Down in the Auld Licht kirk that forenoon Gavin preached a sermon in praise of Woman, and up in the mudhouse in Windyghoul Babbie sat alone.  But it was the Sabbath day to her:  the first Sabbath in her life.  Her discovery had frozen her mind for a time, so that she could only stare at it with eyes that would not shut; but that had been in the night.  Already her love seemed a thing of years, for it was as old as herself, as old as the new Babbie.  It was such a dear delight that she clasped it to her, and exulted over it because it was hers, and then she cried over it because she must give it up.

For Babbie must only look at this love and then turn from it.  My heart aches for the little Egyptian, but the Promised Land would have remained invisible to her had she not realized that it was only for others.  That was the condition of her seeing.

CHAPTER XXIV.

New world, and the woman who may not dwell therein.

Up here in the glen school-house after my pupils have straggled home, there comes to me at times, and so sudden that it may be while I am infusing my tea, a hot desire to write great books.  Perhaps an hour afterwards I rise, beaten, from my desk, flinging all I have written into the fire (yet rescuing some of it on second thought), and curse myself as an ingle-nook man, for I see that one can only paint what he himself has felt, and in my passion I wish to have all the vices, even to being an impious man, that I may describe them better.  For this may I be pardoned.  It comes to nothing in the end, save that my tea is brackish.

Yet though my solitary life in the glen is cheating me of many experiences, more helpful to a writer than to a Christian, it has not been so tame but that I can understand why Babbie cried when she went into Nanny’s garden and saw the new world.  Let no one who loves be called altogether unhappy.  Even love unreturned has its rainbow, and Babbie knew that Gavin loved her.  Yet she stood in woe among the stiff berry bushes, as one who stretches forth her hands to Love and sees him looking for her, and knows she must shrink from the arms she would lie in, and only call to him in a voice he cannot hear.  This is not a love that is always bitter.  It grows sweet with age.  But could that dry the tears of the little Egyptian, who had only been a woman for a day?

Much was still dark to her.  Of one obstacle that must keep her and Gavin ever apart she knew, and he did not; but had it been removed she would have given herself to him humbly, not in her own longing, but because he wanted her.  “Behold what I am,” she could have said to him then, and left the rest to him, believing that her unworthiness would not drag him down, it would lose itself so readily in his strength.  That Thrums could rise against such a man if he defied it, she did not believe; but she was to learn the truth presently from a child.