When John had gone his mother roused herself to a feverish industry. Even in the early days of her strength she had never been so busy in her home. But her work was aimless and to no purpose. When tidying she would take a cup without its saucer from the table, and set off with it through the room, but stopping suddenly in the middle of the floor, would fall into a muse with the dish in her hand; coming to herself long afterwards to ask vaguely, "What's this cup for?... Janet, lassie, what was it I was doing?" Her energy, and its frustration, had the same reason. The burden on her mind constantly impelled her to do something to escape from it, and the same burden paralyzed her mind in everything she did. So with another of her vacant whims. Every morning she rose at an unearthly hour, to fish out of old closets rag-bags bellied big with the odds and ends of thirty years' assemblage. "I'll make a patchwork quilt o' thir!" she explained, with a foolish, eager smile; and she spent hours snatching up rags and vainly trying to match them. But the quilt made no progress. She would look at a patch for a while, with her head on one side, and pat it all over with restless hands; then she would turn it round, to see if it would look better that way, only to tear it off when it was half sewn, to try another and yet another. Often she would forget the work on her lap, and stare across the room, open-mouthed, her fingers plucking at her withered throat. Janet became afraid of her mother. Once she saw her smiling to herself, when she thought nobody was watching her--an uncanny smile as of one who hugged a secret to her breast--a secret that, eluding others, would enable its holder to elude them too. "What can _she_ have to laugh at?" Janet wondered. At times the haze that seemed gathering round Mrs. Gourlay's mind would be dispelled by sudden rushes of fear, when she would whimper lest her son be hanged, or herself come on the parish in her old age. But that was rarely. Her brain was mercifully dulled, and her days were passed in a restless vacancy. She was sitting with the rags scattered round her when John walked in on the evening of the third day. There were rags everywhere--on the table, and all about the kitchen; she sat in their midst like a witch among the autumn leaves. When she looked towards his entrance the smell of drink was wafted from the door. "John!" she panted, in surprise--"John, did ye not go to Glasgow, boy?" "Ay," he said slowly, "I gaed to Glasgow." "And the bond, John--did ye speir about the bond?" "Ay," he said, "I speired about the bond. The whole house is sunk in't." "Oh!" she gasped, and the whole world seemed to go from beneath her, so weak did she feel through her limbs. "John," she said, after a while, "did ye no try to get something to do, that you might help me and Janet now we're helpless?" "No," he said; "for the een wouldna let me. Nicht and day they follow me a'where--nicht and day."