“Did she ever tell you a story about a black dog?”

“No.  Did she know one?”

“Yes, she knew it,”

“Perhaps she had forgotten it?”

“No, she remembered it.”

“Tell it to me.”

“Not till you are eighteen.”

“But will you not be dead when I am eighteen?  When you go to Heaven, will you see grandmother?”

“Yes.”

“Will she be glad to see you?”

My little maid’s eighteenth birthday has come, and I am still in Thrums, which I love, though it is beautiful to none, perhaps, save to the very done, who lean on their staves and look long at it, having nothing else to do till they die.  I have lived to rejoice in the happiness of Gavin and Babbie:  and if at times I have suddenly had to turn away my head after looking upon them in their home surrounded by their children, it was but a moment’s envy that I could not help.  Margaret never knew of the dominie in the glen.  They wanted to tell her of me, but I would not have it.  She has been long gone from this world; but sweet memories of her still grow, like honeysuckle, up the white walls of the manse, smiling in at the parlor window and beckoning from the door, and for some filling all the air with fragrance.  It was not she who raised the barrier between her and me, but God Himself; and to those who maintain otherwise, I say they do not understand the purity of a woman’s soul.  During the years she was lost to me her face ever came between me and ungenerous thoughts; and now I can say, all that is carnal in me is my own, and all that is good I got from her.  Only one bitterness remains.  When I found Gavin in the rain, when I was fighting my way through the flood, when I saw how the hearts of the people were turned against him—­above all, when I found Whamond in the manse—­I cried to God, making promises to Him, if He would spare the lad for Margaret’s sake, and He spared him; but these promises I have not kept.

THE END