WHEN Tuesday came, everything had been duly prepared for Mrs Campbell's reception: the household, long unused to any extraordinary exertions, had exerted themselves with gladness, and all things without and within the Manse of Cross-Meikle had assumed an air of life and occupation, such as for many months they had not been called upon to exhibit. The day itself was one of those bright days which about the middle of April announce the long-looked-for opening of the Scottish spring. The sky was clear blue, with here and there grey drifting clouds that passed and repassed upon the breath of a stirring breeze: the sharp green leaves enlivened once more the hedges about the garden; the early crocus shewed its blossom; the air played light and elastic round every freshening branch and bough, and the small birds twittered cheerily once more from the eaves and copses. Mr Blair, as he came forth beneath the brightening honeysuckles that twined around and over the lowly porch of his house, could not resist feeling and partaking for a moment, the genial atmosphere and influences of renovated nature. He stood for some minutes, enjoying the surrounding gladness of all things, and said to himself, “Yes, this is once more a gay spring morning; well, poor Charlotte will see Cross-Meikle looking just like what it used to do, when we were all younger and happier people than we are now.”

The distance from Glasgow is such, that it was natural for him to expect Mrs Campbell's arrival early; and after the morning had passed, it was still thought impossible but that she must come before dinner. Dinner was deferred from hour to hour, and at last served up, but still she came not; and Mr Blair, when he perceived that the twilight was thickening apace, began at last to feel some perplexity, and almost to think that Mrs Campbell would not come that night at all. Little Sarah sat with the cups set forth upon the table before her, and the kettle humming by the fire, while he stood at the window, looking forth every now and then towards the darkened village lane, and listening to the undulations of the breeze, in every sudden rise of which he fancied himself to catch at length the distant rattling of wheels.