Even then the heart of the mother had resented his coldness, his seeming unconsciousness of his parents as having any share or interest in his life or prospects. Scotch parents are seldom demonstrative to each other or to their children; but not the less in them, possibly the hotter because of their outward coldness, burns the causal fire, the central, the deepest—that eternal fire, without which the world would turn to a frozen clod, the love of the parent for the child. That must burn while _the_ Father lives! that must burn until the universe _is_ the Father and his children, and none beside. That fire, however long held down and crushed together by the weight of unkindled fuel, must go on to gather heat, and, gathering, it must glow, and at last break forth in the scorching, yea devouring flames of a righteous indignation: the Father must and _will_ be supreme, that his children perish not! But as yet _The Father_ endured and was silent; and the child-parents also must endure and be still! In the meantime their son remained hidden from them as by an impervious moral hedge; he never came out from behind it, never stood clear before them, and they were unable to break through to him: within his citadel of indifference there was no angelic traitor to draw back the bolts of its iron gates, and let them in. They had gone on hoping, and hoping in vain, for some holy, lovely change in him; but at last had to confess it a relief when he left the house, and went to Edinburgh. But the occasion to which I refer was long before that. The two children were in bed and asleep, and the parents were lying then, as they lay now, sleepless. “Hoo’s Jeemie been gettin on the day?” said his father. “Well enough, I suppose,” answered his mother, who did not then speak Scotch quite so broad as her husband’s, although a good deal broader than her mother, the wife of a country doctor, would have permitted when she was a child; “he’s always busy at his books. He’s a good boy, and a diligent; there’s no gainsayin that! But as to hoo he’s gettin on, I can beir no testimony. He never lets a word go from him as to what he’s doin, one way or anither. ‘What _can_ he be thinkin aboot?’ I say whiles to mysel—sometimes ower and ower again. When I gang intil the parlour, where he always sits till he has done his lessons, he never lifts his heid to show that he hears me, or cares wha’s there or wha isna. And as soon as he’s learnt them, he taks a buik and gangs up til his room, or oot aboot the hoose, or intil the cornyard or the barn, and never comes nigh me!—I sometimes won’er gien he would ever miss me deid!” she ended, with a great sigh.