'No, Mr. Ericson,' answered Robert; 'I have no heart for the fiddle. I would rather have some poetry.'
'Oh!—Poetry!' returned Ericson, in a tone of contempt—yet not very hearty contempt.
'We're gaein' awa', Mr. Ericson,' said Robert; 'an' the Lord 'at we ken naething aboot alane kens whether we'll ever meet again i' this place. And sae—'
'True enough, my boy,' interrupted Ericson. 'I have no need to trouble myself about the future. I believe that is the real secret of it after all. I shall never want a profession or anything else.'
'What do you mean, Mr. Ericson?' asked Robert, in half-defined terror.
'I mean, my boy, that I shall not live long. I know that—thank God!'
'How do you know it?'
'My father died at thirty, and my mother at six-and-twenty, both of the same disease. But that's not how I know it.'
'How do you know it then?'
Ericson returned no answer. He only said—