"No," he said, "Betty is noo my chairge. The husband of a drunkard is not a fit person to serve tables in the clean and halesome sanctuary. I will never leave Betty till the day she dees!"
* * * * *
And neither he did. It was not long. Willie nursed his wife with unremitting tenderness, breaking himself down as he did so. I did not see him again till the day of Betty's funeral. I went with my father, feeling very important, as it was the first function I had been at in my new character of a man.
When they were filling in the grave, Willie stood at the head with his hat in his hand, and his grey locks waving in the moderate wind. His lips were tremulous, but I do not think there were tears in his eyes.
I went up to try to say something that might comfort him. I knew no better then. But I think he did not wish me to speak about Betty, for with a strange uncertain kind of smile he lifted up his eyes till they rested upon the golden fields of ripening corn all about the little kirkyard.
"I think it will be an early harvest," he said, in a commonplace tone.
Then all suddenly he broke into a kind of eager sobbing cry—a heart-prayer of ultimate agony.
"Oh, my God! my God! send that it be an early harvest to puir Willie McNair."
* * * * *
And it was, for before a sheaf of that heartsome yellow corn was gathered into barn, they laid Willie beside the woman he had watched so long, and sheltered so faithfully behind the barriers of his love.