nd there a thin crop was growing in patches amongst
them, the red grey stone lifting its baldness in spots numberless
through the soft waving green. A few of the commonest flowers grew
about the door, but there was no garden. The door-step was live
rock, and a huge projecting rock behind formed the back and a
portion of one of the end walls. This latter rock had been the
attraction to the site, because of a hollow in it, which now served
as a dairy. For up there with them lived the last cow of the
valley--the cow that breathed the loftiest air on all Daurside--a
good cow, and gifted in feeding well upon little. Facing the broad
south, and leaning against the hill, as against the bosom of God,
sheltering it from the north and east, the cottage looked so
high-humble, so still, so confident, that it drew Gibbie with the
spell of heart-likeness. He knocked at the old, weather-beaten,
shrunk and rent, but well patched door. A voice, alive with the
soft vibrations of thought and feeling, answered,

"Come yer wa's in, whae'er ye be."

Gibbie pulled the string that came through a hole in the door, so
lifting the latch, and entered.

A woman sat on a creepie, her face turned over her shoulder to see
who came. It was a grey face, with good simple features and clear
grey eyes. The plentiful hair that grew low on her forehead, was
half grey, mostly covered by a white cap with frills. A clean
wrapper and apron, both of blue print, over a blue winsey petticoat,
blue stockings, and strong shoes completed her dress. A book lay on
her lap: always when she had finished her morning's work, and made
her house tidy, she sat down to have her comfort, as she called it.
The moment she saw Gibbie she rose. Had he been the angel Gabriel,
come to tell her she was wanted at the throne, her attention could
not have been more immediate or thorough. She was rather a little
woman, and carried herself straight and light.

"Eh, ye puir ootcast!" she said, in the pitying voice of a mother,
"hoo cam ye here sic a hicht? Cratur, ye hae left the warl' ahin'
ye. What wad ye hae here? I hae naething."

Receiving no answer but one of the child's betwitching smiles, she
stood for a moment regarding him, not in mere silence, but with a
look of dumbness. She was a mother. One who is mother only to her
own children is not a mother; she is only a woman who has borne
children. But here was one of God's mothers.

Loneliness and silence, a