"You Scotch folks give me a pain," broke in David; "how any one can eat the stuff, I can't make out. The fact is, I don't believe Scotchmen like it themselves—only it's cheap, an' it fills up the hired men so they can't eat anythin' else. Unless it's because their ancestors ate it," he continued thoughtfully. "I'll bet my boots there's Scotchmen in Glenallen that's eatin' porridge to-day jest because their grandfathers ate it; an' they'll put it down if it kills 'em—an' their kids'll eat it too or else they'll know the reason why. It'd be just the same if it was bran—they'd have to walk the plank. But there ain't no horse blood in me, thank goodness," he concluded fervently.
"Jealousy's an awfu' sair disease," retorted Geordie, smiling pitifully at the alien; "but we canna a' be Scotch."
"I'm so glad you came in," Harvey began, turning to his visitors as the laughter subsided; "we were just speaking of your kindness last night—and I'm glad to have a chance to thank you again just before I go away."
"Stap it," Geordie interrupted sternly. "That's plenty o' that kind o' thing—I'll gang oot if there's ony mair, mind ye," he declared vehemently, for there are few forms of pain more intolerable to natures such as his.
"You'll have to be careful, Harvey," cautioned Mr. Borland; "he's one o' the kind that don't want their left hand to know the stunt their right hand's doin'. Very few Scotchmen likes the left hand to get next to what the right one's at—it wouldn't know much, poor thing, in the most o' cases," he added pitifully—"but our friend here's a rare kind of a Scotchman. By George, them's terrible fine roses," he digressed, taking a whiff of equine proportions.
"I canna gang till the station wi' ye, Harvey—David's gaein'," said Geordie Nickle, taking his staff and rising to his feet, "but guid-bye, my laddie, an' the blessin' o' yir mither's God be wi' ye," and the kindly hand was unconsciously laid on Harvey's head. "We're expectin' graun' things o' ye at the college. I mind fine the mornin' I left my faither's hoose in Hawick; he aye lifted the tune himsel' at family worship—an' that mornin', I mind the way his voice was quaverin'. These was the words:
'Oh, spread Thy coverin' wings around
Till all our wanderin's cease,'
an' I dinna ken onythin' better for yirsel' the day. Guid-bye, my laddie—an' 'a stoot heart tae a steep brae', ye ken."
As Harvey returned from seeing the old man to the door, Jessie beckoned him aside into his room, not yet set to rights after his fitful slumbers of the night before.
"Harvey," she began in very serious tones, "I only want to say a word; it's to give a promise—and to get one. And I want you to promise me faithfully, Harvey."