"It beats a' things," said Whinnie; "a' canna mak' oot what's come ower the cratur. There's a puckle o' the upland bairns pass oor wy frae schule, and whiles Lachlan 'ill meet them when he's aifter his sheep, and as sure as a'm stannin' here, he 'ill lay aff stories aboot battles and fairies, till the laddies 'ill hardly gae hame. I wes tellin' Marget this verra mornin', and she says, 'Lachlan's become as a little child.' I dinna haud wi' her there, but a quieter, mair cautious body ye never saw." Drumtochty was doing its best to focus Lachlan afresh, and felt the responsibility lay on Domsie, who accepted it cheerfully. "Marget's aye richt, neebours, and she's put the word on it noo. His tribble hes melted Lachlan's heart, an'--it's in the Evangel, ye ken--he's become as a little child." This language was too figurative and imposing for the parish, but it ran henceforward in our modest speech, "He's a cautious body." Cautious, with us, meant unassuming, kindly obliging, as well as much more; and I still hear Drumsheugh pronouncing this final judgment of the glen on Lachlan as we parted at his grave ten years later, and adding, "He 'ill be sair missed by the bairns." While the glen was readjusting itself to Lachlan, I came down from a long tramp on the moor, and intended to inquire for Flora. But I was arrested on the step by the sound of Lachlan's voice in family worship. "This my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found. And they began to be merry." Lachlan's voice trembled as he read, but he went on with much firmness: "Now his elder son was in the field." "You will not be reading more of that chapter, father," interrupted Flora, with a new note of authority. "And why not?" said Lachlan, quite humbly. "Because you will be calling yourself the elder son and many more bad names, and I will be angry with you." "But they are true names, and it iss good for me to know myself." "You hef just one true name, and that iss father.... And now you will be singing a psalm." "There iss a book of himes (hymns) here, and maybe you will be liking one of them." And Lachlan produced the little book Flora got in that London church when the preacher told her she was missed. "We will not sing hymns, father, for I am remembering that you hef a conscience against hymns, and I did not know that you had that book." "My conscience wass sometimes better than the Bible, Flora, and if God will be sending a hime to bind up your heart when it wass broken, it iss your father that will be wanting to sing that hime. "It iss here," continued Lachlan in triumph, "for I hef often been reading that hime, and I am not seeing much wrong in it." "But each hymn hass got its own tune, father, and you will not know the way that it goes, and the doctor will not be wishing me to sing."