or your kind thoughts for the child. We desire to say yes,
we long to say it. But it is a great thing to decide, and we must ask
counsel."

"Surely. I will wait patiently for your decision. But the sooner we
can go, the better."

There was much more said than this, and counsel was asked before they
parted. Mrs Esselmont's last words were these:

"It was because of the child that I first thought of Allison Bain.
Should you decide that you cannot let Marjorie go, then I will not take
Allison. And remember, my dear," said she to Mrs Hume, "you have
another little daughter now to comfort you. And when you have made up
your mind, whatever it may be, say nothing to Allison. I would like
myself to ask her to go with us if you should decide to let the child
go."

There was not long time needed in which to come to a decision. The
father and mother had taken counsel together, and had asked counsel
often. There was only one thing to be said at the last. Marjorie must
go; and though it was said with sorrow, it was also with thankful
gladness that they committed their darling to the care and keeping of
the Great Healer of the bodies and souls of the creatures whom He came
to save. And they agreed with Mrs Esselmont that, the decision being
made, there was no time to lose.

Kirstin had been coming to visit them before this change was spoken
about. The only difference that this made was, that now she came home
to stay, bringing all her gear with her. After her coming, Allison was
not long kept in suspense as to what her own winter's work might be.

"Allison," said her mistress, "I would like you to go to Firhill this
afternoon. No, Marjorie is better at home to-day. And, Allison, as you
will be likely to see the lady herself, you should change your gown and
put on your bonnet."

Which Allison did, wondering a little, for she had hitherto gone to
Firhill with only her cap on her head, as she had gone elsewhere. Other
folk wondered also. On the stone seat at the weaver's door sat the
weaver's wife, busy with her stocking, and beside her sat her friend
Mrs Coats, "resting herself" after her work was over.

Allison did not pass by them now without a word, as used to be her way
during the first days of their acquaintance; but she did not linger to
say more than a word or two, "as would have been but ceevil," Mrs Coats
said. Allison had a message to deliver at the school, and she did not
come back again, but wen