“An’ hoo did ye wi’ yer ain?”
“By the time yours was dry, mine was dry tu.”
When they arrived at the cottage, Dorty demurred, but her master heard Cosmo’s voice and rang his bell.
“I little thought your father would have gone before me,” said Mr. Simon. “I think I was aware of his death. I saw nothing, heard nothing, neither was I thinking about him at the moment; but he seemed to come to me, and I said to myself, ‘He is on his way home. I shall have a talk with him by and by.’”
Agnes told him she had come to bid him good-bye; she was going after a place.
“Well,” he answered, after a thoughtful pause, “so long as we obey the light in us, and that light is not darkness, we can’t go wrong. If we should mistake, he will turn things round for us; and if we be to blame, he will let us see it.”
He was weak, and they did not stay long.
“Don’t judge my heart by my words, my dear scholars,” he said. “My heart is right toward you, but I am too weary to show it. God bless you both. I may not see you again, Agnes, but I shall think of you there, and if I can do anything for you, be sure I will.”
When they left the cottage, the twilight was halfway towards the night, and a vague softness in the east prophesied the moon. Cosmo led Agnes through the fields to the little hollow where she had so often gone to seek him. There they sat down in the grass, and waited for the moon. Cosmo pointed out the exact spot where she rose that night she looked at him through the legs of the cow.
“Ye min’ Grizzie’s rime,” he said: