He insisted upon her occupying the one arm-chair, and he would break up with his left hand the little fire gathered on the hearth, while he kept repeating, as in a wonderfully pleasant dream, ‘Is’t possible you’ve come aince errand to see me? Woman, the sicht of you is gude for a sick man;’ and Jean knew that he admired her fine carriage and fine face as of old--that to him, as to the rest of the world, she was still the well-endowed, the well- not the ill-favoured woman whom Eppie had proposed as a fit wife for her brother. As for him, he looked fifty times more haggard and worn than when Jean had seen him sitting, still able-bodied and active, on the head of his cart between the smiddy and the well, in the winter gloaming. His cheeks were more sunken, his hair had received an additional white powdering, his very voice piped a little with weakness, his fustian clothes naturally were worse--not better, attended to, while his right arm, that sign and seal of a working man’s independence, hung pathetically incapable of service in its sling. But he was eager, even cheerful, in his greetings to Jean. At the same time it was clear that though he had no regrets to spare for his personal appearance, he was full of apologies for his house which might throw discredit on the management of his young house-keepers. Both of them were absent for the moment, since Lizzie had carried out her little brother, and Peggy, who had returned to the parish school, was not come back for the day. To tell the truth, Jean saw Bob’s house when it was about its best, while he remained constantly at home to give directions to his lasses, and when his sister Eppie came over, once a fortnight, expending her surplus energy and emotion in scouring not only the family wardrobe, but the windows and the grate.