rs had gone drearily, ay dismally, almost despairingly, by--he
began at times to feel something like happiness again when sitting among
his friends in the kirk, or at their firesides, or in the labours of the
field, or even on the market-day, among this world's concerns. Thus,
they who knew him and his sufferings were pleased to recognise what
might be called resignation and its grave tranquillity; while strangers
discerned in him nothing more than a staid and solemn demeanour, which
might be natural to many a man never severely tried, and offering no
interruption to the cheerfulness that pervaded their ordinary life.

He had a cousin a few years younger than himself, who had also married
when a girl, and when little more than a girl had been left a widow. Her
parents were both dead, and she had lived for a good many years as an
upper servant, or rather companion and friend, in the house of a
relation. As cousins, they had all their lives been familiar and
affectionate, and Alice Gray had frequently lived for months at a time
at the Broom, taking care of the children, and in all respects one of
the family. Their conditions were now almost equally desolate, and a
deep sympathy made them now more firmly attached than they ever could
have been in better days. Still, nothing at all resembling love was in
either of their hearts, nor did the thought of marriage ever pass across
their imaginations. They found, however, increasing satisfaction in each
other's company; and looks and words of sad and sober endearment
gradually bound them together in affection stronger far than either
could have believed. Their friends saw and spoke of the attachment, and
of its probable result, long before they were aware of its full nature;
and nobody was surprised, but, on the contrary, all were well pleased,
when it was understood that they were to be man and wife. There was
something almost mournful in their marriage--no rejoicing--no
merry-making--but yet visible symptoms of gratitude, contentment, and
peace. An air of cheerfulness was not long of investing the melancholy
Broom--the very swallows twittered more gladly from the window-corners,
and there was joy in the cooing of the pigeons on the sunny roof. The
farm awoke through all its fields, and the farm-servants once more sang
and whistled at their work. The wandering beggar, who remembered the
charity of other years, looked with no cold expression on her who now
dealt out his dole; and