And so it really seemed.
Sandie took very great pains, but could not help condemning more than one of Maclean’s exercises.
Maclean leaned back in his chair at last and heaved a deep sigh.
“What is to be will be,” he said resignedly. “Sandie, you are the lucky man.”
“Maclean,” said Sandie innocently, “I begin to think I am. Oh, would we could both get a prize!”
“Maclean,” he said, after a pause, “we have worked and toiled together all throughout the weary winter. We have been as brothers. We are as brothers still. We are both poor, but, Mac, you are the poorer. It seems certain this prize is mine; let me share it with you. I can rub along, God helping me, with half of it.”
The tears sprang to poor Mac’s eyes.
“Och, and och,” he said, rapidly dashing his hand across his face, “I never thought the man was living who could bring tears to the eyes of a Maclean, whose forbears fought and bled at Culloden. Sandie, if anybody but yourself had made me such an offer, it is wild with the anger I would have been. But you are like a brother. Promise never to repeat the offer, and I’ll forgive you. Never will a Maclean touch the copper penny he has not won or earned. Promise!”
“I promise, and crave your forgiveness—brother.”
. . . . . .