er seen one before
(that did not come from Abbotscliff) except my Aunt Kezia, and there
were differences between her and them. My Uncle Drummond and Flora, and
Mr Keith, and this old Mirren, and I thought Helen Raeburn and Mr
Cameron, all belonged this new sort of people. The one who did not seem
to belong them was Angus. Yet I did not like Angus nearly so well as
the rest. And yet he belonged my sort of people. It was a puzzle
altogether, and not a pleasant puzzle. And how anybody was to get out
of the one set into the other set, I could not tell at all.

Stop! I did know one other person at Brocklebank who belonged this new
sort of people. It was Ephraim Hebblethwaite. He was not, I thought--
well, I don't know how to put it--he did not seem so far on the road as
the others; only he was on that road, and not on this road. And then it
struck me, too, whether old Elspie, and perhaps Sam, were not on the
road as well. I ran over in my mind, as I was walking back to the manse
with Flora, who was very silent, all the people I knew; and I could not
think of one other who might be on Flora's road. Father and my sisters,
Esther Langridge, the Catteralls, the Bracewells, Cecilia--oh dear,
no!--Mr Digby, Mr Bagnall (yet they were parsons), Mr Parmenter--no,
not one. At all the four I named last, my mind gave a sort of jump as
if it were quite astonished to be asked the question. But where did the
roads lead? Flora and her sort, I felt quite sure, were going to
Heaven. Then where were Angus and I and all the rest going?

And I did not like the answer at all.

But I felt that the two roads led in opposite ways, and they could not
both go to one place.

As we walked up the path to the manse, Helen came out to meet us.

"My lassie," she said to Flora, "there's Miss Annas i' the garden, and
Leddy Monksburn wad ha'e ye gang till Monksburn for a dish o' tea, and
Miss Cary wi' ye."

Flora's face lighted up.

"Oh, how delightful!" she said. "Come, Cary--come and see Annas Keith."

I was very curious to see Annas, and I followed willingly. Under the
old beech at the bottom of the garden sat a girl-woman--she was not
either, but both--in a gown of soft camlet, which seemed as if it were
part of her; I do not mean so much in the fit of it, as in the complete
suitableness of it and her. Her head was bent down over a book, and I
could not see her face at first--only her hair, which was neither light
nor dark, but