The minister's face whitened, and his arm relaxed. He rose hastily
and went to the door, but in going out he gave his aunt an
understanding look, such as passes between people who have stood
together in a sorrow. The son had not forgotten his mother's
request.

The manse garden lies toward the west, and as the minister paced its
little square of turf, sheltered by fir hedges, the sun was going
down behind the Grampians. Black massy clouds had begun to gather in
the evening, and threatened to obscure the sunset, which was the
finest sight a Drumtochty man was ever likely to see, and a means of
grace to every sensible heart in the glen. But the sun had beat back
the clouds on either side, and shot them through with glory and now
between piled billows of light he went along a shining pathway into
the Gates of the West. The minister stood still before that
spectacle, his face bathed in the golden glory, and then before his
eyes the gold deepened into an awful red, and the red passed into
shades of violet and green, beyond painter's hand or the imagination
of man. It seemed to him as if a victorious saint had entered
through the gates into the city, washed in the blood of the Lamb,
and the after glow of his mother's life fell solemnly on his soul.
The last trace of sunset had faded from the hills when the minister
came in, and his face was of one who had seen a vision. He asked his
aunt to have worship with the servant, for he must be alone in his
study.

It was a cheerful room in the daytime, with its southern window,
through which the minister saw the roses touching the very glass and
dwarf apple trees lining the garden walks; there was also a western