kitchen were downstairs, and of the three rooms above, the study
was so small that Gavin's predecessor could touch each of its
walls without shifting his position. Every room save Margaret's
had long-lidded beds, which close as if with shutters, but hers
was coff-fronted, or comparatively open, with carving on the wood
like the ornamentation of coffins. Where there were children in a
house they liked to slope the boards of the closed-in bed against
the dresser, and play at sliding down mountains on them.

But for many years there had been no children in the manse. He in
whose ways Gavin was to attempt the heavy task of walking had been
a widower three months after his marriage, a man narrow when he
came to Thrums, but so large-hearted when he left it that I, who
know there is good in all the world because of the lovable souls I
have met in this corner of it, yet cannot hope that many are as
near to God as he. The most gladsome thing in the world is that
few of us fall very low; the saddest that, with such capabilities,
we seldom rise high. Of those who stand perceptibly above their
fellows I have known very few; only Mr. Carfrae and two or three
women.

Gavin only saw a very frail old minister who shook as he walked,
as if his feet were striking against stones. He was to depart on
the morrow to the place of his birth, but he came to the manse to
wish his successor God-speed. Strangers were so formidable to
Margaret that she only saw him from her window.

"May you never lose sight of God, Mr. Dishart," the old man said
in the parlour. Then he added, as if he had asked too much, "May
you never turn from Him as I often did when I was a lad like you."