It was, as we have said, a lovely summer morning when Colin set out on his excursion, after the fatigues of the winter and spring. His first stage was naturally Ramore, where he arrived the same evening, having picked up Lauderdale at Glasgow on his way. A more beautiful evening had never shone over the Holy Loch; and, as the two friends approached Ramore, all the western sky was flaming behind the dark hills, which stood up in austere shadow, shutting out from the loch and its immediate banks the later glories of the sunset. To leave the eastern shore, where the light still lingered, and steal up under the shadow into the soft beginning of the twilight, with Ramore, that “shines where it stands,” looking out hospitably from the brae, was like leaving the world of noise and commotion for the primitive life, with its silence and its thoughts; and so, indeed, Colin felt it, though his world was but another country parish, primitive enough in its ways. But then it must not be forgotten that there is a difference between the kingdom of Fife, where wheat grows golden on the broad fields, and where the herrings come up to the shore to be salted and packed in barrels, and the sweet Loch half hidden among the hills, where the cornfields are scant and few, and where grouse and heather divide the country with the beasts and the pastures, and where, in short, Gaelic was spoken within the memory of man. Perhaps there was something of the vanity of youth in that look of observation and half amused, half curious criticism which the young man cast upon the peaceful manse, where it did not seem as if anything could ever happen, and where the minister, who had red hair, had painfully begun his career when Colin himself was a boy. The manse of Afton was not nearly so lovely, but—it was different; though perhaps he could not have told how. And the same thought was in his mind as he went on past all the tranquil houses. How did they manage to keep existing, those people for whom life was over, who had ceased to look beyond the day, or to anticipate either good or evil? To be sure all this was very unreasonable; for Colin was aware that things did happen now and then on the Holy Loch. Somebody died occasionally, when it was impossible to help it, and by turns somebody was born, and there even occurred, at rare intervals a marriage, with its suggestion of life beginning; but these domestic incidents were not what he was thinking of. Life seemed to be in its quiet evening over all that twilight coast; and then it was the morning with Colin, and it did not seem possible for him to exist without the hopes, and motives, and excitements which made ceaseless movement and commotion in his soul. He was so full of what had to be done, even of what he himself had to do, that the silence seemed to recede before him, and to rustle and murmur round him as he carried into it his conscious and restless life.

Colin had even such a wealth of existence to dispose of that it kept flowing on in two or three distinct channels, a thing which amused him when he thought of it. For underneath all this sense of contrast, and Lauderdale’s talk, and his own watch for the Ramore boat, No. 1 of the “Tracts for the Times” was at the same time shaping itself in Colin’s brain; and there are moments when a man can stand apart from himself, and note what is going on in his own mind. He was greeting the old friends who recognised him in the steamboat, and looking out for home, and planning his tract, and making that contrast between the evening and the morning all at the same moment. And at the same time he had taken off the front of his mental habitation, and was looking at all those different processes going on in its different compartments with a curious sense of amusement. Such were the occupations of his mind as he went up to the Loch, to that spot where the Ramore boat lay waiting on the rippled surface. It was a different homecoming from any that he had ever made before. Formerly his prospects were vague, and it never was quite certain what he might make of himself. Now he had fulfilled all the ambitions of his family, as far as his position went. There was nothing more to hope for or to desire in that particular; and, naturally, Colin felt that his influence with his father and brothers at least would be enhanced by the realization of those hopes, which, up to this time, had always been mingled with a little uncertainty. He forgot all about that, it is true, when he grasped the hands of Archie and of the farmer, and dashed up the brae to where the Mistress stood wistful at the door; but, notwithstanding, there was a difference, and it was one which was sufficiently apparent to all. As for his mother, she smoothed down the sleeve of his black coat with her kind hand, and examined with a tender smile the cut of the waistcoat which Colin had brought from Oxford—though, to tell the truth, he had still a stolen inclination for “mufti,” and wore his uniform only when a solemn occasion occurred like this and on grand parade; but, for all her joy and satisfaction at sight of him, the Mistress still looked a little shattered and broken, and had never forgotten—though Colin had forgotten it long ago—the “objections” of the parish of Afton, and all that her son had had “to come through,” as she said, “before he was placed.”

“I’m awfu’ shaken in my mind about a’ that,” said the Mistress; “there’s the Free Kirk folk—though I’m no for making an example of them—fighting among themselves about their new minister, like thae puir senseless creatures in America. Thamas, at the Millhead, is for the ae candidate, and his brother Dugald for the tither; and they’re like to tear each other’s een out when they meet. That’s ill enough, but Afton’s waur. I’m no for setting up priests, nor making them a sacerdotal caste as some folk say; but will you tell me,” said Mrs. Campbell, indignantly, “that a wheen ignorant weavers and canailye like that can judge my Colin? ay, or even if it was thae Fife farmers driving in their gigs. I would like to ken what he studied for and took a’ thae honours, and gave baith time and siller, if he wasna to ken better than the like of them? I’m no pretending to meddle with politics that are out of my way—but I canna shut my een,” the Mistress said, emphatically. “The awfu’ thing is that we’ve nae respect to speak of for onything but ourselves; we’re so awfu’ fond of our ain bit poor opinions, and the little we ken. If there was ony change in our parish—and the minister’s far from weel, by a’ I can hear—and that man round the point at the English chapel wasna such an awfu’ haveril—I would be tempted to flee away out of their fechts and their objections, and get a quiet Sabbath day there.”

“I’m no for buying peace so dear, for my part,” said Lauderdale; “they’re terrible haverils, most of the English ministers in our pairts, as the Mistress says. We’re a’ in a kind of dissenting way now-a-days, the mair’s the pity. Whisht a moment, callant, and let a man speak.—I’m no saying onything against dissent; it’s a wee hard in its ways, and it has an awfu’ opinion of itsel’, and there’s nae beauty in it; but, when your mind’s made up to have popular rights and your ain way in everything, I canna see onything else for it, for my part.”

“Weel, we’ll a’ see,” said big Colin, who in his heart could not defend an order of ecclesiastical economy which permitted his son to be assaulted by the parish of Afton, or any other parish, “if it’s the will of God. We’re none of us so awfu’ auld; but the world’s aye near its ending to a woman that sees her son slighted; there’s nae penitence can make up for that—no that he’s suffered much that I can see,” the farmer said with a laugh. “There’s enough of the Kirk for one night.”

“Eh, Colin, dinna be so worldly,” said his wife; “I think whiles it would be an awfu’ blessing if the world was to end as you say; and a thing be cleared up, and them joined again that had been parted, and the bonnie earth safe through the fire—if it’s to be by fire,” she added with a questioning glance towards her son; “I canna think but it’s ower good to be true. When I mind upon a’ we’ve to go through in this life, and a’ that is so hard to mend;—eh, if He would but take it in His ain hand!” said the Mistress with tears in her eyes. No one was so hard-hearted as to preach to her at that moment, or to enlarge upon the fact that everything was in His hand, as indeed she knew as well as her companions; but it happens sometimes that the prayers and the wishes which are out of reason, are those that come warmest, and touch deepest, to the heart.

But, meanwhile, awaiting the end of the world, Colin, when he was settled for the night in his old room, with its shelving roof, took out and elaborated his Tract for the Times. It was discontent as great as that of his mother’s which breathed out of it; but then hers was the discontent of a life which had nothing to do or to look for, and which had found out by experience how little progress can be made in a lifetime, and how difficult it is to change evil into good. Colin’s discontent, on the contrary, was that exhilarating sentiment which stimulates youth, and opens an endless field of combat and conquest. At his end of the road it looked only natural that the obstacles should move of themselves out of the way, and that what was just and best should have the inevitable victory. When he had done, he thought with a tenderness which brought tears to his eyes, yet at the same moment a smile to his lips, of the woman’s impatience that would hasten the wheels of fate, and call upon God to take matters, as she said, in His own hand. That did not, as yet, seem a step necessary to Colin. He thought there was still time to work by the natural means, and that things were not arrived as such a pass that it was needful to appeal to miracle. It could only be when human means had failed that such a resource could be necessary; and the human means had certainly not failed entirely so long as he stood there in the bloom of his young strength, with his weapons in his hand.

He preached in his native church on the following Sunday, as was to be expected; and from up the Loch and down the Loch all the world came to hear young Colin of Ramore. And big Colin the farmer sat glorious at the end of his pew, and in the pride of his heart listened, and noted, and made inexorable criticisms, and commented on his son’s novel ideas with a severe irony which it was difficult to understand in its true sense. The Duke himself came to hear Colin’s sermon, which was a wonderful honour to the young man, and all the parish criticised him with a zest which it was exhilarating to hear. “I mind when he couldna say his Questions,” said Evan of Barnton; “I wouldna like to come under ony engagement that he kens them noo. He was aye a callant awfu’ fond of his ain opinion, and for my part I’m no for Presbyteries passing ower objections so easy. Either he’s of Heward’s school or he’s no; but I never saw that there was ony right decision come to. There were some awfu’ suspicious expressions under his second head—if you could ca’ yon a head,” said the spiritual ruler, with natural contempt; for indeed Colin’s divisions were not what they ought to have been, and he was perfectly open to criticism so far as that was concerned.

“A lot of that was out of Dennistoun,” said another thoughtful spectator. “I’m aye doubtful of thae misty phrases. If it wasna for hurting a’ their feelings, I would be awfu’ tempted to say a word. He’s no’ that auld, and he might mend.”

“He’ll never mend,” said Evan. “I’m no’ one that ever approved of the upbringing of thae laddies. They have ower much opinion of themselves. There’s Archie, that thinks he kens the price of cattle better than a man of twice his age. She’s an awfu’ fanciful woman, that mother of theirs—and then they’ve a’ been a wee spoiled with that business about the English callant; but I’ll no say but what he has abilities,” the critic added, with a national sense of clanship. The parish might not approve of the upbringing of the young Campbells, nor of their opinions, but still it had a national share in any reputation that the family or any of its members might attain.

Colin continued his course on the Monday with his friend. He had stayed but a few days at home, but it was enough, and all the party were sensible of the fact. Henceforward that home, precious as it was, could not count for much in his life. It was a hard thing to think of, but it was a necessity of nature. Archie and the younger sons greeted with enthusiasm the elder brother, who shared with them his better fortunes and higher place; but, when the greeting was given on both sides, there did not remain very much to say; for, to be sure, seen by Colin’s side, the young Campbells,—still gauche, and shamefaced, and with the pride of a Scotch peasant in arms, looked inferior to what they really were, and felt so—and the mother felt it for them, though Colin was her own immediate heir and the pride of her heart. She bade him farewell with suppressed tears, and a sense of loss which was not to be suppressed. “He has his ain hame, and his ain place, and little need of us now, the Lord be praised,” the Mistress said to herself as she watched him going down to the boat; “I think I would be real content if he had but a good wife.” But still it was with a sigh that she went in again and closed the door upon the departing boat that carried her son back to the world.