When Mrs Ogilvy reached, somewhat breathless, the height of the little brae on which her own door, standing wide open in the sunshine, offered her the usual unconscious welcome which that modest house in its natural condition held out to every comer, it was with a pang of disappointment she heard that Robert had gone out. For a moment her heart sank. She had been looking forward to the sight of him. She had felt that to-day, after her short absence, she would see him without prejudice, able to make allowance for everything, not looking any longer for her Robbie of old, but accustomed and reconciled to the new—the mature man into which inevitably in all these years he must have grown. She had hurried home, though the walk from the station was rather too much for her, to realise these expectations, eager, full of love and hope. Her heart fluttered a little: the light went out of her eyes for{113} a moment; she sat down, all the strength gone out of her. But this was only for a moment. “To be sure, Janet,” she said, “he has gone in to Edinburgh to—see about his luggage. I mean, to get himself some—things he wanted.” Janet had a long face, as long as a winter’s night and almost as dark. Her mistress could have taken her by the shoulders and shaken her. What right had she to take it upon her to misdoubt her young master, or to be so anxious as that about him—as if she were one that had a right to be “meeserable” whatever might happen?

“Could he not have gane with you, mem, when you were going in yoursel’?”

“He was not ready,” said Mrs Ogilvy, feeling herself put on her defence.

“You might have waited, mem, till the next train——”

“If you will know,” cried Mrs Ogilvy, indignant, “my boy liked best to be free, to take his own way—and I hope there is no person in this house that will gainsay that.”

“Eh, mem, I’m aware it’s no for me to speak—but so soon, afore he has got accustomed to being at hame—and with siller in his pouch.”

“What do you know about his siller in his pouch?” cried the angry mistress.

“I saw the notes in his hand. He’s aye very{114} nice to me,” said Janet, not without a little pleasure in showing how much more at his ease Robert was with her than with his mother, “and cracks about everything. He just showed me in his hand—as many notes as would build a kirk. He said: ‘See how liberal——’” Janet stopped here, a little confused; for what Robert had said was, “See how liberal the old woman is.” She liked to give her mistress the tiniest pin-prick, perhaps, but not the stab of a disrespect like that.

“I wish to be liberal,” said Mrs Ogilvy. “I am very glad he was pleased: and I knew he was going,—there was nothing out of the way about it that you should meet me with such a long face. I thought nothing less than that he must be ill after all his fatigues and his travels.”

“Oh, no a bit of him,” said Janet—“no ill: I never had ony fears about that.”

Mrs Ogilvy by this time had quite recovered herself. “He will have a good many things to do,” she said. “He will never be able to get back to his dinner. I hope he’ll get something comfortable to eat in Edinburgh. You can keep back the roast of beef till the evening, Janet, and just give me some little thing: an egg will do and a cup of tea——”

“You will just get your dinner as usual,” said Janet, doggedly, “as you did before, when you were in your natural way.”{115}

When she was in her natural way! It was a cruel speech, but Mrs Ogilvy took no notice. She did not fight the question out, as Janet hoped. If she shed a few tears as she took off her things in her bedroom, they were soon wiped away and left no traces. Robbie could not be tied to her apron-strings. She knew that well, if Janet did not know it. And what could be more natural than that he should like to buy his clothes and get what he wanted by himself, not with an old wife for ever at his heels? She strengthened herself for a quiet day, and then the pleasure of seeing him come back.

But it was wonderful how difficult it was to settle for a quiet day. She had never felt so lonely, she thought, or the house so empty. It had been empty for fifteen years, but it was long since she had felt it like this, every room missing the foot and the voice and the big presence, though it was but two days since he came back. But she settled herself with an effort, counting the trains, and making out that before five o’clock it would be vain to look for him. He would have to go to the tailor’s, and to buy linen, and perhaps shoes, and a hat—maybe other things which do not in a moment come to a woman’s mind. No; it could not be till five o’clock, or perhaps even six. He would have a great many things to do. She would not even wonder, she said to herself, if it were later. He would, no doubt, just walk about{116} a little and look at things that were new since he went away. There were some more of these statues in the Princes Street Gardens. Mrs Ogilvy did not care for them herself, but Robbie would. A young man, noticing everything, he would like to see all that was new.

A step on the gravel roused her early in the afternoon—the swing of the gate, and the sound of the gradually nearing footstep. Ah, that was him! earlier than she had hoped for, knowing she would be anxious, making his mother’s heart to sing for joy. She watched discreetly behind the curtain, that he might not think she was looking out for him, or had any doubts about his early return. Poor Mrs Ogilvy! she was well used to that kind of disappointment, but it seemed like a blow full in her face now, a stroke she had not the least expected, when she saw that it was not Robbie that was coming, but the minister—the minister of all people—who had the right of old friendships to ask questions, and to have things explained to him, and who was doubtless coming now to ask if she had been ill yesterday,—for when had it happened before that she had not been in her usual place in the kirk? She sat down faint and sick, but after a moment came round again, saying to herself that it would have been impossible for Robbie to get back so soon, and that she richly deserved a disappointment that she had brought on herself.{117} When Mr Logan came in she was seated in her usual chair (she had moved it from its old place since Robert seemed to like that, placing for him a bigger chair out of the dining-room, which suited him better), and having her usual looks, so that he began by saying that he need not ask if she had been unwell, for she was just as blooming as ever. Having said this, the minister fell into a sort of brown study, with a smile on his face, and a look which was a little sheepish, as if he did not know what more to say. He asked no questions, and he did not seem even to have heard anything, for there was no curiosity in his face. Mrs Ogilvy made a few short remarks on the weather, and told him she had been in Edinburgh that morning, which elicited from him nothing more than a “Dear me!” of the vaguest interest. Not a word about Robbie, not a question did he ask. She had been alarmed at the idea of these questions. She was still more alarmed and wondering when they did not come.

“I had a call from Susie—the other day,” she said at last. Was it possible that it was only on Saturday—the day that was now a marked day, above all others, the day that Robbie came home!

“Ay!” said the minister, for the first time looking up. “Would she have anything to tell you? I’m thinking, Mrs Ogilvy, Susie has no secrets from you.”

“I never heard she had any secrets. She is a real{118} upright-minded, well-thinking woman. I will not say bairn, though she will always be a bairn to me——”

“No, she’s no bairn,” said the minister, shaking his head. “Two-and-thirty well-chappit, as the poor folk say. She should have been married long ago, and with bairns of her own.”

“And how could she be married, I would like to ask you,” cried Mrs Ogilvy, indignant, “with you and your family to look after? And never mother has done better by her bairns than Susie has done by you and yours.”

“I am saying nothing against that. I am saying she has had the burden on her far too long. I told you before her health is giving way under it,” the minister said. He spoke with a little heat, as of a man crossed and contradicted in a statement of fact of which he was sure.

“I see no signs of that,” Mrs Ogilvy said.

“I came up the other night,” he went on, “to open my mind to you if I could, but you gave me no encouragement. Things have gone a little further since then. Mrs Ogilvy, you’re a great authority with Susie, and the parish has much confidence in you. I would like you to be the first to know—and perhaps you would give me your advice. It is not as to the wisdom of what I’m going to do. I am just fairly settled upon that, and my mind made up——”

“You are going—to marry again,” she said.{119}

He gave a quick look upward, his middle-aged countenance growing red, the complacent smile stealing to the corners of his mouth. “So you’ve guessed that!”

“I have not guessed it—it was very clear to see—— both from her and from you.”

“You’ve guessed the person, too,” he said, the colour deepening, and the smile turning to a confused laugh.

“There was no warlock wanted to do that; but what my advice would be for, I cannot guess, Mr Logan, for, if your mind’s fixed and all settled——”

“I did not say just as much as that; but—well, very near it. Yes, very near it. I cannot see how in honour I could go back.”

“And you’ve no wish to do so. And what do you want with advice?” Mrs Ogilvy said.

She was severe, though she was thankful to him for his preoccupation, and that he had no leisure at his command to ask questions or to pry into other people’s affairs.

“Me,” he said; “that’s but one side of the subject. There’s Susie. It’s perhaps not quite fair to Susie. I’ve stood in her way, you may say. She’s been tangled with the boys—and me. There’s no companion for a man, Mrs Ogilvy, like the wife of his bosom; but Susie—I would be the last to deny it—has been a good daughter to me.”{120}

“It would set you ill, or any man, to deny it!” cried Mrs Ogilvy. “And what are you going to do for Susie, Mr Logan? A sister that keeps your house, you just say Thank you, and put her to the door; but your daughter—you’re always responsible for her——”

“Till she’s married,” he said, giving his severe judge a shamefaced glance.

“Have you a man ready to marry her, then?” she asked, sharply.

“It’s perhaps not the man that has ever been wanting,” said the minister, with a half laugh.

“And how are you going to do without Susie?” said Mrs Ogilvy, always with great severity. “Who is to see the callants off to Edinburgh every morning, and learn the little ones their lessons? It will be a great handful for ............