she always told him cheerfully when he came. And she was always
at her best when her son was with her.

Her little maid, Annie Thorn, to whom she had become much attached, and
whom she had trained to do the work of the house in a neat and orderly
manner, was permitted to do many things which had until now been done by
the careful hands of her mistress. She was "little Annie" no longer,
but a well-grown, sensible lass of sixteen, who thought: herself a
woman, able to do all that any woman might do. She was willing even to
put on the thick muslin cap of her class if her mistress would have
consented that she should so disguise herself and cover her pretty hair.

No, John was not anxious about his mother. He was more at ease about
her than he had been since he had been obliged to leave her so much at
home alone. But he came home more frequently to see her. He had more
time, and he could bear the expense better. Besides, the office work
which he had to do now kept him closer, and made change and exercise
more necessary for him, and so he came, knowing that he could not come
too often for his mother's pleasure.

This was what he said to her and to himself, but he knew in his heart
that there was another reason for his coming; he called himself a fool
for his pains, but still he came.

He knew now that it was the thought of Allison Bain which would not let
him rest, which drew him ever to return. For the thought of her was
with him night and day. Her "bonny een" looked up at him from his
papers, and his books, and from the waves of the sea, when his
restlessness urged him forth to his nightly wanderings on the shore.

But even when he turned his face toward Nethermuir, he scorned himself
for his weakness. It was a kind of madness that was on him, he
thought--a madness that would surely come to an end soon.

"Few men escape it, at one time or another of their lives, as I have
heard said. The sooner it comes, the sooner it is over. It has gone
ill with many a one. But I am a strong man, and it will pass. Yes! It
shall pass."

This was what he said to himself, and he said also that Allison's
indifference, which he could not but see, her utter unconsciousness of
him and his comings and goings, his words and his ways, was something
for which he might be glad, for all that would help him through with it
and hasten his cure.

But he was not so sure after a while--sure, that is, that Allison's
indifference an