He stepped lightly, and opened the door softly, lest his mother should be disturbed so late. A foolish thought of his, since he knew that “his very step had music in’t” to her ears.
“Well, John?” said she, as he paused a moment at her door. And when he did not answer at once, she asked, “Is it well with you, John?”
“Surely, mother. Why should you ask?”
“And they were glad to see you at the manse?”
“Oh! yes, mother. They’re ay kind, as ye ken.”
“Ay, they’re ay kind. And did you see—Allison Bain?”
“Allison Bain!” repeated John, dazed-like still. “Ay, I saw her—at the Stanin’ Stanes, as I told you.”
“Yes, you told me. And all’s well with you, John?”
“Surely, mother,” repeated John, a little impatiently. “What should ail me?” And then he added, “I’m tired with my long tramp, and I’ll away to my bed. Good-night, mother.”
He touched with his strong, young fingers the wrinkled hand that lay on the coverlid, and the touch said more to her than a kiss or a caress would have said to some mothers.