“That’s right, Jeanie, lass,” the women said; “he’s been a good faither to you, and weel he deserves it at your hand.” “Faither and mither baith,” said another commentator; and Jeanie went on with a warm light of pleasure and kindness in her face. Perhaps her name in the air had caught her father’s ear, though no name was more common than Jeanie, or more often heard in “the laigh toun;” or perhaps it was that more subtle personal influence which heralds a new-comer--magnetical, electrical, who can tell what? As she made her way to the end of the square, where it communicated by a steep street with “the laigh toun” below, he came out to his cottage door. He was a tall man, thin and stooping, and very pale, his face sicklied o’er with more than thought. He wore the sign of his trade, a shoemaker’s apron, and looked along the line of houses with a wistful expression, like that which Jeanie had worn when she was alone. He was a man “above the common,” everybody said, for long years a widower, who had been “faither and mither baith” to his children; and only some of them had repaid poor John. Those of the lads who were good lads had emigrated and gone far out of his neighborhood, and those who were within reach were not models of virtue. But Jeanie had always been his support and stay. His wistful inquiring look yielded to the tenderest pleasure as he perceived her; but there was no enthusiasm of greeting between the father and daughter. Few embracings are to be seen in Scotch peasant families. The cobbler’s face lighted up; he said, “Is that you, Jeanie, my bonnie woman?” with a tone that had more than endearment in it. The sight of her brought a glow to his wan face. “You are as good as the blessed sunshine, my lass--and eh, but I’m glad to see you!” “And me too, faither,” said Jeanie. That was their greeting. “They tell me you’re real well,” she added, as they went in-doors. “A great deal they ken,” said John Robertson, with that natural dislike to be pronounced well by the careless outside world which every invalid shares. “But I’m no that bad either,” he added, “and muckle the better for seeing you. Come in and sit you down.” “I have but little time to stay,” said Jeanie. As she went in before him the shade again returned to her face, though only for that moment during which it was unseen. The small window of the cottage gave but a dim greenish light, a sort of twilight after the full glow and gladness outside. But they were used to this partial gloom; and there seemed a consciousness on the father’s part as well as the daughter’s of something serious that there might be to say. He looked at her closely, yet half stealthily, with the vivacious, dark eyes which lighted up his pale face; but he asked no question. And Jeanie, for her part, said nothing about herself. She asked when he had seen Willie, and if all was well with John, and he replied, shaking his head, “Oh, ay, weel enough, weel enough for such a ne’er-do-weel.”