n' journey, and he should have
done so, for we'd not seen him since he was a lad, and all these years
I've been waitin' to see ye."

"Weel, 'twas good of him to leave ye bide with us a bit, an' go home
without ye," said Jean.

"It was good of him, but I ought not to have allowed it." Hester's
eyes glistened and her face grew tender and soft. To the world,
the Elder might seem harsh, stubborn, and vindictive, but Hester knew
the tenderness in which none but she believed. Ever since the
disappearance of their son, he had been gentle and most lovingly
watchful of her, and his domination had risen from the old critical
restraint on her thoughts and actions to a solicitous care for her
comfort,--studying her slightest wishes with almost appealing
thoughtfulness to gratify them.

"And why for no allow it? There's naething so good for a man as
lettin' him be kind to ye, even if he is an Elder in the kirk. I'm
thinkin' Peter's ain o' them that such as that is good for--Hester!
What ails ye! Are oot of ye're mind? Gi'e her a drap of whuskey, Jean.
Hester!"

While they were chatting and sipping their tea, Hester had quietly
resumed the reading of her letter, and now she sat staring straight
before her, the pages crushed in her hand, leaning forward, pale, with
her eyes fixed on space as if they looked on some awful sight.

"Hester! Hester! What is it? Is there a bit o' bad news for ye' in the
letter? Here, tak' a sip o' this, dear. Tak' it, Hester; 'twill
hairten ye up for whatever's intil't," cried Jean, holding to Hester's
lips the ever ready Scotch remedy, which she had snatched from a wall
cupboard behind her and poured out in a glass.

Ellen, who was lame and could not rise from her chair without help,
did not cease her directions and ejaculations, lapsing into the
broader Scotch of her girlhood under excitement, as was the way with
both the women. "Tell us what ails ye, dear; maybe it's no so bad. Gie
me the letter, Jean, an' I'll see what's intil't. Ring the bell for
Tillie an' we'll get her to the couch."

But Hester caught Jean's gown and would not let her go to the bell
cord which hung in the far corner of the room. "No, don't call her.
I'll lie down a moment, and--and--we'll talk--this--over." She clung
to the letter and would not let it out of her hand, but rose and
walked wearily to the couch unassisted and lay down, closing her eyes.
"After a minute, Aunt Ellen, I'll tell you. I must think, I must
think."