he wasna to be trusted out of my sight an hour past the set
time," said she, going into the house and sitting resolutely down with
her book in her hand. "And it is not only to him, but to his master,
that my anxious thoughts are doing dishonour, as though I had really
anything to fear. But he was unco' downhearted when he went away."

She looked a very remarkable old lady as she sat there, still and firm.
She was straight as an arrow, small and slender, wrinkled indeed, but
with nothing of the weazened, sunken look which is apt to fall on small
women when they grow old. She was a beautiful old woman, with clear
bright eyes, and a broad forehead, over which the bands of hair lay
white as snow.

She had known a deal of trouble in her life, and, for the sake of those
she loved, had striven hard to keep her strength and courage through it
all, and the straight lines of her firmly-closed lips told of courage
and patience still. But a quiver of weakness passed over her face, and
over all her frame, as at last a slow, heavy footstep came up to the
door. She listened a moment, and then rising up, she said cheerfully:

"Is this you, gudeman? You're late, arena you? Well, you're dinner is
waiting you."

She did not wait for an answer, nor did she look at him closely till she
had put food before him. Then she sat down beside him. He, too, was
remarkable-looking. He had no remains of the pleasant comeliness of
youth as she had, but there were the same lines of patience and courage
in his face. He was closely shaven, with large, marked features and
dark, piercing eyes. It was a strong face, good and true, but still it
was a hard face, and it was a true index of his character. He was firm
and just always, and almost always he was kind, slow to take offence,
and slow to give it; but being offended, he could not forgive. He
looked tired and troubled to-night--a bowed old man.

"Where are the bairns?" were the first words he uttered, and his face
changed and softened as he spoke. She told him where they had gone, and
that their mother had gone with them. Then she made some talk about the
bonny day and the people he had seen at church, speaking quietly and
cheerfully till he had finished his meal, and then, having set aside the
dishes, she came close to him, and, laying her hand on his arm, said
gently: "David, we are o'er lane in the house. Tell me what it is
that's troubling you."

He did not answer her immediate