The summer was gone. The harvest days, the days of crimson¹ and golden woods, of smooth-shaven fields, of orchards² weighed down with their sweet burden, and of barns bursting with grain had come. A tingle³ of frost in the bracing⁴ air told that they must soon give place to winter.  
One mild evening Duncan Polite sat at his shanty⁵ door, watching the sun go down behind the flaming trees. He knew the nights would soon be too chill for this pleasant pastime and he cherished each moment spent at his open door. In his sadness and anxiety, the glorious robes assumed by Nature at the sunset hour lifted, for a little, the shadow from his spirit.
 
But to-night the sun went down in a colourless silver glow, which prophesied⁶ winter and storms, and to Duncan the grey dreariness⁷ seemed in keeping with his feelings. For Donald had gone back to the city that day, and when he had bidden the boy farewell the old man had also parted with his great aspiration⁸. Donald had come to him the week before, and with his usual frankness made known the fact that he could never entertain any further thought of entering the ministry⁹, and had therefore abandoned all idea of returning to college. The sacrifice of his education was a great trial to Donald, but he could not return under a false pretence¹⁰.
 
Duncan Polite made no appeal, uttered no reproof¹¹. He realised that he had been expecting this all summer, and he had become so accustomed to disappointments of the bitterest kind that this one did not move him as he had expected.
 
"It will be between your own soul and your Maker¹², Donal'," he said gently. "And I will not be urging you; for only the Lord must guide you to this great work." He sighed deeply and at the sight of the pain he was inflicting¹³ Donald's heart suddenly contracted.
 
"But you will be going back and finishing your colleging, my lad,—yes," as Donald protested vehemently¹⁴, "you will be doing this for me, for my heart will be in it, and if the Lord will not be calling you to the church, you will be a good man, like your grandfather, and that will be a great thing, whatever."
 
Donald could not answer. Even when he came to say good-bye, he could find but few words of gratitude¹⁵. But the reticent¹⁶ Duncan understood, and the young man went away with the fixed¹⁷ determination, that though he could not attain¹⁸ to his uncle's ambition, he would at least, with God's help, be such a man as would never bring dishonour¹⁹ upon Duncan Polite.
 
When his boy left him the brightness seemed to die out of the days for the lonely old watchman on the hilltop. He realised now how much he had hoped for and expected in the springtime, when Donald returned from college and Mr. McAlpine's grandson stood in Glenoro pulpit. When he thought of all his great hopes, he could not forbear, in the bitterness of his soul, saying to himself, as he saw around him the signs of a dying season, "The harvest is past, and the summer is ended, and we are not saved."
 
A figure grew out of the dusk of the road, and the gate latch²⁰ clicked, and a familiar form, erect²¹ and sturdy, came up the path. Duncan arose with a sensation of comfort at the sight of his friend. Andrew Johnstone never went down to the village without dropping in for a few minutes at the little shanty.
 
Duncan brought out a chair, and together the two old men sat at the door and watched the stars come out in the clear, pale sky, and as if they were their earthly reflections, the lights appear in the valley. Andrew puffed²² a while at his pipe in silence.
 
"So Donal's awa'" he said at length, guessing partly the reason of the weary look in his friend's face.
 
"Yes, oh, yes,"—Duncan's voice was like a sigh—"he would be going back to-day."
 
"Aye, it's jist as weel. He'll come to nae mair harm in the city than he would in yon gabblin' crew o' young folk in the Glen. Man, Duncan, the Scripter described them weel. They're jist naething but the cracklin' o' thorns under a pot, aye, an' yon foolish bit crater²³ that an ill fate has gie'n us for a meenister is the lightest o' them a'. May the Lord forgie the man that disgraced Maister Cameron's pulpit an' Maister McAlpine's name!"
 
Duncan did not seem to have the strength to combat his friend's statements; and Splinterin' Andra sailed on, encouraged by his silence.
 
"Ah dinna ken²⁴ what's come till the man; he acted maist strange aboot the bit music-boax, an' whiles Ah hoped he'd got some sense intill him. But there's nae change in him. It's a tea-meetin' or a huskin' bee, or ane o' his society meetin's ivery night. Och, for a meenister wi' the grace of God in his heart an' a hunger for souls! We hae fallen upon ill times, Duncan!"
 
Duncan Polite roused himself with an effort. "They will not be so bad but the Father can mend them, Andra, an' indeed it will not be like the times when your father an' mine would be praying here for the Glen."
 
"Ah dinna ken that," replied old Andrew morosely²⁵. "If they didna' have a meenister in thae times, to show them the way o' salvation²⁶, they didna hae a bit worldling to lead them astray."
 
"Oh, it may be better than we will be thinking; the young folk now are always at the church, Andra, and at the prayer meeting."
 
"Hooch! an' they might jist as well be awa' for a' the good they get. There's a pack o' godless young folk in the Glen that naething but the terrors o' damnation'll iver reach an' they listen to a meenister who says 'peace, peace' when there's nae peace!"
 
"Oh, well, indeed, indeed,"—Duncan Polite's gentle voice again stemmed the torrent—"we must jist be praying for an awakening²⁷, Andra, like our fathers would be doing. And it will be coming," he added with a sudden fire. "But I will be fearing the sacrifice."
 
Andrew Johnstone paused in his fierce puffing²⁸ at his pipe, and turned to look at his friend. The light of the dying sun touched his white hair and his thin face and showed the sudden, mysterious, s............