esperate efter seein' ye, and I maun gang an' lat him ken 'at
ye're here at last, for fear it suld be ower muckle for him, seein' ye
a' at ance. But eh, sir!' he added, the tears gathering in his eyes,
'ye'll hardly ken 'im. He's that changed!'

Johnston left the study by the door to the cottage--Falconer had never
known the doctor sleep there--and returning a moment after, invited him
to enter. In the bed in the recess--the room unchanged, with its deal
table, and its sanded floor--lay the form of his friend. Falconer
hastened to the bedside, kneeled down, and took his hand speechless.
The doctor was silent too, but a smile overspread his countenance, and
revealed his inward satisfaction. Robert's heart was full, and he could
only gaze on the worn face. At length he was able to speak.

'What for didna ye sen' for me?' he said. 'Ye never tellt me ye was
ailin'.'

'Because you were doing good, Robert, my boy; and I who had done so
little had no right to interrupt what you were doing. I wonder if God
will give me another chance. I would fain do better. I don't think I
could sit singing psalms to all eternity,' he added with a smile.

'Whatever good I may do afore my turn comes, I hae you to thank for 't.
Eh, doctor, gin it hadna been for you!'

Robert's feelings overcame him. He resumed, brokenly,

'Ye gae me a man to believe in, whan my ain father had forsaken me, and
my frien' was awa to God. Ye hae made me, doctor. Wi' meat an' drink an'
learnin' an' siller, an' a'thing at ance, ye hae made me.'

'Eh, Robert!' said the dying man, half rising on his elbow, 'to think
what God maks us a' to ane anither! My father did ten times for me what
I hae dune for you. As I lie here thinkin' I may see him afore a week's
ower, I'm jist a bairn again.'

As he spoke, the polish of his speech was gone, and the social
refinement of his countenance with it. The face of his ancestors, the
noble, sensitive, heart-full, but rugged, bucolic, and weather-beaten
through centuries of windy ploughing, hail-stormed sheep-keeping,
long-paced seed-sowing, and multiform labour, surely not less honourable
in the sight of the working God than the fighting of the noble, came
back in the face of the dying physician. From that hour to his death he
spoke the rugged dialect of his fathers.

A day or two after this, Robert again sitting by his bedside,

'I dinna ken,' he said, 'whether it's richt--but I hae nae fear o'
deith, an' yet I canna say I