ome seafaring
men, whose stories of the wonders of other lands had excited his
curiosity, and awakened an irrepressible longing to witness the strange
sights he had heard of. It was in vain that his father and mother strove
to divert his thoughts into another channel--"he _would_ be a sailor;"
and they at last wisely consented to what they could not prevent. About
two years after his departure, Willie's good old master died; having
left his faithful servant a small annuity, sufficient to make his old
age comfortable--for he was now almost superannuated. The old gentleman
had died childless, leaving his estate to a distant relative; and his
successor, knowing the estimation in which Willie had been held by his
late master, allowed him to live rent-free in one of the cottages on the
estate, and treated him, on all occasions, with great consideration and
kindness. There was but one thing wanting to make the old couple happy:
their simple appetites were easily satisfied; they had enough and to
spare, without the toil of labour; but their son, their only son, was a
wanderer, and years had passed since they had received any intelligence
of him, and then they had only been informed that he had gone to some
foreign station. "Oh, could we but see him ance mair afore we dee!" was
often their exclamation.

One stormy night in October, the old couple were startled by a loud rap
at the door.

"Preserve us!" said Janet, in great alarm, "what's that? Wha can that be
chappin at the door on sic a nicht as this? Maybe it's some puir seekin
body, wantin shelter frae the blast. Up, Willie, man, an' ask wha it
is."

"It's me, faither--it's Betty," replied the voice of the daughter, in
answer to her father's queries; "let me in."

"What's brocht ye oot, woman," said Willie, "in sic a clash o' rain as
this?"

"There's a puir sailor lad come to oor hoose," replied she, "an' he
wants something to eat an' drink, an' we haena a bite o' cake left: hae
ye ony to spare? An', what think ye, faither? he kens oor Tam weel, an'
says he saw him no tha' lang syne."

"Kens oor Tam!" said the old man; "what for did ye no bring him wi' ye?
Gie's doon my plaid; I'll gang an' speak to him mysel."

"Na, na, faither; ye maunna cross the door while it's pourin this gate.
I'll fetch him when he's had his supper. I'd hae brocht him afore, but I
thocht maybe he micht be makin ye believe oor Tam was comin hame, or
some sic clavers, an' ye wad be wearyin to s