He got up and walked about, with large steps that made the boards creak, and with the laugh which she liked least of all his utterances. “No, mother, that will never be,” he said. “I’m not one to be caught like that. You will not find me putting myself in prison and rolling the stone to the mouth of the cave.” “Robbie!” she cried, with a sense of something profane in what he said, though she could scarcely have told what. But the conversation was interrupted here by Janet coming to announce the early dinner, to which Robert as usual did the fullest justice. Whatever he might have done or said to shock her, the sight of his abundant meal always brought Mrs Ogilvy’s mind, more or less, back to a certain contentment, a sort of approval. He was not too particular nor dainty about his food: he never gave himself airs, as if it were not good enough, nor looked contemptuous of Janet’s good dishes, as a man who has been for years away from home so often does. He ate heartily, innocently, like one who had nothing on his conscience, a good digestion, and a clean record. It was not credible even that a man who ate his dinner like that should not be one who would work as well as eat, and earn his meal with pleasure. It uplifted her heart a little, and eased it, only to see him eat. Afterwards it could scarcely be said that the conversation was resumed; but that day he was in a mood for talk. He told her scraps of his adventures, sitting with the ‘Scotsman’ in his hand, which he did not read--taking pleasure in frightening her, she thought; but yet, after leading her to a point of breathless interest, breaking off with a half jest--“It was not me, it was him.” She got used to this conclusion, and almost to feel as if this man unknown, who was always in her son’s mind, was in a manner the soul of Robert’s large passive body, moving that at his will. Then her son returned with a sudden spring to the visitor of the morning, and to poor old Logan and the strangeness of his fate. “She’s like a woman I once saw out yonder”--with a jerk of his thumb over his shoulder--“a singer, or something of that sort,--a woman that was up to anything.” “Don’t say that, my dear, of a woman that will soon be the minister’s wife.” “The minister’s wife!” he said, with a great explosion of laughter. And then he grew suddenly grave. “Old Logan,” he said, with a sort of hesitation, “had--a daughter, if I remember right.” “If you remember right! Susie Logan, that you played with when you were both bairns--that grew up with you--that I once thought---- a daughter! Well I wot, and you too, that he had a daughter.” “Well, mother,” he said, subdued, “I remember very well, if that will please you better. Susie: yes, that was her name. And Susie--I suppose she is married long ago?” “They are meaning,” said Mrs Ogilvy, with an intonation of scorn, “to marry her now.”