to her. But in a' the rain--and
at your age--"

"Ay! I am a good ten years older than the man we are to lay in the
grave. I might, as ye say, meet them at the kirkyard, but I must see
that desolate bairn. And I think it may be fair."

It was June, but it looked more like November, so low lay the clouds,
and so close hung the mist over all the valley. For a week the sun had
hidden his face, and either in downpour or in drizzle, the rain had
fallen unceasingly, till the burn which ran down between the hills had
overflowed its banks and spread itself in shallow pools over the level
fields below. The roads would be "soft and deep," as Barbara said, and
the way was long. But even as she spoke there was an opening in the
clouds and the wind was "wearing round to the right airt," for the
promise of a fair day, and it was early yet.

"And rain or shine, I must go, Barbara, as ye see yourself. The powney
is sure-footed. And my son Alexander is going with me, so there is
nothing to fear."

And so the two men set out together. "My son Alexander," whose name the
minister spoke with such loving pride, was the youngest and best beloved
of the many sons and daughters who had been born and bred in the manse,
of whom some were "scattered far and wide" and some were resting beside
their mother in the kirkyard close at hand. In his youth, Alexander had
given "some cause for anxiety to his father and mother," as outside folk
put it delicately, and he had gone away to America at last, to begin
again--to make a man of himself, or to perish out of sight of their
loving and longing eyes. That was more than fifteen years before this
time, and he had not perished out of sight, as so many wanderers from
loving homes have done. He had lived and struggled with varying
fortunes for a time, but he had never failed once to write his
half-yearly letter to his father and mother at home. The folk of the
olden time did not write nor expect so many letters as are written and
sent nowadays, and the father and mother lived hopefully on one letter
till another came. And for a while the lad wrote that he was making a
living, and that was all, and then he wrote that he was doing well, and
just when he was almost ready to tell them that he was coming home to
show them his young wife, there came word to him that his mother was
dead. Then he had no heart to go home. For what would the manse be
without his mother to welcome them there?

So he