Supper is over in the Primrose Cottage. The sun is slowly sinking to rest in the watery bed of the western sea, flecking and streaking the distant blue into a variegated coverlet for its nightly repose. In a few hours twilight will come and then night with its darkening mantle. The main living room of the cottage is gilded by the slanting sunbeams that glisten through the small, diamond window panes and the open doorway. The floor of stone has been freshly sanded with white sea sand and raked and marked in neat figures. Ande Trembath is interested in a new tale that seems fascinating to him. It is Scott's "Lady of The Lake." Mrs. Trembath is seated in a comfortable rocking chair, knitting, for Ande must have warm stockings for the coming cold weather. The hour of worship peals out from the great clock in the corner of the stairs. Without a word, the lad places away the tale he has been perusing and picks up the worn gilded volume of God's word. The mother places her knitting on the small side table and prepares to listen, while her laddie opens the book with care at the One Hundred and Fifth Psalm. The reading of God's providence revealed there seemed to have additional interest for the lad, and he paused for a moment over the eighteenth verse and thought over the parson's morning talk. The Scripture ended, the mother and son kneel in prayer, using not only the prayer of ordinary evening worship, but that other prayer for the safety of those astray on sea or land, and as the mother reads reverently the latter prayer, the thoughts of both are concentrated on the dear one lost amidst the American wilds eight long years ago. Then followed the Lord's prayer, repeated in concert, until the part "forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us," where the lad's voice faltered, and ceased for a moment, resuming the prayer in concert with his mother when the phrase was passed. The prayers were ended and the harp was brought forth with loving care. The lad handled it with reverence, for it was his father's, and his grandfather's, and he knew not how far it had dwelt in the annals of his family. Then came the strains of Bishop Ken's Evening Hymn, "Glory to Thee, my God, this night, For all the blessings of the light; Keep me, O keep me, King of kings, Under Thine own almighty wings." The worship was finished and the Word, the prayer book, and the harp replaced in their usual positions; Ande had returned to his "Lady of The Lake," the mother to her knitting. There was no sound for a time save the monotonous click, click of the knitting needles, keeping up a sort of recitative duet with the tick, tick of the clock. "Ande, laddie, why is it that thou dost not repeat the whole of the Lord's prayer with me? I have noticed the last few times and have wondered." The lad was silent for a moment and his face flushed. "I cannot, mother dear," he said simply. "Why, laddie?"