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The last one he ever read to her in that meadow was this: What gars ye sing, said the herd laddie, What gars ye sing sae lood? To tice them oot o' the yerd, laddie, The worms, for my daily food. An' aye he sang, an' better he sang, An' the worms creepit in an' oot; An' ane he tuik, an' twa he loot gang, But still he carolled stoot.
O' the contrar', the storm was like a freenly cloak til's grief, for upo' the ro'd he fell a greitin' an' compleenin' an' lamentin' lood, jeedgin' nae doobt, gien he thoucht at a', he micht du as he likit wi' naebody nigh. To the sheep cot, I say, he gaed wailin' an' cryin' alood efter bonny bairn, the last o' his flock, oontimeous his taen.
Cosmo turned and saw Elspeth, his master's daughter already mentioned. "Whaur's the wrang o' that, Miss Elsie?" he answered. "Arena we tellt to sing an' mak melody to the Lord?" "Ay, but i' yer hert, no lood oot 'cep' it be i' the kirk. That's the place to sing upo' Sundays. Yon wasna a psalm-tune ye was at!" "Maybe no.
Sae, whan they tuik themsels there, the freens o' the bonny man wud fill ane o' the roomies, and stan' awa in ilk ane o' the passages 'at gaed frae 't; and that w'y, though there cudna mony o' them see ane anither at ance, a gey lottie wud hear, some a', and some a hantle o' what was said. For there they cud speyk lood oot, and a body abune hear naething and suspec naething.
They were puir, feckless bodies, the twa o' them, and would scarce gie an answer tae a ceevil question, though they could clack lood eneugh when they had a mind. Weel, weeks passed into months and a' things grew waur instead o' better in the Hall.
Steenie!" and I cried lood oot, "Comin, Lord!" but I kent weel eneuch the v'ice was inside o' me, and no i' my heid, but i' my hert and nane the less i' me for that! Sae awa at ance I cam to my closet here, and sat doon, and hearkent i' the how o' my hert. Never a word cam, but I grew quaiet eh, sae quaiet and content like, wi'oot onything to mak me sae, but maybe 'at he was thinkin aboot me!
And when she was deein', she askit for it, and she dee'd wi' it in her haun'. An' that verra nicht, when Donald an' me was sittin' fon'lin' her gowden curls an' biddin' ane anither no' to greet for ae broken hairt can comfort anither broken hairt he slippit the token frae oot her puir cauld wee haun', an' he read the writin' that's on't oot lood: 'This do in remembrance of Me, an' he says, 'I'll dae it in remembrance o' them baith, mither o' Christ an' oor Elsie an' when I show forth the Lord's death till He come, I'll aye think o' them baith, an' think o' them baith thegither in the yonderland Christ an' oor Elsie an' me an' you tae, mither, a' thegither in the Faither's hoose. An' a' the time o' the funeral he hauded the token ticht, an' he keepit aye sayin' till himsel', 'Christ an' oor Elsie an' us a'.
"No," he said gravely, looking down on them, "you really don't look as if you would hurt me much. But won't you come on the verandah? And can the gentleman alight by himself?" Lynn came up the steps a little shyly. But Max, though he got off his tricycle, looked a bit worried. "He won't stand," he said. "Will you lend me your hank'fust to tie him to the post? he's a lood horse."
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