The sale of David Grant's house and land took place in the following week. He had hurried it on, impatient apparently to get it over. The picturesque old cottage, the oaken furniture, the rare china, the fine linen, all came to the hammer. He would let his wife retain only the barest necessaries to furnish the tiny one-roomed cottage which was now to shelter their grey heads. "What does it matter about us?" he asked. "Let us but pay the money, let us clear our name of the disgrace 'he' has brought on it, and then the sooner the grave closes over us the better." But his wife was of another mind. She was not ready to die until she had seen her child again. His sin, deeply as she grieved for it, did not make him less her son. Sometimes it seemed to her that she loved Owen more now than before he went astray. Most of the neighbours came to the sale at David Grant's. It was their way of showing sympathy with the poor old people, upon whom such a heavy burden of shame and grief had fallen. Every one hoped that the sale would go off well and realize a good sum. It was a surprise to them that David Grant himself was present, seated near the auctioneer. The old man looked sadly bent and aged. He sat leaning forward, his hands clasped upon his stout walking-stick, and his eyes upon the ground. He gave neither word nor glance to any one. Nor did he betray any sign of emotion, as one after another his household goods and the relics of his ancestry, which he had prized so much, were put up for sale. When all was over and the people were dispersing, his attitude remained unchanged. Few of the neighbours had the courage to go and shake him by the hand. There was that in the old man's heartbroken, hopeless air which inspired awe. Those who did venture to address him received no response to their words, only a vacant, scarce-conscious gaze. At last the auctioneer, touched by the old man's helpless, dazed condition, offered to lock up the house and take him round to the cottage now his home. But David would not have it so. "Nay, nay," he said; "I'm not ready yet. I'll lock the door by-and-by. But first I must bide here a while by myself. I shall never cross the threshold of my old house again." So they left him. But as the evening wore on, his wife, who had not had the heart to show her face to the neighbours that day, but had busied herself with trying to make the little cottage look home-like, grew anxious, and went in search of him. The sun had set, and it was twilight as she passed up the well-worn garden path. She could see the form of her husband seated beneath the porch about which the roses bloomed so plenteously in the summer. She went up to him and laid her hand upon his arm. "Come, David," she said, striving to speak cheerfully; "come away now. It's of no use to sit in the gloom and fret. Come away, and let us pray God to have mercy on our poor lost lad."