fore me, his eyes shaded
by his hands, burning through the dark a pathway to the gate.

"God be mercifu'," he muttered, and then turned swiftly towards the
stairs, for a hand was fumbling at the latch. I waited trembling, and I
heard no word; but the aroma of a soul's second spring stole sweet and
unafraid into the chamber of death.

* * * * *

I met them at the door as Donald said, "Yir mither's deein'," and there
broke from the rugged man beside him a low moaning sound, like to many
waters when some opposing thing hath at length been overswept. It was
quickly checked, and the silence of love and anguish took its place.

I drew Donald gently back and closed the door upon them twain, the
waiting mother and the wandering son, for there was never bridal hour
like to this.

"My mither, oh, my mither!" I heard him say; and Elsie spoke no word,
but the long ache was ended and the great wound was well.

'Twas but a moment again when a trembling voice called, "Faither, she's
wantin' ye."

We entered the love-lit room, and Elsie beckoned him swiftly to her
side.

"I maun be gaun sune," she whispered, and then followed some words too
low for my ears to catch.

Donald turned to me: "She wants to hae the sacrament dispensit till us
a'," and his face was full of dubious entreaty, for the kirk session of
St. Cuthbert's was sternly set against private administration.

The session and its rules were in that moment to me but as the dust.
Beyond their poor custody was a holy hour such as this. The little table
was quickly spread, the snow-white bread and the wine pressed by a
mother's priestly hands. I was about to proceed with the holy ordinance
when Elsie stopped me.

"Bide a meenit. Donal', get ye the token, the ane wee Elsie loved. My
hairt tells me she's no' far awa the noo. She'll e'en show forth the
Lord's deith alang wi' us. The Maister o' the feast is here, and why wad
He no' bring oor Elsie wi' Him? Wha kens but I'll gang hame wi' them
baith?"

Her husband, obedient to the seer's voice, passed quickly to an
adjoining room, and in an instant reappeared, bearing the well-worn
token in his hands, the same his dying child had fondly held; and I
heard again the low refrain which grief had taught him years ago:
"Christ an' oor Elsie--an' her mither." This last was new, learned in
sorrow's latest hour.

He handed it to his wife, who took it, turning her wan face to mine.

"There's onl