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Sall, he's a lad Drumsheugh; a'm thinking ye may save yir journey, Dominie." But Marget looked away from her into the past, and her eyes had a tender light. "He hed the best hert in the pairish aince." Domsie found Drumsheugh inclined for company, and assisted at an exhaustive and caustic treatment of local affairs.
The night before the end George was carried out to his corner, and Domsie, whose heart was nigh unto the breaking, sat with him the afternoon. They used to fight the College battles over again, with their favourite classics beside them, but this time none of them spoke of books.
Na, na, the grass 'ill no grow on the road atween the college and the schule-hoose o' Drumtochty till they lay me in the auld kirkyard." "Sall, Domsie was roosed," Drumsheugh explained in the Muirtown inn next market. "'Miserly wratch' was the ceevilest word on his tongue. He wud naither sit nor taste, and was half way doon the yaird afore I cud quiet him.
I wes tellin' Marget this verra mornin', and she says, 'Lachlan's become as a little child. I dinna haud wi' her there, but a quieter, mair cautious body ye never saw." Drumtochty was doing its best to focus Lachlan afresh, and felt the responsibility lay on Domsie, who accepted it cheerfully. "Marget's aye richt, neebours, and she's put the word on it noo.
"Losh, Drumsheugh, be quiet, or ye'll dae the laddie an injury," said Domsie, with genuine alarm. "We maunna mention prizes, and first is fair madness, A certificate of honour now, that will be aboot it, may be next to the prizemen." Coming home from market he might open his heart. "George 'ill be amang the first sax, or my name is no Jamieson," but generally he prophesied a moderate success.
"Ane o' ma wee lassies," expatiated Domsie, "fell comin' doon the near road frae Whinnie Knowe, and cuttit her cheek on the stones, and if Lachlan didna wash her face and comfort her; an' mair, he carried her a' the road tae the schule, and says he in his Hieland way, 'Here iss a brave little woman that hass hurt herself, but she will not be crying, and he gave her a kiss and a penny tae buy some sweeties at the shop.
Domsie went down one side and Drumsheugh the other, collecting the tokens, whose clink, clink in the silver dish was the only sound. "Let us go, dad," whispered Kate. "He is a dear old padre, and . . . they are good people and our neighbours." "But they won't kneel, you know, Kit; will you . . . ?" "We 'll do as they do; it is not our Sacrament."
Domsie and Whinnie discussed the weather with much detail before they came in sight of George, but it was clear that Domsie was charged with something weighty, and even Whinnie felt that his own treatment of the turnip crop was wanting in repose. At last Domsie cleared his throat and looked at Marget, who had been in and out, but ever within hearing. "George is a fine laddie, Mrs. Howe."
But something happened in his life, and Domsie buried himself among the woods with the bairns of Drumtochty. No one knew the story, but after he died I found a locket on his breast, with a proud, beautiful face within, and I have fancied it was a tragedy.
Domsie lifted the hood for Marget, but the roses he gently placed on George's name. Then with bent, uncovered heads, and in unbroken silence, we buried all that remained of our scholar. We always waited till the grave was filled and the turf laid down, a trying quarter of an hour. Ah me! the thud of the spade on your mother's grave!
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