h dress. She sat with her mother in the room. Never
before had I seen Jess sit so quietly, for her way was to work until,
as she said herself, she was ready "to fall into her bed."

Hendry wandered between the two rooms, always in the way when Leeby ran
to the window to see if that was the doctor at last. He would stand
gaping in the middle of the room for five minutes, then slowly withdraw
to stand as drearily but the house. His face lengthened. At last he
sat down by the kitchen fire, a Bible in his hand. It lay open on his
knee, but he did not read much. He sat there with his legs
outstretched, looking straight before him. I believe he saw Jess young
again. His face was very solemn, and his mouth twitched. The fire
sank into ashes unheeded.

I sat alone at my attic window for hours, waiting for the doctor. From
the attic I could see nearly all Thrums, but, until very late, the
night was dark, and the brae, except immediately before the door, was
blurred and dim. A sheet of light canopied the square as long as a
cheap Jack paraded his goods there. It was gone before the moon came
out. Figures tramped, tramped up the brae, passed the house in shadow
and stole silently on. A man or boy whistling seemed to fill the
valley. The moon arrived too late to be of service to any wayfarer.
Everybody in Thrums was asleep but ourselves, and the doctor who never
came.

About midnight Hendry climbed the attic stair and joined me at the
window. His hand was shaking as he pulled back the blind. I began to
realize that his heart could still overflow.

"She's waur," he whispered, like one who had lost his voice.

For a long time he sat silently, his hand on the blind. He was so
different from the Hendry I had known, that I felt myself in the
presence of a strange man. His eyes were glazed with staring at the
turn of the brae where the doctor must first come into sight. His
breathing became heavier, till it was a gasp. Then I put my hand on
his shoulder, and he stared at me.

"Nine-and-thirty years come June," he said, speaking to himself.

For this length of time, I knew, he and Jess had been married. He
repeated the words at intervals.

"I mind--" he began, and stopped. He was thinking of the spring-time
of Jess's life.

The night ended as we watched; then came the terrible moment that
precedes the day--the moment known to shuddering watchers by sick-beds,
when a chill wind cuts through the house, and