Gathered In by Catherine Helen Spence — Read

As Norman McDiarmid made his way homeward with the unopened packet of letters in his breastpocket which he kept for the quiet and seclusion of his study at home, he had more bitter grief in his heart than Marion Oswald could have believed in. He looked in at his father-in- law's house in Edinburgh to enquire how all were there, he called on Mr. Shiel to give instructions to continue his payments to John Oswald for Kenneth's behoof, and to forward any letters which Kenneth might address to his care, and then took the train for his northern castle with a mixture of listlessness and impatience to be at the end of it all. When his wife and his sons and daughters greeted him affectionately after his temporary absence, did he see in his mind's eye that low cottage, and his firstborn holding his horse for him to mount, while a still white form lay hushed and unresponsive to even the touch of his lips? When Norman rushed into his father's arms and asked what he had brought him from Edinburgh, was there an additional caress, or the contrary, on account of those which he was not permitted to bestow on that dark-eyed sunburnt boy?

When Mrs. McDiarmid asked about his father and mother and enquired particularly about the health of the former, did the vision of John Oswald leaning on his stick, and Marion knitting over her open Bible, trouble his recollections of the details she wished for? And when little Malcolm said Mama must not go to Edinburgh to see grandpapa, for he could not do without her, did not the thought of the boy by the burn side hiding his tears on collie's neck bring back a painful tightness in the throat and oppression on the breast?