“A'm judgin' this kind o' speerit's in the verra air o' the Glen, for there's juist twa auld weemen on the pairish; ane o' them's blind, the ither's had a stroke; naither o' them hes a freend, an' baith o' them murn every day they canna wark.” “Mary's an able wumman,” broke in Hillocks, who was much given to practical detail; “a've seen her hens layin' in the dead o' winter, and she hed a coo, a' mind, 'at gied half as muckle milk again as ony coo in oor toon. As for plannin' she got ma Sunday blacks when they were gey far through wi't, an' gin she didna juist mak a jacket for Chairlie 'at did him for ten year; a'm dootin' she hes tae pay for him yet: he's no the help he micht hae been as far as a' can mak oot; eh, Drumsheugh?” “Gin it wesna for him daein' naethin' and livin' on his faimily, Hillocks, Lily micht stay wi' her grannie, an' keep Mary comfortable in her auld age. But they aye cover him, baith his grannie and his sister, till ye wud think there wes never a better-daein' lad gied oot o' the Glen. Whatever they say among themsels, they 'ill no say a word ootside.” What they did say in Mary Robertson's cottage that evening was sad enough. “Weel, weel, lassie, there wes sax tae begin wi', an' twa died o' the dipthery--eh, but Doctor Maclure wes kind that time--and twa mairried and gied awa, an' Chairlie... in Ameriky, an' there's juist yersel left, and I wes trustin' ye wud stay wi' yir auld grannie an' close her een.” “Dinna speak that foolish wy, grannie,” but Lily's voice had a break in it. “Ye 're lookin' fresher than mony a young wumman, an' ye ken a'm tae get hame at a time, maybe ilka three year.” “It's a lang road, Lily, tae Lunnon, an' ill tae traivel; a' may be dead and buried afore ye come back, an' a 'll be terrible lonely, juist like a bird when the young anes are ta'en awa.” “Gin ye say anither word a 'll fling up ma place, an' never gang in tae service ava; it's no ma wush tae leave the Glen an' gang sae far frae hame. But we maun py the man in Muirtown what Chairlie borrowed, else oor name 'ill be disgraced.” “It's disgraced eneuch already with sic a useless fellow; he's his faither ower again--a fair face, a weel-dressed back, a cunning tongue, an' a fause heart. There's no a drop o' Robertson bluid in him, lassie; there's times a' wish he was dead,” and Mary's voice trembled with passion. “Wisht, wisht, grannie; he's mither's only son, an' she wes prood o' him, a've heard ye say, an' he 'ill maybe mend; div ye ken a' wes juist imaginin' that he set tae work and githered a lot o' siller, an' paid back a' ye hae dune for him. “Ye 'ill no be angry, but a' telt Marget Hoo ae day aboot oor tribble an' ma houp o' Chairlie--for ye canna look at Marget an' no want tae unburden yersel--an' she said, 'Dinna be ashamed o' yir dreams, Lily; they 'ill a' come true some day, for we canna think better than God wull dae.'”