“A' wes in the train that day masel,” broke in the doctor, “an' a' mind Hillocks daffin' wi' ye that nae wumman cud get a goon oot o' you. Sic fuies an' waur.”
“A' didna mind that, no ae straw, Weelum, for Marget wes ten year younger next Sabbath, an' she wore ma goon on the Saicrament. A' kent what bocht it, an' that was eneuch for me.
“It didna maitter what the Glen said, but ae thing gied tae ma hert, an' thet wes Marget's thocht o' me... but a' daurna clear masel.
“We were stannin' thegither ae Sabbath”—Drumsheugh spoke as one giving a painful memory, on which he had often brooded—“an' gaein' ower the market, an' Hillocks says, 'A' dinna ken the man or wumman 'at 'ill get a bawbee oot o' you, Drumsheugh. Ye 're the hardest lad in ten parishes.'
“Marget passed that meenut tae the kirk, an'... a' saw her look. Na, it wesna scorn, nor peety; it wes sorrow.... This wes a bien hoose in the auld day when she wes on the fairm, an' she wes wae tae see sic a change in me. A' hed tae borrow the money through the lawyer, ye ken, an' it wes a fecht payin' it wi' interest. Aye, but it wes a pleesure tae, a' that a'll ever hev, Weelum....”
“Did ye never want tae... tell her?” and the doctor looked curiously at Drumsheugh.
“Juist aince, Weelum, in her gairden, an' the day Geordie deed. Marget thankit me for the college fees and bit expenses a' hed paid. 'A father cudna hae been kinder tae ma laddie,' she said, an' she laid her hand on ma airm. 'Ye 're a gude man, a' see it clear this day, an'... ma hert is... warm tae ye,' A' ran oot o' the gairden. A' micht hae broken doon. Oh, gin Geordie hed been ma ain laddie an' Marget... ma wife.”
Maclure waited a little, and then he quietly left, but first he laid his hand on his friend's shoulder to show that he understood.
After he had gone, Drumsheugh opened his desk and took out a withered flower. He pressed it twice to his lips, and each time he said Marget with a sob that rent his heart. It was the forget-me-not.