Toward evening the wind died down, but the mourning flakes still fell. With the darkening of night Owd Bob retreated to the porch and lay down on his blanket. The light from the lamp at the head of the stairs shone through the crack of open door on his dark head and the eyes that never slept. The hours passed, and the gray knight still kept his vigil. Alone in the darkness--alone, it almost seemed, in the house--he watched. His head lay motionless along his paws, but the steady gray eyes never flinched or drooped. Time tramped on on leaden foot, and still he waited; and ever the pain of hovering anxiety was stamped deeper in the gray eyes. At length it grew past bearing; the hollow stillness of the house overcame him. He rose, pushed open the door, and softly pattered across the passage. At the foot of the stairs he halted, his forepaws on the first step, his grave face and pleading eyes uplifted, as though he were praying. The dim light fell on the raised head; and the white escutcheon on his breast shone out like the snow on Salmon. At length, with a sound like a sob, he dropped to the ground, and stood listening, his tail dropping and head raised. Then he turned and began softly pacing up and down, like some velvet-footed sentinel at the gate of death. Up and down, up and down, softly as the falling snow, for a weary, weary while. Again he stopped and stood, listening intently, at the foot of the stairs; and his gray coat quivered as though there were a draught. Of a sudden, the deathly stillness of the house was broken. Upstairs, feet were running hurriedly. There was a cry, and again silence. A life was coming in; a life was going out. The minutes passed; hours passed; and, at the sunless dawn, a life passed. And all through that night of age-long agony the gray figure stood, still as a statue, at the foot of the stairs. Only, when, with the first chill breath of the morning, a dry, quick-quenched sob of a strong man sorrowing for the helpmeet of a score of years, and a tiny cry of a new-born child wailing because its mother was not, came down to his ears, the Gray Watchman dropped his head upon his bosom, and, with a little whimpering note, crept back to his blanket. A little later the door above opened, and James Moore tramped down the stairs. He looked taller and gaunter than his wont, but there was no trace of emotion on his face. At the foot of the stairs Owd Bob stole out to meet him. He came crouching up, head and tail down, in a manner no man ever saw before or since. At his master's feet he stopped. Then, for one short moment, James Moore's whole face quivered. “Well, lad,” he said, quite low, and his voice broke; “she's awa'!” That was all; for they were an undemonstrative couple. Then they turned and went out together into the bleak morning. Chapter VIII. M'ADAM AND HIS COAT