Eppie Meffin had returned with her soldier, a full-blown sergeant in possession of a comfortable pension, to settle in her native village. And Jean went to congratulate her old friend, but found that condolences instead of congratulations were in requisition. Eppie stood bathed in tears with her good bonnet and shawl thrown on anyhow, in her haste to set out for the Dalroy railway-station, which was now within three miles of the village, while the train stopped for five minutes at another station a mile from Logan, on its way to a place of greater note. ‘Come a bittie with me, Jean, it’s lang since we’ve seen ane anither, lass. I take your early visit very kind, and am fain to hear your cracks, ‘but I canna stop to speak to you,’ said Eppie, without waiting to be questioned on the cause of her distress. Jean complied with the petition, excited almost out of her staid maidenly composure. And her companion was not slow to pour forth her lamentations over the misfortune that had befallen her, through all that was left of her kindred. ‘Oo, aye, it’s that unlucky Bob: you may be satisfied now, Jean, you ha’e lived to see vengeance execut’ on him--as they say, it’s aye ta’en--even in this world, on the deceivers and deserters o’ women.’ ‘Me satisfied!’ cried Jean in unfeigned horror; ‘what do you tak me for, Eppie Meffin? Do you think I wish, or ha’e ever wished, an ill wish on your brither? You’re speakin’ like an unregenerate heathen. Is’t his ae bit laddie?’ inquired Jean almost tenderly. ‘It’s a hantle waur than the bairn,’ groaned Eppie. ‘I canna help liking the wee thing who is no accountable for a’ the fash he gies; but ’deed he would be weel awa’, at rest from a’ his pains.’ ‘Oh! Eppie, Eppie,’ said Jean reproachfully, ‘when Bob’s heart is set on this bairn, and ane can never tell what the silliest callant may come through, and live, and grow to; you a mither yoursel’ to speak sic words!’ ‘You speak o’ me bein’ a mither,’ said Eppie with a half-choked voice, ‘woman, you dinna ken what the outcome o’ a mither’s love may lead to, though you’re gude--you were aye a gude lass, Jean Kinloch. There’s my ain brisk mannie Peter. Do you think if I had the choice, and if I kenned I was to be ta’en away frae him, and his father was to forfeit his pension and become superannuate’, I wouldna rather choose to have a’ the briskness ta’en out of my laddie, and see him lying still--never to stir mair--only fit for the mools, than look forward to a chance of his comin’ to want, and fa’n on the parish, and being knocked about and scorned, and treated to a dog’s life?’ ‘Then it’s Bob himsel’,’ said Jean briefly. ‘Wha else should it be?’ demanded Eppie, made peevish by her grief. ‘Ye dinna say he’s dead?’ said Jean, with white lips.