na there.
Oh, gin ye had but bin, Wullie! Him and his madam! But I'll gar him ken
Adam M'Adam. I'll stan' nae mair!"

He sprang to his feet and, reaching up with trembling hands, pulled down
the old bell-mouthed blunderbuss that hung above the mantelpiece.

"We'll mak' an end to't, Wullie, so we will, aince and for a'!" And he
banged the weapon down upon the table. It lay right athwart that slip of
still condemning paper, yet the little man saw it not.

Resuming his seat, he prepared to wait. His hand sought the pocket of
his coat, and fingered tenderly a small stone bottle, the fond companion
of his widowhood. He pulled it out, uncorked it, and took a long pull;
then placed it on the table by his side.

Gradually the gray head lolled; the shrivelled hand dropped and hung
limply down, the finger-tips brushing the floor; and he dozed off into a
heavy sleep, while Red Wull watched at his feet.

It was not till an hour later that David returned home.

As he approached the lightless house, standing in the darkness like a
body with the spirit fled, he could but contrast this dreary home of his
with the bright kitchen and cheery faces he had left.

Entering the house, he groped to the kitchen door and opened it; then
struck a match and stood in the doorway peering in.

"Not home, bain't he?" he muttered, the tiny light above his head. "Wet
inside as well as oot by noo, I'll lay. By gum! but 'twas a lucky thing
for him I didna get ma hand on him this evenin'. I could ha' killed
him." He held the match above his head.

Two yellow eyes, glowing in the darkness like cairngorms, and a small
dim figure bunched up in a chair, told him his surmise was wrong. Many
a time had he seen his father in such case before, and now he muttered
contemptuously:

"Drunk; the leetle swab! Sleepin' it off, I reck'n."

Then he saw his mistake. The hand that hung above the floor twitched and
was still again.

There was a clammy silence. A mouse, emboldened by the quiet, scuttled
across the hearth. One mighty paw lightly moved; a lightning tap, and
the tiny beast lay dead.

Again that hollow stillness: no sound, no movement; only those two
unwinking eyes fixed on him immovable.

At length a small voice from the fireside broke the quiet.

"Drunk--the--leetle--swab!"

Again a clammy silence, and a life-long pause.

"I thowt yo' was sleepin'," said David, at length, lamely.

"Ay, so ye said. 'Sleepin' it aff'; I heard ye." Then, stil