There was a moment’s pause, and a strange, unwonted sound came from the manse seat under the dark of the gallery.  It was the creak of the housekeeper opening the door of the pew.  The minister paused yet a moment in his discourse, his dim eyes vaguely expectant.  But what he saw, stilled for ever the unspoken opening of his sermon.  A girlish figure came up the aisle, and was almost at the foot of the pulpit-steps before the minister could move.  And she carried something tenderly in her arms, as a bairn is carried when it is brought forward for the baptizing.

“My father!” she said.

Nobody knows how the minister got out of the pulpit except Euphemia Kerr, and it is small use asking her; but it is currently reported that it was in such fashion as never minister got out of pulpit before.  And, at the door of the manse seat stood Euphemia, the wise woman of Tekoa, her tears falling pat-pat like raindrops on the narrow book-board; but with a smile on her face, as who would say, “Now, Lord, let Thy servant depart in peace,” when she saw the minister fall on the neck of his well-beloved daughter and kiss her, having compassion on her.

But this is what Sophia M’Diarmid that was, said when she heard of the home-coming of her sister Elsie.

“It was like her brazen face to come back when she had shut every other door.  My father never made ony sic wark wi’ me that bade wi’ him respectable a’ my days; but hear ye to me, Mistress Colville, I will never darken their doorstep till the day of my death.”  So she would not go in.

BOOK THIRD

HISTORIES

I

FENWICK MAJOR’S LITTLE ’UN

  A short to-day,
      And no to-morrow: 
  A winsome wife,
      And a mickle sorrow—­
  Then done was the May
      Of my love and my life.

  “Secrets.”

[Edinburgh student lodgings of usual type.  ROGER CHIRNSIDE, M.A.; with many books about him, seated at table.  JO BENTLEY and “TAD” ANDERSON squabbling by the fireplace.]

Loquitur ROGER CHIRNSIDE.

Look here, you fellows, if you can’t be quiet, I’ll kick you out of this!  How on earth is a fellow to get up “headaches” for his final, if you keep making such a mischief of a row?  By giving me a fine one for a sample, do you say?  I’ll take less of your sauce, Master Tad, or you’ll get shown out of here mighty quick.  Now, not another word out of the heads of you!

[Chirnside attacks his books again, murmuring intermittently as the others subside for the time.

CHIRNSIDE.  Migraine—­artery—­decussate—­wonder what this other fool says (rustling leaves).  They all contradict one another, and old Rutherland will never believe you when you tell him so.

[A new quarrel arises at the upper end of the room between Jo Bentley and Tad.