name."

"That is my name."

"It is not," he answered positively; "don't say that any more."

"Will you hae a sixpence?"

"Yes, I will. Money is good. It buys sweeties."

"Whose boy is that, dominie?"

"Mrs. Hope's. I thought he would annoy you. He is a great pleasure to
me."

"Let him come up to the Keep whiles. I'll no mind him."

When he rose to go he stood a moment before each picture, and then
suddenly asked,

"Whar is young Crawford?"

"In Rome."

"A nice place for him to be! He'd be in Babylon, doubtless, if it was
on the face o' the earth."

When he went home he shut himself in his room and almost stealthily
took out that slip of paper. It had begun to look yellow and faded,
and Crawford had a strange fancy that it had a sad, pitiful
appearance. He held it in his hand a few moments and then put it back
again. It would be the new year soon, and he would decide then. He had
made similar promises often; they always gave him temporary comfort.

Then gradually another element of pleasure crept into his life--Mrs.
Hope's child. The boy amused him; he never resented his pretty,
authoritative ways; a queer kind of companionship sprang up between
them. It was one of perfect equality every way; an old man easily
becomes a little child. And those who only knew Crawford among coals
and pig iron would have been amazed to see him keeping up a mock
dispute with this baby.

CHAPTER X.

One day, getting towards the end of December, the laird awoke in a
singular mood. He had no mind to go to the works, and the weather
promised to give him a good excuse. Over the dreary hills there was a
mournful floating veil of mist. Clouds were flying rapidly in great
masses, and showers streaming through the air in disordered ranks,
driven furiously before a mad wind--a wind that before noon shook the
doors and windows, and drove the bravest birds into hiding.

The laird wandered restlessly up and down.

"There is the dominie," cried Mrs. Hope, about one o'clock. "What
brings him here through such a storm?"

Crawford walked to the door to meet him. He came striding over the
soaking moor with his plaid folded tightly around him and his head
bent before the blast. He was greatly excited.

"Crawford, come wi' me. The Athol passenger packet is driving before
this wind, and there is a fishing smack in her wake."

"Gie us some brandy wi' us, Mrs. Hope, and you'll hae fires and
blankets and a' things needfu' in case O