“But I ken ye must have your ain thoughts; the like of you canna keep still a long summer day, though it is a Sabbath; and, bairns, I’ve just this to say to you; ye canna fear mair than we’ll have to meet. I’m thankful even that he’s gane hame before the storm falls; for you’re a’ young, and can stand a blast. There’s plenty to do, and plenty to bear. I dinna forbid ye thinking, though it’s Sabbath night, and death is among us; but oh! laddies, think in a godly manner, and ask a blessing--dinna darken the Sabbath with worldly thoughts, and him lying on his last bed up the stair!” The boys drew near to her simultaneously, with a common impulse. She heard the rustle and motion of their youthful grief, but she still kept her head aside, and drew tightly through her fingers the hem of her apron. “The day after the morn,” continued the widow, “I’ll be ready with all that I ken, and ready to hear whatever you think for yourselves; think discreetly, and I’ll no’ oppose, and think soberly, without pride, for we’re at the foot of the brae. And we’ve nae friends to advise us, bairns,” continued the Mistress, raising her head a little with the very pride which she deprecated; “we’ve neither kith nor kin to take us by the hand, nor give us counsel. Maybe it’s a’ the better--for we’ve only Providence to trust to now, and ourselves.” By this time she had risen up, and taking the candle which Patrick had lighted for her, she stood with the little flat brass sconce in her hand, and the light flickering over her face, still looking down. Yet she lingered, as if she had something more to say. It burst from her lips, at last, suddenly, almost with passion. “Bairns! take heed, in your very innermost hearts, that ye think no blame!” cried the widow; and when she had said these words, hastened away, as if afraid to follow up or to weaken them by another syllable. When she was gone, the lads stood silently about the table, each of them with an additional ache in his heart. There _was_ blame which might be thought, which might be spoken; even she was aware of it, in the jealous regard of her early grief. “The Mistress has bidden you a’ good night,” said Marget, entering softly; “ye’ve taen nae supper, and ye took nae dinner; how are ye to live and work, growing laddies like you, if you gang on at this rate? Ye mean to break my heart amang you. If ye never break bread, Huntley Livingstone, how will you get through the morn?” “I wish it was over,” cried Huntley, once more. “And so do I. Eh! bairns, when I see those blinds a’ drawn down, it makes my heart sick,” cried Marget, “and grief itsel’s easier to thole when ane has ane’s wark in hand. But I didna come to haver nonsense here. I came to bid ye a’ gang to your beds, like good laddies. Ye’ll a’ sleep; that’s the good of being young. The Mistress, I daur to say, and even mysel’, will not close an eye this night.”