Yes, dear reader mine, time works changes on us all. In a few years' time you—but there! I will neither preach nor moralize.
Only let me draw up the curtain once more before its final fall on this my "ower true" story.
It is years after. Where now are all our heroes and heroines? Well, they are scattered somewhat, and some are dead and gone. Let me speak of the dead before the living.
Just one year, then, after that happy reunion at Morgan's house, the old grandam breathed her last in her tall four-post bed at Drumglen, and in the presence of the Morgans and her son Donald's wife. Her last words were these,—"Remember, we shall all meet again some Christmas eve on high."
Jack and Llewellyn had both taken part in the Indian Mutiny. Poor Llewellyn was killed at Lucknow, and died a hero's death.
Jack for his services to his country won not only his epaulettes, but the Victoria Cross. He was severely wounded, however, and had to retire from the service on his laurels.
Dr. Reikie is now a practising physician in Glasgow, and Paddy O'Rayne is his servant. He married Maggie, and so, it is needless to say, he is a frequent visitor at Drumglen, where Jack and his wife—née Violet Morgan—are avowedly the best Highland laird and lady in all the wide Highlands.
Poor Gribble was drowned at sea.
Fitzgerald still keeps his hunters, and has grown very stout. I saw him only yesterday. "Sixteen stone and over." he said, laughing. "It takes a good horse to carry me."
Fitzgerald is over fifty, but he says he'll hunt for thirty years to come yet.