"
The junior reporter ceased here from very admiration at his own
cleverness in so exactly hitting the tone of the masters of his craft,
and handed his manuscript in to the editor.
It was the gloaming of a long June day when Rob Affleck, the woodman
over at Barbrax, having been at New Dalry with a cart of wood, left his
horse on the roadside and ran over through Gavin's old short cut, now
seldom used, to Janet's cottage with a paper in a yellow wrapper.
"Leave it on the step, and thank you kindly, Rob," said a weak voice
within; and Rob, anxious about his horse and his bed, did so without
another word. In a moment or two Janet crawled to the door, listened
to make sure that Rob was really gone, opened the door, and protruded a
hand wasted to the hard, flat bone--an arm that ought for years to have
been full of flesh and noble curves.
When Janet got back to bed it was too dark to see anything except the
big printing at the top of the paper.
"Two columns of it!" said Janet, with great thankfulness in her heart,
lifting up her soul to God who had given her the power to sing. She
strained her prematurely old and weary eyes to make out the sense.
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