After walking some distance in quiescent peace, and having since noontide met no one—to use his own fashion of speech—by which he meant that no special thought had arisen uncalled-for in his mind, always regarding such a thought as a word direct from the First Thought, he turned his steps toward Stonecross. He had known Peter Blatherwick for many years, and honoured him as one in whom there was no guile; and now the desire to see him came upon him: he wanted to share with him the pleasure and benefit he had gathered from Sunday’s sermon, and show the better quality of the food their pastor had that day laid before his sheep. He knocked at the door, thinking to see the mistress, and hear from her where her husband was likely to be found; but to his surprise, the farmer came himself to the door, where he stood in silence, with a look that seemed to say, “I know you; but what can you be wanting with me?” His face was troubled, and looked not only sorrowful, but scared as well. Usually ruddy with health, and calm with content, it was now blotted with pallid shades, and seemed, as he held the door-handle without a word of welcome, that of one aware of something unseen behind him. “What ails ye, Mr. Bletherwick?” asked the soutar, in a voice that faltered with sympathetic anxiety. “Surely—I houp there’s naething come ower the mistress!” “Na, I thank ye; she’s vera weel. But a dreid thing has befa’en her and me. It’s little mair nor an hoor sin syne ’at oor Isy—ye maun hae h’ard tell o’ Isy, ’at we baith had sic a fawvour for—a’ at ance she jist drappit doon deid as gien shotten wi’ a gun! In fac I thoucht for a meenut, though I h’ard nae shot, that sic had been the case. The ae moment she steed newsin wi’ her mistress i’ the kitchie, and the neist she was in a heap upo’ the fleer o’ ’t!—But come in, come in.” “Eh, the bonnie lassie!” cried the shoemaker, without moving to enter; “I min’ upo’ her weel, though I believe I never saw her but ance!—a fine, delicat pictur o’ a lassie, that luikit up at ye as gien she made ye kin’ly welcome to onything she could gie or get for ye!” “Aweel, as I’m tellin ye,” said the farmer, “she’s awa’; and we’ll see her no more till the earth gies up her deid! The wife’s in there wi’ what’s left o’ her, greitin as gien she wad greit her een oot. Eh, but she lo’ed her weel:—Doon she drappit, and no even a moment to say her prayers!” “That maitters na muckle—no a hair, in fac!” returned the soutar. “It was the Father o’ her, nane ither, that took her. He wantit her hame; and he’s no ane to dee onything ill, or at the wrang moment! Gien a meenut mair had been ony guid til her, thinkna ye she wud hae had that meenut!” “Willna ye come in and see her? Some fowk canna bide to luik upo the deid, but ye’re no ane o’ sic!” “Na; it’s trowth I daurna be nane o’ sic. I s’ richt wullinly gang wi’ ye to luik upo the face o’ ane ’at’s won throuw!”