Next morning when they awoke the sad truth became apparent, that the mother of the family had had a change for the worse in her sleep. Her mind wandered and her strength had completely left. The only one she recognized was her husband, and when he spoke she smiled. The spells of unconsciousness grew longer as the day wore on and towards evening it could be seen her last was near. As often happens in the Canadian winter, a pet day had been followed by a storm. A piercing blast from the west filled the air with drift and sent the frozen snow rattling on the window-panes. They were all gathered round her bed, when she woke, and her eyes wonderingly looked upon them, tried to make out what it all meant, and gave it up as hopeless. “Eh, sirs, a bonnie day,” she said, as if speaking to herself, “the westlin win’ blaws saft frae the sea an’ the bit lammies rin after their mithers on the hill-side. Sune the kye will be comin’ hame an’ after milkin’ I’ll snod mysel’, for somebody’s comin’ to see somebody, an’ we’ll daunner doun e’e the gloamin’ by the burn. Isna he a comely lad! Stracht an’ supple, and an e’e in his heid that a bairn wad trust. Tak him? I’d gang tae the warl’s end wi’ him.... What’s that! The kirk bell. I didna think it was sae late. Sure eneuch, there’s the folk strachlin’ ower the muir an’ the laird riding on his powny.... Surely it’s growin’ mirk. Mither, tak me in your airms an’ pit me to sleep. What will you sing to me? The Flowers o’ the Forest, the nicht, mither. Kiss me noo, I’ll be a better bairn the morn an’ dae what you tell me.... Na, na, pick yer ain flowers: this poesy is for my baby brither.... Faither, dinna lift your haun’ to me: I’m sorry. I’ll no dae it again. Whaur am I?... Faither, dinna you hear me? Oh come quick an’ save me, the tide is lowpin’ fast ower the rock. There’s the boatie rowin’ to us: it’ll be here enow an’ we’ll be saved.... Did you hear that? It’s Sandy the piper come to the toun. Let’s rin an’ meet him.... I’m tired o’ daffin’ an wad hae a rest. Let’s creep into the kirk-yaird an’ sit doun by granfaither’s grave. Hoo sweet the merle sings, an’ tak tent to the corn-craik ower yonner.... Weel, weel, I canna understan’ it. His ways are no oor ways, but I’ll lippen to Him tae the end. Maggie, Maggie, whaur are ye? I’m gaun awa’, an’ I want you to rin an’ tell the goodman o’ the hoose to hae a chamber ready for me. What am I saying? God forgie me, my mind wanders; he’s had ane waitin’ for me this mony a day.... I see you noo, my bairns. Guid nicht, tae we meet again.” There was a long silence. The father rose, and closed the drooping eyelids that would never be lifted and laid down the weary head which would never move again. CHAPTER XV. One July morning Mr Forsyth was working in the field beside the river when he saw a canoe shoot in sight. It drew up to the bank and its occupant walked towards him.