Our social glee and cheerfulness were now completely clouded; we sat down to our meals, and rose from them in silence. Of the few observations that passed, every one seemed the progeny of embarrassment and discontent, and our general remarks were strained and cold. One day at dinner-time, after a long and sullen pause, my father said, “I hope you do not intend to leave us very soon, Duncan?” “I am thinking of going away to-morrow, sir,” said Duncan. The knife fell from my mother’s hand; she looked him steadily in the face for the space of a minute. “Duncan,” said she, her voice faltering, and the tears dropping from her eyes,—“Duncan, I never durst ask you before, but I hope you will not leave us altogether?” Duncan thrust the plate from before him into the middle of the table—took up a book that lay on the window, and looked over the pages. Mary left the room. No answer was returned, nor any further inquiry made; and our little party broke up in silence.
When we met again in the evening, we were still all sullen. My mother tried to speak of indifferent things, but it was apparent that her thoughts had no share in the words that dropped from her tongue. My father at last said, “You will soon forget us, Duncan; but there are some among us who will not soon forget you.” Mary again left the room, and silence ensued, until the family were called together for evening worship. There was one sentence in my father’s prayer that night which I think I yet remember, word for word. It may appear of little importance to those who are nowise interested, but it affected us deeply, and left not a dry cheek in the family. It runs thus—“We are an unworthy little flock Thou seest here kneeling before Thee, our God; but, few as we are, it is probable we shall never all kneel again together before Thee in this world. We have long lived together in peace and happiness, and hoped to have lived so much longer; but since it is Thy will that we part, enable us to submit to that will with firmness; and though Thou scatter us to the four winds of heaven, may Thy almighty arm still be about us for good, and grant that we may all meet hereafter in another and a better world.”
The next morning, after a restless night, Duncan rose early, put on his best suit, and packed up some little articles to carry with him. I lay panting and trembling, but pretended to be fast asleep. When he was ready to depart, he took his bundle below his arm, came up to the side of the bed, and listened if I was sleeping. He then stood long hesitating, looking wistfully to the door, and then to me, alternately; and I saw him three or four times wipe his eyes. At length he shook me gently by the shoulder, and asked if I was awake. I feigned to start, and answered as if half asleep.
“I must bid you farewell,” said he, groping to get hold of my hand.
“Will you not breakfast with us, Duncan?” said I.
“No,” said he, “I am thinking that it is best to steal away, for it would break my heart to take leave of your parents, and—”
“Who, Duncan?” said I.
“And you,” said he.
“Indeed, but it is not best, Duncan,” said I; “we will all breakfast together for the last time, and then take a formal and kind leave of each other.”
We did breakfast together, and as the conversation turned on former days, it became highly interesting to us all. When my father had returned thanks to Heaven for our meal, we knew what was coming, and began to look at each other. Duncan rose, and after we had all loaded him with our blessings and warmest wishes, he embraced my parents and me. He turned about. His eyes said plainly, “There is somebody still wanting,” but his heart was so full, he could not speak.