He was minded to creep away softly and leave Drumtochty forever—his heart full of a vain regret—when he found there was another mourner in the kirkyard. An old man was carefully cleaning the letters of Maclure's name, and he heard him saying aloud:
“It disna maitter though, for he 's in oor herts an' canna be forgotten. Ye 've hed a gude sleep, Weelum, an' sair ye needed it. Some o's 'ill no be lang o' followin' ye noo.”
Then he went over to Geordie's grave and read a fresh inscription:
Margaret Howe, his mother.
“They're thegither noo,” he said softly, “an' content. O Marget, Marget,” and the voice was full of tears, “there wes nane like ye.”
As he turned to go, the two men met, and Grant recognised Drumsheugh.
“Gude nicht, Drumsheugh,” he said; “a' ken yir face, though ye hae forgotten mine, an' nae doot it 's sair changed wi' sin and sorrow.”
“Are ye Drumtochty?” and Drumsheugh examined Charlie closely; “there wes a day when a' cud hae pit his name on every man that cam oot o' the Glen in ma time, but ma een are no what they were, an' a'm failin' fast masel.”
“Ay, a' wes born an' bred in Drumtochty, though the pairish micht weel be ashamed o' ma name. A' cam tae visit ma dead, an' a'm gaein' awa for gude. Naebody hes seen me but yersel, an' a 'll no deny a 'm pleased tae get a sicht o' yir face.”
“Ye're no,” and then Drumsheugh held out his hand, “Chairlie Grant. Man, a'm gled a' cam intae the kirkyaird this day, and wes here tae meet ye. A' bid ye welcome for the Glen and them 'at's gane.”