“To yon fine country John Ferguson tells us about?” said Sandy, with sparkling eyes. “That I would, but it wouldna be right to leave grannie, and she says she’s ower old to go so far-away—and over the great sea too.”
“Nae, my lad, it wouldna be right to leave grannie by herself, and you’ll need to bide here. Think aye first of what is right, and there will be no fear of you.”
“And are you goin’ mother?” asked Sandy, gravely.
“I doubt I’ll need to go, Sandy lad, with the bairns. But I think less of it, that I can leave you to be a comfort to grannie. I’m sure I needna bid you be a good and obedient laddie to her, when—”
It needed a strong effort on her part to restrain the bitter cry of her heart.
“And will you never come back again, mother?”
“I dinna ken, Sandy. Maybe no. But that’s no’ for us to consider. It is present duty we maun think o’. The rest is in the Lord’s hands.”
What else could be said? That was the sum. It was duty and the Lord would take care of the rest. And so they parted with outward calm; and her mother never knew that that night, Janet, sending the children home before her, sat down in the lane, and “grat as if she would never greet mair.” And Janet never knew, till long years afterwards, how that night, and many a night, Sandy woke from the sound sleep of childhood to find his grandmother praying and weeping, to think of the parting that was drawing near. Each could be strong to help the other, but alone, in silence and darkness, the poor shrinking heart had no power to cheat itself into the belief that bitter suffering did not lie before it.