"Pray, can you tell me, young sir, if there be any of the name of Gray still to the fore in this parish?" The young man gave a violent start, and a wild hope sprang up in his heart. "Yes, I am a Gray; I am Alexander Gray of Hartrigge, son of that Andrew Gray who fell at Bothwell, and whose forbears were so long ministers of this parish," he said, with trembling eagerness. "And you! you! I am not mistaken now that I see your faces. I remember you quite well--Uncle David and Uncle Adam, thank God!" "Can it be possible that I look upon the face of my brother’s son? Now the Lord be praised!" exclaimed the more aged and infirm of the two, and, advancing, he held out two trembling hands to his nephew, which the young man, alighting from his horse, warmly grasped, while the tears rained down his cheeks. Then he turned to Adam Hepburn, whose face betrayed his deep satisfaction, though his joy did not find such ready expression. The villagers, who had watched this scene with consuming interest, now rose with one accord, and with a cheer came flocking about the returned wanderers, for those who had not been personally acquainted with these two sufferers knew their names as household words. "And now tell me, lad," said the aged minister, when he could free himself from these friendly welcomes and again speak with his nephew, "you spoke of Hartrigge. Can it be that I have returned to find a Gray in Hartrigge still?" "Yes, yes; I live there, Uncle David; and my mother and dear Aunt Jane also are in the place," he answered, and the minister did not notice that he did not say they dwelt in the house. "Nannie is married now, and, Uncle Adam, she is living at Rowallan, of which her husband, Walter Fleming, is the farmer." "And there is an Agnes Gray at Rowallan as well as a Gray in Hartrigge!" said the minister. "You hear that, Adam? the old stock is not dead yet, but has developed once more into a goodly tree, for which, O my God, I thank Thee." "An Agnes Gray at Rowallan yet, did you say?" asked Adam Hepburn, dreamily. "But there was no Rowallan when I left, only the blackened ruins of the homestead. What changes are these?" "The old laird is dead, and that dear, blessed saint, Lady Hamilton, has rebuilt Hartrigge and Rowallan and would not let a foot but ours upon their thresholds," said the young man. "But come; we cannot stand here all night. Come away home. Oh, what a night this will be beneath the roof-tree of Hartrigge! Here, Uncle David, get on Jess’s back, and Uncle Adam and I will walk beside you, and so we will soon be home." The minister accordingly gladly mounted the animal, and Sandy took the bridle rein over his arm, and the little party moved off up the manse brae, followed by the cheers of the delighted villagers.