, Andrew," said his father, with a glance of
melancholy kindness at the widow. "It's natural enough."

Mrs. Ramornie at once took that hint, and her brief words of eulogy were
corroborated by a general murmur.

"Thank you, thank you," said Mr. Walkingshaw. "I may possibly have made
mistakes now and then--I am but human. At the same time, I think there's
none will gainsay I've shown a kind of respectable example. It's a great
thing to be thankful for if one can die without making an exhibition of
oneself--a great thing to be thankful for."

The master of ceremonies by a grave glance indicated to the company that
another approving murmur would be appropriate, and his own voice led the
hum.

"I've another thing to be thankful for," resumed the invalid, "and
that's my eldest son. Andrew'll take good care of you all--of you and
the business both. Oh, Frank, my lad, he's a fine example to you; just
as your sister Maggie is to you, Jean. Mind you both follow them. You'll
never give folks reason to talk about you then. Don't get yourselves
talked about! That's the main thing. Of course, you'll take every
opportunity of bettering yourselves, both of you; but do it in a kind of
sober, decent way. Do it like Andrew: I can say no more than that."

All eyes were sadly fixed on the two distressed young people, but they
made no answer, and the affecting scene now terminated with these last
few words--

"If by any kind of chance it happens I'm given a year or two more after
all, I'll take no more part in worldly matters. I'll leave things to
you, Andrew, just the same as if I was gone. If I linger on, a chastened
man, taking for a wee while an interest in your welfare, that's all that
will be left to me--that's the whole I look forward to."

Andrew's sorrowful eyes replied, "And that's more than we do," as he
silently shook his father's hand. Then the company tiptoed sadly out of
the sick-room.

CHAPTER VIII

Of all the anticipatory mourners, the most demonstrative was the
sympathetic widow. She could barely control her emotion till she reached
the drawing-room. There she broke down quite.

"Oh, Mary, Mary!" she sobbed.

They were alone together--Mary, commonly styled Miss Walkingshaw, and
she. The exemplary spinster was likewise distressed, but in a calmer
manner, as became a lady who had shared Heriot's Spartan upbringing.

"Whisht, whisht," said she. "He'll maybe get over it yet."

"No--no, he won't! That hor