“Remember, we beseech Thee, most merciful Father, a father and mother who wait with anxious hearts for tidings of their only son, and grant that, before this week be over, Thy servant who is charged with many messages to this parish may bring to them good news from a far country.” “Didna a' tell ye?” triumphed Jamie, going down to the gate, while Posty, who had required the whole length of the sermon to recognise himself, departed, much lifted, declaring aloud: “The 'll be nae black edge in the bag next Friday, or a'm no postman o' Drumtochty.” Letters for Bogleigh were left about two o'clock in a box on the main road two miles distant, and brought up by the scholars in the evening; but it was agreed early in the week that David and his wife should go down and receive the letter from Posty's own hands on Friday. In order not to be late, Meg rose at four that morning--but indeed she need not have gone to bed--and by eight o'clock was afraid they might be late. Three times she took out and rearranged her treasures, and three times broke down utterly, because she would never see her laddie again. They followed Posty from his start outwards, and were comforted about eleven with the thought that he was on the return journey. “He's fairly aff for hame noo, wumman,” David would say, “an' wheepin' through Neth-eraird; he's no mair than ten mile awa, a'll warrant, an' he's a terrible walker.” “He 'ill surely no be tastin' at the Netheraird public-hoose, Dauvid, an' loiterin'; a've kent him no be at the box till half three.” “Na, na, there's nae fear o' Posty the day; a'll be boond he's savin' every meenut; ye mind hoo prood he wes tae bring the letter wi' the Professor's appintment.” “Isn't it michty tae think we 're pittin' aff the time here,” and Meg began to get ready, “when he's maybe in the pairish already?” It was exactly a quarter past twelve when the two old people sat down in the shadow of the firs above the box to wait for the first sight of Posty. “A' daurna meet him, Dauvid, aifter a',” she said; “we 'ill juist watch him pit the letter in, and slip doon when he's gane, an'... oh! but a' ken what it 'ill be.” “A'm expeckin tae hear John's on the mend masel,” said David manfully, and he set himself to fortify his wife with Saunders's case and the doctor's prayer, till she lifted her head again and watched. A summer wind passed over the pines, the wood-pigeons cooed above their heads, rabbits ran out and in beside them, the burn below made a pleasant sound, a sense of the Divine Love descended on their hearts. “The Aimichty,” whispered Meg, “'ill surely no tak awa oor only bairn... an' him dune sae weel... an' sae gude a son... A' wes coontin' on him comin' hame next year... an' seein' him aince mair... afore a' deed.”