rs, that
Robert begged Mrs. Fyvie to give herself no trouble in the matter. Her
conscience, however, was uneasy, and she spoke to Dr. Anderson; but he
assured her that she might trust the boys. What cooking they could not
manage, she undertook cheerfully, and refused to add anything to the
rent on Shargar's account.

Dr. Anderson watched everything, the two boys as much as his patient. He
allowed them to work on, sending only the wine that was necessary from
his own cellar. The moment the supplies should begin to fail, or
the boys to look troubled, he was ready to do more. About Robert's
perseverance he had no doubt: Shargar's faithfulness he wanted to prove.

Robert wrote to his grandmother to tell her that Shargar was with him,
working hard. Her reply was somewhat cold and offended, but was inclosed
in a parcel containing all Shargar's garments, and ended with the
assurance that as long as he did well she was ready to do what she
could.

Few English readers will like Mrs. Falconer; but her grandchild
considered her one of the noblest women ever God made; and I, from his
account, am of the same mind. Her care was fixed

To fill her odorous lamp with deeds of light,
And hope that reaps not shame.

And if one must choose between the how and the what, let me have the
what, come of the how what may. I know of a man so sensitive, that he
shuts his ears to his sister's griefs, because it spoils his digestion
to think of them.

One evening Robert was sitting by the table in Ericson's room. Dr.
Anderson had not called that day, and he did not expect to see him now,
for he had never come so late. He was quite at his ease, therefore, and
busy with two things at once, when the doctor opened the door and walked
in. I think it is possible that he came up quietly with some design
of surprising him. He found him with a stocking on one hand, a darning
needle in the other, and a Greek book open before him. Taking no
apparent notice of him, he walked up to the bedside, and Robert put
away his work. After his interview with his patient was over, the doctor
signed to him to follow him to the next room. There Shargar lay on the
rug already snoring. It was a cold night in December, but he lay in his
under-clothing, with a single blanket round him.

'Good training for a soldier,' said the doctor; 'and so was your work a
minute ago, Robert.'

'Ay,' answered Robert, colouring a little; 'I was readin' a bit o' the
Anabasis.