Donald, trembling on the brink of Beyond, not from his disease but from the exhaustion incident to it, was conscious when his father entered the room and sat down beside his bed.
"Well, lad," he greeted the boy with an assumption of heartiness he was far from feeling, "and have you no good news for your old father this morning. Tell me you're feeling better, lad."
"Read the telegram," Donald whispered, and old Hector, seeing a telegram lying on the bed, picked it up. It was dated from New York that morning, and the Laird read:
Due Port Agnew Friday morning. Remember the last line in the fairy-tale. Love and kisses from your
SWEETHEART.
"God bless my soul!" The Laird almost shouted.
"Who the devil is 'Sweetheart'?"
"Only—have one—Scotty. Sorry—for you—but do you—happen to know—last line—fairy-tale? Tell you. 'And so—they—were married—and lived—happy—ever—after.'"
Fell a long silence. Then, from The Laird:
"And you're going to wait for—her, my son?"