There was a long silence while they waited for her to continue.
"What was that sermon, mother, at Mullin that time upon the words 'Will ye also go away?' you remember?" at length asked Shock cunningly.
His mother sighed. "Ay, and that was a sairmon to draw the heart out o' you. That was the melting day, while the big men gripped their sticks hard and the women wiped at their eyes that would never be done running, and that man's voice soughing over them like the wind in the pines in the evening, Yes! yes! But," suddenly recalling herself, "come, lads, you must be off to your books."
The young men sat a few moments silently gazing into the fire, and then Brown rose and said, "Good-night, mother. You're the greatest preacher I know, and I would not mind a whole hour from you." His voice was earnest and his eyes soft and tender as he stooped and kissed her cheek.
"Good-night, laddie," answered Mrs. Macgregor, patting his hand gently. "I doubt, after all, the fault nowadays is not with the preaching so much as with the hearing."
"Well, I'm off. You will see me to-morrow with my flock of straying sheep. But I warn you that after you hear that man from the West you will all be volunteering as missionaries."
The old lady took up her knitting again and after the door had closed upon Brown sat back in her chair with a weary sigh.
"You're tired to-night, mother," said Shock gently.
"Tired? And what for would I be tired? No, no, but the day is long."
"Yes, some days, mother. But the longest pass."