When Mrs Ogilvy reached, somewhat breathless, the height of the little brae on which her own door, standing wide open in the sunshine, offered her the usual unconscious welcome which that modest house in its natural condition held out to every comer, it was with a pang of disappointment she heard that Robert had gone out. For a moment her heart sank. She had been looking forward to the sight of him. She had felt that to-day, after her short absence, she would see him without prejudice, able to make allowance for everything, not looking any longer for her Robbie of old, but accustomed and reconciled to the new—the mature man into which inevitably in all these years he must have grown. She had hurried home, though the walk from the station was rather too much for her, to realise these expectations, eager, full of love and hope. Her heart fluttered a little: the light went out of her eyes for a moment; she sat down, all the strength gone out of her. But this was only for a moment. “To be sure, Janet,” she said, “he has gone in to Edinburgh to—see about his luggage. I mean, to get himself some—things he wanted.” Janet had a long face, as long as a winter’s night and almost as dark. Her mistress could have taken her by the shoulders and shaken her. What right had she to take it upon her to misdoubt her young master, or to be so anxious as that about him—as if she were one that had a right to be “meeserable” whatever might happen?

“Could he not have gane with you, mem, when you were going in yoursel’?”

“He was not ready,” said Mrs Ogilvy, feeling herself put on her defence.

“You might have waited, mem, till the next train——”

“If you will know,” cried Mrs Ogilvy, indignant, “my boy liked best to be free, to take his own way—and I hope there is no person in this house that will gainsay that.”

“Eh, mem, I’m aware it’s no for me to speak—but so soon, afore he has got accustomed to being at hame—and with siller in his pouch.”

“What do you know about his siller in his pouch?” cried the angry mistress.

“I saw the notes in his hand. He’s aye very nice to me,” said Janet, not without a little pleasure in showing how much more at his ease Robert was with her than with his mother, “and cracks about everything. He just showed me in his hand—as many notes as would build a kirk. He said: ‘See how liberal——’” Janet stopped here, a little confused; for what Robert had said was, “See how liberal the old woman is.” She liked to give her mistress the tiniest pin-prick, perhaps, but not the stab of a disrespect like that.

“I wish to be liberal,” said Mrs Ogilvy. “I am very glad he was pleased: and I knew he was going,—there was nothing out of the way about it that you should meet me with such a long face. I thought nothing less than that he must be ill after all his fatigues and his travels.”

“Oh, no a bit of him,” said Janet—“no ill: I never had ony fears about that.”

Mrs Ogilvy by this time had quite recovered herself. “He will have a good many things to do,” she said. “He will never be able to get back to his dinner. I hope he’ll get something comfortable to eat in Edinburgh. You can keep back the roast of beef till the evening, Janet, and just give me some little thing: an egg will do and a cup of tea——”

“You will just get your dinner as usual,” said Janet, doggedly, “as you did before, when you were in your natural way.”

When she was in her natural way! It was a cruel speech, but Mrs Ogilvy took no notice. She did not fight the question out, as Janet hoped. If she shed a few tears as she took off her things in her bedroom, they were soon wiped away and left no traces. Robbie could not be tied to her apron-strings. She knew that well, if Janet did not know it. And what could be more natural than that he should like to buy his clothes and get what he wanted by himself, not with an old wife for ever at his heels? She strengthened herself for a quiet day, and then the pleasure of seeing him come back.

But it was wonderful how difficult it was to settle for a quiet day. She had never felt so lonely, she thought, or the house so empty. It had been empty for fifteen years, but it was long since she had felt it like this, every room missing the foot and the voice and the big presence, though it was but two days since he came back. But she settled herself with an effort, counting the trains, and making out that before five o’clock it would be vain to look for him. He would have to go to the tailor’s, and to buy linen, and perhaps shoes, and a hat—maybe other things which do not in a moment come to a woman’s mind. No; it could not be till five o’clock, or perhaps even six. He would have a great many things to do. She would not even wonder, she said to herself, if it were later. He would, no doubt, just walk about a little and look at things that were new since he went away. There were some more of these statues in the Princes Street Gardens. Mrs Ogilvy did not care for them herself, but Robbie would. A young man, noticing everything, he would like to see all that was new.

A step on the gravel roused her early in the afternoon—the swing of the gate, and the sound of the gradually nearing footstep. Ah, that was him! earlier than she had hoped for, knowing she would be anxious, making his mother’s heart to sing for joy. She watched discreetly behind the curtain, that he might not think she was looking out for him, or had any doubts about his early return. Poor Mrs Ogilvy! she was well used to that kind of disappointment, but it seemed like a blow full in her face now, a stroke she had not the least expected, when she saw that it was not Robbie that was coming, but the minister—the minister of all people—who had the right of old friendships to ask questions, and to have things explained to him, and who was doubtless coming now to ask if she had been ill yesterday,—for when had it happened before that she had not been in her usual place in the kirk? She sat down faint and sick, but after a moment came round again, saying to herself that it would have been impossible for Robbie to get back so soon, and that she richly deserved a disappointment that she had brought on herself. When Mr Logan came in she was seated in her usual chair (she had moved it from its old place since Robert seemed to like that, placing for him a bigger chair out of the dining-room, which suited him better), and having her usual looks, so that he began by saying that he need not ask if she had been unwell, for she was just as blooming as ever. Having said this, the minister fell into a sort of brown study, with a smile on his face, and a look which was a little sheepish, as if he did not know what more to say. He asked no questions, and he did not seem even to have heard anything, for there was no curiosity in his face. Mrs Ogilvy made a few short remarks on the weather, and told him she had been in Edinburgh that morning, which elicited from him nothing more than a “Dear me!” of the vaguest interest. Not a word about Robbie, not a question did he ask. She had been alarmed at the idea of these questions. She was still more alarmed and wondering when they did not come.

“I had a call from Susie—the other day,” she said at last. Was it possible that it was only on Saturday—the day that was now a marked day, above all others, the day that Robbie came home!

“Ay!” said the minister, for the first time looking up. “Would she have anything to tell you? I’m thinking, Mrs Ogilvy, Susie has no secrets from you.”

“I never heard she had any secrets. She is a real upright-minded, well-thinking woman. I will not say bairn, though she will always be a bairn to me——”

“No, she’s no bairn,” said the minister, shaking his head. “Two-and-thirty well-chappit, as the poor folk say. She should have been married long ago, and with bairns of her own.”

“And how could she be married, I would like to ask you,” cried Mrs Ogilvy, indignant, “with you and your family to look after? And never mother has done better by her bairns than Susie has done by you and yours.”

“I am saying nothing against that. I am saying she has had the burden on her far too long. I told you before her health is giving way under it,” the minister said. He spoke with a little heat, as of a man crossed and contradicted in a statement of fact of which he was sure.

“I see no signs of that,” Mrs Ogilvy said.

“I came up the other night,” he went on, “to open my mind to you if I could, but you gave me no encouragement. Things have gone a little further since then. Mrs Ogilvy, you’re a great authority with Susie, and the parish has much confidence in you. I would like you to be the first to know—and perhaps you would give me your advice. It is not as to the wisdom of what I’m going to do. I am just fairly settled upon that, and my mind made up——”

“You are going—to marry again,” she said.

He gave a quick look upward, his middle-aged countenance growing red, the complacent smile stealing to the corners of his mouth. “So you’ve guessed that!”

“I have not guessed it—it was very clear to see—— both from her and from you.”

“You’ve guessed the person, too,” he said, the colour deepening, and the smile turning to a confused laugh.

“There was no warlock wanted to do that; but what my advice would be for, I cannot guess, Mr Logan, for, if your mind’s fixed and all settled——”

“I did not say just as much as that; but—well, very near it. Yes, very near it. I cannot see how in honour I could go back.”

“And you’ve no wish to do so. And what do you want with advice?” Mrs Ogilvy said.

She was severe, though she was thankful to him for his preoccupation, and that he had no leisure at his command to ask questions or to pry into other people’s affairs.

“Me,” he said; “that’s but one side of the subject. There’s Susie. It’s perhaps not quite fair to Susie. I’ve stood in her way, you may say. She’s been tangled with the boys—and me. There’s no companion for a man, Mrs Ogilvy, like the wife of his bosom; but Susie—I would be the last to deny it—has been a good daughter to me.”

“It would set you ill, or any man, to deny it!” cried Mrs Ogilvy. “And what are you going to do for Susie, Mr Logan? A sister that keeps your house, you just say Thank you, and put her to the door; but your daughter—you’re always responsible for her——”

“Till she’s married,” he said, giving his severe judge a shamefaced glance.

“Have you a man ready to marry her, then?” she asked, sharply.

“It’s perhaps not the man that has ever been wanting,” said the minister, with a half laugh.

“And how are you going to do without Susie?” said Mrs Ogilvy, always with great severity. “Who is to see the callants off to Edinburgh every morning, and learn the little ones their lessons? It will be a great handful for a grand lady like yon.”

“That’s just a mistake that is very painful to me,” said Mr Logan. “The lady that is going to be—my wife——”

“Your second wife, Mr Logan,” said Mrs Ogilvy, with great severity.

“I am meaning nothing else—my second wife—is not a grand lady, as you all suppose. She is just a sweet, simple woman—that would be pleased to do anything.”

“Is she going to learn the little ones their lessons, and be up in the morning to give the boys their breakfasts and see them away?”

Mr Logan waved his hand, as a man forestalled in what he was about to say. “There is no need for all that,” he said—“not the least need. The servant that has been with them all their days is just very well capable of seeing that they get off in time. And as for the little ones, I have heard of a fine school—in England.”

Mrs Ogilvy threw up her arms with a cry. “A school—in England!”

“Which costs very little, and is just an excellent school—for the daughters of clergymen—but, I confess, it’s clergymen of the other church: it is not proved yet if a Scotch minister will be allowed——”

“A thing that’s half charity,” said Mrs Ogilvy, scornfully. “I did not think, Mr Logan, that you, that are come of well-kent folk, would demean yourself to that.”

“She says—I mean, I’m told,” said the poor man, “that it’s sought after by the very best. The English have not our silly pride. When a thing is a good thing and freely offered——”

“You will not get it, anyway,” said Mrs Ogilvy, quickly. “You’re not a clergyman according to the English way. You’re a Scotch minister. But if all this is to be done, I’m thinking it means that there will be no place for Susie at all in her father’s house.”

“She will marry,” the minister said.

“And how can you tell that she will marry? Is she to do it whether she will or not? There might be more reasons than one for not marrying. It’s not any man she wants, but maybe just one man.”

Mrs Ogilvy thought she was well aware what it was that had kept Susie from marrying. Alas, alas! what would she think of him now if she saw him, and how could she bear to see the wonder and the pain reflected in Susie’s face?

“I thought,” said Mr Logan, rising up, “that I would have found sympathy from you. I thought you would have perceived that it was as much for Susie I was thinking as for myself. She will never break the knot till it’s done for her. She thinks she’s bound to those bairns; but when she sees they are all provided for without her——”

“The boys by the care of a servant. The little ones in a school that is just disguised charity——”

“You’re an old friend, Mrs Ogilvy, but not old enough or dear enough to treat my arrangements like that.”

“Oh, go away, minister!” cried the mistress of the Hewan. She was beginning to remember that Robbie’s train might come in at any moment, and that she would not for the world have him brought face to face with Mr Logan without any warning or preparation. “Go away! for we will never agree on this point. I’ve nothing to say against you for marrying. If your heart’s set upon it, you’ll do it, well I know; but to me Susie and the bairns are the first thing, and not the second. Say no more, say no more! for we’ll never agree.”

“You’ll not help me, then?” he said.

“Help you! how am I to help you? I have nothing to do with it,” she cried.

“With Susie,” he repeated. “I’ll not quarrel with you: you mean well, though you’re so severe. There is nobody like you that could help me with Susie. You could make her see my position—you could make her see her duty——”

“If it is her duty,” Mrs Ogilvy said.

She could scarcely hear what he said in reply. Was that the gate again? and another step on the gravel? Her heart began to choke and to deafen her, beating so loud in her ears. Oh, if she could but get him away before Robbie, with his rough clothes, his big beard, his air of recklessness and vagabondism, should appear! She felt herself walking before him to the door, involuntarily moving him on, indicating his path. I think he was too deeply occupied with his own affairs to note this; but yet he was aware of something repellent in her aspect and tone. It was just like all women, he said to himself: to hear that a poor man was to get a little comfort to himself with a second wife roused up all their prejudices. He might have known.

It was time for Robbie’s train when she got her visitor away. She sat down and listened to his footsteps retiring with a great relief. That sound of the gate had been a mistake. How often, how often had it been a mistake! She lingered now, sitting still, resting from the agitation that had seized upon her till the minister’s steps died away upon the road. And as soon as they were gone, listened, listened over again, with her whole heart in her ears, for the others that now should come.

It was six o’clock past! If he had come by this train he must have been here, and there was not another for more than an hour. He must have been detained. He must have been looking about the new things in the town, the new buildings, the things that had been changed in fifteen years, things that at his age were just the things a young man would remember; or perhaps the tailor might be altering something for him that he had to go back to try on, or perhaps—— It would be all right anyway. What did six o’clock matter, or half-past seven, or whatever it was? It was a fine light summer night; there was plenty of time,—and nobody waiting for him but his mother, that could make every allowance. And it was not as if he had anything to do at home. He had nothing to do. And his first day in Edinburgh after so many years.

She was glad, however, to hear the step of Janet, so that she could call her without rising from her seat, which somehow she felt too tired and feeble to do.

“Janet,” she said, “you will just keep back the dinner. Mr Robert has been detained. I’ve been thinking all day that perhaps he might be detained, maybe even later than this. If we said eight o’clock for once? It’s a late hour; but better that than giving him a bad dinner, neither one thing nor another, neither hot nor cold. Where were you going, my woman?” Mrs Ogilvy added abruptly, with a suspicious glance.

“I was just gaun to take a look out. I said to mysel’ I would just look out and see if he was coming: for it’s very true, you say, a dinner in the dead thraws, neither hot nor cauld, is just worse than no dinner at all.”

“Just bide in your kitchen,” said her mistress, peremptorily. “I’ll let you know when my son comes.”

“Oh, I’ll hear soon enough,” Janet said. And then the mother was left alone. But not undisturbed: for presently Andrew’s slow step came round the corner, with a clanking of waterpots and the refreshing sounds and smell of watering—that tranquil employment, all in accord with the summer evening, when it was always her custom to go out and have a talk with Andrew about the flowers. She did not feel as if she could move to-night—her feet were cold and like lead, her cheeks burning, and her heart clanging in her throat. Nevertheless the bond of custom being on her, and a strong sense that to fulfil every usual occupation was the most satisfying exercise, she presently rose and went out, the pleasant smell of the refreshed earth and thirsty plants, bringing out all the sweetest home breath of the flowers, coming to meet her as she went forth to the open door.

“It’s very good for them, Andrew, after this warm day.”

“Ay, it’s good for them,” Andrew said.

“You will mind to shut up everything as soon as my son comes home,” she said.

“Oh ay,” said Andrew, “there was plenty said about it yestreen.”

“The sweet-williams are coming on nicely, Andrew.”

“Ah,” said Andrew, “they’re common things; they aye thrive.”

“They are very bonnie,” said Mrs Ogilvy; “I like them better than your grand geraniums and things.”

“There’s nae accounting for tastes,” Andrew said, in his gruff voice.

By this time she felt that she could not continue the conversation any longer, and went back to her chair inside. The sound of the flowing water, and even of Andrew clanking as he moved, was sweet to her. The little jar and clang fell sweetly into the evening, and they were so glad of that refreshing shower, the silly flowers! though maybe it would rain before the morning, and they would not need it. Then Andrew—though nobody could say he was quick, honest man!—finished his task and went in. And there was a great quiet, the quiet of the falling night, though the long light remained the same. And the time passed for the next train. Janet came to the door again with her heavy step. “He will no be coming till the nine train,” she said; “will you have the dinner up?” “Oh no,” cried Mrs Ogilvy; “I’ll not sit down to a big meal at this hour of the night. Put out the beef to let it cool, and it will be supper instead of dinner, Janet.”

“But you’ve eaten nothing, mem, since——”

“Am I thinking of what I eat! Go ben to your kitchen, and do what I tell you, and just leave me alone.”

Janet went away, and the long vigil began again. She sat a long time without moving, and then she took a turn about the house, looking into his room for one thing, and looking at the piles of books that he had carried up-stairs. There were few traces of him about, for he had nothing to leave behind,—only the big rough cloak, of a shape she had never seen before, which was folded on a chair. She lifted it, with a natural instinct of order, to hang it up, and found falling from a pocket in it a big badly printed newspaper, the same newspaper in which Mr Somerville had showed her her son’s name. She took it with her half consciously when she went down-stairs, but did not read it, being too much occupied with the dreadful whirl of her own thoughts. Nine o’clock passed too, and the colourless hours ran on. And then there was the sound all over the house of Andrew fulfilling his orders, shutting up every window and door. When he came to the parlour to shut the window by which she sat, his little mistress, always so quiet, almost flew at him. “Man, have you neither sense nor reason!” she cried. It was more than she could bear to shut and bar and bolt when nobody was there that either feared or could come to harm. No one disturbed her after that. The couple in the kitchen kept very quiet, afraid of her. Deep night came on; the last of all the trains rumbled by, making a great crash in the distance in the perfect stillness. There had been another time like this, when she had watched the whole night through. And midnight came and went again, and as yet there was no sound.