hose blowing flame he often woke in after
nights to see, a push from a persuasive hand, then a ride over a country
road the darkness of which seemed impenetrable, and, finally, the
startling vision of an open door, with a Meg Merrilies of a woman
standing in it, holding a flaming candle in her hand. The candle went
out while he looked at it, and left only a voice to guide him--a voice
which, in tones shaken by chill or feeling, he could not tell which,
cried eagerly:

"Is that you, laddie? Come awa in. Come awa in. Dinna heed the rain. The
maister's been crying on you a' day. I'm glad you're no ower late."

He got down, followed the voice, and, stumbling up a step or two,
entered a narrow door, which was with difficulty held open behind him,
and which swung to with a loud noise the minute he crossed the
threshold. This or the dreariness of the place in which he found himself
disturbed him greatly. Bare floors, stained walls, meagre doorways, and
a common pine staircase, lighted only by the miserable candle which the
old woman had relit--were these the appointments of the palatial home he
had been led to expect? These the surroundings, this the abode of him
who had exacted such perfection on his part, and to satisfy whose
standard he had devoted years of hourly, daily effort, in every
department of art and science? A sickening revolt seized him, aggravated
by the smiles of the old woman, who dipped and courtesied before him in
senile delight. She may have divined his feelings, for, drawing him
inside, she relieved him of his overcoat, crying all the while, with an
extravagant welcome more repulsive than all the rest:

"O the fine laddie! Wad your puir mither could see you the noo! Bonnie
and clever! No your faither's bairn ava! All mither, laddie, all
mither!"

The room was no better than the hall.

"Where is my father?" he asked, authoritatively, striving to keep down
his strong repugnance.

"Dinna ye hear him? He's crying on ye. Puir man, he's wearying to see
ye."

Hear him? He could scarcely hear her. The driving rain, the swish of
some great boughs against the house, the rattling of casements and
doors, and the shrieking of wind in the chimney made all other sounds
wellnigh inaudible. Yet as he listened he seemed to catch the accents of
a far-off voice calling, now wistfully, now imperatively, "Thomas!
Thomas!" And, thrilled with an emotion almost superstitious in its
intensity, he moved hastily toward the s