"No. He wasna one who was in the way of telling o' the good turns he did, as ye ken. But I mind the name of Cunningham."

"This must have been before your day. Maybe a good while before it."

And John went on to tell the story of his father's timely help to a foolish lad, and of the debt which the man wished to pay, according to his friend's desire, to those who came after him. And when he had told all he knew about it, and how the money which his father had given had been increasing during all these years till it had become a sum so large that the interest alone would keep his mother in comfort for the rest of her life, his mother only said softly:

"Well, John?" as though the something which he had had to say was still to be told.

"Well, mother, I think it is your turn now. Wasna that grand of my father?"

"It was like him. And is this David Cunningham able to spare all that money? It would be an ill thing to harm or hara.s.s him now after so long a time."

"I cannot say whether he be rich or poor; but I am certain sure that nothing will hinder him from paying his debt. He told me that the sight of my face had given him more pleasure than anything he had seen in Scotland yet," said John laughing. "I would have brought him out to see you, if the doctor would have let him come. He is but a frail man, and must go south again till summer is fairly here. He said little about himself, but I know he is a married man."

"And he would be sorry to hear of your father's losses at the last."

"Ay, that was he, and angry at the ill done him. If he had but known, he said, he could have helped to tide him over the worst of his troubles, and it might have prolonged his life."

"It was G.o.d's will, and we must submit," said Mrs Beaton softly.

"Yes, it was G.o.d's will." Then John rose and set the table back into its place, and stirred the fire and sat down again.

"Well, John?" said his mother in a little.

"Well, mother! You are a rich woman again, in a small way."

"I have ay been a rich woman. If I had been asked would I have more, I would have said I am content. I am glad of this for your sake, John, if you are glad. But I think the message from your father, as it seems, is more to me than the money."

"Yes, mother, and to me as well."

"You had something to tell me, John," said his mother, in a little.

"I thought I had when I came home. Now I am not sure. There is something that we may speak about together, and you will help me to make up my mind one way or the other."

Mrs Beaton listened in silence as John went on to tell her what he had been doing and thinking for a while. He had not been idle since the building season ended. He had been in the employment of one of the builders of the town. He had been able to make himself useful to him-- first by going over and putting to rights the books of the business, which had fallen into confusion, and afterward at more congenial work, where his knowledge of drawing, to which he had given much time when he was a boy, was brought into account with a success which had surprised himself. And now his employer had offered him a permanent place, with an opportunity to acquire the kind of knowledge of his work which would come but slowly to him while he worked only with his hands.

He owned that he liked Mr Swinton, and that they got on well together.

Yes, the prospect of success seemed reasonably certain if he were to give himself wholly to the work. And then he came to a pause.

"Yes. It looks like that," said his mother. She missed the eager hopefulness with which her son was wont to bring forward any new plan or prospect of his, and she thought it wiser to let him go on of his own accord to say his say than to question him. "Do you think well of it, mother? But there is one thing to be said which will please neither you nor me. I doubt in such a case we will need to say farewell to Nethermuir, and take up house in the town."

"Ay, we should both be sorry for that, but it could be done. You have more to say yet, John?"

"I thought I might have more to say, but since you are content with things as they are, it might be as well to say nothing."

"Tell me what is in your mind, John. You needna doubt but I'll take it reasonably, whatever it may be."

John laughed.

"I have no fears for you, mother. It is for myself and my own discontents that I fear."

"Tell your mother, laddie."

Then he went on with his story. How he had taken to college work in earnest with Sandy Begg, how he had enjoyed it and been successful with it, and how the thought had come into his mind that after all he might go on again and redeem his character by doing now what he had failed to do when the way was made easy to him.

"I think my father would be pleased, mother, if he could ken. When I think of him I canna forget that I gave him a sore heart at the time when his troubles were coming thick upon him. I would like to do as he wished me to do, now that the way seems open."

"_Is_ the way open?" asked his mother gravely. "If you take that way, all that you have been doing and learning for the last years will be an utter loss. I have ay liked to think of you as following in your father's steps to overtake success as he did."

"I am not the man my father was, as no one should ken better than my mother."

"But if you were to fall in with this man's offer, you could take the road your father took with fewer steps and less labour, and I might see you a prosperous man yet before I die. And all the good your father did, whether openly or in secret, would begin again in his son's life, and some of it, at least, your mother might see. I canna but long for the like of that, John."

"I would try to do my best, mother. But my best would fall far short of what my father did."

"Oh, fie! John, laddie! What ails ye at yourself the nicht, man? Do I no' ken my ain son by this time, think ye? Ay, do I. Better, maybe, than he kens himsel'."

"There can be small doubt of that, mother. Only your kind eyes see fewer faults and failings than he kens of himself. And, mother, I am afraid the man who had my father for his good friend has done me an ill turn. He has, in a measure, taken away the motive for my work, and so I can have little pleasure in it."

"But, John, you will have your ain life to live and your ain work to do when your mother is dead and gone. I have been pleased and proud to have my son for breadwinner, and to ken that he was pleased and proud for the same reason. But for all that, I am glad that you are set free to think of your ain life. You are wearing on, lad, and it would be a great gladness for me to see you in your ain house with wife and bairns about you before I die. Ye can let yourself think of it now, since I am off your hands."

"May ye live to see all you wish, mother. It winna be this while, though. There's time enough for the like of that."

"Well, that's true. There's no' to say much time lost at four-and-twenty. But I am growing an old Woman and frail, and I mayna have so very many years before me. And ye needna put marriage off till middle life as your father did. Though he ay said had we met sooner it might have been different even with him. And it would be a wonderful thing for me to see my son's wife and bairns before I die," repeated she softly.

John rose and moved about the room. He had to do it with caution, for there was no s.p.a.ce for more than two or three of his long, impatient strides between the four walls. His impulse was to rush out to the darkening lanes or even to the more distant hills, that he might have it out with himself there.

For his mother's words had moved him and a pair of wistful, brown eyes were looking at him from the dying embers and from the darkness without.

He was saying to himself that the way lay straight before him if he chose to take it--the way to moderate success in life, a competence before his youth was past, and, as his mother had said, a wife and a happy home.

And would all this content him? Who could say? No thought of these things had troubled him, or even come into his mind till now. And no such thoughts would have come now, he told himself, if it had not been for his mother's words and a pair of bonny een. Should he let himself be influenced by a dream--a mere fancy?

It would pa.s.s away, this folly. It must pa.s.s away. Would it be wise to let circ.u.mstances guide him to take the course which seemed for the time to be the easiest, the most direct to insure a measure of success?

Should he be wise in putting out of his thoughts the hopes and plans which had been occupying him lately? No, he was fit for higher work than cutting stones or building or planning houses. He could not go back to such work now. Even his mother's desire must be put aside when the work of his life was in question.

And yet!--and yet his mother's simple wisdom had never failed him since the day they had gone forth together from what had been the happiest of homes. She might be right, and he might be putting away the substance to please himself by chasing a shadow. So he said to himself, as she waited quietly with folded hands. He was anxious, uncertain, bewildered, as unlike himself, or as unlike his own idea of himself, as could well be. He was amazed and angry at his foolishness, and eager only to get away from his mother's eyes.

"I promised to go to the manse a while to-night, mother," said he with his hand upon the door.

"Yes, and quite right. The minister has clear vision and good sense, and will give you none but good advice. But bide a wee. You have told your mother nothing yet. Sit down and let me hear what you are thinking to do. Since we have begun, it will be wise to go through to the end.

So that you truly ken your ain mind, I shall be content."

John was far from knowing his own mind. That was what ailed him. And he had been so sure of himself before he came home. And so sure also that he could persuade his mother to see as he did about that which he desired to bring to pa.s.s! He did not feel that he could do justice to himself of his plans and prospects at this moment.

He sat down, however, and went over the matter from the beginning. He said something also about his hopes and plans for the future. He by no means meant to give up his work at present. He meant to work in the summer as he had hitherto done, and go on with his reading in the winter. If he and Mr Swinton were to come to an agreement, it would be all the easier for him. He had no fear but that he could get on with both work and reading till he had got through with the college at least.

"But, O John! it will be a lang look to the end! I can hardly hope to see it, though that would matter little if it were the best thing for you. But what is to come after?" asked his mother with a sigh.

John could not tell her that. But there was nothing more certain than that when he should be "thoroughly furnished," the right work would be found--the very highest work--and a kind of life which would suit him, though he might not grow rich in it.