"The fact is, Macleod," Ogilvie stammered, as he regarded his friend's face, "I don't like to leave you. Won't you stay and dine with our fellows? or shall I see if I can run up to London with you?"
"No, thank you, Ogilvie," said he. "And have you any message for the mother and Janet?"
"Oh, I hope you will remember me most kindly to them. At least, I will go to the station with you, Macleod."
"Thank you, Ogilvie; but I would rather go alone. Good-by, now."
He shook hands with his friend, in an absent sort of way, and left. But while yet his hand was on the door, he turned and said,—
"Oh, do you remember my gun that has the shot barrel and the rifle barrel?"
"Yes, certainly."
"And would you like to have that, Ogilvie?—we sometimes had it when we were out together."
"Do you think I would take your gun from you, Macleod?" said the other. "And you will soon have plenty of use for it now."
"Good-by, then, Ogilvie," said he, and he left, and went out into the world of rain, and lowering skies, and darkening moors.