“A man's mither--a man's wife--a man's dog! They three are a' little M'Adam iver had to back him! D'ye mind the auld mither, Wullie? And her, 'Niver be down-hearted, Adam; ye've aye got yer mither,' And ae day I had not. And Flora, Wullie (ye remember Flora, Wullie? Na, na; ye'd not) wi' her laffin' daffin' manner, cryin' to one: 'Adam, ye say ye're alane. But ye've me--is that no enough for ony man?' And God kens it was--while it lasted!” He broke down and sobbed a while. “And you Wullie--and you! the only man friend iver I had!” He sought the dog's bloody paw with his right hand. “'An' here's a hand, my trusty fier, An gie's a hand o' thine; An' we'll tak' a right guid willie-waught, For auld lang syne.'” * * * * * He sat there, muttering, and stroking the poor head upon his lap, bending over it, like a mother over a sick child. “They've done ye at last, lad--done ye sair. And noo I'm thinkin' they'll no rest content till I'm gone. And oh, Wullie!”--he bent down and whispered--“I dreamed sic an awfu' thing--that ma Wullie--but there! 'twas but a dream.” So he sat on, crooning to the dead dog; and no man approached him. Only Bessie of the inn watched the little lone figure from afar. It was long past noon when at length he rose, laying the dog's head reverently down, and tottered away toward that bridge which once the dead thing on the slope had held against a thousand. He crossed it and turned; there was a look upon his face, half hopeful, half fearful, very piteous to see. “Wullie, Wullie, to me!” he cried; only the accents, formerly so fiery, were now weak as a dying man's. A while he waited in vain. “Are ye no comin', Wullie?” he asked at length in quavering tones. “Ye've not used to leave me.” He walked away a pace, then turned again and whistled that shrill, sharp call, only now it sounded like a broken echo of itself. “Come to me, Wullie!” he implored, very pitifully. “'Tis the first time iver I kent ye not come and me whistlin'. What ails ye, lad?” He recrossed the bridge, walking blindly like a sobbing child; and yet dry-eyed. Over the dead body he stooped. “What ails ye, Wullie?” he asked again. “Will you, too, leave me?” Then Bessie, watching fearfully, saw him bend, sling the great body on his back, and stagger away. Limp and hideous, the carcase hung down from the little man's shoulders. The huge head, with grim, wide eyes and lolling tongue, jolted and swagged with the motion, seeming to grin a ghastly defiance at the world it had left. And the last Bessie saw of them was that bloody, rolling head, with the puny legs staggering beneath their load, as the two passed out of the world's ken. * * * * *