As men and women, young and in our prime, we almost forgot that it was there.

But the autumn of life comes, and the brae grows steeper; then the winter, and once again we are as the child pausing apprehensively on the brig.

Yet are we no longer the child; we look now for no new world at the top, only for a little garden and a tiny house, and a handloom in the house.

It is only a garden of kail and potatoes, but there may be a line of daisies, white and red, on each side of the narrow footpath, and honeysuckle over the door.

Life is not always hard, even after backs grow bent, and we know that all braes lead only to the grave.
This is Jess's window.