h the boy recklessly neglected
his duties at the Grange. But little M'Adam forbore to rebuke him. At
times, indeed, he essayed to be passively kind. David, however, was too
deeply sunk in his great sorrow to note the change.

The day of the funeral came. The earth was throwing off its ice-fetters;
and the Dale was lost in a mourning mist.

In the afternoon M'Adam was standing at the window of the kitchen,
contemplating the infinite weariness of the scene, when the door of the
house opened and shut noiselessly. Red Wull raised himself on to the
sill and growled, and David hurried past the window making for Kenmuir.
M'Adam watched the passing figure indifferently; then with an angry oath
sprang to the window.

"Bring me back that coat, ye thief!" he cried, tapping fiercely on the
pane. "Tak' it aff at onst, ye muckle gowk, or I'll come and tear it aff
ye. D'ye see him, Wullie? the great coof has ma coat--me black coat, new
last Michaelmas, and it rainin' 'nough to melt it."

He threw the window up with a bang and leaned out.

"Bring it back, I tell ye, ondootiful, or I'll summons ye. Though ye've
no respect for me, ye might have for ma claithes. Ye're too big for yer
ain boots, let alane ma coat. D'ye think I had it cut for a elephant?
It's burst-in', I tell ye. Tak' it aff! Fetch it here, or I'll e'en send
Wullie to bring it!"

David paid no heed except to begin running heavily down the hill. The
coat was stretched in wrinkled agony across his back; his big, red
wrists protruded like shank-bones from the sleeves; and the little tails
flapped wearily in vain attempts to reach the wearer's legs.

M'Adam, bubbling over with indignation, scrambled half through the open
window. Then, tickled at the amazing impudence of the thing, he paused,
smiled, dropped to the ground again, and watched the uncouth, retreating
figure with chuckling amusement.

"Did ye ever see the like o' that, Wullie?" he muttered. "Ma puir
coat--puir wee coatie! it gars me greet to see her in her pain. A man's
coat, Wullie, is aften unco sma' for his son's back; and David there
is strainin' and stretchin' her nigh to brakin', for a' the world as he
does ma forbearance. And what's he care aboot the one or t'ither?--not a
finger-flip."

As he stood watching the disappearing figure there began the slow
tolling of the minute-bell in the little Dale church. Now near, now far,
now loud, now low, its dull chant rang out through the mist like the
slow-