’Ihavealetterfrom—’
’SoIhaveheard。’
’Wouldyouliketohearit？’
’No。’
’Canyounotabidehim？’
’Icaunatholehim。’
’Isheablack？’
’Heisallthat。’
Well，VailimawastheonespotonearthIhadanygreatcravingtovisit，butIthinkshealwaysknewIwouldneverleaveher。
Sometime，shesaid，sheshouldlikemetogo，butnotuntilshewaslaidaway。’AndhowsmallIhavegrownthislastwinter。Lookatmywrists。Itcannabelongnow。’No，Ineverthoughtofgoing，wasneverabsentforadayfromherwithoutreluctance，andneverwalkedsoquicklyaswhenIwasgoingback。Inthemeantimethathappenedwhichputanendforevertomyschemeoftravel。IshallnevergouptheRoadofLovingHeartsnow，on’awonderfulclearnightofstars，’tomeetthemancomingtowardmeonahorse。Itisstillawonderfulclearnightofstars，buttheroadisempty。
SoIneversawthedearkingofusall。Butbeforehehadwrittenbookshewasinmypartofthecountrywithafishing—wandinhishand，andIliketothinkthatIwastheboywhomethimthatdaybyQueenMargaret’sburn，wheretherowansare，andbuskedaflyforhim，andstoodwatching，whilehislithefigureroseandfellashecastandhintedbackfromthecrystalwatersofNoran—side。
CHAPTERVIII—APANICINTHEHOUSE
IwassittingatmydeskinLondonwhenatelegramcameannouncingthatmymotherwasagaindangerouslyill，andIseizedmyhatandhurriedtothestation。Itisnotamemoryofonenightonly。A
scoreoftimes，Iamsure，Iwascallednorththussuddenly，andreachedourlittletowntrembling，headoutatrailway—carriagewindowforaglanceataknownfacewhichwouldanswerthequestiononmine。Theseillnessescameasregularlyasthebackendoftheyear，butwerelessregularingoing，andthroughthemall，bynightandbyday，Iseemysistermovingsounwearyingly，solovingly，thoughwithfailingstrength，thatIbowmyheadinreverenceforher。Shewaswearingherselfdone。Thedoctoradvisedustoengageanurse，butthemerewordfrightenedmymother，andwegotbetweenherandthedoorasifthewomanwasalreadyonthestair。Tohaveastrangewomaninmymother’sroom—youwhoareusedtothemcannotconceivewhatitmeanttous。
Thenwemusthaveaservant。Thisseemedonlylesshorrible。Myfatherturneduphissleevesandclutchedthebesom。Itossedasidemypapers，andwasreadytoruntheerrands。Heansweredthedoor，Ikeptthefiresgoing，hegavemealessonincooking，I
showedhimhowtomakebeds，oneofusworeanapron。Itwasnotforlong。Iwasledtomydesk，thenewspaperwasputintomyfather’shand。’Butaservant!’wecried，andwouldhavefallentoagain。’Noservant，comesintothishouse，’saidmysisterquitefiercely，and，oh，butmymotherwasrelievedtohearher!Thereweremanysuchscenes，ayearofthem，Idaresay，beforeweyielded。
Icannotsaywhichofusfeltitmost。InLondonIwasusedtoservants，andinmomentsofirritationwouldringforthemfuriously，thoughdoubtlessmymannerchangedastheyopenedthedoor。Ihaveevenheldmyownwithgentlemeninplush，givingonemyhat，anothermystick，andathirdmycoat，andalldonewithlittlemoretroublethanIshouldhaveexpendedinputtingthethreearticlesonthechairmyself。Butthisbolddeed，andotherbigthingsofthekind，IdidthatImighttellmymotherofthemafterwards，whileIsatontheendofherbed，andherfacebeamedwithastonishmentandmirth。
FrommyearliestdaysIhadseenservants。Themansehadaservant，thebankhadanother；oneoftheiruseswastopounceupon，andcarryawayinstatelymanner，certainnaughtyboyswhoplayedwithme。Thebankerdidnotseemreallygreattome，buthisservant—ohyes。Herbootscheepedallthewaydownthechurchaisle；itwascommonreportthatshehadflesheverydayforherdinner；insteadofmeetingherloveratthepumpshewalkedhimintothecountry，andhereturnedwithwildrosesinhisbuttonhole，hishanduptohidethem，andonhisfacethetroubledlookofthosewhoknowthatiftheytakethisladytheymustgiveupdrinkingfromthesaucerforevermore。Fortheloverswerereallycommonmen，untilshegavethemthatglanceovertheshoulderwhich，Ihavenoticed，isthefatalgiftofservants。
Accordingtolegendweoncehadaservant—inmychildhoodIcouldshowthemarkofitonmyforehead，andevenpointherouttootherboys，thoughshewasnowmerelyawifewithahouseofherown。
ButevenwhileIboastedIdoubted。Reducedtolife—sizeshemayhavebeenbutawomanwhocameintohelp。Ishallsaynomoreabouther，lestsomeonecomesforwardtoprovethatshewenthomeatnight。
NevershallIforgetmyfirstservant。Iwaseightornine，invelveteen，diamondsocks（’Crossyourlegswhentheylookatyou，’
mymotherhadsaid，’andputyourthumbinyourpocketandleavethetopofyourhandkerchiefshowing’），andIhadtravelledbyrailtovisitarelative。Hehadaservant，andasIwastobehisguestshemustbemyservantalsoforthetimebeing—youmaybesureIhadgotmymothertoputthisplainlybeforemeereIsetoff。Myrelativemetmeatthestation，butIwastednotimeinhopingIfoundhimwell。Ididnotevencrossmylegsforhim，soeagerwasItohearwhethershewasstillthere。Asistergreetedmeatthedoor，butIchafedathavingtobekissed；atonceImadeforthekitchen，where，Iknew，theyreside，andthereshewas，andIcrossedmylegsandputonethumbinmypocket，andthehandkerchiefwasshowing。AfterwardsIstoppedstrangersonthehighwaywithanoffertoshowhertothemthroughthekitchenwindow，andIdoubtnotthefirstletterIeverwrotetoldmymotherwhattheyarelikewhentheyaresonearthatyoucanputyourfingersintothem。
ButnowwhenwecouldhaveservantsforourselvesIshrankfromthethought。Itwouldnotbethesamehouse；weshouldhavetodissemble；IsawmyselfspeakingEnglishthelongdaythrough。YouonlyknowtheshellofaScotuntilyouhaveenteredhishomecircle；inhisoffice，inclubs，atsocialgatheringswhereyouandheseemtobegettingonsowellheisreallyahousewithalltheshuttersclosedandthedoorlocked。Heisnotopaqueofsetpurpose，oftenitisagainsthiswill—itiscertainlyagainstmine，Itrytokeepmyshuttersopenandmyfootinthedoorbuttheywillbangto。Inmanywaysmymotherwasasreticentasmyself，thoughhermannerswereasgraciousasminewererough（invain，alas!allthehonestoilingofthem），andmysisterwasthemostreservedofusall；youmightattimesseealightthroughoneofmychinks：shewasdouble—shuttered。Now，itseemstobealawofnaturethatwemustshowourtrueselvesatsometime，andastheScotmustdoitathome，andsqueezeadayintoanhour，whatfollowsisthatthereheisself—revealinginthesuperlativedegree，thefeelingssolongdammedupoverflow，andthusaScotchfamilyareprobablybetteracquaintedwitheachother，andmoreignorantofthelifeoutsidetheircircle，thananyotherfamilyintheworld。Andasknowledgeissympathy，theaffectionexistingbetweenthemisalmostpainfulinitsintensity；theyhavenotmoretogivethantheirneighbours，butitisbestoweduponafewinsteadofbeingdistributedamongmany；theyarereputedniggardly，butforfamilyaffectionatleasttheypayingold。Inthis，Ibelieve，weshallfindthetrueexplanationwhyScotchliterature，sincelongbeforethedaysofBurns，hasbeensoofteninspiredbythedomestichearth，andhastreateditwithapassionateunderstanding。
MustawomancomeintoourhouseanddiscoverthatIwasnotsuchadrearydogasIhadthereputationofbeing？WasItobeseenatlastwiththeveilofdournesslifted？MycompanyvoiceissolowandunimpressivethatmyfirstremarkismerelyanintimationthatIamabouttospeak（likethewhiroftheclockbeforeitstrikes）：
mustitberevealedthatIhadanothervoice，thattherewasonedoorIneveropenedwithoutleavingmyreserveonthemat？Ah，thatroom，mustitssecretsbedisclosed？Sojoyoustheywerewhenmymotherwaswell，nowonderweweremerry。Againandagainshehadbeengivenbacktous；itwasforthegloriousto—daywethankedGod；inourheartsweknewandinourprayersconfessedthatthefillofdelighthadbeengivenus，whatevermightbefall。
Wehadnottowaittillallwasovertoknowitsvalue；mymotherusedtosay，’Weneverunderstandhowlittleweneedinthisworlduntilweknowthelossofit，’andtherecanbefewtruersayings，butduringherlastyearsweexulteddailyinthepossessionofherasmuchaswecanexultinhermemory。Nowonder，Isay，thatweweremerry，butwelikedtoshowittoGodalone，andtoHimonlyouragonyduringthosemanynight—alarms，whenlightsflickeredinthehouseandwhitefaceswereroundmymother’sbedside。Notforothereyesthoselongvigilswhen，nightabout，wesatwatching，northeawfulnightswhenwestoodtogether，teethclenched—
waiting—itmustbenow。Anditwasnotthen；herhandbecamecooler，herbreathingmoreeasy；shesmiledtous。OncemoreI
couldworkbysnatches，andwasglad，butwhatwastheresulttomecomparedtothejoyofhearingthatvoicefromtheotherroom？
TherelayalltheworkIwaseverproudof，therestisbuthonestcraftsmanshipdonetogivehercoalandfoodandsofterpillows。
Mythousandlettersthatshesocarefullypreserved，alwayssleepingwiththelastbeneaththesheet，whereonewasfoundwhenshedied—theyaretheonlywritingofmineofwhichIshalleverboast。IwouldnottherehadbeenonelessthoughIcouldhavewrittenanimmortalbookforit。
Howmysistertoiled—topreventastranger’sgettinganyfootinginthehouse!Andhow，withthesameobject，mymotherstroveto’doforherself’oncemore。Shepretendedthatshewasalwayswellnow，andconcealedherailmentssocraftilythatwehadtoprobeforthem：—
’Ithinkyouarenotfeelingwellto—day？’
’Iamperfectlywell。’
’Whereisthepain？’
’Ihavenopaintospeakof。’
’Isitatyourheart？’
’No。’
’Isyourbreathinghurtingyou？’
’Notit。’
’Doyoufeelthosestoundsinyourheadagain？’
’No，no，Itellyouthereisnothingthematterwithme。’
’Haveyouapaininyourside？’
’Really，it’smostprovokingIcannaputmyhandtomysidewithoutyourthinkingIhaveapainthere。’
’Youhaveapaininyourside!’
’Imighthaveapaininmyside。’
’Andyouweretryingtohideit!Isitverypainful？’
’It’s—it’snosobadbutwhatIcanbearit。’
WhichofthesetwogaveinfirstIcannottell，thoughtomefellthedutyofpersuadingthem，forwhichevershewassherebelledassoonastheothershowedsignsofyielding，sothatsometimesIhadtwoconvertsintheweekbutneverbothonthesameday。Iwouldtakethemseparately，andpresstheonetoyieldforthesakeoftheother，buttheysawsoeasilythroughmyartifice。Mymothermightgobravelytomysisterandsay，’Ihavebeenthinkingitover，andIbelieveIwouldlikeaservantfine—oncewegotusedtoher。’
’Didhetellyoutosaythat？’asksmysistersharply。
’Isayitofmyownfreewill。’
’Heputyouuptoit，Iamsure，andhetoldyounottoletonthatyoudidittolightenmywork。’
’Maybehedid，butIthinkweshouldgetone。’
’Notformysake，’saysmysisterobstinately，andthenmymothercomesbentometosaydelightedly，’Shewinnalistentoreason!’
Butatlastaservantwasengaged；wemightbesaidtobeatthewindow，gloomilywaitingforhernow，anditwaswithsuchwordsasthesethatwesoughttocomforteachotherandourselves：—
’Shewillgoearlytoherbed。’
’Sheneednaoftenbeseenupstairs。’
’We’llsethertothewalkingeveryday。’
’Therewillbeamanyerrandsforhertorun。We’lltellhertotakehertimeoverthem。’
’ThreetimessheshallgotothekirkeverySabbath，andwe’lleggherontoattendingthelecturesinthehall。’
’Sheissuretohavefriendsinthetown。We’lllethervisitthemoften。’
’Ifshedarestocomeintoyourroom，mother!’
’Mindthis，everyoneofyou，servantornoservant，Ifoldallthelinenmysel。’
’Sheshallnotgetcleaningouttheeastroom。’
’Norputtingmychestofdrawersinorder。’
’Nortidyingupmymanuscripts。’
’Ihopeshe’sareader，though。Youcouldsetherdownwithabook，andthenclosethedoorcannyonher。’
Andsoon。Waseverservantawaitedsoapprehensively？Andthenshecame—atananxioustime，too，whenherworthcouldbeputtotheproofatonce—andfromfirsttolastshewasatreasure。I
knownotwhatweshouldhavedonewithouther。
CHAPTERIX—MYHEROINE。
WhenitwasknownthatIhadbegunanotherstorymymothermightaskwhatitwastobeaboutthistime。
’Finewecanguesswhoitisabout，’mysisterwouldsaypointedly。
’Maybeyoucanguess，butitisbeyondme，’saysmymother，withthemeeknessofonewhoknowsthatsheisadullperson。
Mysisterscornedheratsuchtimes。’Whatwomanisinallhisbooks？’shewoulddemand。
’I’msureIcannasay，’repliesmymotherdeterminedly。’Ithoughtthewomenweredifferenteverytime。’
’Mother，Iwonderyoucanbesoaudacious!FineyouknowwhatwomanImean。’
’HowcanIknow？Whatwomanisit？YoushouldbearinmindthatI
hinnayourcleverness’（theywereconstantlygivingeachotherlittleknocks）。
’Iwon’tgiveyouthesatisfactionofsayinghername。ButthisI
willsay，itishightimehewaskeepingheroutofhisbooks。’
Andthenasusualmymotherwouldgiveherselfawayunconsciously。
’ThatiswhatItellhim，’shesayschuckling，’andhetriestokeepmeout，buthecanna；it’smorethanhecando!’
Onaneveningaftermymotherhadgonetobed，thefirstchapterwouldbebroughtupstairs，andIread，sittingatthefootofthebed，whilemysisterwatchedtomakemymotherbehaveherself，andmyfathercriedH’sh!whentherewereinterruptions。Allwouldgowellatthestart，thereflectionswereacceptedwithalittlenodofthehead，thedescriptionsofsceneryasrutsontheroadthatmustbegotoveratawalkingpace（mymotherdidnotcareforscenery，andthatiswhythereissolittleofitinmybooks）。
ButnowIamreadingtooquickly，alittleapprehensively，becauseIknowthatthenextparagraphbeginswith—letussaywith，’Alongthispathcameawoman’：Ihadintendedtorushonhereinaloudbullyingvoice，but’Alongthispathcameawoman’Iread，andstop。DidIhearafaintsoundfromtheotherendofthebed？
PerhapsIdidnot；Imayonlyhavebeenlisteningforit，butI
falterandlookup。MysisterandIlooksternlyatmymother。
Shebitesherunder—lipandclutchesthebedwithbothhands，reallysheisdoingherbestforme，butfirstcomesasmotheredgurglingsound，thenherholdonherselfrelaxesandsheshakeswithmirth。
’That’sawaytobehave!’criesmysister。
’Icannothelpit，’mymothergasps。
’Andthere’snothingtolaughat。’
’It’sthatwoman，’mymotherexplainsunnecessarily。
’Maybeshe’snotthewomanyouthinkher，’Isay，crushed。
’Maybenot，’saysmymotherdoubtfully。’Whatwashername？’
’Hername，’Ianswerwithtriumph，’wasnotMargaret’；butthismakesherrippleagain。’Ihavesomanynamesnowadays，’shemutters。
’H’sh!’saysmyfather，andthereadingisresumed。
Perhapsthewomanwhocamealongthepathwasoftallandmajesticfigure，whichshouldhaveshownmymotherthatIhadcontrivedtostartmytrainwithoutherthistime。Butitdidnot。
’Whatareyoulaughingatnow？’saysmysisterseverely。’Doyounothearthatshewasatall，majesticwoman？’
’It’sthefirsttimeIeverhearditsaidofher，’repliesmymother。
’Butsheis。’
’Kefy，havers!’
’Thebooksaysit。’
’Therewillbeamanyqueerthingsinthebook。Whatwasshewearing？’
Ihavenotdescribedherclothes。’That’samistake，’saysmymother。’WhenIcomeuponawomaninabook，thefirstthingI
wanttoknowaboutheriswhethershewasgood—looking，andthesecond，howshewasputon。’
Thewomanonthepathwaseighteenyearsofage，andofremarkablebeauty。
’Thatsettlesyou，’saysmysister。
’Iwasnobeautyateighteen，’mymotheradmits，butheremyfatherinterferesunexpectedly。’Therewasnayourlikeinthiscountrysideateighteen，’sayshestoutly。
’Pooh!’saysshe，wellpleased。
’Wereyouplain，then？’weask。
’Sal，’sherepliesbriskly，’Iwasfarfromplain。’
’H’sh!’
Perhapsinthenextchapterthislady（oranother）appearsinacarriage。
’Iassureyouwe’remountingintheworld，’Ihearmymothermurmur，butIhurryonwithoutlookingup。Theladylivesinahousewheretherearefootmen—butthefootmenhavecomeonthescenetoohurriedly。’ThisismorethanIcanstand，’gaspsmymother，andjustassheisgettingthebetterofafitoflaughter，’Footman，givemeadrinkofwater，’shecries，andthissetsheroffagain。Oftenthereadingshadtoendabruptlybecausehermirthbroughtonviolentfitsofcoughing。
SometimesIreadtomysisteralone，andsheassuredmethatshecouldnotseemymotheramongthewomenthistime。Thisshesaidtohumourme。Presentlyshewouldslipupstairstoannouncetriumphantly，’Youareinagain!’
OrinthesmallhoursImightmakeaconfidantofmyfather，andwhenIhadfinishedreadinghewouldsaythoughtfully，’Thatlassieisverynatural。Someofthewaysyousayshehad—yourmotherhadthemjustthesame。Didyouevernoticewhatanextraordinarywomanyourmotheris？’
ThenwouldIseekmymotherforcomfort。ShewasthemorereadytogiveitbecauseofherprofoundconvictionthatifIwasfoundout—thatis，ifreadersdiscoveredhowfrequentlyandinhowmanyguisessheappearedinmybooks—theaffairwouldbecomeapublicscandal。
’YouseeJessisnotreallyyou，’Ibegininquiringly。
’Ohno，sheisanotherkindofwomanaltogether，’mymothersays，andthenspoilsthecomplimentbyaddingnaively，’ShehadbuttworoomsandIhavesix。’
Isigh。’Withoutcountingthepantry，andit’sagreatbigpantry，’shemutters。
ThiswasnotthesortofdifferenceIcouldgreatlyplumemyselfupon，andhonestywouldforcemetosay，’Asfarasthatgoes，therewasatimewhenyouhadbuttworoomsyourself—’
’That’slongsince，’shebreaksin。’Ibeganwithanup—the—stair，butIalwayshaditinmymind—Inevermentionedit，butthereitwas—tohavethedown—the—stairaswell。Ay，andI’vehaditthismanyayear。’
’Still，thereisnodenyingthatJesshadthesameambition。’
’Shehad，buttohertwo—roomedhouseshehadtostickallherborndays。Wasthatlikeme？’
’No，butshewanted—’
’Shewanted，andIwanted，butIgotandshedidna。That’sthedifferencebetwixtherandme。’
’Ifthatisallthedifference，itislittlecreditIcanclaimforhavingcreatedher。’
MymotherseesthatIneedsoothing。’Thatisfarfrombeingallthedifference，’shewouldsayeagerly。’There’smysilk，forinstance。ThoughIsayitmysel，there’snotabettersilkinthevalleyofStrathmore。HadJessasilkofanykind—nottospeakofasilklikethat？’
’Well，shehadnosilk，butyourememberhowshegotthatcloakwithbeads。’
’Anelevenandabit!Hoots，whatwasthattoboastof!Itellyou，everysingleyardofmysilkcost—’
’Mother，thatistheverywayJessspokeabouthercloak!’
Sheletsthispass，perhapswithouthearingit，forsolicitudeabouthersilkhashurriedhertothewardrobewhereithangs。
’Ah，mother，IamafraidthatwasverylikeJess!’
’Howcoulditbelikeherwhenshedidnaevenhaveawardrobe？I
tellyouwhat，iftherehadbeenarealJessandshehadboastedtomeabouthercloakwithbeads，Iwouldhavesaidtoherinacarelesssortofvoice，\"Stepacrosswithme，JessandI’llletyouseesomethingthatishanginginmywardrobe。\"Thatwouldhaveloweredherpride!’
’Idon’tbelievethatiswhatyouwouldhavedone，mother。’
Thenasweeterexpressionwouldcomeintoherface。’No，’shewouldsayreflectively，’it’snot。’
’Whatwouldyouhavedone？IthinkIknow。’
’Youcannaknow。ButI’mthinkingIwouldhavecalledtomindthatshewasapoorwoman，andailing，andterriblewindyabouthercloak，andIwouldjusthavesaiditwasabeautyandthatIwishedIhadonelikeit。’
’Yes，Iamcertainthatiswhatyouwouldhavedone。Butoh，mother，thatisjusthowJesswouldhaveactedifsomepoorerwomanthanshehadshownheranewshawl。’
’Maybe，butthoughIhadnaboastedaboutmysilkIwouldhavewantedtodoit。’
’JustasJesswouldhavebeenfidgetingtoshowoffherelevenandabit!’
Itseemsadvisabletojumptoanotherbook；nottomyfirst，because—well，asitwasmyfirsttherewouldnaturallybesomethingofmymotherinit，andnottothesecond，asitwasmyfirstnovelandnotmuchesteemedeveninourfamily。（Butthelittletouchesofmymotherinitarenotsobad。）Letustrythestoryabouttheminister。
Mymother’sfirstremarkisdecidedlydamping。’Manyatimeinmyyoungdays，’shesays，’IplayedabouttheAuldLichtmanse，butI
littlethoughtIshouldlivetobethemistressofit!’
’ButMargaretisnotyou。’
’N—no，ohno。Shehadaverydifferentlifefrommine。Ineverletontoasoulthatsheisme!’
’ShewasnotmeanttobeyouwhenIbegan。Mother，whatawayyouhaveofcomingcreepingin!’
’Youshouldkeepbetterwatchonyourself。’
’PerhapsifIhadcalledMargaretbysomeothername—’
’Ishouldhaveseenthroughherjustthesame。AssoonasIheardshewasthemotherIbegantolaugh。Insomeways，though，she’sno’soverylikeme。ShewaslonginfindingoutaboutBabbie。
I’seuphaudIshouldhavebeenquicker。’
’Babbie，yousee，keptclosetothegarden—wall。’
’It’snotthewallupatthemansethatwouldhavehiddenherfromme。’
’Shecameoutinthedark。’
’I’mthinkingshewouldhavefoundmelookingforherwithacandle。’
’AndGavinwassecretive。’
’Thatwouldhaveputmeonmymettle。’
’Sheneversuspectedanything。’
’Iwonderather。’
Butmynewheroineistobeachild。Whathasmadamtosaytothat？
Achild!Yes，shehassomethingtosayeventothat。’Thisbeatsall!’arethewords。
’Come，come，mother，Iseewhatyouarethinking，butIassureyouthatthistime—’
’Ofcoursenot，’shesayssoothingly，’ohno，shecannabeme’；butanonherrealthoughtsarerevealedbytheartlessremark，’I
doubt，though，thisisatoughjobyouhaveonhand—itissolongsinceIwasabairn。’
Wecameveryclosetoeachotherinthosetalks。’Itisaqueerthing，’shewouldsaysoftly，’thatneareverythingyouwriteisaboutthisbitplace。Youlittleexpectedthatwhenyoubegan。I
mindwellthetimewhenitneverenteredyourhead，anymorethanmine，thatyoucouldwriteapageaboutoursquaresandwynds。I
wonderhowithascomeabout？’
TherewasatimewhenIcouldnothaveansweredthatquestion，butthattimehadlongpassed。’Isuppose，mother，itwasbecauseyouweremostathomeinyourowntown，andtherewasnevermuchpleasuretomeinwritingofpeoplewhocouldnothaveknownyou，norofsquaresandwyndsyouneverpassedthrough，norofacountry—sidewhereyounevercarriedyourfather’sdinnerinaflagon。ThereisscarceahouseinallmybookswhereIhavenotseemedtoseeyouathousandtimes，bendingoverthefireplaceorwindinguptheclock。’
’Andyetyouusedtobeinsuchaquandarybecauseyouknewnobodyyoucouldmakeyourwomen—folkoutof!Doyoumindthat，andhowwebothlaughedatthenotionofyourhavingtomakethemoutofme？’
’Iremember。’
’Andnowyou’vegonebacktomyfather’stime。It’smorethansixtyyearssinceIcarriedhisdinnerinaflagonthroughthelongparksofKinnordy。’
’Ioftengointothelongparks，mother，andsitonthestileattheedgeofthewoodtillIfancyIseealittlegirlcomingtowardmewithaflagoninherhand。’
’Jumpingtheburn（Iwasoncesoproudofmyjumps!）andswingingtheflagonroundsoquickthatwhatwasinsidehadnatimetofallout。Iusedtowearamagentafrockandawhitepinafore。DidI
evertellyouthat？’
’Mother，thelittlegirlinmystorywearsamagentafrockandawhitepinafore。’
’Youmindedthat!ButI’mthinkingitwasnaalassieinapinaforeyousawinthelongparksofKinnordy，itwasjustageydoneauldwoman。’
’Itwasalassieinapinafore，mother，whenshewasfaraway，butwhenshecamenearitwasageydoneauldwoman。’
’Andafelluglyone!’
’ThemostbeautifuloneIshalleversee。’
’Iwondertohearyousayit。Lookatmywrinkledauldface。’
’Itisthesweetestfaceinalltheworld。’
’Seehowtheringsdropoffmypoorwastedfinger。’
’Therewillalwaysbesomeonenigh，mother，toputthemonagain。’
’Ay，willthere!WellIknowit。Doyoumindhowwhenyouwerebutabairnyouusedtosay，\"WaittillI’maman，andyou’llneverhaveareasonforgreetingagain？\"’
Iremembered。
’Youusedtocomerunningintothehousetosay，\"There’saprouddamegoingdowntheMarywellbraeinacloakthatisblackononesideandwhiteontheother；waittillI’maman，andyou’llhaveonetheverysame。\"AndwhenIlayongeyhardbedsyousaid，\"WhenI’mamanyou’lllieonfeathers。\"Yousawnothingbonny，youneverheardofmysettingmyheartonanything，butwhatyouflungupyourheadandcried，\"WaittillI’maman。\"Youfairshamedmebeforetheneighbours，andyetIwaswindy，too。Andnowithasallcometruelikeadream。IcancalltomindnotonelittlethingIettledforinmylustydaysthathasnabeenputintomyhandsinmyauldage；Isithereuseless，surroundedbythegratificationofallmywishesandallmyambitions，andattimesI’mnearterrified，forit’sasifGodhadmista’enmeforsomeotherwoman。’
’Yourhopesandambitionsweresosimple，’Iwouldsay，butshedidnotlikethat。’Theywerenathatsimple，’shewouldanswer，flushing。
Iamreluctanttoleavethosehappydays，buttheendmustbefaced，andasIwriteIseemtoseemymothergrowingsmallerandherfacemorewistful，andstillshelingerswithus，asifGodhadsaid，’Childofmine，yourtimehascome，benotafraid。’Andshewasnotafraid，butstillshelingered，andHewaited，smiling。I
neverreadanyofthatlastbooktoher；whenitwasfinishedshewastooheavywithyearstofollowastory。Tomethiswasasifmybookmustgooutcoldintotheworld（likeallthatmaycomeafteritfromme），andmysister，whotookmorethoughtforothersandlessforherselfthananyotherhumanbeingIhaveknown，sawthis，andbysomemeansunfathomabletoamancoaxedmymotherintobeingonceagainthewomanshehadbeen。OnadaybutthreeweeksbeforeshediedmyfatherandIwerecalledsoftlyupstairs。Mymotherwassittingboltupright，asshelovedtosit，inheroldchairbythewindow，withamanuscriptinherhands。Butshewaslookingaboutherwithoutmuchunderstanding。’Justtopleasehim，’mysisterwhispered，andtheninalow，tremblingvoicemymotherbegantoread。Ilookedatmysister。Tearsofwoewerestealingdownherface。Soonthereadingbecameveryslowandstopped。Afterapause，’Therewassomethingyouweretosaytohim，’mysisterremindedher。’Luck，’mutteredavoiceasfromthedead，’luck。’Andthentheoldsmilecamerunningtoherfacelikealamp—lighter，andshesaidtome，’Iamowerfargonetoread，butI’mthinkingIaminitagain!’MyfatherputherTestamentinherhands，anditfellopen—asitalwaysdoes—attheFourteenthofJohn。Shemadeanefforttoreadbutcouldnot。Suddenlyshestoopedandkissedthebroadpage。’Willthatdoinstead？’sheasked。
CHAPTERX—ARTTHOUAFRAIDHISPOWERSHALLFAIL？
ForyearsIhadbeentryingtopreparemyselfformymother’sdeath，tryingtoforeseehowshewoulddie，seeingmyselfwhenshewasdead。EventhenIknewitwasavainthingIdid，butIamsuretherewasnomorbidnessinit。IhopedIshouldbewithherattheend，notastheoneshelookedatlastbutashimfromwhomshewouldturnonlytolookuponherbest—beloved，notmyarmbutmysister’sshouldberoundherwhenshedied，notmyhandbutmysister’sshouldclosehereyes。IknewthatImightreachhertoolate；Isawmyselfopenadoorwheretherewasnonetogreetme，andgouptheoldstairintotheoldroom。ButwhatIdidnotforeseewasthatwhichhappened。IlittlethoughtitcouldcomeaboutthatIshouldclimbtheoldstair，andpassthedoorbeyondwhichmymotherlaydead，andenteranotherroomfirst，andgoonmykneesthere。
Mymother’sfavouriteparaphraseisoneknowninourhouseasDavid’sbecauseitwasthelasthelearnedtorepeat。Itwasalsothelastthingsheread—
ArtthouafraidhispowershallfailWhencomesthyevilday？
Andcananall—creatingarmGrowwearyordecay？
Iheardhervoicegainstrengthasshereadit，Isawhertimidfacetakecourage，butwhencamemyevilday，thenatthedawning，alasforme，Iwasafraid。
Inthoselastweeks，thoughwedidnotknowit，mysisterwasdyingonherfeet。Formanyyearsshehadbeengivingherlife，alittlebitatatime，foranotheryear，anothermonth，latterlyforanotherday，ofhermother，andnowshewaswornout。’I’llneverleaveyou，mother。’—’FineIknowyou’llneverleaveme。’I
thoughtthatcrysopatheticatthetime，butIwasnottoknowitsfullsignificanceuntilitwasonlytheechoofacry。Lookingatthesetwothenitwastomeasifmymotherhadsetoutforthenewcountry，andmysisterheldherback。ButIseewithaclearervisionnow。Itisnolongerthemotherbutthedaughterwhoisinfront，andshecries，’Mother，youarelingeringsolongattheend，Ihaveillwaitingforyou。’
Butsheknewnomorethanwehowitwastobe；ifsheseemedwearywhenwemetheronthestair，shewasstillthebrightest，themostactivefigureinmymother’sroom；shenevercomplained，savewhenshehadtodepartonthatwalkwhichseparatedthemforhalfanhour。Howreluctantlysheputonherbonnet，howwehadtopresshertoit，andhowoften，havinggoneasfarasthedoor，shecamebacktostandbymymother’sside。Sometimesaswewatchedfromthewindow，Icouldnotbutlaugh，andyetwithapainatmyheart，toseeherhastingdoggedlyonward，notaneyeforrightorleft，nothinginherheadbutthereturn。Therewasalwaysmyfatherinthehouse，thanwhomneverwasamoredevotedhusband，andoftentherewereothers，onedaughterinparticular，buttheyscarcedaredtendmymother—thisonesnatchedthecupjealouslyfromtheirhands。Mymotherlikeditbestfromher。Weallknewthis。
’Ilikethemfine，butIcannadowithoutyou。’Mysister，sounselfishinallotherthings，hadanunwearyingpassionforparadingitbeforeus。Itwastherichrewardofherlife。
Theothersspokeamongthemselvesofwhatmustcomesoon，andtheyhadtearstohelpthem，butthisdaughterwouldnotspeakofit，andhertearswereeverslowtocome。Iknewthatnightanddayshewastryingtogetreadyforaworldwithouthermotherinit，butshemustremaindumb；noneofuswassoScotchasshe，shemustbearheragonyalone，atragicsolitaryScotchwoman。Evenmymother，whospokesocalmlytousofthecomingtime，couldnotmentionittoher。Thesetwo，theoneinbed，andtheotherbendingoverher，couldonlylooklongateachother，untilslowlythetearscametomysister’seyes，andthenmymotherwouldturnawayherwetface。Andstillneithersaidaword，eachknewsowellwhatwasintheother’sthoughts，soeloquentlytheyspokeinsilence，’Mother，Iamloathtoletyougo，’and’Ohmydaughter，nowthatmytimeisnear，Iwishyouwerenaquitesofondofme。’
Butwhenthedaughterhadslippedawaymymotherwouldgripmyhandandcry，’Ileavehertoyou；youseehowshehassown，itwilldependonyouhowsheistoreap。’AndImadepromises，butI
supposeneitherofussawthatshehadalreadyreaped。
Inthenightmymothermightwakenandsitupinbed，confusedbywhatshesaw。Whilesheslept，sixdecadesormorehadrolledbackandshewasagaininhergirlhood；suddenlyrecalledfromitshewasdizzy，aswiththerushoftheyears。Howhadshecomeintothisroom？Whenshewenttobedlastnight，afterpreparingherfather’ssupper，therehadbeenadresseratthewindow：whathadbecomeofthesalt—bucket，themeal—tub，thehamsthatshouldbehangingfromtherafters？Therewerenorafters；itwasapaperedceiling。Shehadoftenheardofopenbeds，buthowcameshetobelyinginone？Tofathomthesethingsshewouldtrytospringoutofbedandbestartledtofinditalabour，asifshehadbeentakenillinthenight。HearinghermoveImightknockonthewallthatseparatedus，thisbeingasign，prearrangedbetweenus，thatIwasnearby，andsoallwaswell，butsometimestheknockingseemedtobelongtothepast，andshewouldcry，’Thatismyfatherchappingatthedoor，Imaunriseandlethimin。’Sheseemedtoseehim—anditwasonemuchyoungerthanherselfthatshesaw—
coveredwithsnow，kickingclodsofitfromhisboots，hishandsswollenandchappedwithsandandwet。ThenIwouldhear—itwasacommonexperienceofthenight—mysistersoothingherlovingly，andturningupthelighttoshowherwhereshewas，helpinghertothewindowtoletherseethatitwasnonightofsnow，evenhumouringherbygoingdownstairs，andopeningtheouterdoor，andcallingintothedarkness，’Isanybodythere？’andifthatwasnotsufficient，shewouldswaddlemymotherinwrapsandtakeherthroughtheroomsofthehouse，lightingthemonebyone，pointingoutfamiliarobjects，andsoguidingherslowlythroughthesixtyoddyearsshehadjumpedtooquickly。Andperhapstheendofitwasthatmymothercametomybedsideandsaidwistfully，’AmIanauldwoman？’
Butwithdaylight，evenduringthelastweekinwhichIsawher，shewouldbeupanddoing，forthoughpitifullyfrailshenolongersufferedfromanyailment。SheseemedsowellcomparativelythatI，havingstilltheremnantsofanillnesstoshakeoff，wastotakeaholidayinSwitzerland，andthenreturnforher，whenwewerealltogotothemuch—lovedmanseofhermuch—lovedbrotherinthewestcountry。Soshehadmanypreparationsonhermind，andthemorningwasthetimewhenshehadanystrengthtocarrythemout。Toleaveherhousehadalwaysbeenamonth’sworkforher，itmustbeleftinsuchperfectorder，everycornervisitedandcleanedout，everychestprobedtothebottom，thelinenliftedout，examinedandputbacklovinglyasiftomakeitliemoreeasilyinherabsence，shelveshadtobere—papered，astrenuousweekdevotedtothegarret。Lessexhaustively，butwithmuchoftheoldexultationinherhouse，thiswasdoneforthelasttime，andthentherewasthebringingoutofherownclothes，andthespreadingofthemuponthebedandthepleasedfingeringofthem，andtheconsultationsaboutwhichshouldbeleftbehind。Ah，beautifuldream!Iclungtoiteverymorning；Iwouldnotlookwhenmysistershookherheadatit，butlongbeforeeachdaywasdoneI
tooknewthatitcouldneverbe。Ithadcometruemanytimes，butneveragain。Wetwoknewit，butwhenmymother，whomustalwaysbepreparedsolongbeforehand，calledforhertrunkandband—boxeswebroughtthemtoher，andwestoodsilent，watching，whileshepacked。
ThemorningcamewhenIwastogoaway。Ithadcomeahundredtimes，whenIwasaboy，whenIwasanundergraduate，whenIwasaman，whenshehadseemedbigandstrongtome，whenshewasgrownsolittleanditwasIwhoputmyarmsroundher。Butalwaysitwasthesamescene。Iamnottowriteaboutit，ofthepartingandtheturningbackonthestair，andtwopeopletryingtosmile，andthesettingoffagain，andthecrythatbroughtmeback。NorshallIsaymoreofthesilentfigureinthebackground，alwaysinthebackground，alwaysnearmymother。ThelastIsawofthesetwowasfromthegate。Theywereatthewindowwhichneverpassesfrommyeyes。Icouldnotseemydearsister’sface，forshewasbendingovermymother，pointingmeouttoher，andtellinghertowaveherhandandsmile，becauseIlikeditso。Thatactionwasanepitomeofmysister’slife。
Ihadbeengoneafortnightwhenthetelegramwasputintomyhands。Ihadgotaletterfrommysister，afewhoursbefore，sayingthatallwaswellathome。Thetelegramsaidinfivewordsthatshehaddiedsuddenlythepreviousnight。Therewasnomentionofmymother，andIwasthreedays’journeyfromhome。
ThenewsIgotonreachingLondonwasthis：mymotherdidnotunderstandthatherdaughterwasdead，andtheywerewaitingformetotellher。
Ineednothavebeensuchacoward。Thisishowthesetwodied—
for，afterall，Iwastoolatebytwelvehourstoseemymotheralive。
Theirlastnightwasalmostgleeful。Intheolddaysthathourbeforemymother’sgaswasloweredhadsooftenbeenthehappiestthatmypenstealsbacktoitagainandagainasIwrite：itwasthetimewhenmymotherlaysmilinginbedandweweregatheredroundherlikechildrenatplay，ourreticencescatteredonthefloorortossedinsportfromhandtohand，theauthorbecomesoboisterousthatinthepausestheywereholdinghimincheckbyforce。Ratherwofulhadbeensomeattemptslatterlytorenewthoseevenings，whenmymothermightbebroughttothevergeofthem，asifsomefamiliarechocalledher，butwhereshewasshedidnotclearlyknow，becausethepastwasroaringinherearslikeagreatsea。Butthisnightwasalastgifttomysister。Thejoyousnessoftheirvoicesdrewtheothersinthehouseupstairs，whereformorethananhourmymotherwasthecentreofamerrypartyandsoclearofmentaleyethatthey，whowereatfirstcautious，abandonedthemselvestothesport，andwhatevertheysaid，bywayofhumorousrally，sheinstantlycappedasofold，turningtheirdartsagainstthemselvesuntilinself—defencetheywerethreetoone，andthethreehardpressed。Howmysistermusthavebeenrejoicing。Onceagainshecouldcry，’Wasthereeversuchawoman!’Theytellmethatsuchahappinesswasonthedaughter’sfacethatmymothercommentedonit，thathavingrisentogotheysatdownagain，fascinatedbytheradianceofthesetwo。Andwheneventuallytheywent，thelastwordstheyheardwere，’Theyaregone，yousee，mother，butIamhere，Iwillneverleaveyou，’and’Na，youwinnaleaveme；fineIknowthat。’Forsometimeafterwardstheirvoicescouldbeheardfromdownstairs，butwhattheytalkedofisnotknown。Andthencamesilence。HadIbeenathomeIshouldhavebeenintheroomagainseveraltimes，turningthehandleofthedoorsoftly，releasingitsothatitdidnotcreak，andstandinglookingatthem。Ithadbeensoathousandtimes。Butthatnight，wouldIhaveslippedoutagain，mindatrest，orshouldIhaveseenthechangecomingwhiletheyslept？
Letitbetoldinthefewestwords。Mysisterawokenextmorningwithaheadache。Shehadalwaysbeenamartyrtoheadaches，butthisone，likemanyanother，seemedtobeunusuallysevere。
Neverthelesssheroseandlitmymother’sfireandbroughtupherbreakfast，andthenhadtoreturntobed。Shewasnotabletowriteherdailylettertome，sayinghowmymotherwas，andalmostthelastthingshedidwastoaskmyfathertowriteit，andnottoletonthatshewasill，asitwoulddistressme。Thedoctorwascalled，butsherapidlybecameunconscious。Inthisstateshewasremovedfrommymother’sbedtoanother。Itwasdiscoveredthatshewassufferingfromaninternaldisease。Noonehadguessedit。
Sheherselfneverknew。Nothingcouldbedone。Inthisunconsciousnessshepassedaway，withoutknowingthatshewasleavinghermother。HadIknown，whenIheardofherdeath，thatshehadbeensavedthatpain，surelyIcouldhavegonehomemorebravelywiththewords，ArtthouafraidHispowerfailWhencomesthyevilday？
Ah，youwouldthinkso，Ishouldhavethoughtso，butIknowmyselfnow。WhenIreachedLondonIdidhearhowmysisterdied，butstillIwasafraid。Isawmyselfinmymother’sroomtellingherwhythedoorofthenextroomwaslocked，andIwasafraid。Godhaddonesomuch，andyetIcouldnotlookconfidentlytoHimforthelittlethatwaslefttodo。’Oyeoflittlefaith!’ThesearethewordsIseemtohearmymothersayingtomenow，andshelooksatmesosorrowfully。
Hediditveryeasily，andithasceasedtoseemmarvelloustomebecauseitwassoplainlyHisdoing。Mytimidmothersawtheonewhowasnevertoleavehercarriedunconsciousfromtheroom，andshedidnotbreakdown。Shewhousedtowringherhandsifherdaughterwasgoneforamomentneveraskedforheragain，theywereafraidtomentionhername；anawefelluponthem。ButIamsuretheyneednothavebeensoanxious。Therearemysteriesinlifeanddeath，butthiswasnotoneofthem。Achildcanunderstandwhathappened。Godsaidthatmysistermustcomefirst，butHeputHishandonmymother’seyesatthatmomentandshewasaltered。
TheytoldherthatIwasonmywayhome，andshesaidwithaconfidentsmile，’Hewillcomeasquickastrainscanbringhim。’
Thatismyreward，thatiswhatIhavegotformybooks。
EverythingIcoulddoforherinthislifeIhavedonesinceIwasaboy；IlookbackthroughtheyearsandIcannotseethesmallestthingleftundone。
Theywereburiedtogetheronmymother’sseventy—sixthbirthday，thoughtherehadbeenthreedaysbetweentheirdeaths。Onthelastday，mymotherinsistedonrisingfrombedandgoingthroughthehouse。Thearmsthathadsooftenhelpedheronthatjourneywerenowcoldindeath，buttherewereothersonlylessloving，andshewentslowlyfromroomtoroomlikeonebiddinggood—bye，andinmineshesaid，’Thebeautifulrowsuponrowsofbooks，anthesaideveryoneofthemwasmine，allmine!’andintheeastroom，whichwashergreatesttriumph，shesaidcaressingly，’Mynainbonnyroom!’Allthistimethereseemedtobesomethingthatshewanted，buttheonewasdeadwhoalwaysknewwhatshewanted，andtheyproducedmanythingsatwhichsheshookherhead。Theydidnotknowthenthatshewasdying，buttheyfollowedherthroughthehouseinsomeapprehension，andaftershereturnedtobedtheysawthatshewasbecomingveryweak。Onceshesaideagerly，’Isthatyou，David？’andagainshethoughtsheheardherfatherknockingthesnowoffhisboots。Herdesireforthatwhichshecouldnotnamecamebacktoher，andatlasttheysawthatwhatshewantedwastheoldchristeningrobe。Itwasbroughttoher，andsheunfoldeditwithtrembling，exultanthands，andwhenshehadmadesurethatitwasstillofvirginfairnessheroldarmswentrounditadoringly，anduponherfacetherewastheineffablemysteriousglowofmotherhood。Suddenlyshesaid，’Wha’sbairn’sdead？isabairnofminedead？’butthosewatchingdarednotspeak，andthenslowlyasifwithaneffortofmemorysherepeatedournamesaloudintheorderinwhichwewereborn。Onlyone，whoshouldhavecomethirdamongtheten，didsheomit，theoneinthenextroom，butattheend，afterapause，shesaidhernameandrepeateditagainandagainandagain，lingeringoveritasifitwerethemostexquisitemusicandthisherdyingsong。Andyetitwasaverycommonplacename。
Theyknewnowthatshewasdying。Shetoldthemtofoldupthechristeningrobeandalmostsharplyshewatchedthemputitaway，andthenforsometimeshetalkedofthelonglovelylifethathadbeenhers，andofHimtowhomsheowedit。Shesaidgood—byetothemall，andatlastturnedherfacetothesidewhereherbest—
belovedhadlain，andforoveranhoursheprayed。Theyonlycaughtthewordsnowandagain，andthelasttheyheardwere’God’
and’love。’IthinkGodwassmilingwhenHetookhertoHim，asHehadsooftensmiledatherduringthoseseventy—sixyears。
Isawherlyingdead，andherfacewasbeautifulandserene。ButitwastheotherroomIenteredfirst，anditwasbymysister’ssidethatIfelluponmyknees。Theroundedcompletenessofawoman’slifethatwasmymother’shadnotbeenforher。Shewouldnothaveitattheprice。’I’llneverleaveyou，mother。’—’FineIknowyou’llneverleaveme。’Thefiercejoyoflovingtoomuch，itisaterriblething。Mysister’smouthwasfirmlyclosed，asifshehadgotherway。
AndnowIamleftwithoutthem，butItrustmymemorywillevergobacktothosehappydays，nottorushthroughthem，butdallyinghereandthere，evenasmymotherwandersthroughmybooks。AndifIalsolivetoatimewhenagemustdimmymindandthepastcomessweepingbackliketheshadesofnightoverthebareroadofthepresentitwillnot，Ibelieve，bemyyouthIshallseebuthers，notaboyclingingtohismother’sskirtandcrying，’WaittillI’maman，andyou’lllieonfeathers，’butalittlegirlinamagentafrockandawhitepinafore，whocomestowardmethroughthelongparks，singingtoherself，andcarryingherfather’sdinnerinaflagon。