er baith!"

The little man rose to his feet and flung the photograph from him. Red
Wull pounced upon it; but M'Adam leapt at him as he mouthed it.

"Git awa', ye devil!" he screamed; and, picking it up, stroked it
lovingly with trembling fingers.

"Maither and father baith!"

How had he fulfilled his love's last wish? How!

"Oh God! "--and he fell upon his knees at the table-side, hugging the
picture, sobbing and praying.

Red Wull cowered in the far corner of the room, and then crept whining
up to where his master knelt. But M'Adam heeded him not, and the great
dog slunk away again.

There the little man knelt in the gloom of the winter's afternoon, a
miserable penitent. His gray-flecked head was bowed upon his arms; his
hands clutched the picture; and he prayed aloud in gasping, halting
tones.

"Gie me grace, O God! 'Father and mither baith,' ye said, Flora--and I
ha'na done it. But 'tis no too late--say it's no, lass. Tell me there's
time yet, and say ye forgie me. I've tried to bear wi' him mony and mony
a time. But he's vexed me, and set himself agin me, and stiffened my
back, and ye ken hoo I was aye quick to tak' offence. But I'll mak' it
up to him--mak' it up to him, and mair. I'll humble masel' afore him,
and that'll be bitter enough. And I'll be father and mither baith to
him. But there's bin none to help me; and it's bin sair wi'oot ye.
And--. but, eh, lassie, I'm wearyin' for ye!"

* * * * *

It was a dreary little procession that wound in the drizzle from Kenmuir
to the little Dale Church. At the head stalked James Moore, and close
behind David in his meagre coat. While last of all, as if to guide the
stragglers in the weary road, come Owd Bob.

There was a full congregation in the tiny church now. In the squire's
pew were Cyril Gilbraith, Muriel Sylvester, and, most conspicuous, Lady
Eleanour. Her slender figure was simply draped in gray, with gray fur
about the neck and gray fur edging sleeves and jacket; her veil was
lifted, and you could see the soft hair about her temples, like waves
breaking on white cliffs, and her eyes big with tender sympathy as she
glanced toward the pew upon her right.

For there were the mourners from Kenmuir: the Master, tall, grim, and
gaunt; and beside him Maggie, striving to be calm, and little Andrew,
the miniature of his father.

Alone, in the pew behind, David M'Adam in his father's coat.

The back of the church was packed