“They canna tak frae me my son!” he murmured—and from that time rarely spoke to him save in the mother-tongue.
Then he led him to the stone, where there was just room enough for two that loved each other, and they sat down together.
The laird put his hand on his son’s knee, as, when a boy, Cosmo used to put his on his father’s.
“Are ye the same, Cosmo?” he asked. “Are ye my ain bairn?”
“Father,” returned Cosmo, “gien it be possible, I loe ye mair nor ever. I’m come hame to ye, no to lea’ ye again sae lang as ye live. Gien ye be in ony want, I s’ better ’t gien I can, an’ share ’t ony gait. Ay, I may weel say I’m the same, only mair o’ ’t.”
“The Lord’s name be praist!” murmured the laird. “—But du ye loe him the same as ever, Cosmo?” again he asked.
“Father, I dinna loe him the same—I loe him a heap better. He kens noo ’at he may tak his wull o’ me. Naething ’at I ken o’ comes ’atween him an’ me.”
The old man raised his arm, and put it round his boy’s shoulders: he was not one of the many Scotch fathers who make their children fear more than love them.
“Then, Lord, let me die in peace,” he said, “for mine eyes hae seen thy salvation!—But ye dinna luik freely the same, Cosmo!—Hoo is ’t?”
“I hae come throu’ a heap, lately, father,” answered Cosmo. “I hae been ailin’ in body, an’ sair harassed in hert. I’ll tell ye a’ aboot it, whan we hae time—and o’ that we’ll hae plenty, I s’ warran’, for I tell ye I winna lea’ ye again; an’ gien ye had only latten me ken ye was failin’, I wad hae come hame lang syne. It was sair agen the grain ’at I baid awa’.”