was in it.

The young man assented with an awkward gesture, half-bend, half-nod, and
neither for a moment spoke again. It was one of those silences with a
character, conscious, tentative. Half-veiled, disavowed thoughts rose up
in it, awakened by Advena's name, turning away their heads. The ticking
of the Doctor's old-fashioned watch came through it from his waistcoat
pocket. It was he who spoke first.

"I christened Advena Murchison," he said. "Her father was one of those
who called me, as a young man, to this ministry. The names of both her
parents are on my first communion roll. Aye!"...

The fire snapped and the watch went on ticking.

"So Advena thought well of it all. Did she so?"

The young man raised his heavy eyes and looked unflinchingly at Dr
Drummond.

"Miss Murchison," he said, "is the only other person to whom I have
confided the matter. I have written, fixing that date, with her
approval--at her desire. Not immediately. I took time to--think it over.
Then it seemed better to arrange for the ladies reception first, so
before posting I have come to you."

"Then the letter has not gone?"

"It is in my pocket."

"Finlay, you will have a cigar? I don't smoke myself; my throat won't
stand it; but I understand these are passable. Grant left them here.
He's a chimney, that man Grant. At it day and night."

This was a sacrifice. Dr Drummond hated tobacco, the smell of it, the
ash of it, the time consumed in it. There was no need at all to offer
Finlay one of the Reverend Grant's cigars. Propitiation must indeed be
desired when the incense is abhorred. But Finlay declined to smoke.
The Doctor, with his hands buried deep in his trousers pockets, where
something metallic clinked in them, began to pace and turn. His mouth
had the set it wore when he handled a difficult motion in the General
Assembly.

"I'm surprised to hear that, Finlay; though it may be well not to be
surprised at what a woman will say--or won't say."

"Surprised?" said the younger man confusedly. "Why should anyone be
surprised?"

"I know her well. I've watched her grow up. I remember her mother's
trouble because she would scratch the paint on the pew in front of her
with the nails in her little boots. John Murchison sang in the choir in
those days. He had a fine bass voice; he has it still. And Mrs Murchison
had to keep the family in order by herself. It was sometimes as much as
she could do, poor woman. They sat near the front, an