A summer wind passed over the pines, the wood-pigeons cooed above their heads, rabbits ran out and in beside them, the burn below made a pleasant sound, a sense of the Divine Love descended on their hearts.
“The Aimichty,” whispered Meg, “'ill surely no tak awa oor only bairn... an' him dune sae weel... an' sae gude a son... A' wes coontin' on him comin' hame next year... an' seein' him aince mair... afore a' deed.”
A bread cart from Kildrummie lumbered along the road. Maclure passed on Jess at a sharp trot. A company of tourists returning from Glen Urtach sang “Will ye no come back again?” Donald Menzies also sang as he brought a horse from the smiddy, but it was a psalm—
“I to the hills will lift my eyes,
From whence doth come mine aid.”
“Can ye no see him yet, Dauvid? a' doot he 's hed an accident; it maun be lang past the 'oor noo. Yonder he is.”
But it was only a tramp, who hesitated at the foot of the upland road, and then continued his way to the village, careless who lived or died, so that he had meat and drink.
Round the distant corner Posty came at last, half an hour before his time and half a mile the hour above his common speed.
“Wull ye gang doon, Meg?”
“A' canna; bring't up tae me when he's past,” and she sat down again and covered her face; “tell me gin it 's come.”
Posty halted and swung round his bag; he took out the packet of road-side letters and dropped four into the box without attention; then he kept a fifth in his hands and hesitated; he held it up against the light as if he would have read its contents.