only weaker; I'm thinkin'
she'll no be lang the now. But come ben, my bonnie lassie; you're as
welcome as flowers in May. And how's a' wi' ye?"

Flora answered as we were following Elsie down the chamber and round a
screen which boxed off the end of it. Behind the screen was a bed, and
on it lay, as I thought, the oldest woman on whom I ever set my eyes.
Her face was all wrinkled up, yet there was a fresh colour in her
cheeks, and her eyes, though much sunk, seemed piercingly bright.

"Ye're come at last," she said, in a low clear voice, as Flora sat down
on the bed, and took the wrinkled brown hand in hers.

"Yes, dear Mirren, come at last," said she. "I'm very glad to get
home."

"Ay, and that's what I'll be the morn."

"So soon, Mirren?"

"Ay, just sae soon. I askit Him to let me bide while ye came hame. I
ay thocht I wad fain see ye ance mair--my Miss Flora's lad's lassie.
He's gi'en me a' that ever I askit Him--but ane thing, an' that was the
vara desire o' my heart."

"You mean," said Flora, gently, "you wanted Ronald to come home?"

"Ay, I wanted him to come hame frae the far country!" said old Mirren
with a sigh. "I'd ha'e likit weel to see him come hame to Abbotscliff--
vara weel. But I longed mickle mair to see him come hame to the
Father's house. It's no for his auld minnie to see that. But if it's
for the Lord to see some ither day, I'm content. And He has gi'en me
sae monie things that I ne'er askit Him wi' ane half the longing that I
did for that, I dinna think He'll say me nay the now."

"Is He with you, Mirren dear?"

I could not imagine how Flora thought Mirren was to know that. But she
answered, with a light in those bright eyes,--

"Ay, my doo. `His left haun is under my heid, and His richt haun doth
embrace me.'"

I sat and listened in wonder. It all sounded so strange. Yet Flora
seemed to understand. And I had such an unpleasant sense of being
outside, and not understanding, as I never felt before, and I did not
like it a bit. I knew quite well that if Father had been there, he
would have said it was all stuff and cant. But I did not feel so sure
of my Aunt Kezia. And suppose it were not cant, but was something
unutterably real,--something that I ought to know, and must know some
day, if I were ever to get to Heaven! I did not like it. I felt that I
was among a new sort of people--people who lived, as it were, in a
different place from me--a sort of whom I had nev