When she reached Clippenstrae, she found that she had been sent there. Her aunt came from the inner room as she opened the door, and she knew at once by her face that Death was in the house. For its expression recalled the sad vision of her father's departure. Her great-uncle, the little grey-headed old cottar in the Highland bonnet, lay dying�-in the Highland bonnet still. He was going to "the land o' the Leal" (loyal), the true-hearted, to wait for his wife, whose rheumatism was no chariot of fire for swiftness, whatever it might be for pain, to bear her to the "high countries." He has had nothing to do with our story, save that once he made our Annie feel that she had a home. And to give that feeling to another is worth living for, and justifies a place in any story like mine.
Auntie Meg's grief appeared chiefly in her nose; but it was none the less genuine for that, for her nature was chiefly nose. She led the way into the death-room�-it could hardly be called the sick-room�-and Annie followed. By the bedside sat, in a high-backed chair, an old woman with more wrinkles in her face than moons in her life. She was perfectly calm, 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.