We tried to compose him, speaking tender words. Slowly the look of peace stole back upon the old man's face. He lay with eyes almost closed. "They're a' hame noo," he murmured gently; "aye, they're a' safe in the fold, my laddie, an' they'll gang oot nae mair till the mirk is by—we can rest noo till the mornin'," as he lay back in calm content.
Suddenly the dying eyes were lifted to his son. "Lilt me a psalm," he murmured; "we'll sing afore we gang to sleep; but dinna' wake yir mither—yir mither's restin'."
"What shall I sing, father?" Gordon asked in an awesome voice.
"A psalm, my—laddie," the words coming faint and slow; "ye ken the yin I'm needin'—there's only yin psalm for a shepherd."
Gordon looked at me. One hand was in his father's; the other was outstretched to me, and I knelt beside him. Then with trembling voice, my clearer note mingling with Gordon's quivering bass, we sang together:
"The Lord's my shepherd, I'll not want—
He makes me down to lie,"
and just as we were midway in the majestic strain
"Yea though I walk through death's dark vale
Yet will I fear none ill"
the old shepherd passed through the valley with his Lord.