Elspeth’s marriage day came round, and I should like to linger in it, and show you Elspeth in her wedding-gown, and Tommy standing behind to catch her if she fainted, and Ailie weeping, and Aaron Latta rubbing his gleeful hands, and a smiling bridesmaid who had once thought she might be a bride.  But that was a day in Elspeth’s story, not in Tommy’s and Grizel’s.  Only one incident in their story crept into that happy day.  There were speeches at the feast, and the Rev. Mr. Dishart referred to Tommy in the kindliest way, called him “my young friend,” quoted (inaccurately) from his book, and expressed an opinion, formed, he might say, when Mr. Sandys was a lad at school (cheers), that he had a career before him.  Tommy bore it well, all except the quotation, which he was burning to correct, but sighed to find that it had set the dominies on his left talking about precocity.  “To produce such a graybeard of a book at two and twenty, Mr. Sandys,” said Cathro, “is amazing.  It partakes, sir, of the nature of the miraculous; it’s onchancey, by which we mean a deviation from the normal.”  And so on.  To escape this kind of flattery (he had so often heard it said by ladies, who could say it so much better), Tommy turned to his neighbours on the right.

Oddly enough, they also were discussing deviations from the normal.  On the table was a plant in full flower, and Ailie, who had lent it, was expressing surprise that it should bloom so late in the season.

“So early in its life, I should rather say,” the doctor remarked after examining it.  “It is a young plant, and in the ordinary course would not have come to flower before next year.  But it is afraid that it will never see next year.  It is one of those poor little plants that bloom prematurely because they are diseased.”

Tommy was a little startled.  He had often marvelled over his own precocity, but never guessed that this might be the explanation why he was in flower at twenty-two.  “Is that a scientific fact?” he asked.

“It is a law of nature,” the doctor replied gravely, and if anything more was said on the subject our Tommy did not hear it.  What did he hear?  He was a child again, in miserable lodgings, and it was sometime in the long middle of the night, and what he heard from his bed was his mother coughing away her life in hers.  There was an angry knock, knock, knock, from somewhere near, and he crept out of bed to tell his mother that the people through the wall were complaining because she would not die more quietly; but when he reached her bed it was not his mother he saw lying there, but himself, aged twenty-four or thereabouts.  For Tommy had inherited his mother’s cough; he had known it every winter, but he remembered it as if for the first time now.

Did he hear anything else?  I think he heard his wings slipping to the floor.

He asked Ailie to give him the plant, and he kept it in his room very lovingly, though he forgot to water it.  He sat for long periods looking at it, and his thoughts were very deep, but all he actually said aloud was, “There are two of us.”  Aaron sometimes saw them together, and thought they were an odd pair, and perhaps they were.