“I like to know things beforehand,” she objected.

“Ye winna.  Right at the end ye’ll be able to look down yer life and see the shining marks of His feet all over ye.  An’ the more ye struggle and fuss the less He can take hold of ye, and get a grup on ye with His feet—­”

“I’d like to feel sure they were God’s, and not any other sort of feet,” she said slowly, leaving her fish to go cold, though she was very hungry.

“Ye’ll find, at the end, Marcella, that there’s no feet but God’s can make shining marks on your life.  Other things will walk over ye.  They may leave marks of mud, or scars.  But the footsteps of God will burn them all off in the end.  I canna prove it, Marcella.  But ye’ll see it some day.  D’ye mind yon apple that came flooering up through Lashnagar?”

Marcella nodded.  It had borne fruit two years now.

“It knew nothing:  it was just still and quiet when something told it to push on.  And then life came along it—­like a path.  If it had known, it couldna help the life any—­”

She nodded again.  She felt she understood now.

At the end of the year things began to go badly again at the farm.  The money was almost exhausted; the oat crop failed and one of the cows was lost on Lashnagar, where she had been tempted by hunger to find more food.  One of the serving women, falling ill, went to Edinburgh to be cured and never came back; paint, blistered and scarred from the doors and window frames by the weather, was not replaced; the holes gnawed and torn by the hungry rats in wainscot and floor were never patched and food was more scarce than ever.  Aunt Janet sat, a dourly silent ghost, while Marcella read to Andrew, listening sickly to the beasts clamouring for their scanty meals.  And one night, when he had been out alone along Ben Grief and seen his lands and his old grey house, Lashcairn the Landless, as they called him, went back to his barrel.

For three days he lived behind the green baize door.  On the fourth he came out with his red-rimmed eyes ablaze, his gaunt face pinched, his hair bedraggled.  And that night a little old man, Rose’s cousin from Winchester, came to see them.  He had never seen the mad family into which his cousin had married; he had not seen her since she was a gentle little thing in pinafores, with a great family of wax dolls.  He did not know that she was dead.  Aunt Janet made no explanations; his small black eyes took in all the decay and famine of the place; his neat black Sabbatical coat looked queerly out of place in the book-room with its scarred oak refectory table, its hard oak chairs and its dusty banner hung from the ceiling above where Andrew Lashcairn sat.  When his host came into the room he pulled himself to his full five feet five and his thin white face went even whiter.  Andrew, in his frenzy, cursed him and God and the world, and, in the old Berserk rage, dashed over the heavy table on which Aunt Janet had set a poor meal for the stranger.