But Allison had something to say to that proposal.

"No, no! I'll not lippen her to you and your cairt; your mother could never expect such a thing o' me," said she, clasping the child.

"Well, all I can say is, these were my orders, and ye maun take the responsibility of disobedience. What say ye, Maysie?"

"Oh! Allie, it would be fine to go with the ither bairns in the cairt."

"But, my dearie, your mother never could have meant anything like that.

It would never, never do. Tired! No, I'm no' tired yet. And if I were ever so tired--"

"Will ye lippen her to me? I have carried Marjorie many a time," said John Beaton, coming forward and holding out his arms.

Allison raised her eyes to his for an instant, and then--not with a smile, but with a sudden faint brightening of the whole face, better to see than any smile, John thought--she put the child in his arms.

"Ay, I think I may lippen her to you, since ye have carried her before."

So the child was wrapped warmly, and was well content.

"And as ye have the cairt, and I'm not needed with the bairns, I'll awa'

hame, where my work is waiting me," said Allison to Robin, and she lost no time.

They saw her appearing and disappearing, as she kept her way among the heather for a while; and then John Beaton said, with a long breath, that they would need to go. So the mistress was made comfortable in the cart with as many of the little ones as could be packed into it, and Robin took the reins. The rest of them went down the hill in a body, and all got safely home at last. And the happiest of them all was Marjorie when John laid her tired, but smiling and content, upon her little couch.

"Oh, mother! it's fine to be like the other bairns. I have had such a happy day. And, mother," she whispered, as her mother bent over her, undoing her wraps, "you'll need to ask John to stay to tea."

But John would not stay. He must take tea with his mother this first night, he said, which Marjorie owned was but right. So he went away.

He came back again to worship, however, after Marjorie was in bed.

Peter Gilchrist was there too, and Saunners Crombie. It was a way the folk o' the little kirk had, to time their business at the smithy or the mill, so as to be able to drop in at the usual hour for family worship at the manse. At such times there was rather apt to be "lang worship,"

not always so welcome to the tired lads as to the visitors, and to-night Jack and Davie murmured audibly to their mother when the chapter was given out.

For the chapter was about Jacob seeking for his father's blessing, and the lads felt that Peter and Saunners might keep on to any length about him. And so it proved. Decided opinions were expressed and maintained as eagerly as though each one present had a personal interest in the matter. Peter Gilchrist had his misgivings about Jacob. He was "a pawkie lad" in Peter's estimation--"nae just fair forth the gait in his dealings with his brother, and even waur (worse) with his old blind father, to whom he should have thought shame to tell lees in that graceless way."

Saunners, on the other hand, was inclined to take Jacob's part, and to make excuses for him as being the one who was to inherit the promise, and the blame was by him laid at the door "of the deceiving auld wife, Rebekah, by whom he had evidently been ill brocht up"; and so they "summered and wintered" the matter, as Jack said they would be sure to do, and for a while there seemed little prospect of coming to the end of it. But it mattered less to Jack or to Davie either, as they soon were fast asleep.

The minister put in a word now and then, and kept them to the point when they were inclined to wander, but the two had the weight of the discussion to themselves. As for John Beaton, he never opened his lips till it was time to raise the psalm; and whether he had got the good of the discussion, or whether he had heard a word of it, might well be doubted, judging by the look of his face when Mrs Hume put the psalm-book into his hand.

It was time to draw to an end, for there were several sleepers among them before the chapter was done. Allison had made a place for Davie's sleepy head upon her lap, and then after a little her Bible slipped from her hand, and she was asleep herself. It had been a long day to her, and her walk and the keen air of the hills had tired her, and she slept on amid the murmur of voices--not the uneasy slumber of one who sleeps against her will; there was no struggle against the power that held her, no bowing or nodding, or sudden waking up to a sense of the situation, so amusing to those who are looking on. Sitting erect, with the back of her mutch just touching the angle made by the wall and the half-open door, she slumbered on peacefully, no one taking heed of her, or rather no one giving token of the same.

After a time her mistress noticed her, and thought, "Allison has over-wearied herself and ought to be in her bed," and she wished heartily that the interest of the two friends in Jacob and his misdeeds might speedily come to an end, at least for the present. And then, struck by the change which slumber had made on the beautiful face of the girl, she forgot the talk that was going on, and thought only of Allison. The gloom which so often shadowed her face was no longer there, nor the startled look, half fear and half defiance, to which the gloom sometimes gave place when she perceived herself to be observed.

Her lips, slightly apart, had lost the set look which seemed to tell of silence that must be kept, whatever befell. The whole expression of the face was changed and softened. It looked very youthful, almost childlike, in its repose.

"That is the way she must have looked before her trouble came upon her, whatever it may have been," thought Mrs Hume with a sigh. And then she said softly to the minister: "I doubt it is growing late, and the bairns are very weary."

"Yes, it is time to draw to a close." So he ended the discussion with a few judicious words, and then read the remaining verses of the chapter and gave out the psalm.

Sometimes, on receiving such a hint from the mother, it was his way to "omit the singing for a night." But this was John Beaton's first night among them, and the lads and their mother would, he thought, like the singing. And so he read the psalm and waited in silence for John to begin, and then Mrs Hume turned toward him.

A little withdrawn from the rest, John sat with his head upon his hand, and his eyes fixed on the face of Allison Bain. His own face was pale, with a strange look upon it, as though he had forgotten where he was, and had lost himself in a dream. Mrs Hume was startled.

"John," said she softly, putting the book into his hand.

And then, instead of the strong, full tones which were naturally to be expected when John Beaton opened his lips, his voice rose, full, but soft and clear, and instinctively the tones of Robin and his mother were modulated to his. As for the others, they did not sing at all. For John was not singing the psalm which the minister had read, nor was he even looking at the book. But softly, as a mother might sing to her child, the words came:

"Jehovah hear thee in the day When trouble He doth send, And let the name of Jacob's G.o.d Thee from all ill defend.

"Oh! let Him help send from above Out of His sanctuary, From Sion His own holy hill, Let Him give strength to thee."

Allison's eyes were open by this time. She seemed to be seeing something which no one else saw, and a look of peace was on her face, which Mrs Hume had never seen on it before. "She must have been dreaming." Then the singing went on:

"Let Him remember all thy gifts, Accept thy sacrifice, Grant thee thy heart's wish, and fulfil Thy thoughts and counsels wise."

And then John's voice rose full and clear, and so did the voices of the others, each carrying a part, in a way which made even the minister wonder:

"In thy salvation we will joy, In our G.o.d's name we will Lift up our banner, and the Lord Thy prayers all fulfil."

Then the books were closed, and the minister prayed, and without a word or a look to any one, except only sleepy Davie, Allison rose and went away. But in her heart she was repeating:

"Grant thee thy heart's wish and fulfil Thy thoughts and counsels wise.

In thy salvation we will joy--"

"Maybe the Lord has minded on me, and sent me this word. I will take it for a sign."

The two friends went out into the dark, as Saunners said, "strengthened by the occasion," but it was not of Jacob, nor his blessing nor his banishment that they "discoorsed" together as they jogged along, sitting among the straw in Peter's cart. Peter was inclined to be sleepy after the long day, and had he been alone he would have committed himself to the sense and judgment of his mare Tibbie, and slept all the way home.

But his friend "wasna ane o' the sleepy kind," as he said, and he had something to say.

"What ailed John Beaton the nicht, think ye? He's ready eneuch to put in his word for ordinar, but he never opened his mouth through a' the exerceese, and was awa' like a shot ere ever we were off our knees, with not a word to onybody, though he's but just hame."

"Ay, that was just it. He would be thinkin' o' his mither, puir bodie, at hame her lane."

"Ay, that micht account for his haste, and it micht weel hae keepit him at hame a'thegither, to my thinkin'. But that needna hae keepit his mouth shut since he was there. It's no' his way to hide his licht aneath a bushel as a general thing."

"It wad be a peety gin he did that. Licht is needed among us," said Peter, who admired in his friend the gift of easy speaking, which he did not possess himself.

"Oh! ay, that's what I'm sayin'. And what for had he naething to say the nicht? I doot it's nae just as it should be with him, or he wad hae been readier with his word."

"There's sic a thing as being ower-ready wi' ane's word. There's a time to keep silence an' a time to speak, according to Solomon. But word or no word I'm no' feart for John Beaton."

"Weel, I canna just say that I'm feart for him mysel'; and as ye say, he's maybe whiles ower-ready to put in his word wi' aulder folk. But gaein' here and there among a kind o' folk, he has need to be watchfu'

and to use his privileges when he has the opportunity."

"We a' need to be watchful."

"Ay, do we, as ye say. But there are folk for whom ower-muckle prosperity's nae benefit."

"There's few o' us been tried wi' ower-muckle prosperity of late, I'm thinkin'. And as for John, if a' tales be true, he has had his share o'

the ither thing in his day."