“A most worthy one. Elspeth—the widow Longman—has not always been in service. She has had reverses and great sorrows—the loss of her husband while she was still a young woman with an infant boy, a boy whom she spoiled as only a widowed mother can spoil an only child. He grew up, so it is said, not really wicked or worthless, but idle, wilful, headstrong, and fond of pleasure and of roving. One day the poor mother lost her temper, under some great provocation, and told him he was the one grief and trial of her life, or words to that effect. He took his hat and walked out of the house. She thought he had only gone to the barn or to the village, and her burst of grief and anger being over, she prepared that evening an extra good supper for her boy, that they might make up their misunderstanding. But, though she waited long and anxiously, he did not come, nor has he ever come, nor has she ever heard one word of him since that day when he walked out of the house in sullen wrath.” “Oh, how dreadful! how dreadful!” exclaimed Jennie. “Yes; it nearly killed her. The farm, with no one to look after it, went to rack and ruin. She was compelled to sell off all the stock to pay the rent, and then to give up the lease and go into service. That is Elspeth’s sad little story,” said Mrs. Campbell, hurriedly concluding as she saw the subject of her discourse re-entering the room with the plate of hot muffins in hand. But no one wanted any more. The curate gave thanks and they arose from the table. The mother and daughter reseated themselves on the crimson sofa in the glow of the fire, Hetty Campbell took the baby on her lap, and the fondling and idolizing recommenced, and might have continued all night, but that James Campbell wisely put an end to the play. “Come!” he said. “I have been traveling night and day for twenty-four hours, and am well worn out. So is Jennie, though she has only traveled one day by rail. So we had better go straight to bed. Listen, Hetty: I have had our daughter all day long to myself. You take her to your bosom to-night.” “Eh?” exclaimed his wife, not understanding. “Do you sleep with Jennie and the precious baby to-night. That will make you all very happy, though I am not so sure about the baby. Only don’t talk all night. Put off all mutual explanations until the morning,” the curate explained. Jennie sprang to her father and embraced him, exclaiming: “Oh, papa! how good of you!” Hetty, with the baby in her arms, came up on the other side, kissed him, and said: “How kindly thoughtful of you, dear Jim!” The curate laughed. “There! there! I shall not break my heart for your absence this one night, Hetty, my dear. I shall sleep too soundly. And the arrangement is on no account to be a perpetual one.” Elspeth, having cleared away the tea table, was called in, and the evening worship was offered earlier than usual.