No one spoke while the large, intelligent eyes, which seemed the
principal feature of the thin face, that rested against Malcolm's
shoulder, looked out intently upon the loch.

Mrs. Campbell pulled her veil down and wept a little. People said Neil
Campbell had not been the best of husbands to her, but he was her
husband; and she had never been back in Cairnforth till now, for her son
had lived, died, and been buried away in Edinburg.

At last Mr. Menteith suggested that the kirk bell was beginning to ring.

"Very well; put me into the carriage."

Malcolm placed him, helpless as an infant, in a corner of the
silken-padded coach, fitted with cushions especially suited for his
comfort. There he sat, in his black velvet coat and point-lace collar,
with silk stockings and dainty shoes upon the poor little feet that
never had walked, and never would walk, in this world. The one bit of
him that could be looked at without pain was his face, inherited from
his beautiful mother. It was wan, pale, and much older than his years,
but it was a sweet face--a lovely face; so patient, thoughtful--
nay, strange to say, content. You could not look at it without a
certain sense of peace, as if God, in taking away so much had given
something--which not many people have--something which was the
divine answer to the minister's prayer over the two-days-old child--
"Thy will be done."

"Are you comfortable, my lord?"

"Quite, thank you, Mr. Menteith. Stop--where are you going,