"What does Miss Murchison say to it?" he repeated with
craft and courage, as Finlay's eyes dropped and his face
slowly flushed under the question. It was in this room
that Dr Drummond examined "intending communicants" and
cases likely to come before the Session; he never shirked
a leading question. "Miss Murchison," said Finlay, after
a moment, "was good enough to say that she thought her
father's house would be open to Miss--to my friends when
they arrived; but I thought it would be more suitable to
ask your hospitality, sir."
"Did she so?" asked Dr Drummond gravely. It was more a
comment than an inquiry. "Did she so?" Infinite kindness
was in it.
The young man assented with an awkward gesture, half-bend,
half-nod, and neither for a moment spoke again. It was
one of those silences with a character, conscious,
tentative. Half-veiled, disavowed thoughts rose up in
it, awakened by Advena's name, turning away their heads.
The ticking of the Doctor's old-fashioned watch came
through it from his waistcoat pocket. It was he who spoke
first.
"I christened Advena Murchison," he said. "Her father
was one of those who called me, as a young man, to this
ministry. The names of both her parents are on my first
communion roll. Aye!"...
The fire snapped and the watch went on ticking.
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