“'Haud me ticht, then, Docksie '—that wes her name for me—' an' mither 'ill tak me oot o' yir airms. '... The Almichty wud see the wee lassie wesna pit tae shame, or else... that's no His name.
“The wind's doon,” and the doctor hurried over to the window, “an' the mune is shinin' clear an' sweet; a 'll need tae be aff, an' a 'll hae the licht instead o' the drift aifter a', Drumsheugh.”
Nothing passed between them till they came to the main road, and the doctor said goodnight.
Then Drumsheugh stood close in to the saddle, and adjusted a stirrup leather.
“You an' me are no like Burnbrae and the bairnie, Weelum; a'm feared at times aboot... the home comin'.”
“A' dinna wunner, Drumsheugh, a'm often the same masel; we 're baith truant laddies, chief, and maybe we 'ill get oor paiks, an' it 'ill dae us gude. But be that as it may, we maun juist risk it, an' a'm houpin' the Almichty 'ill no be waur tae us than oor mither when the sun gaes doon and the nicht wind sweeps ower the hill.”
When Leezabeth brought word that Dr. Mac-lure had ridden into the “close,” Drumsheugh knew for what end he had come, but it was characteristic of Drumtochty that after they had exhausted local affairs, he should be stricken dumb and stare into the fire with averted face. For a space the doctor sat silent, because we respected one another's souls in the Glen, and understood the agony of serious speech, but at last he judged it right to give assistance.
“Ye said laist nicht that ye hed something tae say.”
“A'm comin' tae't; juist gie me twa meenuts mair.” But it was ten before Drumsheugh opened his mouth, although he arranged himself in his chair and made as though he would speak three times.
“Weelum,” he said at last, and then he stopped, for his courage had failed.