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,