the time I speak of hath come, and thou must needs sell the land, that
thou wilt refuse to part with one corner of it. 'Tis the little lodge
which stands in the narrow glen far up on the moor. 'Tis a tumble-down
old place, and no man would think it worth his while to pay thee a price
for it. It would go for an old song wert thou to sell it. Therefore I
pray thee to give me thy solemn promise that when thou partest with all
the rest, thou wilt still remain master of that. For remember this,
lad," and in his eagerness the old man raised himself in his bed, "when
all else is lost, and the friends whom thou hast trusted turn their
backs and frown on thee, then go to that old lodge, for in it, though
thou mayest not think so now, there will always be a trusty friend
waiting for thee. Say, wilt thou promise?"

"Of course I will, father," said the young man, much moved; "but I never
mean to sell any of the land. I am not so bad as all that. But if it
makes thee happier, I swear now in thy presence that I will never part
with the old lodge."

With a sigh of satisfaction the old lord fell back on his pillow, and
before his son could call for help he was dead.

For the first few weeks after his father's death, the Heir of Linne
seemed sobered, and as if he intended to lead a better life; but after a
little while he forgot all about it, and began to riot and drink and
gamble as hard as ever. He filled the old house with his friends, and
wild revelry went on in it from morning till night.

He had always been wild and reckless; he was worse than ever now.

His father's friends shook their heads when they heard of his wild
doings. "It cannot go on," they said. "He is doing no work, and he is
throwing away his money right and left. Had he all the gold of the
Indies, it would soon come to an end at this rate."

And they were right. It could not go on.

One day the young man found that not one penny remained of all the money
which his father had left him, and there seemed nothing for it but to
sell some of his land. Money must be got somehow, for he was deeply in
debt. Besides, he had to live, and he had never been taught to work,
and, even if he had, he was too lazy and idle to do it.

So away he went, and told his dilemma to his father's steward, John o'
the Scales, who, as I have said, was a hard man, and a rogue into the
bargain. He knew far more about money matters than his master's son, and
when he heard the story which