“Don’t think so,” Drummond answered. “I wonder if they will seem altered,” she remarked for the third time. She could feel her body rebel against her actions, convulsing, so she forced herself to think of her mother in Heaven, her mother's beautiful face, the sun dancing across the rivers of her home. But it was otherwise with the carpenter. The aspect of the place, so far as he could discern through the gloom, was strange to him; but chancing to raise his eyes above the level of the surrounding habitations, he beheld, relieved against the sombre sky, the tall steeple of Saint Giles's church, the precursor of the present structure, which was not erected till some fifteen years later. But out of a belated regard for her father she wrote the surname of some one else.
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