To Margaret it was happiness to sit through the long evenings sewing, and look over her work at Gavin as he read or wrote or recited to himself the learning of the schools.  But she coughed every time the weather changed, and then Gavin would start.

“You must go to your bed, mother,” he would say, tearing himself from his books; or he would sit beside her and talk of the dream that was common to both—­a dream of a manse where Margaret was mistress and Gavin was called the minister.  Every night Gavin was at his mother’s bedside to wind her shawl round her feet, and while he did it Margaret smiled.

“Mother, this is the chaff pillow you’ve taken out of my bed, and given me your feather one.”

“Gavin, you needna change them.  I winna have the feather pillow.”

“Do you dare to think I’ll let you sleep on chaff?  Put up your head.  Now, is that soft?”

“It’s fine.  I dinna deny but what I sleep better on feathers.  Do you mind, Gavin, you bought this pillow for me the moment you got your bursary money?”

The reserve that is a wall between many of the Scottish poor had been broken down by these two.  When he saw his mother sleeping happily, Gavin went back to his work.  To save the expense of a lamp, he would put his book almost beneath the dying fire, and, taking the place of the fender, read till he was shivering with cold.

“Gavin, it is near morning, and you not in your bed yet!  What are you thinking about so hard?”

“Oh, mother, I was wondering if the time would ever come when I would be a minister, and you would have an egg for your breakfast every morning.”

So the years passed, and soon Gavin would be a minister.  He had now sermons to prepare, and every one of them was first preached to Margaret.  How solemn was his voice, how his eyes flashed, how stern were his admonitions.

“Gavin, such a sermon I never heard.  The spirit of God is on you.  I’m ashamed you should have me for a mother.”

“God grant, mother,” Gavin said, little thinking what was soon to happen, or he would have made this prayer on his knees, “that you may never be ashamed to have me for a son.”

“Ah, mother,” he would say wistfully, “it is not a great sermon, but do you think I’m preaching Christ?  That is what I try, but I’m carried away and forget to watch myself.”

“The Lord has you by the hand, Gavin; and mind, I dinna say that because you’re my laddie.”

“Yes, you do, mother, and well I know it, and yet it does me good to hear you.”

That it did him good I, who would fain have shared those days with them, am very sure.  The praise that comes of love does not make us vain, but humble rather.  Knowing what we are, the pride that shines in our mother’s eyes as she looks at us is about the most pathetic thing a man has to face, but he would be a devil altogether if it did not burn some of the sin out of him.