fire of an
evening, tell pleasant tales of ancient days, while the wind powdered
the glass with drift, and roared in the chimney. Then a man thanked
God that he was not confined to a place where the pure snow was trodden
into mire, and the thick fog made it dark at mid-day.

This very season of autumn, which frightened the townsfolk, and sent
them home in silence, used to fill our hearts with peace, for it was to
us the crown and triumph of the year. We were not dismayed by the
leaves that fell with rustling sound in Tochty woods, nor by the bare
stubble fields from which the last straw had been raked by thrifty
hands, nor by the touch of cold in the northwest wind blowing over Ben
Urtach, nor by the greyness of the running water. The long toil of the
year had not been in vain, and the harvest had been safely gathered.
The clump of sturdy little stacks, carefully thatched and roped, that
stood beside each homestead, were the visible fruit of the long year's
labour, and the assurance of plenty against winter. Let it snow for a
week on end, and let the blast from the mouth of Glen Urtach pile up
the white drift high against the outer row of stacks, the horses will
be put in the mill-shed, and an inner stack will be forked into the
threshing loft, and all day long the mill will go with dull, rumbling
sound that can be heard from the road, while within the grain pours
into the corn-room, and the clean yellow straw is piled in the barn.
Hillocks was not a man given to sentiment, yet even he would wander
among the stacks on an October evening, and come into the firelight
full of moral reflections. A vague sense of rest and thankfulness
pervaded the Glen, as if one had come home from a long journey in
safety, bringing his possessions with him.

The spirit of October was on the Doctor as he waited for his guests in
the drawing-room of the manse. The Doctor had a special affection for
the room, and would often sit alone in it for hours in the gloaming.
Once Rebecca came in suddenly, and though the light was dim and the
Doctor was seated in the shadow by the piano, she was certain that he
had been weeping. He would not allow any change to be made in the
room, even the shifting of a table, and he was very particular about
its good keeping. Twice a year Rebecca polished the old-fashioned
rosewood furniture, and so often a man came from Muirtown to tune the
piano, which none in the district could play, and which the Doctor