across the mountain, seeing it threatened a storm, and there was no
moon, he set out. That he too was relieved to find no Angus there,
he did not attempt to conceal. The next day he went to see him, and
told him that, to please Gibbie, he had consented to say nothing
more about the affair. Angus could not help being sullen, but he
judged it wise to behave as well as he could, kept his temper
therefore, and said he was sorry he had been so hasty, but that
Robert had punished him pretty well, for it would be weeks before he
recovered the blow on the head he had given him. So they parted on
tolerable terms, and there was no further persecution of Gibbie from
that quarter.

It was some time before he was able to be out again, but no hour
spent with Janet was lost.

CHAPTER XXVII.

A VOICE.

That winter the old people were greatly tried with rheumatism; for
not only were the frosts severe, but there was much rain between.
Their children did all in their power to minister to their wants,
and Gibbie was nurse as well as shepherd. He who when a child had
sought his place in the live universe by attending on drunk people
and helping them home through the midnight streets, might have felt
himself promoted considerably in having the necessities of such as
Robert and Janet to minister to, but he never thought of that. It
made him a little mournful sometimes to think that he could not read
to them. Janet, however, was generally able to read aloud. Robert,
being also asthmatic, suffered more than she, and was at times a
little impatient.

Gibbie still occupied his heather-bed on the floor, and it was part
of his business, as nurse, to keep up a good fire on the hearth:
peats, happily, were plentiful. Awake for this cause, he heard in
the middle of one night, the following dialogue between the husband
and wife.

"I'm growin' terrible auld, Janet," said Robert. "It's a sair thing
this auld age, an' I canna bring mysel' content wi' 't. Ye see I
haena been used till't."

"That's true, Robert," answered Janet. "Gien we had been born auld,
we micht by this time hae been at hame wi't. But syne what wad hae
come o' the gran' delicht o' seein' auld age rin hirplin awa' frae
the face o' the Auncient o' Days?"

"I wad fain be contentit wi' my lot, thouch," persisted Robert; "but
whan I fin' mysel' sae helpless like, I canna get it oot o' my heid
'at the Lord has forsaken me, an' left me to mak an ill best o' 't
w