And lifting his head again with something of his usual rigid pride, the old man went away, as hastily as he had entered. The market was over in Fendie, and as the summer afternoon drowsily waned, and the weekly stir subsided, Mr Oswald sat in his little private office alone. The banker was an elder of the Church, and a man, as Saunders thought, of kindred mind and temperament to his own. It was from him that he came to seek counsel. Mr Oswald looked up in some astonishment as the old man was ushered into his _sanctum_. “It’s a case of conscience, Sir,” said Saunders, in his harsh, tremulous voice. “I was wanting to ask your counsel.” Mr Oswald was a little startled. Cases of conscience were not quite in his way, although he had the ordination of the eldership upon him. “Had you not better speak to the minister, Saunders?” he said; “but sit down, and tell me what troubles you.” The banker’s heart was touched with the trembling vehemence of the old man’s manner and appearance as he stood before him. “Na, Sir, I canna speak to the minister,” said Saunders. “The minister’s a young man, and doesna ken the afflictions of the like o’ me. He may hae comfort for his ain kind, but the griefs o’ the gray head are aboon the ken o’ lads like him. I canna speak to the minister.” Mr Oswald had heard the rumour of Peter Delvie’s death, and pitied the stern old father; again he asked him to sit down. Saunders took the offered seat, and pressed his bonnet convulsively between his hands. “It’s touching the lawfulness of a vow--a vow before the Lord.” Mr Oswald’s voice faltered a little; an indefinite thrill of conscience moved him. “What is it, Saunders?” “I made a resolve,” said the old man, his features twitching, and his strong, harsh voice shaking with the very force of his determination to steady it, “to put forth ane--ane that had sinned--out from my house as an alien and a reprobate. He had shamed the name that righteous puir men had laboured to keep honest for him--he had sinned in the sight of God and man; and before the Lord I pat him forth, and took a vow on me that he should cross my doorstane never mair. Maister Oswald, ye’re an elder of the Kirk, and a man of years, and ane that has had bairns born to ye, and ken--am I no’ bound before the Lord to haud to my vow?” Mr Oswald moved upon his chair uneasily. He could not answer. “I have had converse with Mossgray,” continued Saunders, shrill tones of excitement mingling with the usual slow, grave accents of his broken voice, “but Mossgray is anither manner of man, and kensna--kensna the like o’ me. He tells me that change is a guid gift of God, given for our using like ither providences, and that what I have said wi’ my lips may be broken, and me no mansworn--but I say, no--I ken nae law ither than the auld law of Scripture, and I maun perform to the Lord my vow. Sir, Mr Oswald, think ye not so?”