A little matter of parochial business led me to pay a visit to the House of Glendouglas, and, the weather being fine and the roads in good shape, I set out to make the journey on foot. I had left the main road which led over the Cairn, and was passing along the magnificent beech avenue that formed the approach to the mansion-house, when I came upon a party of two who had taken up their position at a point from which could be obtained an excellent view of the house and its surroundings. In an invalid’s wheel-chair was seated a lad of striking appearance, young and yet having an air of maturity that compelled attention. He was engaged in making a water-color sketch of the scene before him, occasionally making a remark to a tall, sweet-faced woman, who leant over the back of the carriage, and whom I rightly surmised to be his mother. I had noticed her in church at the early Communion service on the previous Sunday, and had been struck by her quiet and unassuming, but reverent, demeanor. Raising my hat, I wished them a good morning. “I know you are Church folks, and I’m sorry that I have not been able to call upon you as yet; ere long I hope to get over the whole parish. I do not need to tell you who I am, but, may I ask to whom I am speaking?” The young lad turned his head and respectfully saluted me, blushing as he did (and it was only when the blood mantled into his cheeks that one thought of him as a boy); his mother dropped a courtesy, with a grace that told its own tale, and replied: “I am Mrs. Morton, sir, and this is my eldest son, Jamie. He is not very strong, but he dearly loves, when it is at all possible, to get out of doors, and do a little sketching.” Her accent was distinctly Scotch, but I could easily perceive that she was a woman of education and refinement; and, while there was just a breath of pathos in her speech, there was at the same time a note of dignity and independence that warned me to be very guarded in what I had to say. I glanced at the sketch, and even my _dilettante_ knowledge of the canons of art could tell that here was an undeveloped genius, who only needed a master’s guidance to produce really good work. “Has your son had any lessons, Mrs. Morton?” I said. “No, sir, I am sorry to say, we have not been able to arrange for that as yet. My husband died three years ago, and I’ve been so much taken up with providing a home for my little flock, that lessons have been out of the question. My boy has been unable to move about like other bairns, which has not lessened the difficulty. But he’s a very sensible lad, Mr. Gray; he knows that it’s God’s will he should be as he is, and he’s quite content. Some day, no doubt, all will be light.”