arth and heaven! The
distribution of the rest does not concern our story. It may safely be
left in Dominie Tallisker's hands.

Of course, in some measure it altered Crawford's plans. The new house
was abandoned and a wing built to the Keep for Colin's special use. In
this portion the young man indulged freely his poetic, artistic
tastes. And the laird got to like it. He used to tread softly as soon
as his feet entered the large shaded rooms, full of skilful lights and
white gleaming statues. He got to enjoy the hot, scented atmosphere
and rare blossoms of the conservatory, and it became a daily delight
to him to sit an hour in Colin's studio and watch the progress of some
favorite picture.

But above all his life was made rich by his grandson. Nature, as she
often does, reproduced in the second generation what she had totally
omitted in the first. The boy was his grandfather over again. They
agreed upon every point. It was the laird who taught Alexander to
spear a salmon, and throw a trout-line, and stalk a deer. They had
constant confidences about tackle and guns and snares. They were all
day together on the hills. The works pleased the boy better than his
father's studio. He trotted away with his grandfather gladly to them.
The fires and molten metal, the wheels and hammers and tumult, were
all enchantments to him. He never feared to leap into a collier's
basket and swing down the deep, black shaft. He had also an
appreciative love of money; he knew just how many sixpences he owned,
and though he could give if asked to do so, he always wanted the
dominie to give him a good reason for giving. The child gave him back
again his youth, and a fuller and nobler one than he himself had
known.

And God was very gracious to him, and lengthened out this second youth
to a green old age. These men of old Gaul had iron constitutions; they
did not begin to think themselves old men until they had turned
fourscore. It was thirty years after Helen's death when Tallisker one
night sent this word to his life-long friend,

"I hae been called, Crawford; come and see me once more."

They all went together to the manse. The dominie was in his
ninety-first year, and he was going home. No one could call it dying.
He had no pain. He was going to his last sleep

"As sweetly as a child,
Whom neither thought disturbs nor care encumbers,
Tired with long play, at close of summer's day
Lies down and slumbers."

"Good-b