undred yards or so
below Peel Tower, a square house of grey stone in a charming garden.

Mr. Macdonald loved his garden and worked in it diligently. It was his
doctor, he said. When his mind got stale and sermon-writing difficult,
when his head ached and people became a burden, he put on an old coat
and went out to dig, or plant or mow the grass. He grew wonderful
flowers, and in July, when his lupins were at their best, he took a
particular pleasure in enticing people out to see the effect of their
royal blue against the silver of Tweed.

He had been a minister in Priorsford for close on forty years and had
never had more than L250 of a salary, and on this he and his wife had
brought up four sons who looked, as an old woman in the church said, "as
if they'd aye got their meat." There had always been a spare place at
every meal for any casual guest, and a spare bedroom looking over Tweed
that was seldom empty. And there had been no lowering of the dignity of
a manse. A fresh, wise-like, middle-aged woman opened the door to
visitors, and if you had asked her she would have told you she had been
in service with the Macdonalds since she was fifteen, and Mrs. Macdonald
would have added that she never could have managed without Agnes.

The sons had worked their way with bursaries and scholarships through
school and college, and now three of them were in positions of trust in
the government of their country. One was in London, two in India--and
Duncan lay in France, that Holy Land of our people.

It was a nice question his wife used to say before the War (when hearts
were lighter and laughter easier) whether Mr. Macdonald was prouder of
his sons or his flowers, and when, as sometimes happened he had them all
with him in the garden, his cup of content had been full.

And now it seemed to him that when he was in the garden Duncan was
nearer him. He could see the little figure in a blue jersey marching
along the paths with a wheelbarrow, very important because he was
helping his father. He had called the big clump of azaleas "the burning
bush." ... He had always been a funny little chap.

And it was in the garden that he had said good-bye to him that last
time. He had been twice wounded, and it was hard to go back again. There
was no novelty about it now, no eagerness or burning zeal, nothing but a
dogged determination to see the thing through. They had stood together
looking over Tweed to the blue ridge of Cademuir and Dun