“I have something to tell you, mother.”
“Is it good news, John?” said his mother with a little flutter at her heart.
“Part of it is good, surely. As for the rest—that may be good or bad, as you shall take it.”
“I’m waiting, John.”
For John’s head had drooped on his hand, and he sat thinking.
“And you’re a wee anxious? But there is no occasion, mother dear. I have good news. I meant to tell you the night I came home. I could hardly wait till I got home to tell you. I dinna ken how I put it off,” added John hurriedly. “Mother, did you ever hear my father speak of a good turn he once did to one David Cunningham, a long time ago it must have been?”
“No. He wasna one who was in the way of telling o’ the good turns he did, as ye ken. But I mind the name of Cunningham.”
“This must have been before your day. Maybe a good while before it.” And John went on to tell the story of his father’s timely help to a foolish lad, and of the debt which the man wished to pay, according to his friend’s desire, to those who came after him. And when he had told all he knew about it, and how the money which his father had given had been increasing during all these years till it had become a sum so large that the interest alone would keep his mother in comfort for the rest of her life, his mother only said softly:
“Well, John?” as though the something which he had had to say was still to be told.
“Well, mother, I think it is your turn now. Wasna that grand of my father?”