"Then said he, I wish you a fair day when you set out for Mount Zion, and shall be glad to see that you go over the river dry-shod. But she answered, Come wet, come dry, I long to be gone; for however the weather is on my journey, I shall have time to sit down and rest me and dry me." _The Pilgrim's Progress._ "Pure religion and undefiled," we are told, "before God and the Father is this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction and keep ourselves unspotted from the world." If this be a working definition of Christianity, then James Seton translated its letter as but few men do, into a spirit and life of continuous and practical obedience. No weary, sick, or grieved creature had to wait for his minister's coming. The congregation was widely scattered, but from Dennistoun to Pollokshields, from Govanhill to Govan, in all weathers he trudged--cars were a weariness to him, walking a pleasure--carrying with him comfort to the comfortless, courage to the faint-hearted, and a strong hope to the dying. On the day that Arthur Townshend left them he said to his daughter: "I wonder, Elizabeth, if you would go and see Mrs. Veitch this afternoon? She is very ill, and I have a meeting that will keep me till about seven o'clock. If you bring a good report I shan't go to see her till to-morrow." "Mrs. Veitch who makes the treacle-scones? I am sorry. Of course I shall go to see her. I wonder what I could take her? She will hate to be ill, indomitable old body that she is! Are you going, Father? I shall do your bidding, but I'm afraid Mrs. Veitch will think me a poor substitute. Anyway, I'm glad it isn't Mrs. Paterson you want me to visit. I so dislike the smug, resigned way she answers when I ask her how she is: 'Juist hingin' by a tack.' I expect that 'tack' will last her a good many years yet. Buff, what are you going to do this afternoon?" "Nothing," said Buff. He sat gloomily on a chair, with his hands in his pockets. "I'm as dull as a bull," he added. His sister did not ask the cause of his depression. She sat down on a low chair and drew him on to her lap, and cuddled him up and stroked his hair, and Buff, who as a rule sternly repulsed all caresses, laid his head on her shoulder and, sniffing dolefully, murmured that he couldn't bear to have Arthur go away, and that he had nothing to look forward to except Christmas and that was only one day. "Nothing to look forward to! Oh, Buff! Think of spring coming and the daffodils. And Etterick, and the puppies you haven't seen yet. And I'll tell you what. When Arthur comes, I shouldn't wonder if we had a sea-fight on the mill-pond--on rafts, you know." Buff sat up, his grubby little handkerchief still clutched in his hand, tears on his lashes but in his eyes a light of hope. "Rafts!" he said. He slid to the floor. "_Rafts!_" he repeated. There was dizzy magic in the word. Already, in thought, he was lashing spars of wood together.