"It will be between your own soul and your Maker, Donal'," he said gently. "And I will not be urging you; for only the Lord must guide you to this great work." He sighed deeply and at the sight of the pain he was inflicting Donald's heart suddenly contracted.
"But you will be going back and finishing your colleging, my lad,—yes," as Donald protested vehemently, "you will be doing this for me, for my heart will be in it, and if the Lord will not be calling you to the church, you will be a good man, like your grandfather, and that will be a great thing, whatever."
Donald could not answer. Even when he came to say good-bye, he could find but few words of gratitude. But the reticent Duncan understood, and the young man went away with the fixed determination, that though he could not attain to his uncle's ambition, he would at least, with God's help, be such a man as would never bring dishonour upon Duncan Polite.
When his boy left him the brightness seemed to die out of the days for the lonely old watchman on the hilltop. He realised now how much he had hoped for and expected in the springtime, when Donald returned from college and Mr. McAlpine's grandson stood in Glenoro pulpit. When he thought of all his great hopes, he could not forbear, in the bitterness of his soul, saying to himself, as he saw around him the signs of a dying season, "The harvest is past, and the summer is ended, and we are not saved."
A figure grew out of the dusk of the road, and the gate latch clicked, and a familiar form, erect and sturdy, came up the path. Duncan arose with a sensation of comfort at the sight of his friend. Andrew Johnstone never went down to the village without dropping in for a few minutes at the little shanty.
Duncan brought out a chair, and together the two old men sat at the door and watched the stars come out in the clear, pale sky, and as if they were their earthly reflections, the lights appear in the valley. Andrew puffed a while at his pipe in silence.
"So Donal's awa'" he said at length, guessing partly the reason of the weary look in his friend's face.
"Yes, oh, yes,"—Duncan's voice was like a sigh—"he would be going back to-day."
"Aye, it's jist as weel. He'll come to nae mair harm in the city than he would in yon gabblin' crew o' young folk in the Glen. Man, Duncan, the Scripter described them weel. They're jist naething but the cracklin' o' thorns under a pot, aye, an' yon foolish bit crater that an ill fate has gie'n us for a meenister is the lightest o' them a'. May the Lord forgie the man that disgraced Maister Cameron's pulpit an' Maister McAlpine's name!"
Duncan did not seem to have the strength to combat his friend's statements; and Splinterin' Andra sailed on, encouraged by his silence.