“Father,” he said, “we’ll haud on thegither i’ the stret ro’d. There’s room for twa abreist in ’t—ance ye’re in!”
“Ay! ay!” returned the laird with a smile; “that’s the bonniest word ye cud hae come hame wi’ til me! We maun jist perk up a bit, an’ be patient, that patience may hae her perfe’t wark. I s’ hae anither try—an’ weel I may, for the licht o’ my auld e’en is this day restored til me!”
“An’ sae gran’mother’s weirin awa’, father!”
“To the lan’ o’ the leal, laddie.”
“Wull she ken me?”
“Na, she winna ken ye; she’ll never ken onybody mair i’ this warl’; but she’ll ken plenty whaur she’s gaein’!”
He rose, and they walked together towards the kitchen. There was nobody there, but they heard steps going to and fro in the room above. The laird made haste, but before he could lay his hand on a vessel, to get for Cosmo the water he so much desired, Grizzie appeared on the stair, descending. She hurried down, and across the floor to Cosmo, and seizing him by the hand, looked him in the face with the anxiety of an angel-hen. Her look said what his father’s voice had said just before—“Are ye a’ there—a’ ’at there used to be?”
“Hoo’s gran’mamma?” asked Cosmo.
“Ow, duin’ weel eneuch, sir—weirin awa’ bonny. She has naither pang nor knowledge o’ sorrow to tribble her. The Lord grant the sowls o’ ’s a’ sic anither lowsin’!”
“Hae ye naething better nor cauld watter to gie ’im a drink o’, Grizzie, wuman?” asked the laird, but in mere despair.