elder of the kirk, a man who had led a long and useful life, and to whom
this woman had rendered wifely devotion. He thought upon his cousins, in
whose lives their mother's life had seemed unalterably bound up. He
would at times emerge from his corner, and, sitting down beside the
lady, would take her well-worn Bible and read to her such passages as he
knew were graven deep upon her heart by scenes of joy or sorrow, parting
or meeting, or the very hours of birth or death, in the lives that had
been dearer to her than her own. He was not an emotional man, but yet
there was a ringing pathos in his voice as he read the rhythmic words.
At such times she would sit as if voice and rhythm soothed her, or she
would bow her head solemnly at certain pauses, as if accustomed to agree
to the sentiment expressed. Heart and thought were not awake to him, nor
to the book he read, nor to the memories he tried to arouse. The fire of
the lady's heart sprang up only for one word, that word a name, the name
of a man of whose very existence, it seemed, no trace was left in all
that country-side.

The minister would retreat out of the lady's range of vision; and so
great did his curiosity grow that he instigated the maid to ask certain
questions as she played at the game of the old love-story in her
sprightly, pitying way.

'Now I'll tell ye a thing that I want to know,' said the maid, pouring
tea in a cup. 'What's his given name? Will ye tell me that?'

'Is it Mr. Kinnaird ye mean?'

'It's Mr. Kinnaird's christened name that I'm speering for.'

'An' I canna tell ye that, for he never told it to me. It'd be no place