"By the way, Geordie," I began, "I have not seen you in the kirk of late."
"What's that?" said Geordie, his invariable challenge, securing time to adjust himself for the encounter.
"I have missed you nearly all winter from the church on the Sabbath day," I replied, leaving no room for further uncertainty.
Geordie capitulated slowly: "I'll grant ye I've no' been by-ord'nar regglar," he admitted, "but I hae a guid excuse. I haena been ower weel. Ma knee's been sair. To tell ye the truth, minister, half the time 'twas a' I could dae to get doon to curl."
I sighed heavily and said no more, for Geordie was hopelessly sincere in his idea of first things first.
The very next night I was sitting quietly in my study, talking to Margaret and Angus, though I was beginning to suspect already that they had come to endure my absence with heroic fortitude.
About eleven o'clock the door-bell rang, and I answered it myself. It was Geordie's distracted wife. Leading her to the drawing-room, I asked her mission, though her pale and care-rung face left little room for doubt.
"Wad ye think it bold o' me, sir, gin I was to ask you to find Geordie an' fetch him hame? He's off sin' yestere'en."
"Why, it was only yesterday evening I saw him on the ice."
"Ay, sir, but he winned the game, an' that's aye a loss for Geordie; he aye tak's himsel' to the tavern when he wins. Oh, sir, ma hairt's fair broken; it's a twalmonth this verra nicht sin' oor wee Jessie dee'd, an' I was aye lippenin' to that to bring him till himsel'; but he seems waur nor ever—he seeks to droon his sorrow wi' the drink."