lls faded out,
there lay the mill-pond sleeping and smiling in the sun. Through the
village ran the white road, up past the old frame church, and on to the
white manse standing among the trees. That was Graeme's home, and mine
too, for I had never known another worthy of the name. We held up our
team to look down over the valley, with its rampart of wooded hills, its
shining pond, and its nestling village, and on past to the church and
the white manse, hiding among the trees. The beauty, the peace, the
warm, loving homeliness of the scene came about our hearts, but, being
men, we could find no words.

'Let's go,' cried Graeme, and down the hill we tore and rocked and
swayed to the amazement of the steady team, whose education from
the earliest years had impressed upon their minds the criminality of
attempting to do anything but walk carefully down a hill, at least
for two-thirds of the way. Through the village, in a cloud of dust,
we swept, catching a glimpse of a well-known face here and there, and
flinging a salutation as we passed, leaving the owner of the face rooted
to his place in astonishment at the sight of Graeme whirling on in his
old-time, well-known reckless manner. Only old Dunc. M'Leod was equal to
the moment, for as Graeme called out, 'Hello, Dunc.!' the old man lifted
up his hands, and called back in an awed voice: 'Bless my soul! is it
yourself?'

'Stands his whisky well, poor old chap!' was Graeme's comment.

As we neared the church he pulled up his team, and we went quietly past
the sleepers there, then again on the full run down the gentle slope,
over the little brook, and up to the gate. He had hardly got his team
pulled up before, flinging me the lines, he was out over the wheel, for
coming down the walk, with her hands lifted high, was a dainty little
lady, with the face of an angel. In a moment Graeme had her in his arms.
I heard the faint cry, 'My boy, my boy,' and got down on the other side
to attend to my off horse, surprised to find my hands trembling and my
eyes full of tears. Back upon the steps stood an old gentleman, with
white hair and flowing beard, handsome, straight, and stately--Graeme's
father, waiting his turn.

'Welcome home, my lad,' was his greeting, as he kissed his son, and the
tremor of his voice, and the sight of the two men kissing each other,
like women, sent me again to my horses' heads.

'There's Connor, mother!' shouted out Graeme, and the dainty little
lady, in h