It was neither a Sacramental Fast-day nor a Sunday at Birkwoodbrae, yet a strange stillness, as if death were there again, brooded over all the place; the house with its roses and creepers, the garden with its now untended flowers, the empty meadow, and the lovely silver birches; and poor Robert Wodrow, as sadly he approached the house for the last time, felt conscious of this as he passed, and with a bitter sigh looked around him.
Even Jack's bark was unheard; the scythe lay among the rich clover, the gate that led to the highway stood wide open, and near it lingered some cottar people, with mouths agape, old and young, with grave and anxious faces, even with tears, for some of the young girls' 'belongings' had already been sent away, the gazers knew not where.
Something strange they thought had come to pass, yet the sunshine of the first of September lay golden on the woods, the pastures, the cattle, and the flower-gardens, though beneath was a great shadow like that of death over all, and Robert Wodrow, impressionable at all times, felt it; for the sisters were on the eve of departure, and another day or two—so quickly had Mary's preparations been made—would see all ended.
The bright sunshine of the autumn evening was touching, we have said, with fiery light the smooth silver stems of the tall birch-trees, and the birds still sang sweetly under the feather-like foliage that hung gracefully downward, unstirred by the faintest breeze, when, looking from an open window on the scene she loved so well, Mary Wellwood paused in the bitter task of making up a list of their household effects ere she left the roof of Birkwoodbrae for ever. After she was fairly gone, a letter to Dr. Wodrow would inform him of all their wishes, she was thinking, when suddenly Robert stood by her side, and put an arm kindly round her.
'Why, you will kill yourself with all this work and anxiety; dear Mary, let me help you,' said he.
'I am nearly done,' said she, wearily, and with a quivering lip; 'there are but a few relics, books and so forth, I wish to keep——'
'Leave it with me; save you, Mary, and the old folks at the manse, I have no one left to care for now.'
'Poor Robert!' said she, kissing his cheek, for she knew his meaning well.
No one can 'minister to a mind diseased' like a mother, it has been said; but Mrs. Wodrow, to her sorrow, had signally failed to so minister to her son Robert.
'And you have failed at the University, Robert?' said Mary, after a pause.