' mine--a grocer he was--had sent it across the street to me,
for it was hard upo' Hogmanay. I rang the bell incontinent. Up comes
the lass, and says I, 'Bell, lat's hae a kettlefu' o' het water.' And
to mak' a lang story short, I could never want het water sin syne. For
I hadna drunken aboon a twa glaiss, afore the past began to revive as
gin ye had come ower't wi' a weet sponge. A' the colours cam' oot upo'
't again, as gin they had never turned wan and grey; and I said to
mysel' wi' pride: 'My leddy canna, wi' a' her breedin' and her bonnie
skin, haud Cosmo Cupples frae lo'ein' her.' And I followed aboot at her
again throu a' the oots and ins o' the story, and the past was restored
to me.--That's hoo it appeared to me that nicht.--Was't ony wonner that
the first thing I did whan I cam' hame the neist nicht was to ring for
the het water? I wantit naething frae Providence or Natur' but jist
that the colour michtna be a' ta'en oot o' my life. The muckle deevil
was in't, that I cudna stan' up to my fate like a man, and, gin my life
was to cast the colour, jist tak my auld cloak aboot me, and gang on
content. But I cudna. I bude to see things bonnie, or my strength gaed
frae me. But ye canna slink in at back doors that gait. I was pitten
oot, and oot I maun bide. It wasna that lang afore I began to discover
that it was a' a delusion and a snare. Whan I fell asleep, I wad dream
whiles that, openin' the door into ane o' thae halls o' licht, there
she was stan'in' lauchin' at me. And she micht hae gane on lauchin' to
a' eternity--for onything I cared. And--ten times waur--I wad whiles
come upon her greitin' and repentin', and haudin' oot her han' to me,
and me carin' no more for her than for the beard o' a barley-stalk. And
for makin' a sang--I jist steikit my lugs (stopped my ears) whan I
heard a puir misguidit canary singin' i' the sunshine. And I begud to
hear a laich lauch far awa', and it cam' nearer and nearer ilka week,
till it was ringin' i' my verra lug. But a' that was naething
compairateevely. I' the mids o' a quaiet contemplation, suddenly, wi'
an awfu' stoon, a ghaistly doobt pat it's heid up i' my breist, and
cried: 'It's a' fause. The grey luik o' life's the true ane, and the
only aspec' ye hae a richt to see.' And efter that, a' the whusky in
Glenlivat cudna console me.--Luik at me noo. Ye see what I am. I can
whiles sing an auld sang--but mak' a new ane!--Lord, man! I can hardly
believe 'at ever I made a sang