John had instantly gone to Andrew’s side, but Andrew had risen at once to the occasion.  “I’m no a woman to skirl or swoon,” he said, almost petulantly, “and it’s right and fit the lad should gie his mither the first greeting.”

But he stretched out both hands, and his cheeks were flushed and his eyes full when Davie flung himself on his knees beside him.

“My lad! my ain dear lad!” he cried, “I’ll see nae better day than this until I see His face.”

No one can tell the joy of that hour.  The cheese curds were left in the dairy and the wool was left at the wheel, and Mysie forget her household, and Andrew forgot his argument, and the preacher at last said,

“You shall tell us, Davie, what the Lord has done for you since you left your father’s house.”

“He has been gude to me, vera gude.  I had a broad Scot’s tongue in my head, and I determined to go northward.  I had little siller and I had to walk, and by the time I reached Ecclefechan I had reason enough to be sorry for the step I had taken.  As I was sitting by the fireside o’ the little inn there a man came in who said he was going to Carlisle to hire a shepherd.  I did not like the man, but I was tired and had not plack nor bawbee, so I e’en asked him for the place.  When he heard I was Cumberland born, and had been among sheep all my life, he was fain enough, and we soon ’greed about the fee.

“He was a harder master than Laban, but he had a daughter who was as bonnie as Rachel, and I loved the lass wi’ my whole soul, and she loved me.  I ne’er thought about being her father’s hired man.  I was aye Davie Cargill to mysel’, and I had soon enough told Bessie all about my father and mither and hame.  I spoke to her father at last, but he wouldna listen to me.  He just ordered me off his place, and Bessie went wi’ me.

“I know now that we did wrang, but we thought then that we were right.  We had a few pounds between us and we gaed to Carlisle.  But naething went as it should hae done.  I could get nae wark, and Bessie fell into vera bad health; but she had a brave spirit, and she begged me to leave her in Carlisle and go my lane to Glasgow.  ‘For when wark an’ siller arena i’ one place, Davie,’ she said, ’then they’re safe to be in another.’

“I swithered lang about leaving her, but a good opportunity came, and Bessie promised me to go back to her father until I could come after her.  It was July then, and when Christmas came round I had saved money enough, and I started wi’ a blithe heart to Ecclefechan.  I hadna any fear o’ harm to my bonnie bit wifie, for she had promised to go to her hame, and I was sure she would be mair than welcome when she went without me.  I didna expect any letters, because Bessie couldna write, and, indeed, I was poor enough wi’ my pen at that time, and only wrote once to tell her I had good wark and would be for her a New Year.

“But when I went I found that Bessie had gane, and none knew where.  I traced her to Keswick poor-house, where she had a little lad; the matron said she went away in a very weak condition when the child was three weeks old, declaring that she was going to her friends.  Puir, bonnie, loving Bessie; that was the last I ever heard o’ my wife and bairn.”