“Na, na, Robbie, I ken better,” said the person whom Robbie Caryl was exhorting; a tall, thin, sunburnt young man, who limped a good deal, and looked sickly and weak. “Man, I wad rather face a file o’ bagnets than face my faither and him angry; and I wad gie a’ the Indies gin I had them, if he would just be friends wi’ me again.” “Friends wi’ ye?--ne’er a fears o’ him,” said the fisherman. “I’ll just tell ye, Peter--if he disna be friends wi’ you after a’ you’ve gaen through, and a’ he’s gaen through himsel, I could maist find it in my heart to pit him in Tam Macqueen’s boat the first ill day, and let him set to wi’ the Firth, and try which ane’ll master the tither--for he’s past dealing wi’ men.” “Whisht, Robbie, ye dinna ken,” said the young man. “I’ll hear nae mortal speak ill o’ my faither; if I could but get a word o’ my mother, hidelins--just to see--maybe he’s mair merciful noo. He’s an auld man--he’s winning near heaven. Wha kens--he may be turned to mair mercy.” Their path lay along the side of the Marsh, and they had just rounded the projecting corner, on which the comfortable farmsteading of Seabraes, with its barns and byres, and hay-stacks, stood, looking on the Firth, with only a swelling bank of close seaside grass between it and the beach. On this green bank, the stakes of the salmon-nets used during the summer were piled in a rude pyramid, and past it wound a byway to Fendie. They were advancing towards the gate of a field through which the road lay. A gaunt, high figure stood leaning there, hidden by the hedge. Saunders Delvie had heard that his son lived and was returned from young Hew Grant, who last evening had visited the cottage along with Mossgray to prepare the way for the prodigal; and now, trembling under the cold, bright November sunshine, the father stood waiting for his son. The proud old man was glad that he had been warned--glad that he had time to compose the rigid muscles of his face, and that no man could guess how his joy boiled in his veins, and how the passionate heart beat in his breast. He was solemnly dressed in his decent Sabbath suit, and looked almost hysterically calm, though all his endeavours could not put away the look of high, suppressed excitement from his twitching eyebrows and stern-featured face. “Faither! faither!” cried Peter Delvie, as they came suddenly upon him--the old man’s efforts at calmness, and his unusual dress, carried fear to the heart of his son: poor Peter lifted his hand imploringly. “I was only a laddie--have pity on me--have pity upon me, faither!” The grim muscles twitched, and worked about the old man’s mouth; the dew hung heavy on his eyelashes. “Come hame, lad,” he said, in a voice husky with the effort which confined his welcome to those seeming indifferent words. “Come hame, lad, to your mother. What garred ye sleep under a fremd roof this last night, and your ain bed waiting on ye at hame?”