"What psalm did you sing him?" I ventured, presently.
"It was a paraphrase," he answered, the smile still upon his face. "It was the twenty-sixth:
"'Ho ye that thirst approach the spring
Where living waters flow,'
an' Andra grat like a bairn:
"'I haena heard it sin I ran barefit aboot the hills,' he said, an' he wad hae me sing the lines ower again:
"'How long to streams of false delight
Will ye in crowds repair?'
an' I'm no' worthy, I ken, but I pit up a bit prayer wi' him—ye mauna think I'm boastin', sir, but I brocht him to Christ, an' when I think on't noo, it's lichtsome, an' I'm minded o' that simmer sun on the Gowden Gate. Ye'll write to him an' tell him we'll sing a psalm thegither yet."
My promise given and Andrew Mathieson's address taken, Archie lay silent for a little time. Swift glances at myself, swiftly withdrawn, denoted his desire to say something more. It came at length and with unmistakable directness.
"I'm dootin' I've been wrang; mebbe I was 'righteous over-much.'"
"What is it, Archie?" I said soothingly. "Some sin? Or some mistake in the days that are gone?"