Now, all of a sudden, Saunders grew (as he said) very ill—as ill indeed, or nearly as ill, as Laird Rorieson himself, but, so full was he of brotherly love towards his neighbour, that his sudden illness did not prevent him calling upon the latter one night, when there seemed to be no great chance of their being disturbed by any of the sympathetic nephews and nieces. He found Geordie very weakly, and sat down by the bedside, to pour the balm of his friendship and consolation into the sick man's ear. The Laird received him kindly, and as was his custom, Saunders got him into a pleasant humour, by telling him something of a curious nature that had occurred, or had been supposed by Saunders to have occurred, during the day. He then began the more important part of his work.
"You are ill, Laird," said he; "but I question muckle if ye're sae ill as I am myself. For a long time I've been in a dwinin way, and, though I hae kept up a fair appearance and good spirits, I've been gradually getting thinner and weaker. I fear I'm in a fair way for anither warld."
"I'm sorry to hear't," replied the Laird. "It's a sad thing to dee." And he shook as he uttered the word.
"Ay, an' it's a sad thing," said Saunders, "to be tormented in your illness, wi' thae cursed corbies o' puir relations. The moment I began to complain I've been tormented wi' a host o' nephews and nieces, wha come and stare into my hollow een, as if they would count the draps o' blude that are yet left in my heart."
"Ay, ay, are you in that plight too, Saunders?" groaned the Laird. "The ravens have been croaking owre me for twa lang years. They come and perch on the very bedposts, they croak, they whet their nebs, they look into my face, and peer into my very heart. It's dreadful—and there's nae remedy. I've tried to terrify them awa; but they come aye back again. They've worn me fairly out."
"I've had many a meditation on the subject, Laird," said Saunders; "and, between you and me, if there's a goose quill in a' Scotland, I'll hae a shot at them. I haena muckle i' the warld—a thousand or twa maybe, hard won, Geordie, as a' gowd is in thae hard times; but the deil a plack o't they'll ever touch."
"Ye'll be to found an hospital?" said the Laird.
"Na, na," answered Saunders. "I'll found nae beggar's palace. I've studied political economy owre lang to be ignorant o' the bad effects o' public charities. They relax the sinews o' industry, and mak learned mendicants. Besides, wha thanks the founder o' an hospital for his charity? Nane!—nane! A puff or twa in the newspapers about Gibbieson's mortification would be the hail upshot o' my reward; and sensible folk would set me doun as an auld curmudgeon, wha hadna heart to love and benefit a friend."
"There's some truth in that," muttered the Laird. "It's a pity a body canna tak his gear wi' him. Sair hae I toiled for it, and, oh! it's miserable! cruel! cruel! that I should be obliged to leav't to a thankless warld! But what are ye to do wi'fc, Saivjders?"
"Indeed, I'm just to leave it a' to you, Laird," said Saunders. "I have lang liked ye wi' a' the luve o' honest, leal friendship; and, after muckle meditation, I canna fix on a mortal creature wha is mair deservin o't than you, my guid auld freend. You have a fair chance o' recovering; I have nane. Ye may enjoy my gear lang after the turf has grown thegither owre my grave; and God bless the gift!"