“They’re awfu’ grateful, Colin—I canna but say that for them,” said Mrs. Campbell; “and as anxious as if you were their own son. I’ll no undertake to say that I havena an unchristian feeling myself to Harry¹ Frankland; but, when you’re a’ weel and strong, Colin,”—

“And what if I am never well and strong?” said the young man. His mother’s presence had subdued² and silenced, at least, for a time, the wild questions in his heart. She had taken them upon herself, though he did not know it. So far human love can stretch its fellowship in the sufferings of its Master,—not to the extent of substitution, of salvation³ temporal or spiritual, but, at least, to a modified deliverance. She had soothed⁴ her son and eased him of his burden, but in so doing had taken it to herself. The eagle that had been gnawing⁵ his heart had gone to fix its talons⁶ in hers; but she carried it like the Spartan⁷, under her mantle⁸, and smiled while it rent her in twain.

“Whisht, whisht!” she said, in her martyrdom of composure and calm looks, and took her boy’s hand and held it between hers—God only could tell how fondly—with a firm, warm grasp that seemed to hold him fast to life. “Colin, my man, it’s a’ in God’s hands,” said the Mistress of Ramore; “whiles His ways are awfu’ mysterious. I’m no one that pretends to read them, or see a’thing plain, like some folk; but I canna think He ever makes a mistake or lets anything go by hazard. We’ll bide⁹ His time, Colin; and who can tell what mercy and goodness he may have in His hand?”

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