Gathered In

"You've come owre late to see Isabel in life, Mr. McDiarmid," said
old Marion Oswald; "It's of no avail to seek to see the dead."

"I have lost no time--I started immediately on receiving the news of
her dangerous state. I did not even know of her illness till
yesterday," said Norman McDiarmid, a tall distinguished-looking man,
in the very prime of life, who seemed strongly agitated, and spoke
with difficulty.

"There's been little passing between you and her in the way of
letters, and now it is all at an end. Isabel passed away at midnight."

"Was there any message for me beyond this?" and he held in his hand
a letter.

"She died at peace wi' a' men, an' nae doubt wi' you, and I hope and
trust at peace wi' her God."

"But was there no particular message for me, Mrs. Oswald?"

"What for should there be? She forgave you, as she forgave a' that
had dune her ill, as free as she hoped to be forgi'en hersel' for all
that lay on her conscience."

"There was no trouble, there, Mrs. Oswald? Kenneth saw no trouble?"

"Only about leavin' him; and that was sair. But, no; she ne'er said
word to him that I could come at that her soul was in deep waters. The
minister saw her as often as three times in the week, and he was
satisfied; aye, on the whole he was satisfied. She had a vision of the
glory that was to follow, and rested on her Redeemer with full trust
for hersel'; but her soul was grieving about the laddie. God is the
father of the fatherless, the minister kept saying, but woe me! she
said she kent that weel, but how was he to be mother to the
motherless?"

"The boy was much with her, I hope?"

"All but schule time; he was maistly at the bedside, and I maun say,
very handy for a laddie. A' that the minister dooted about Isabel's
frame of mind in the face o' the great change, was that she had na
faith to leave the bairn in God's hands, and that she had na just the
full sense of sin that such worms o' the dust as we are suld have,
especially with the reproach on her that she had."

"Then her mind was at peace in itself," said Mr. McDiarmid.

"She said she was sure her sins were forgiven, and lost in the ocean
o' Divine Love, and said she could na just be troubled with bringing
up old stories, and wi' the laddie hanging owre her, little could be
said. Isabel was never the lass to put blame off hersel' on to ony
other body, or she might have made her case clearer to the minister
and to me; but Kenneth will never be told by me, good or bad, on the
matter."

"I must see Isabel, Mrs. Oswald."

"What's the good? What's the use? Ten years have never looked near
her living, and now you would fain lay a balm to your conscience by
looking on her face, which is now as the face of an angel in heaven,
and you will think that she hadna sae muckle to dree or she wan there.
It will be harder for you, I'm thinking."

"You speak truly, Mrs. Oswald, but Isabel wrote to me that, living or
dead, I was to see her, and alone. It is the last wish of one very
dear to you. You must respect it."

The old woman reluctantly rose from the chair, where, with her open
Bible beside her, and her knitting in her hands, she had kept her
place during the stranger's visit. There was no trace of tears on the
resolute face; all the emotion had been repressed, but the feelings
were probably the deeper for that. She opened a door which led out of
the living-room of the cottage, so low that Norman McDiarmid had to
stoop to enter, admitted him, and closed the door again softly, and
sat down to her knitting, taking every stitch as if it caught at her
heart.