He had done her bidding and lifted David up. The tiny boy lay still a moment, looking at this white-faced mother whom he hardly recognized. “Minnie!” he called piteously. Then, thrusting a small, dirty hand into his pocket, he pulled out a grubby sweet. “Minnie, ha' a sweetie--ain o' Davie's sweeties!” and he held it out anxiously in his warm plump palm, thinking it a certain cure for any ill. “Eat it for mither,” she said, smiling tenderly; and then: “Davie, ma heart, I'm leavin' ye.” The boy ceased sucking the sweet, and looked at her, the corners of his mouth drooping pitifully. “Ye're no gaein' awa', mither?” he asked, his face all working. “Ye'll no leave yen wee laddie?” “Ay, laddie, awa'--reet awa'. HE's callin' me.” She tried to smile; but her mother's heart was near to bursting. “Ye'll tak' yen wee Davie wi' ye mither!” the child pleaded, crawling up toward her face. The great tears rolled, unrestrained, down her wan cheeks, and M'Adam, at the head of the bed, was sobbing openly. “Eh, ma bairn, ma bairn, I'm sair to leave ye!” she cried brokenly. “Lift him for me, Adam.” He placed the child in her arms; but she was too weak to hold him. So he laid him upon his mother's pillows; and the boy wreathed his soft arms about her neck and sobbed tempestuously. And the two lay thus together. Just before she died, Flora turned her head and whispered: “Adam, ma man, ye'll ha' to be mither and father baith to the lad noo”; and she looked at him with tender confidence in her dying eyes. “I wull! afore God as I stan' here I wull!” he declared passionately. Then she died, and there was a look of ineffable peace upon her face. * * * * * “Mither and father baith!” The little man rose to his feet and flung the photograph from him. Red Wull pounced upon it; but M'Adam leapt at him as he mouthed it. “Git awa', ye devil!” he screamed; and, picking it up, stroked it lovingly with trembling fingers. “Maither and father baith!” How had he fulfilled his love's last wish? How! “Oh God! “--and he fell upon his knees at the table-side, hugging the picture, sobbing and praying. Red Wull cowered in the far corner of the room, and then crept whining up to where his master knelt. But M'Adam heeded him not, and the great dog slunk away again. There the little man knelt in the gloom of the winter's afternoon, a miserable penitent. His gray-flecked head was bowed upon his arms; his hands clutched the picture; and he prayed aloud in gasping, halting tones.