He was a good deal older than his wife, as his long gray hair, among other witnesses, testified. He was six feet in height, and very erect, with a rather stiff, military carriage. His face wore an expression of stern goodwill, as if he had been sent to do his best for everybody, and knew it. Steenie caught sight of him ere he had taken a step into the kitchen. He rushed to him, threw his arms round him, and hid his face on his bosom. ‘Bonny, bonny man!’ he murmured, then turned away and went back to the fire. His mother was casting the first handful of meal into the pot. Steenie fetched a _three-leggit creepie_ and sat down by her, looking as if he had sat there every night since first he was able to sit. The farmer came forward, and drew a chair to the fire beside his son. Steenie laid his head on his father’s knee, and the father laid his big hand on Steenie’s head. Not a word was uttered. The mother might have found them in her way had she been inclined, but the thought did not come to her, and she went on making the porridge in great contentment, while Kirsty laid the cloth. The night was as still in the house as in the world, save for the bursting of the big blobs of the porridge. The peat fire made no noise. The mother at length took the heavy pot from the fire, and, with what to one inexpert might have seemed wonderful skill, poured the porridge into a huge wooden bowl on the table. Having then scraped the pot carefully that nothing should be lost, she put some water into it, and setting it on the fire again, went to a hole in the wall, took thence two eggs, and placed them gently in the water. She went next to the dairy, and came back with a jug of the richest milk, which she set beside the porridge, whereupon they drew their seats to the table--all but Steenie. ‘Come, Steenie,’ said his mother, ‘here’s yer supper.’ ‘I dinna care aboot ony supper the nicht, mother,’ answered Steenie. ‘Guidsake, laddie, I kenna hoo ye live!’ she returned in an accent almost of despair. ‘I’m thinkin I dinna need sae muckle as ither fowk,’ rejoined Steenie, whose white face bore testimony that he took far from nourishment enough. ‘Ye see I’m no a’ there,’ he added with a smile, ‘sae I canna need sae muckle!’ ‘There’s eneuch o’ ye there to fill my hert unco fu,’ answered his mother with a deep sigh. ‘Come awa, Steenie, my bairn!’ she went on coaxingly. ‘Yer father winna ate a moufu’ gien ye dinna: ye’ll see that!--Eh, Steenie,’ she broke out, ‘gien ye wad but tak yer supper and gang to yer bed like the lave o’ ’s! It gars my hert swall as gien ’t wud burst like a blob to think o’ ye oot i’ the mirk nicht! Wha’s to tell what michtna be happenin ye! Oor herts are whiles that sair, yer father’s and mine, i’ oor beds, ’at we daurna say a word for fear the tane set the tither greetin.’