,
and a light of contentment shone in his face. Occasionally his hand
stole to his pocket. Meysie, whose eyes never wandered far from him,
knew that he was feeling for the leather case in which he kept the
photographs of his boy and girl. He liked to know that it was safe.
Elspeth had recently sent him a new portrait of herself in evening
dress, with diamonds in her hair. It came from London in a large
envelope with the florid monogram of Lady Smythe, the widow of the
ex-Lord Mayor, upon it. The minister considered it the last triumph of
art, and often took it out of his pocket to look at when he thought
Meysie was not looking. She always was, however. She had little else to
do. Nevertheless, Meysie knew, for all that, the worn yellow "card" of
the lost son who never wrote or sent him anything, to be the dearest to
him.

While the minister sat pondering over his book, Meysie went to the back
door, and stood there a moment vaguely gazing out on the snow. As she
did so, a figure came slouching round the corner of the byre. Meysie
quickly shut the door behind her, and turned the key. Any visitor was a
strange surprise in winter at the Clints of Drumore. But this figure she
knew at the first glance. It was the Prodigal Son come home--the boy
whom she had reared from the time that she took his sister from his
dying mother's arms. Some deadly fear constrained her to lock the door
behind her. For the lad's looks were terribly altered. There was a
sullen, callous dourness where bright self-will had once had its
dwelling. His clothing had once been fashionable, but it was now torn at
the buttonholes and frayed at the cuffs.

"Clement Symington, what brings ye to the Clints o' Drumore?" asked the
old woman, going forward and taking hold of the skirts of his surtout,
her face blanched like the blue shadows on the winter snow.

"Why, Mother Hubbard--" he broke out.

But Meysie stopped him, holding up her hand and pointing to her slate,
which hung by a "tang" round her neck.

"Ha!" he murmured, "this is awkward--old woman gone deaf."

So he took the pencil and wrote--

"_Very hard up. Want some cash from the old man_," just as if he had
been writing a telegram.

With her spectacles poised on the end of her nose, Meysie read the
message. Her face took a hue greyer and duller than ever.

She looked at the lad she had once loved so well, and his shifty eye
could not meet hers. He looked away over the moor, put his hands into