“I used to fret about it, Dan; but that is all past. It does not matter, as I am lying now. I would not change my weakness for your strength to-day, dear lad.”
A last bright ray of sunlight lighted up the fair, smiling face, and flecked with golden gleams the curls that lay about it. There came into Dan’s mind thoughts of the time when Hamish was a little lad, strong and merry as any of them all; and his heart was moved with vague wonder and regret at the mystery that had changed his happy life to one of suffering and comparative helplessness. And yet, what did it matter, now that the end had come? Perhaps all that trouble and pain had helped to make the brightness of to-day, for there was no shadow in the dying eyes, no regret for the past, no fear for the future. He let his own eyes wander from his brother’s face away to the clouds and the sinking sun and the illuminated forest, with a vague notion that, if his feelings were not suppressed, he should do dishonour to his manliness soon. Hamish touched his hand, as he said,—
“It looks dark to you, Dan, with the shadow of death drawing nearer and nearer; but it is only a shadow, lad, only a shadow, and I am not afraid.”
Dan felt that he must break down if he met that smile a moment longer, and, with a sudden wrench, he turned himself away; but he could not have spoken a word, if his reputation for strength had depended on it. Hamish spoke first.
“Sit down, lad, if you are not needed, and read a while to me, till Shenac comes back again.”
“All right,” said Dan. He could endure it with something to do, he thought. “What book, Hamish?”
“There is only one book now, Dan, lad,” said Hamish as he lifted the little, worn Bible from the window-seat.
Dan could do several things better than he could read, but he took the book from his brother’s hand. Even reading would be better than silence—more easily borne.
“Anywhere, I suppose?” said he.
The book opened naturally at a certain place, where it had often been opened before, and he read:—