Ay, he had two sons, Gilmour said: but one was lost at sea, and the other was struggling at college.
“You live alone, then?” asked the questioner, tremulously.
No, thank God! he had a kind wife at home, who had been his consolation through many a dark hour.
“Thank God!” echoed the younger man.
The carriage rolled on and entered the village. The weaver pointed to his house, and they stopped there. The stranger helped him out with his web, and entered the house with him.
“It’s just the web back, guidwife,” he said. “But dinna look sae queer like. I’se warrant I’ll sell it the morn. An’ here’s a gentleman has helpit me on the road. Hae ye onything i’ the hoose to offer him?”
But the wife was not thinking of the web or the distress of the morrow. Her eyes were on the stranger, and the corners of her lips were twitching curiously. He had not spoken, but as he removed his hat she sprang towards him.
“It’s Willie!” she cried; “it’s Willie!” And her arms were about his neck, and, half laughing and half crying, she buried her face on his breast.
It was Willie. He was the first who came back to the village from the gold-fields of Ballarat.