It was six o’clock past! If he had come by this train he must have been here, and there was not another for more than an hour. He must have been detained. He must have been looking about the new things in the town, the new buildings, the things that had been changed in fifteen years, things that at his age were just the things a young man would remember; or perhaps the tailor might be altering something for him that he had to go back to try on, or perhaps---- It would be all right anyway. What did six o’clock matter, or half-past seven, or whatever it was? It was a fine light summer night; there was plenty of time,--and nobody waiting for him but his mother, that could make every allowance. And it was not as if he had anything to do at home. He had nothing to do. And his first day in Edinburgh after so many years. She was glad, however, to hear the step of Janet, so that she could call her without rising from her seat, which somehow she felt too tired and feeble to do. “Janet,” she said, “you will just keep back the dinner. Mr Robert has been detained. I’ve been thinking all day that perhaps he might be detained, maybe even later than this. If we said eight o’clock for once? It’s a late hour; but better that than giving him a bad dinner, neither one thing nor another, neither hot nor cold. Where were you going, my woman?” Mrs Ogilvy added abruptly, with a suspicious glance. “I was just gaun to take a look out. I said to mysel’ I would just look out and see if he was coming: for it’s very true, you say, a dinner in the dead thraws, neither hot nor cauld, is just worse than no dinner at all.” “Just bide in your kitchen,” said her mistress, peremptorily. “I’ll let you know when my son comes.” “Oh, I’ll hear soon enough,” Janet said. And then the mother was left alone. But not undisturbed: for presently Andrew’s slow step came round the corner, with a clanking of waterpots and the refreshing sounds and smell of watering--that tranquil employment, all in accord with the summer evening, when it was always her custom to go out and have a talk with Andrew about the flowers. She did not feel as if she could move to-night--her feet were cold and like lead, her cheeks burning, and her heart clanging in her throat. Nevertheless the bond of custom being on her, and a strong sense that to fulfil every usual occupation was the most satisfying exercise, she presently rose and went out, the pleasant smell of the refreshed earth and thirsty plants, bringing out all the sweetest home breath of the flowers, coming to meet her as she went forth to the open door. “It’s very good for them, Andrew, after this warm day.” “Ay, it’s good for them,” Andrew said. “You will mind to shut up everything as soon as my son comes home,” she said. “Oh ay,” said Andrew, “there was plenty said about it yestreen.” “The sweet-williams are coming on nicely, Andrew.” “Ah,” said Andrew, “they’re common things; they aye thrive.”