa month, an' he'ill never be the same man again; it's been a terrible whup.” But the kirkyard, for the first time in such circumstances, was not sympathetic.

“It's a mercy he's no been taken awa,” responded Hillocks, after a distinct pause, “an' it 'ill maybe be a warnin' tae him; he's no been unco freendly sin he cam intae the Glen, either wi' his tongue or his hands.”

“A'm no sayin' he hes, Hillocks, but it's no a time tae cuist up a man's fauts when he's in tribble, an' it's no the wy we've hed in Drumtochty. Milton's no fit tae meddle wi' ony-body noo, nor, for that maitter, tae manage his ain business. There's no mair than twa, acre seen the ploo; a'm dootin' the 'll be a puir sowin' time next spring at Milton.”

“Gin he hedna been sic a creetical an' ill-tongued body the Glen wud sune hae cleared up his stubble; div ye mind when Netherton lost his horses wi' the glanders, an' we jined an' did his plooin'? it wes a wise-like day's wark.”

“Yir hert's in the richt place,” said Drums-heugh, ignoring qualifications; “we'll haud a plooin' match at Milton, an' gie the cratur a helpin' hand. A'm willin' tae stand ae prize, an' Burnbrae 'ill no be behind; a' wudna say but Hillocks himsel micht come oot wi' a five shillin' bit.”

They helped Milton out of bed next Thursday, and he sat in silence at a gable window that commanded the bare fields. Twenty ploughs were cutting the stubble into brown ridges, and the crows followed the men as they guided the shares with stiff resisting body, while Drumsheugh could be seen going from field to field with authority.

“What's this for?” inquired Milton at length; “naebody askit them, an'... them an' me hevna been pack (friendly) thae laist twa years.”

“It's a love-darg,” said his wife, “because ye've been sober (ill), they juist want to show kindness, bein' oor neeburs. Drumsheugh, a' hear, set it agaein', but there's no a fairmer in the Glen hesna a hand in't wi' horses or sic-like.”

Milton made no remark, but he was thinking, and an hour before midday he called for his wife.

“It's rael gude o' them, an', wumman, it's mair than... a' wud hae dune for them. An', Eesie,... gither a'thing thegither ye can get, and gie the men a richt dinner, and bid Jeemes see that every horse hes a feed o' corn... a full ane; dinna spare onything the day.”

It was a point of honour on such occasions that food for man and beast should be brought with them, so that there be no charge on their neighbour, but Drumsheugh was none the less impressed by Milton's generous intentions. When he told Hillocks, who was acting as his aide-de-camp, that worthy exclaimed, “Michty,” and both Drumsheugh and Hillocks realised that a work of grace had begun in Milton.

He refused to lie down till the men and horses went out again to work, and indeed one could not see in its own way a more heartening sight. Pair by pair our best horses passed, each with their own ploughman, and in a certain order, beginning with Saunders, Drumsheugh's foreman, full of majesty at the head of the parish, and concluding with the pair of hardy little beasts that worked the uplands of Bogleigh. A fortnight had been spent on preparation, till every scrap of brass on the high-peaked collars and bridles glittered in the sunlight, and the coats of the horses were soft and shiny. The tramp of the horses' feet and the rattle of the plough chains rang out in the cold November air, which had just that touch of frost which makes the ground crisp for the ploughshare. The men upon the horses were the pick of the Glen for strength, and carried themselves with the air of those who had come to do a work. Drumsheugh was judge, and Saunders being therefore disqualified, the first prize went to young Burnbrae, the second to Netherton's man, and the third to Tammas Mitchell—who got seven and sixpence from Hillocks, and bought a shawl for Annie next Friday. Drumsheugh declared it was rig for rig the cleanest, quickest, straightest work he had seen in Drumtochty, and when the ploughs ceased there was not a yard of oat stubble left on Milton.

After the last horse had left and the farm was quiet again—no sign of the day save the squares of fresh brown earth—Drumsheugh went in alone—he had never before crossed the door—to inquire for Milton and carry the goodwill of the Glen. Milton had prided himself on his fluency, and had often amazed religious meetings, but now there was nothing audible but “gratefu'” and “humbled,” and Drumsheugh set himself to relieve the situation.

“Dinna mak sae muckle o 't man, as if we hed worked yir fairm for a year an' savit ye frae beggary. We kent ye didna need oor help, but we juist wantit tae be neeburly an' gie ye a lift tae health.

“A'body is pleased ye 're on the mend, and there's no ane o 's that wudna be prood tae dae ony troke for ye till ye 're able tae manage for yersel; a 'll come roond masel aince a week an gie a look ower the place.” Milton said not one word as Drumsheugh rose to go, but the grip of the white hand that shot out from below the bed-clothes was not unworthy of Drumtochty.

“Ye said, Hillocks, that Milton wes a graund speaker,” said Drumsheugh next Sabbath, “an' a' wes expectin' somethin' by ordinar on Thursday nicht, but he hedna sax words, an' ilka ane wes separate frae the ither. A 'm judgin' that it's easy tae speak frae the lips, but the words come slow and sair frae the hert, an' Milton hes a hert; there's nae doot o' that noo.”

On the first Sabbath of the year the people were in the second verse of the Hundredth Psalm, when Milton, with his family, came into the kirk and took possession of their pew. Hillocks maintained an unobtrusive but vigilant watch, and had no fault to find this time with Milton. The doctor preached on the Law of Love, as he had a way of doing at the beginning of each year, and was quite unguarded in his eulogium of brotherly kindness, but Milton did not seem to find anything wrong in the sermon. Four times—Hillocks kept close to facts—he nodded in grave approval, and once, when the doctor insisted with great force that love did more than every power to make men good, Milton was evidently carried, and blew his nose needlessly. Hillocks affirmed stoutly that the crumpled pound note found in the recesses of the ladle that day came from Milton, and corroborative evidence accumulated in a handsome gown sent to Saunders' wife for the lead he gave the ploughs that famous day, and a box of tea, enough to last her time, received by blind old Barbara Stewart. Milton was another man, and when he appeared once more at the station and went into a compartment left to Kildrummie, Drumsheugh rescued him with a show of violence and brought him into the midst of Drumtochty, who offered him exactly six different boxes on the way to the Junction, and reviewed the crops on Milton for the last two years in a distinctly conciliatory spirit.

Milton fought his battle well, and only once alluded to the past.

“It wes ma misfortune,” he said to Drumsheugh, as they went home from kirk together, “tae mix wi' fouk that coonted words mair than deeds, an' were prooder tae open a prophecy than tae dae the wull o' God.

“We thocht that oor knowledge wes deeper an' oor life better than oor neeburs', an' a've been sairly punished. Gin a' hed been bred in Drumtochty, a' micht never hae been a byword, but a' thank God that ma laist years 'ill be spent amang true men, an', Drumsheugh, a'm prayin' that afore a' dee a' also may be... a richt man.”

This was how Drumsheugh found Milton walking in crooked paths and brought him into the way of righteousness, and Milton carried himself so well afterwards that Drumsheugh had only one regret, and that was that Jamie Soutar had not lived to see that even in Milton there was the making of a man.