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 Maker, 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 inflicting Donald's heart suddenly contracted.

"But you will be going back and finishing your colleging, my
lad,--yes," as Donald protested vehemently, "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 gratitude. But the reticent Duncan understood,
and the young man went away with the fixed determination, that though
he could not attain to his uncle's ambition, he would at least, with
God's help, be such a man as would never bring dishonour 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 latch clicked,
and a familiar form, erect 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 puffed 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'