"I juist couldna' help it," he said apologetically as he entered, his shepherd's crook in his hand. "I was fair longin' to see the sheep, an' the hills, yince mair—my heart was sair for them. An' I got a chance wi' a mon that was gaein' oot—he was settin' up some kind o' machinnery. An' I had a graun' day on the hills," he went on delightedly; "it was fair graun'. There was a laddie mindin' some sheep—he was a fine laddie; he minded me o' Harold—and I helpit him a' the day. There wasna' ony heather, nae doot—but the hills were bonnie—and the laddie had a collie dog or twa that minded me o' hame. An' I carried yin puir wee lammie in my arms—it was ailin'—and I lilted the auld psalms yince mair aneath God's blue sky; it was maist as guid as hame," and the aged voice was all aglow with gladness.
"You had a lovely day for it, grandfather," I said, smiling.
"Aye," he answered, "it was a bonnie day—an' aboot yin or twa o'clock there cam' a wee bit rain—a Scotch mist, ye ken, and it minded me o' hame—oh, it's been a graun' day the day. But I canna' think what it was gied me sic' a longin' for the hills—it was fair fearsome—it's no' a'thegither canny, I'm dootin'," and the old man shook his head in an eerie kind of way, so characteristic of his race. "I'm gaein' to bed," he said, moving already towards the stair; "I'm fair din oot.
"What's yon black thing hangin' there?" he suddenly demanded, the keen eyes resting on the door at the back of the hall.
I paid little or no attention to the question, deeming it unimportant; we went on talking for a few minutes.
"Lassie," he suddenly broke out again, "run, lassie, an' see what's yon black thing hangin' on the door."
Dorothy went as directed. "It's mamma's rain coat," she said a moment later, returning with it in her hand.
"Aye," said the old man, apparently relieved, "aye, it's naethin' but a cloak—but it fashed me to look at it; I thocht it lookit like—like yin o' thae crape things," he added with an embarrassed little laugh. This gave me a queer creepy feeling at the time, but I thought little more about it then; it came back to us later on, however.
Grandfather went to bed immediately, and Gordon and I were not long behind him. It was about one o'clock, I think, or perhaps a little later, when I was wakened from my sleep by a strange sound, half groan, half cry. I went out at once into the hall and soon traced the sign of distress to grandfather's room. The old man was raised up in the bed, partly sitting; and the light I quickly kindled told the story in a flash as I glanced at the ashen face.
"It's my heart," he said huskily; "it's yin o' thae spells like I had lang syne. It winna' be lang, I'm dootin'."