e. "I've surely had a
remarkable time," he tells himself, and then Romance, the goddess whom
he has worshipped so long, marries that furious week with the idyllic.
He is supremely content, for he knows that in his humble way he has not
been found wanting. Once more for him the Chavender or Chub, and long
dreams among summer hills. His mind flies to the days ahead of him,
when he will go wandering with his pack in many green places. Happy
days they will be, the prospect with which he has always charmed his
mind. Yes, but they will be different from what he had fancied, for he
is another man than the complacent little fellow who set out a week ago
on his travels. He has now assurance of himself, assurance of his
faith. Romance, he sees, is one and indivisible....

Below him by the edge of the stream he sees the encampment of the
Gorbals Die-Hards. He calls and waves a hand, and his signal is
answered. It seems to be washing day, for some scanty and tattered
raiment is drying on the sward. The band is evidently in session, for
it is sitting in a circle, deep in talk.

As he looks at the ancient tents, the humble equipment, the ring of
small shockheads, a great tenderness comes over him. The Die-Hards are
so tiny, so poor, so pitifully handicapped, and yet so bold in their
meagreness. Not one of them has had anything that might be called a
chance. Their few years have been spent in kennels and closes, always
hungry and hunted, with none to care for them; their childish ears have
been habituated to every coarseness, their small minds filled with the
desperate shifts of living.... And yet, what a heavenly spark was in
them! He had always thought nobly of the soul; now he wants to get on
his knees before the queer greatness of humanity.

A figure disengages itself from the group, and Dougal makes his way up
the hill towards him. The Chieftain is not more reputable in garb than
when we first saw him, nor is he more cheerful of countenance. He has
one arm in a sling made out of his neckerchief, and his scraggy little
throat rises bare from his voluminous shirt. All that can be said for
him is that he is appreciably cleaner. He comes to a standstill and
salutes with a special formality.

"Dougal," says Dickson, "I've been thinking. You're the grandest lot
of wee laddies I ever heard tell of, and, forbye, you've saved my life.
Now, I'm getting on in years, though you'll admit that I'm not that
dead old, and I'm not