"Was she wrong?
Is it wrong in the bird to escape from the snare of the fowler?
Is it wrong in the hunted deer to flee to the screening thicket?"
Mr Hadden was standing at the open door of the manse, waiting
patiently, while his housekeeper adjusted his grey plaid on his
shoulders in preparation for a long ride over the hills. His faithful
Barbara was doing her part protesting, but she was doing it carefully
and well.
"Such a day as it is!" said she. "Such a time of rain! Indeed, sir, I
canna think it right for you to go so far. Mightna ye just bide still
at home till they come to the kirkyard?"
But the minister shook his head. "I will need to go, Barbara. Think of
poor Allison Bain on this sorrowful day."
"Ay, poor Allie! I'm wae for her this sorrowful day, as ye say.
Greatly she'll need a good word spoken to her. But in a' the rain--and
at your age--"
"Ay! I am a good ten years older than the man we are to lay in the
grave. I might, as ye say, meet them at the kirkyard, but I must see
that desolate bairn. And I think it may be fair."
It was June, but it looked more like November, so low lay the clouds,
and so close hung the mist over all the valley. For a week the sun had
hidden his face, and either in downpour or in drizzle, the rain had
fallen unceasingly, till the burn which ran down between the hills had
overflowed its banks and spread itself in shallow pools over the level
fields below. The roads would be "soft and deep," as Barbara said, and
the way was long. But even as she spoke there was an opening in the
clouds and the wind was "wearing round to the right airt," for the
promise of a fair day, and it was early yet.
"And rain or shine, I must go, Barbara, as ye see yourself. The powney
is sure-footed. And my son Alexander is going with me, so there is
nothing to fear."
And so the two men set out together. "My son Alexander," whose name the
minister spoke with such loving pride, was the youngest and best beloved
of the many sons and daughters who had been born and bred in the manse,
of whom some were "scattered far and wide" and some were resting beside
their mother in the kirkyard close at hand. In his youth, Alexander had
given "some cause for anxiety to his father and mother," as outside folk
put it delicately, and he had gone away to America at last, to begin
again--to make a man of himself, or to perish out of sight of their
loving and longing eyes. That was more than fifteen years before this
time, and he had not perished out of sight, as so many wanderers from
loving homes have done. He had lived and struggled with varying
fortunes for a time, but he had never failed once to write his
half-yearly letter to his father and mother at home. The folk of the
olden time did not write nor expect so many letters as are written and
sent nowadays, and the father and mother lived hopefully on one letter
till another came. And for a while the lad wrote that he was making a
living, and that was all, and then he wrote that he was doing well, and
just when he was almost ready to tell them that he was coming home to
show them his young wife, there came word to him that his mother was
dead. Then he had no heart to go home. For what would the manse be
without his mother to welcome them there?
So he sent home to his father a gift of money for the poor of the
parish, and stayed where he was, and did well still, with fair prospects
of some time being a rich man, and then--after more years--God touched
him, not in anger, but in love, though He took from him his only son and
best beloved child. For then he remembered his father who had loved
him, and borne with him, and forgiven him through his troubled youth,
and had sent him away with his blessing at last, and a great longing
came upon him to see his father's face once more. And so he had made
haste to come, fearing all the way lest he might find the manse empty
and his father gone. It was a homecoming both sad and glad, and the
week of rain had been well filled with a history of all things joyful
and sorrowful which had come to them and theirs, in the years that were
gone. And to-day father and son were taking their way over the hills,
so familiar to both, yet so strange to one of them, on a sorrowful
errand.
They kept the high-road for a while, and then turned into a broken path
over the higher ground, the nearest way to the farm of Grassie, where
the "goodman" who had ploughed and sowed and gathered the harvests for
fifty years and more lay dead of a broken heart.
Slowly and carefully they moved over the uneven ground which gradually
ascended and grew less wet as they went on, the son keeping by his
father's side where the roughness of the way permitted, in silence, or
only exchanging a word now and then. The clouds parted as they reached
the hilltop, and they turned to look back on the wide stretch of low
land behind them, which "looked in the sunshine," the minister said,
"like a new-made world." They lingered for a while.
"We need not be in haste. It takes the folk long to gather at such a
time, for they will come from far, and it is weary waiting. But I must
have time for a word with Allison, poor lassie, before they carry her
father away," added he with a sigh.
"But the sun may shine for Allison yet, though this is a dark day for
her and a most sad occasion. Though her father's hearthstone be cold,
let us hope that she may yet see good days in the home of her husband."
But the minister shook his head.
"She must see them there if she is ever to see good days again, but my
fears are stronger than my hopes, Oh! man Alex! I'm wae for bonny Allie
Bain."
"Is her husband such a wretch, then?"
"A wretch? By no means. I hope not. But he is a dour man of nearly
twice her years. An honest man? Well, I have never heard him accused
of dishonesty. A hard man he has been called, but he suits our
thriftless laird all the better for that. He has kept his place as
factor at Blackhills for fifteen years and more, and has grown rich,
they say--as riches are counted among folk who for the most part are
poor. And he is respected--in a way."
"Well, if I had been asked about it, I would have said that it was a
rise in the world for Allie Bain to be made the mistress of the factor's
fine house over yonder. I suppose he might have looked for a wife in
almost any of the better families of the countryside, without much
chance of being refused."
"Yes, but he is said to have set his heart on Allison Bain years ago
when she was only a child--a strange-like thing for such a man to do.
He went to work warily, and got her father and even her mother on his
side--or so it is said. But Allie herself would have naught to say to
him. She laughed at first, and then she scoffed at his advances, and
Willie, her only brother, upheld her in her scorning--for a while. But
Willie went wrong--and from bad to worse; but now he is in the tollbooth
at Aberdeen, as you have heard. But I believe that even now the poor
lassie would have a fairer chance of a peaceful life if they were to get
away to begin again together, when his time is over, than ever she can
hope for in the house of her husband. And the lad would be stronger,
and have a better chance with his sister's help. I fear--though I would
say it to none but you--I fear that Allison's consent was won at last by
no fair means."
"I mind Willie, a nice little lad, merry and frank and well-doing. I
should never have thought of such a fate for him."
"Yes, frank he was, and a fine lad in many ways; but he was not of a
strong will, and was easily led away. Allison was far the stronger of
the two, even when they were children. It breaks my heart to think what
a woman she might have become in favourable circumstances, and now, I
fear, she has much suffering before her. Her mother's helplessness--she
was bedridden for years before she died--laid too much on Allison, and
she has grown changed, they say, and hard. She was ay more like her
father than her mother, except for her sweet looks."
"And how came the marriage about at last? And where was her brother?"
"He had fallen into trouble by that time. He had got in with ill folk
that made use of him for their own purposes. There had been much
meddling with the game on the Blackhills estate, and one night one of
the gamekeepers got a sore hurt in a fight with some of those who had
been long suspected. His life was despaired of for a time, and it was
on Willie Bain that the blame was laid. At any rate he kept out of the
way. It was said afterward that Brownrig had wrought on his fears
through some of his companions, and in the meantime to save her brother,
as she thought, Allison's consent was won."
"It will be an ill day for Brownrig when Allison shall hear of that."
"I doubt she has heard of it already. All I know is soon told.
Brownrig came to me one night, saying that Allison Bain had promised to
marry him, and that the marriage must be in haste for this reason and
for that, and chiefly because the mother was near her end, and would die
happier knowing that her dear daughter was in good keeping. This was
for me, it seemed--for I was told afterward that the mother was in no
state for days before that to know what was going on about her.
"As for me, I had many doubts. But I had no opportunity to speak to her
or her father till after their names had been cried in the kirk, and I
thought it was too late to speak then. But oh, man! I wish I had. For
when he brought her down to the manse with only two friends to witness
the marriage, and I saw her face, my heart misgave me, and I had to say
a word to her whatever might happen. So, when Brownrig's back was
turned for a minute, I took her by the hand, and we went into my study
together; and I asked her, was she a willing bride? Then there came a
look on her face like the shadow of death; but before she had power to
utter a word, the door opened, and Brownrig came in. An angry man was
he, and for a minute he looked as if he would strike me down, as I stood
holding her hands in mine.
"`Allison,' I said, `you must speak to me. Remember this thing which
you are to do will be forever. When once the words are spoken there can
be no escape. May God help you.'
"She wrung her hands from mine, and cried out:--
"`There is no escape now. And God has forgotten us.' And then she
looked round about her like a caged creature seeking for a way out of it
all. When Brownrig would have put his hand on her, though he did it
gently, she shrank from him as if she feared a blow. The man's eyes
were like coals of fire; but he was a strong man, and he put great
constraint upon himself, and said calmly:--
"`I am at a loss to understand what you would be at, sir. You heard the
banns published. Was there any in the kirk that day who had a word to
say against it? I think you can hardly refuse to do your part.'
"I said, `Allie, where is your brother? What does he say to all this?
What says he to his sister's marriage to a man old enough to be her
father?'
"Brownrig's face was an ill thing to see, but he said quietly enough,
`Yes, Allie, my woman, tell him where your brother is,--if ye ken, and
where he is like to be soon if he gets his deserts. Speak, lassie.
Tell the minister if you are going to draw back from your word now.'
"A great wave of colour came over her face, and it was not till this had
passed, leaving it as white as death, that she said hoarsely that it had
to be, and there was no use to struggle against it more.
"`He has promised one thing,' said she, `and he shall promise it now in
your presence. I am to go straight home to my father's house, and he is
not to trouble me nor come near me till my mother is safe in her grave.'
"And then she turned to him: `You hear? Now you are to repeat the
promise in the minister's hearing, before we go out of this room.'
"He would fain have refused, and said one thing and another, and hummed
and hawed, and would have taken her hand to lead her away; but she put
her hands behind her and said he must speak before she would go.
"`And is not a promise to yourself enough? And will you draw back if I
refuse?' But he did not persist in his refusal to speak, for she looked
like one who was fast losing hold of herself, and he must have been
afraid of what might happen next. For he said gently, always keeping a
great restraint upon himself, `Yes, I have promised. You shall stay in
your father's house while your mother needs you. I promise--though I
think you might have trusted to what I said before.'
"Alex, my lad, I would give all I have in the world if I had but held
out another hour. For the words that made them man and wife, were
hardly spoken, when that happened which might have saved to them both a
lifetime of misery. They had only passed through the gate on their way
home, when down the hillside, like a madman, came Willie Bain. And far
and hard he must have run, for he was spent and gasping for breath when
he came and put his hand upon his sister. `Allie!' he said, `Allie!'
and he could say no more. But oh! the face of his sister! May I never
see the like look on face of man or woman again.
"`Willie,' she said, `have you made what I have done vain? Why are you
here?'
"`What have you done, Allie? And why shouldna I be here? Stone is well
again, even if it had been me that struck the blow--which it was not--
though I might have had some risk of no' being just able to prove it.
Allie, what have you done?'
"But she only laid her white face on his breast without a word.
"`Allie,' gasped her brother, as he caught sight of Brownrig, `you
havena given yourself to yon man--yon deevil, I should better say? They
told me over yonder that it was to be, but I said you scorned him, and
would stand fast.'
"`Oh! Willie! Willie!' she cried, `I scorned him, but for your sake I
couldna stand fast.'
"Then Brownrig took up the word. `Young man, if you ken what is good
for your ain safety, you'll disappear again, and keep out o' harm's way.
But that may be as pleases you. Only mind, you'll have nothing to say
to my wife.'
"`Your wife! You black-hearted liar and villain!' and many a worse word
besides did the angry lad give him, and when Brownrig lifted his whip
and made as if he meant to strike him, Willie turned from his sister and
flew at him like a madman, and--though I maybe shouldna say it--Brownrig
got his deserts for once, and he will carry the marks the lad left on
him that day, to his grave. He was sore hurt. They put him into the
gig in which he had brought Allison down to the manse, and carried him
home, and the brother and sister walked together to their father's
house.
"Their mother was nearer her end than had been supposed, for she died
that night, and before she was laid in her grave there came an officer
with a warrant to arrest poor Willie on a charge of having done bodily
harm to one of Blackwell's keepers months before. Two of his cousins
stood surety for him till after his mother's burial. No evidence could
be got against him in the matter and he was allowed to go free. And
then like a daft man, Brownrig had him taken up again on a charge of
assault with intent to kill. It was a mad thing for him to do, if he
ever hoped to win the good-will of Allison, but it was said to me by one
who knew him well, that he was afraid of the lad, and that he had good
reason to fear, also, that as long as Allison was under the influence of
her brother, she would never come home to him as his wife. But he might
have waited to try other plans first.
"Poor John Bain, Allison's father, you ken, had had much to bear what
with one trouble and another, for many a day, and the last one fell
heavier than them all. On the day when his son was condemned to an
imprisonment for eighteen months, he had a stroke and he never looked up
again, though he lingered a while, and Allison refused to leave him.
Brownrig is a man who cares little what may be his neighbours' opinion
with regard to him, but he could hardly venture to insist on his wife's
coming home while her father needed her, for there was no one else to
care for the poor old man.
"He came to the house while Mr Bain lived, but one told me who saw him
there often, that since the day of their marriage Allison has neither
given him good word nor bad, nor touched his hand, nor lifted her eyes
to his face. Doubtless the man must have his misgivings about her and
about what is to happen now. It is a sad story thus far, with no
possible good ending as far as can be seen."
"Ay! a most sad story. Poor Allie! There seems little hope for her,
whatever may happen. As to her brother, I should like to see him, and I
assuredly shall if it be possible. I should like to take him home with
me when I go, and give him another chance."
"Ah! that is a good word of yours, my son. It would be well done indeed
to help the poor lad who is not bad at heart. I never will believe
that. But I fear he will do no good here, even if he can keep the land,
which is doubtful now, for things have gone ill with them this while,
and Brownrig, even for Allie's sake, would never forgive her brother."
"And it is as likely that her brother would never forgive him. Allison
may in time forgive her husband, and may end in loving him after all.
Time and change work wonders."
But the minister could not agree with his son.
"Another woman might forgive and love him, but never Allison Bain. She
can never honour him, unless he should greatly change, and then I doubt
it might be too late for love."
They were drawing near the house by this time, where many neighbours had
already gathered to do honour to the dead. They stood about in groups
of two or three, speaking to one another gravely about their old friend,
and the troubles which had fallen so heavily on him and on his of late.
And doubtless, also, of other matters, that had to do with themselves
and their own affairs, and the times in which they lived; but it was all
said and done with a decent and even solemn gravity suitable to the
occasion, and it ceased as the minister drew near.
Another gleam of sunshine broke out between the clouds as the pony
stopped of his own accord. The minister took off his hat and said
solemnly:
"As a cloud is consumed and slowly vanishes away, so he that goeth down
to the grave shall come up no more.
"He shall return no more to his house, neither shall his place know him
any more."
At the first sound of his voice every "blue bonnet" was lifted and every
head was bowed, and then, pausing for no greetings, the minister and his
son passed into the house.
But the younger man saw there no "kenned face," so he did not linger
within, but came out again to stand with the rest.
The house was a long, low-roofed cottage, with a wide door and narrow
windows. The door opened on the side which faced the barns and
outbuildings, and the first glimpse of the place was dreary and sad.
For the rain had left little pools here and there on the ground, and had
made black mud of the rest of it, not pleasant to look upon. After a
glance to ascertain whether there were any of his old friends among the
waiting people, Mr Hadden turned toward the garden, which lay on the
other side of the house.
There was a hawthorn hedge on two sides of it, and a beech-tree, and
many berry-bushes, and tall rose-trees covered with "drooket" roses, and
the ground beneath was strewn with their scattered petals. The garden
had a dreary look also, but he was not left to it long. For though he
had recognised no one about the door, many a one had recognised him, and
in a little time one man slowly followed another to the garden-gate,
where he leaned, and hands "with a strong grip in them" were held out
and grasped, and not one but said how glad they were to see him home
again for his father's sake. And by and by as they waited, one after
another had something to say and a question to ask.
There was time enough. The minister had to rest awhile and refresh
himself, and the burial-bread had to be passed round, and that which
usually accompanied it as well. Besides, there was no haste, for they
had given the day to do honour to the occasion; and if they got safely
home before it was very late, it was all that they expected or desired.
The questions were asked with lowered voices and in softened tones, but
they were asked eagerly and anxiously, and with a purpose. For one had
a Jock, and another had a Tam, and a third had a Jock and a Tam and a
Sandy as well, who were all pushing up fast, and who had their own bread
to win. And it was "whiles no' just that easy to get work the laddies
were fit for, or which was fit for them."
"And you've done weel out there yourself, sir."
"And was it land ye were on?"
"Oh, man! it's the land I would like."
"And is the cold as bad as folk have whiles said: and the heat in
summer?"
"And would there be a chance for the laddies out there? Would they be
made welcome if they were to pack their kists and go?"
Mr Hadden answered all questions kindly and fully, making no such rosy
picture of life in America as some wandering lecturers on the subject
had been doing of late through all the countryside. Yes, there was good
land, and there was plenty of it, and in some places it was cheap. A
man could get good land and time to pay it in, and when it was paid for
it belonged to him and his forever. Yes, of course they would have
taxes to pay and roads to keep up, and all that. And they would have to
work, hard at first, and they would _always_ have to work if they were
to succeed. They would be welcome there, no fear of that. No
well-doing lad from Auld Scotland but would find work and friends, and a
home of his own after a while, in that free country. Would they like
it? Scotch folk mostly liked it. One that would do well at home would
be able to do far better for himself out there. And some who had failed
to do anything at home, had succeeded there. It was not a country where
gold grew on the trees, as some would like; but no man need be afraid to
go there if he had a will to work--and so on for a long time; and so
close grew the crowd and so eager the questioning, there was some danger
that the solemnity of the occasion might be forgotten in the growing
interest, for more people were coming in by twos and threes, and not one
of them all but was glad of a word with the minister's son.
In the meantime the minister was standing beside the dead master of the
house, with his hand resting on the bowed head of poor Allison Bain.
She had lifted her face once, when the first sound of his kind voice had
reached her ear--a face weary and worn, and utterly woebegone. But kind
as voice and words were, they had no power to reach her in the darkness
and solitariness of that hour. Her face was laid down again upon the
coffin-lid, and she took no heed of all that was going on around her.
Now and then a friend or neighbour came and stood a while looking at the
closed coffin and the motionless figure of the desolate girl, but not a
word was spoken in the room, till the minister rose and said:
"The time is come."
Then there was a movement in the house, and those who were without came
toward the door. Two or three kinsmen of the dead man drew near and
stood ready "to lift the body." At the head, where the son of the house
should have been, Allison still sat mute and motionless, with her face
hidden on her arms, which rested upon the coffin. There was a minute's
silence, so deep that the ticking of the clock seemed to smite with pain
upon the ear. The minister prayed, and then he touched the bowed head
and said gently:
"Allison Bain, the time has come."
The girl rose and, still leaning on the coffin-lid, turned herself to
the waiting people. There was a dazed look in her eyes, and her face
was so white and drawn--so little like the face of "bonny Allie Bain"--
that a sudden stir of wonder, and pain, and sympathy went through the
throng. Her lips quivered a little as she met their sorrowful looks,
and the minister hoped that the tears, which had been so long kept back,
might come now to ease her heavy heart, and he laid his hand on hers to
lead her away. Then a voice said:
"This is my place," and Brownrig's hand was laid upon the coffin where
Allison's head had lain.
At the sound of his voice a change passed over the girl's face. It grew
hard and stern; but she did not, by the slightest movement of eye or
lip, acknowledge the men's presence or his intent.
"Now," said she, with a glance at those who were waiting. And with her
face bowed down, but with a firm step, she "carried her father's head"
out of the house which was "to know him no more." In breathless silence
the friends and neighbours fell into their places, and she stood white
and tearless gazing after them till the last of the long train had
disappeared around the hill. Then she went slowly back toward the
house. At the door she stopped and turned as if she were going away
again. But she did not. When her aunt--her mother's sister--put her
hand on her shoulder, saying softly, "Allie, my woman," she paused and
put her arms round the old woman's neck and burst into bitter weeping.
But only for a little while. Her aunt would fain have spoken to her
words which she knew must be said soon; but when she tried to do so,
Allie held up her hand in entreaty.
"Wait, auntie. Wait a wee while--for oh! I am so spent and weary."
"Yes, my dearie; yes, I ken weel, and you shall rest--but not there!--
surely not there!"
For Allie had opened the door of the room where her father died and
where his coffin had stood, where her mother had also suffered and died.
She would not turn back. "She was tired and must rest a while and
there was nowhere else." And already, before she had ceased speaking,
her head was on the pillow, and she had turned her face to the wall.
In the early morning of the next day the minister's son, the returned
wanderer, stood leaning over the wall which separated the manse garden
from the kirkyard. He was looking at the spot where the grass waved
green over the graves of his mother and his two brothers who slept
beside her. As he stood, a hand touched his, and Allison Bain's
sorrowful eyes looked down upon him. Looked _down_, because the many
generations of the dead had filled up the place, and the wall which was
high on the side of the garden was low on the side of the kirkyard.
"The minister is not up yet?" she asked without a pause. "Was he
over-wearied? I had something to say to him, but I might say it to you,
if you will hear me?"
"My father will be up soon, and he will see you almost immediately if
you will come into the manse and wait a little while."
"Yes, I could wait. But he is an old man and it might spare him
trouble--afterwards--not to know that I passed this way. Are ye Mr
Alex who once took our Willie out of the hole in the moss?"
"Yes; I mind poor Willie well. Poor laddie."
"Poor laddie ye may well say," said Allison, and the colour came to her
pale face, and her eyes shone as she added eagerly: "You will be in
Aberdeen--will you go to see Willie? _I_ canna go to see him because--
one might think o' looking for me there. You are a good man, I have
always heard, and he needs some one to speak a kind word to him, and I
sore misdoubt that he's in ill company yonder."
"I am going to see him soon. My father was speaking about him
yesterday. I shall certainly go."
"And you'll be kind to him, I'm sure," said Allison, wistfully. "He is
not bad, though that has been said. He is only foolish and not wicked,
as they tried to make him out. And ye'll surely go?"
"That I will. Even if you hadn't asked me, I would have gone. And,
afterwards, if he has a mind to cross the sea, he shall have a fair
chance to begin a new life over there. I will be his friend. He shall
be like a young brother to me."
Allison uttered a glad cry and covered her face with her hands.
"I mauna greet. But oh! you have lightened my heavy heart."
"I only wish you could come with him," said Mr Hadden sadly. "It would
be well for you both."
"But I cannot--for a while--because I am going to lose myself, and if I
were with Willie I would be found again. But you will tell him that I
will ay have him in my heart--and sometime I will come to him, maybe.
I'll ay have that hope before me."
"But, Allison--where are you going?--I hope--"
"I must tell no one where I am going. Somebody might ask you about me,
and it is better that you should not ken even if I could tell you. Even
Willie mustna ken--for a while."
There was time for no more words. A little bowed old woman with a great
mutch on her head, and a faded plaid upon her shoulders, came creeping
through among the graves.
"Allie, my woman," she whispered, "ye'll need to lose no time. I hae
seen the factor riding round the hill by the ither road. He lookit unco
angry-like, and his big dog was wi' him. Lie laich for a whilie till
he's weel by, and then tak aff ye're hose and shoon and step into the
burn and gae doon beyont the steppin'-stanes till ye get in to the
hallow and ye'll bide safe in my bit hoosie till the first sough be
past."
Allison took a bundle of papers from beneath her shawl.
"They are for the minister. It is about the keepin' o' the place till
Willie comes home," said she.
But the little old woman interposed:
"You maun gie them to me. The minister maun hae nae questions to answer
about them, but just to say that auld Janet Mair gie'd them to him, and
he can send the factor to me."
She took the papers and put them in her pocket and went her way.
Allison looked after her for a moment, then drew nearer to the wall.
"Sir," said she in a whisper, "I have something to give your father. He
will ken best what to do with it. I had something to say to him, but
maybe it is as well to say nothing. And what could I say? Tell him not
to think ill of me for what I must do."
"Allison," said Mr Hadden gravely, "my father loves you dearly. It
would break his heart to think of harm coming to you. I am afraid for
you, Allison."
"Can anything worse come to me than has come already? Tell him I will
ay try to be good. And he will tell my mother, if he goes first where
she has gone--" Her voice failed her.
"Have you friends anywhere to whom you can go?"
"I'll go to Willie some time, if you take him home with you. Only it
must be a long, long time first, for _he_ will keep his eye on Willie,
and he would find me. And Willie himself mustna ken where I am, for if
he came to me he might be followed. I must just lose myself for a
while, for if _he_--_that man_--were to find me--"
Her colour had come back, and her eyes shone with feverish brightness.
What could he say to her? He tore a leaf from his note-book, and wrote
his name and his American address upon it.
"Come to me and you shall have a safe home with my wife and children.
Come now, or when you feel that you can come safely, though it be ten
years hence. You shall have a welcome and a home."
She gave him her hand, and thanked him, and prayed God to bless him, and
then she turned to do as Janet Mair had bidden her. But first she knelt
down beside the new-made grave, and, at the sight, Alexander Hadden
bared and bowed his head. When he raised it again she was gone.
When the minister opened the parcel which Allison Bain had sent him, he
found folded within it her marriage lines and a plain gold ring.