“Oh, McAlister, let me fetch one of the chaplains to write a letter to fetch your father,” cried John Broom.
“The minister’s been here this morning,” said the Highlander, “and I’ve tell’t him mair than I’ve tell’t you. And he’s jest directed me to put my sinful trust in the Father of us a’. I’ve sinned heaviest against Him, laddie, but His love is stronger than the lave.”
John Broom remained by his friend, whose painful fits of coughing, and of gasping for breath, were varied by intervals of seeming stupor. When a candle had been brought in and placed near the bed, the Highlander roused himself and asked,—
“Is there a Bible on yon table? Could ye read a bit to me, laddie?”
There is little need to dwell on the bitterness of heart with which John Broom confessed,—
“I can’t read big words, McAlister.”
“Did ye never go to school?” said the Scotchman.
“I didn’t learn,” said the poor boy; “I played.”
“Aye, aye. Weel, ye’ll learn, when ye gang hame,” said the Highlander, in gentle tones.
“I’ll never get home,” said John Broom, passionately. “I’ll never forgive myself. I’ll never get over it, that I couldn’t read to ye when ye wanted me, McAlister.”