and looked like one, already half-across the river, watching her
friend as he passed her towards the opposing bank. The old man lay with
his eyes closed. As soon as he knew that he was dying he had closed his
eyes, that the dead orbs might not stare into the faces of the living.
It had been a whim of his for years. He would leave the house decent
when his lease was up. And the will kept pressing down the lids which
it would soon have no power to lift.

"Ye're come in time," said Auntie Meg, and whispered to the old
woman--"My brither Jeames's bairn."

"Ay, ye're come in time, lassie," said the great-aunt kindly, and said
no more.

The dying man heard the words, opened his eyes, glanced once at Annie,
and closed them again.

"Is that ane o' the angels come?" he asked, for his wits were gone a
little way before.

"Na, weel I wat!" said the hard-mouthed ungracious Meg. "It's Annie
Anderson, Jeames Anderson's lass."

The old man put his hand feebly from under the bed-clothes.

"I'm glad to see ye, dawtie," he said, still without opening his eyes.
"I aye wantit to see mair o' ye, for ye're jist sic a bairn as I wad
hae likit to hae mysel' gin it had pleased the Lord. Ye're a douce,
God-fearin' lassie, and He'll tak care o' his ain."

Here his mind began to wander again.

"Marget," he said, "is my een steekit, for I think I see angels?"

"Ay are they--close eueuch."

"Weel, that's verra weel. I'll hae a sleep noo."

He was silent for some time. Then he reverted to the fancy that Annie
was the first of the angels come to carry away his soul, and murmured
brokenly:

"Whan ye tak' it up, be carefu' hoo ye han'le 't, baith for it's some
weyk, and for it's no ower clean, and micht blaud the bonnie white
han's o' sic God-servers as yersels. I ken mysel there's ae spot ower
the hert o' 't, whilk cam o' an ill word I gied a bairn for stealin' a
neep. But they did steal a hantle that year. And there's anither spot
upo' the richt han', whilk cam o' ower gude a bargain I made wi' auld
John Thamson at Glass fair. And it wad never come oot wi' a' the soap
and water--Hoots, I'm haverin'! It's upo' the han' o' my soul, whaur
soap and water can never come. Lord, dight it clean, and I'll gie him
't a' back whan I see him in thy kingdom. And I'll beg his pardon
forbye. But I didna chait him a'thegither. I only tuik mair nor I wad
hae gi'en for the colt mysel'. And min' ye dinna lat me fa', gaein'
throu the lift."

He went o