Sandy was the greatest comfort they had, coming in fresh from his work, with all sorts of bits of news picked up in the street or at the wood-yard, and with curious questions to ask, which diverted them all from their own sorrow. The evenings, when he was sitting with them by their fire, were far less sad than the dark days.
At last the time came when John Shafto had not strength to rise from his bed and come downstairs to the cheery little kitchen, which had been kept so bright for him. He could only lie still now in the low room, with its shelving roof and the dormer window, from which he could see the gravestones. The change frightened Sandy, though he could not bring himself to believe that Johnny was going to die, while his face was so happy and cheerful, and his weak voice so pleasant. When the warm weather came again, he said, Johnny would be sure to feel better, and get about once more. He could not bear to think of losing him as well as little Gip.
"Mother," said John Shafto one Sunday morning, after he had lain in bed some days, and knew that he would never more get up and walk about upon his crutches, "mother, you'll take to Sandy, instead of me? I'm always saying to myself, Sandy 'ill be like a son to her, and she'll be his mother when I'm gone."
"You're not gone yet, dear heart!" she said, stroking the soft hair from his forehead, and speaking as calmly as she could.
"No, but I'm going, mother," he answered; "and I like to think of you having Sandy to take my place."
"He'll never take your place, Johnny," sobbed his mother.
"Not just at first, but by-and-by he'll be like your own son," continued John Shafto; "he'll be a good boy, I know, for he loves to hear me tell him of Jesus Christ, and he's beginning to understand it all better now. Mother," and John put his arm fondly round her neck, "I want you to let Sandy have my Sunday clothes, and let me see him go to chapel with father. I could watch them go across the grave-yard together, if you'd only raise me up in your arms for a minute."
"Oh, Johnny, Johnny! I cannot!" she cried, falling on her knees, and hiding her face on her boy's pillow.
He stroked her cheek tenderly with his wasted fingers, whispering, "Poor mother, poor mother!"
It was a long while before she could recover herself, or finish a sentence when she began to speak it, but at last she conquered her tears and sobs.