“Don’t think of me,” he said; “but tell me how you are. You are not looking ill, my dear old mother. You will be well again before I go.” “Oh! ay, I’ll be well again,” she said. “I’m no ill--I’m only slipping away; but I would like to say out my say. The minister has his ain way in the pulpit,” she went on, with a smile of soft humour, and with a slowness and softness of utterance which looked like the very perfection of art to cover her weakness; “and so may I on my deathbed, my bonnie man. As I was saying, I’ve had much, much to do in my generation, Edgar--and so will you.” She smoothed his hand between her own, caressing it, and looking at him always with a smile. “And you may say it’s been for little, little enough,” she went on. “Ah! when my bairns were bairns, how muckle I thought of them! I toiled, and I toiled, and rose up early and lay down late, aye thinking they must come to mair than common folk. It was vanity, minister, vanity; I ken that weel. You need not shake your head. God be praised, it’s no a’ in a moment you find out the like o’ that. But I’m telling you, Edgar, to strengthen your heart. They’re just decent men and decent women, nae mair--and I’ve great, great reason to be thankful; and it’s you, my bonnie man, the seed that fell by the wayside--none o’ my training, none o’ my nourishing---- Eh! how the Lord maun smile at us whiles,” she added, slowly, one lingering tear running over her eyelid, “and a’ our vain hopes!--no laugh. He’s ower tender for that.” “Or weep, rather,” said Edgar, penetrated by sympathetic understanding of the long-concealed, half-fantastic pang of wounded love and pride, which all these years had wrung silently the high heart now so near being quieted for ever. She could smile now at her own expectations and vanities--but what pathos was in the smile! “We must not put emotions like our own into His mind that’s over all,” said the old minister. “Smiling or weeping’s no for Him.” “Eh, but I canna see that,” said the old woman. “Would He be kinder down yonder by the Sea of Tiberias than He is up there in His ain house? It’s at hame that the gentle heart’s aye kindest, minister. Mony a day I’ve wondered if it mightna be just like our own loch, that Sea of Galilee--the hills about, and the white towns, as it might be Loch Arroch Head (though it’s more grey than white), and the fishing-cobbles. But I’m wandering--I’m wandering. Edgar, my bonnie man, you’re tired and hungry; go down the stair and get a rest, and something to eat.”