he must speak to his
mother before he said anything about his half-formed plans to the
minister or Mrs Hume, as he came home fully intending to do. So he
turned homeward on the last afternoon; and as he walked he was saying to
himself, with indignant contempt of his indecision, that after all he
must be a poor creature, a fool, though he had never been in the way of
thinking so till now.

"Well, John lad," said his mother, looking up as he came in.

Her little maid had gone home for the day, and Mrs Beaton was sitting
in her arm-chair "just waiting," as she said.

It was a nice little room. A bright fire burned in the grate, and a
shining tea-kettle was steaming on the hob. The carpet on the floor was
faded and worn, and the furniture was of the plainest; but there were a
few pretty things in the room to brighten it, and over the mantel-piece
was a portrait of John's father, "taken at his best." For some strange
reason, which he himself did not understand, John paused at the door,
and looked up at the strong, good face.

The picture was not much as a work of art perhaps, but it was a striking
likeness. There was the firm mouth, and the kind grey eyes, and the
broad shoulders, rounded and stooping a little, after long years of
labour, and the abundant dark hair, which had showed no silver threads
until the last blow came to end all. A sudden pang smote John's heart
as he looked.

"I was but a lad," he said to himself. "I didna ken what he was till I
lost him."

"You are growing like him, John," said his mother softly.

"Am I, mother? I doubt it is only your loving een that can see it."

"Are ye troubled, John?" were the words that rose to the mother's lips,
but they were not spoken. "Ye're needing your tea, John," said she
instead.

John laughed. "I'm needing something, and I'll be glad of my tea in the
meantime. No, you are not to rise. You are to sit still in your chair
and tell me what to do."

Not that he needed telling. The skill, and the will, and the gentleness
natural to a loving daughter had come to this mother's son through long
and loving service. So the little table was brought forward, on which
all things were already arranged. The tea was "masket," and the teapot
covered with the "cosie," and during the three minutes necessary and
sufficient for its proper infusion, John went to his room, and the
mother's face grew grave while she waited.

"He's no' at peace with himself. But h