"Whatever the poor child is--even if an idiot," thought he, "I will
do my best for him, for his father's and mother's sake."

And he paused several minutes before those bright and smiling portraits,
pondering on the mysterious dealings of the great Ruler of the universe
--how some are taken and some are left: those removed who seem most
happy and most needed; those left behind whom it would have appeared, in
our dim and short-sighted judgment, a mercy, both to themselves and
others, quietly to have taken away.

But one thing the minister did in consequence of these somewhat sad and
painful musings. On his return to the clachan--where, of course, the
news of the earl's coming home had long spread, and thrown the whole
country-side into a state of the greatest excitement--he gave orders,
or at least, advice--which was equivalent to orders, since everybody
obeyed him--that there should be no special rejoicings on the earl's
coming home; no bonfire on the hill-side, or triumphal arches across the
road, and at the ferry where the young earl would probably land--
where, ten years before, the late Earl of Cairnforth had been not
landed, but carried, stone-cold, with his dripping, and his dead hands
still clutching the weeds of the loch. The minister vividly recalled
the sight, and shuddered at it still.

"No, no," said he, in talking the matter over with some of his people,
whom he went among like a father among his children, true pastor of a
most loving flock, "no; we'll wait and see what the earl would like
before we make any show. That we are glad to see him he knows well
enough, or will very soon find out. And if he should arrive on such a
night as this"--looking round on the magnificent June sunset,
coloring the mountains at the head of the loch--"he will hardly need