rew past bearing; the hollow stillness of the house
overcame him. He rose, pushed open the door, and softly pattered across
the passage.

At the foot of the stairs he halted, his forepaws on the first step, his
grave face and pleading eyes uplifted, as though he were praying. The
dim light fell on the raised head; and the white escutcheon on his
breast shone out like the snow on Salmon.

At length, with a sound like a sob, he dropped to the ground, and stood
listening, his tail dropping and head raised. Then he turned and began
softly pacing up and down, like some velvet-footed sentinel at the gate
of death.

Up and down, up and down, softly as the falling snow, for a weary, weary
while.

Again he stopped and stood, listening intently, at the foot of the
stairs; and his gray coat quivered as though there were a draught.

Of a sudden, the deathly stillness of the house was broken. Upstairs,
feet were running hurriedly. There was a cry, and again silence.

A life was coming in; a life was going out.

The minutes passed; hours passed; and, at the sunless dawn, a life
passed.

And all through that night of age-long agony the gray figure stood,
still as a statue, at the foot of the stairs. Only, when, with the first
chill breath of the morning, a dry, quick-quenched sob of a strong man
sorrowing for the helpmeet of a score of years, and a tiny cry of a
new-born child wailing because its mother was not, came down to his
ears, the Gray Watchman dropped his head upon his bosom, and, with a
little whimpering note, crept back to his blanket.

A little later the door above opened, and James Moore tramped down the
stairs. He looked taller and gaunter than his wont, but there was no
trace of emotion on his face.

At the foot of the stairs Owd Bob stole out to meet him. He came
crouching up, head and tail down, in a manner no man ever saw before or
since. At his master's feet he stopped.

Then, for one short moment, James Moore's whole face quivered.

"Well, lad," he said, quite low, and his voice broke; "she's awa'!"

That was all; for they were an undemonstrative couple.

Then they turned and went out together into the bleak morning.

Chapter VIII. M'ADAM AND HIS COAT

To David M'Adam the loss of gentle Elizabeth Moore was as real a grief
as to her children. Yet he manfully smothered his own aching heart and
devoted himself to comforting the mourners at Kenmuir.

In the days succeeding Mrs. Moore's deat