on a summer day, when the sun was in the weavers' workshops, and bairns hopped solemnly at the game of palaulays, or gaily shook their bottles of sugarelly water into a froth, jamie came back. the first man to see him was hookey crewe, the post.

"when he came frae london," hookey said afterwards at t'nowhead's pig-sty, "jamie used to wait for me at zoar, i' the north end o' tilliedrum. he carried his box ower the market muir, an' sat on't at zoar, waitin' for me to catch 'im up. ay, the day afore yesterday me an' the powny was clatterin' by zoar, when there was jamie standin' in his identical place. he hadna nae box to sit upon, an' he was far frae bein' weel in order, but i kent 'im at aince, an' i saw 'at he was waitin' for me. so i drew up, an' waved my hand to 'im."

"i would hae drove straucht by 'im," said t'nowhead; "them 'at leaves their auld mother to want doesna deserve a lift."

"ay, ye say that sittin' there," hookey said; "but, lads, i saw his face, an' as sure as death it was sic an' awfu' meeserable face 'at i couldna but pu' the powny up. weel, he stood for the space o' a meenute lookin' straucht at me, as if he would like to come forrit but dauredna, an' syne he turned an' strided awa ower the muir like a huntit thing. i sat still i' the cart, an' when he was far awa he stoppit an' lookit again, but a' my cryin' wouldna bring him a step back, an' i' the end i drove on. i've thocht since syne 'at he didna ken whether his fowk was livin' or deid, an' was fleid to speir."

"he didna ken," said t'nowhead, "but the faut was his ain. it's ower late to be ta'en up aboot jess noo."

"ay, ay, t'nowhead," said hookey, "it's aisy to you to speak like that. ye didna see his face."

it is believed that jamie walked from tilliedrum, though no one is known to have met him on the road. some two hours after the post left him he was seen by old rob angus at the sawmill.

"i was sawin' awa wi' a' my micht," rob said, "an' little rob was haudin' the booards, for they were silly but things, when something made me look at the window. it couldna hae been a tap on't, for the birds has used me to that, an' it would hardly be a shadow, for little rob didna look up. whatever it was, i stoppit i' the middle o' a booard, an' lookit up, an' there i saw jamie mcqumpha. he joukit back when our een met, but i saw him weel; ay, it's a queer thing to say, but he had the face o' a man 'at had come straucht frae hell."

"i stood starin' at the window," angus continued, "after he'd gone, an' robbie cried oot to ken what was the maiter wi' me. ay, that brocht me back to mysel, an' i hurried oot to look for jamie, but he wasna to be seen. that face gae me a turn."

from the saw-mill to the house at the top of the brae, some may remember, the road is up the commonty. i do not think any one saw jamie on the commonty, though there were those to say they met him.

"he gae me sic a look," a woman said, "'at i was fleid an' ran hame," but she did not tell the story until jamie's home-coming had become a legend.

there were many women hanging out their washing on the commonty that day, and none of them saw him. i think jamie must have approached his old home by the fields, and probably he held back until gloaming.

the young woman who was now mistress of the house at the top of the brae both saw and spoke with jamie.

"twa or three times," she said, "i had seen a man walk quick up the brae an' by the door. it was gettin' dark, but i noticed 'at he was short an' thin, an' i would hae said he wasna nane weel if it hadna been at' he gaed by at sic a steek. he didna look our wy—at least no when he was close up, an' i set 'im doon for some ga'en aboot body. na, i saw naething aboot 'im to be fleid at.

"the aucht o'clock bell was ringin' when i saw 'im to speak to. my twa-year-auld bairn was standin' aboot the door, an' i was makkin' some porridge for my man's supper when i heard the bairny skirlin'. she came runnin' in to the hoose an' hung i' my wrapper, an' she was hingin' there, when i gaed to the door to see what was wrang.

"it was the man i'd seen passin' the hoose. he was standin' at the gate, which, as a'body kens, is but sax steps frae the hoose, an' i wondered at 'im neither runnin' awa nor comin' forrit. i speired at 'im what he meant by terrifyin' a bairn, but he didna say naething. he juist stood. it was ower dark to see his face richt, an' i wasna nane ta'en aback yet, no till he spoke. oh, but he had a fearsome word when he did speak. it was a kind o' like a man hoarse wi' a cauld, an' yet no that either.

"'wha bides i' this hoose?' he said, ay standin there.

"'it's davit patullo's hoose,' i said, 'an' am the wife.'

"'whaur's hendry mcqumpha?' he speired.

"'he's deid,' i said.

"he stood still for a fell while.

"'an' his wife, jess?' he said.

"'she's deid, too,' i said.

"i thocht he gae a groan, but it may hae been the gate.

"'there was a dochter, leeby?' he said.

"'ay,' i said, 'she was ta'en first.'

"i saw 'im put up his hands to his face, an' he cried out, 'leeby too!' an' syne he kind o' fell agin the dyke. i never kent 'im nor nane o' his fowk, but i had heard aboot them, an' i saw 'at it would be the son frae london. it wasna for me to judge 'im, an' i said to 'im would he no come in by an' tak a rest. i was nearer 'im by that time, an' it's an awfu' haver to say 'at he had a face to frichten fowk. it was a rale guid face, but no ava what a body would like to see on a young man. i felt mair like greetin' mysel when i saw his face than drawin' awa frae 'im.

"but he wouldna come in. 'rest,' he said, like ane speakin' to 'imsel, 'na, there's nae mair rest for me.' i didna weel ken what mair to say to 'im, for he aye stood on, an' i wasna even sure 'at he saw me. he raised his heid when he heard me tellin' the bairn no to tear my wrapper.

"'dinna set yer heart ower muckle on that bairn,' he cried oot, sharp like. 'i was aince like her, an' i used to hing aboot my mother, too, in that very roady. ay, i thocht i was fond o' her, an' she thocht it too. tak' a care, wuman, 'at that bairn doesna grow up to murder ye.'

"he gae a lauch when he saw me tak haud o' the bairn, an' syne a' at aince he gaed awa quick. but he wasna far doon the brae when he turned an' came back.

"'ye'll, mebbe, tell me," he said, richt low, 'if ye hae the furniture 'at used to be my mother's?'

"'na,' i said, 'it was roupit, an' i kenna whaur the things gaed, for me an' my man comes frae tilliedrum.'

"'ye wouldna hae heard,' he said, 'wha got the muckle airm-chair 'at used to sit i' the kitchen i' the window 'at looks ower the brae?'

"'i couldna be sure,' i said, 'but there was an airm-chair at gaed to tibbie birse. if it was the ane ye mean, it a' gaed to bits, an' i think they burned it. it was gey dune.'

"'ay,' he said, 'it was gey dune.'

"'there was the chairs ben i' the room,' he said, after a while.

"i said i thocht sanders elshioner had got them at a bargain because twa o' them was mended wi' glue, an' gey silly.

"'ay, that's them,' he said, 'they were richt neat mended. it was my mother 'at glued them. i mind o' her makkin' the glue, an' warnin' me an' my father no to sit on them. there was the clock too, an' the stool 'at my mother got oot an' into her bed wi', an' the basket 'at leeby carried when she gaed the errands. the straw was aff the handle, an' my father mended it wi' strings.'

"'i dinna ken,' i said, 'whaur nane o' thae gaed; but did yer mother hae a staff?'

"'a little staff,' he said; 'it was near black wi' age. she couldna gang frae the bed to her chair withoot it. it was broadened oot at the foot wi' her leanin' on't sae muckle.'

"'i've heard tell,' i said, ''at the dominie up i' glen quharity took awa the staff.'

"he didna speir for nae other thing. he had the gate in his hand, but i dinna think he kent 'at he was swingin't back an' forrit. at last he let it go.

"'that's a',' he said, 'i maun awa. good-nicht, an' thank ye kindly.'

"i watched 'im till he gaed oot o' sicht. he gaed doon the brae."

we learnt afterwards from the gravedigger that some one spent great part of that night in the graveyard, and we believe it to have been jamie. he walked up the glen to the school-house next forenoon, and i went out to meet him when i saw him coming down the path.

"ay," he said, "it's me come back."

i wanted to take him into the house and speak with him of his mother, but he would not cross the threshold.

"i came oot," he said, "to see if ye would gie me her staff—no 'at i deserve 't."

i brought out the staff and handed it to him, thinking that he and i would soon meet again. as he took it i saw that his eyes were sunk back into his head. two great tears hung on his eyelids, and his mouth closed in agony. he stared at me till the tears fell upon his cheeks, and then he went away.

that evening he was seen by many persons crossing the square. he went up the brae to his old home, and asked leave to go through the house for the last time. first he climbed up into the attic, and stood looking in, his feet still on the stair. then he came down and stood at the door of the room, but he went into the kitchen.

"i'll ask one last favour o' ye," he said to the woman: "i would like ye to leave me here alane for juist a little while."

"i gaed oot," the woman said, "meanin' to leave 'im to 'imsel', but my bairn wouldna come, an' he said, 'never mind her,' so i left her wi' 'im, an' closed the door. he was in a lang time, but i never kent what he did, for the bairn juist aye greets when i speir at her.

"i watched 'im frae the corner window gang doon the brae till he came to the corner. i thocht he turned round there an' stood lookin' at the hoose. he would see me better than i saw him for my lamp was i' the window, whaur i've heard tell his mother keepit her cruizey. when my man came in i speired at 'im if he'd seen onybody standin' at the corner o' the brae, an' he said he thocht he'd seen somebody wi' a little staff in his hand. davit gaed doon to see if he was aye there after supper-time, but he was gone."

jamie was never again seen in thrums.

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