bbie think of death, the opener of sleeping eyes, the
uplifter of hanging hands. For Tibbie's darkness was the shadow of her
grave, on the further border of which the light was breaking in music.
Death and resurrection were the same thing to blind old Tibbie.

When the gentle, washing wind blew upon Annie, she thought of the wind
that bloweth were it listeth; and that, if ever the Spirit of God blew
upon her, she would feel it just like that wind of summer sunset--so
cool, so blessed, so gentle, so living! And was it not God that
breathed that wind upon her? Was he not even then breathing his Spirit
into the soul of that woman-child?

It blew upon Andrew Constable, as he stood in his shop-door, the easy
labour of his day all but over. And he said to his little weasel-faced,
_douce_, old-fashioned child who stood leaning against the other
door-cheek:

"That's a fine caller bit blastie, Isie! Dinna ye like to fin' 't
blawin' upo' yer het cheeks, dawtie?"

And she answered,

"Ay, I like it weel, daddie; but it min's me some upo' the winter."

And Andrew looked anxiously at the pale face of his child, who, at six
years old, in the month of June, had no business to know that there was
any winter. But she was the child of elderly parents, and had not been
born in time; so that she was now in reality about twenty.

It blew upon Robert Bruce, who had just run out into the _yard_, to see
how his potatoes and cabbages were coming on. He said

"It's some cauld," and ran in again to put on his hat.

Alec and Kate, I have said, stood looking into the darkening field. A
great flock of rooks which filled the air with their rooky gossip, was
flying straight home to an old gray ruin just visible amongst some
ancient trees. They had been gathering worms and grubs all day, and now
it was bed time. They felt, through all their black feathers, the
coolness of that evening breeze which came from the cloudy mausoleum
already built over the grave of the down-gone sun.

Kate hearing them rejoicing far overhead, searched for them in the
darkening sky, found them, and watched their flight, till the black
specks were dissolved in the distance. They are not the most poetic of
birds, but in a darkening country twilight, over silent fields, they
blend into the general tone, till even their noisy caw suggests repose.
But it was room Kate wanted, not rest. She would know one day, however,
that room and rest are the same, and that the longing