“And oh! now I’m glad!” cried the old woman, making feeble efforts, which wasted almost all the little breath left to her, to draw something from under her pillow--“I’m glad I have something that I never would part with. You’ll take her this, Edgar--you’ll give her my blessing. Tell her my man brought me this when I was a bride. It’s marked out mony a weary hour and mony a light one; it’s marked the time of births and of deaths. When my John died, my man, it stoppit at the moment, and it was long, long or I had the heart to wind it again and set it going. It’s worn now, like me; but you’ll bid her keep it, Edgar, my bonnie man! You’ll give her my blessing, and you’ll bid her to keep it, for your old mother’s sake.” Trembling, she put into his hand an old watch, which he had often seen, but never before so near. It was large and heavy, in an old case of coppery gold, half hid under partially-effaced enamel, wanting everything that a modern watch should have, but precious as an antiquity and work of art. “A trumpery thing that cost five pounds would please _them_ better,” she said. “It’s nae value, but it’s old, old, and came to John from a far-off forbear. You’ll give it to her with my blessing. Ay, blessings on her!--blessings on her sweet face!--for sweet it’s bound to be; and blessings on her wise heart, that’s judged weel! eh, but I’m glad to have one thing to send her. And, Edgar, now I’ve said all my say, turn me a little, that I may see the moon. Heaven’s but a step on such a bonnie night. If I’m away before the morning, you’ll shed nae tear, but praise the Lord the going’s done. No, dinna leave it; take it away. Put it into your breast-pocket, where you canna lose it. And now say fare-ye-weel to your old mother, my bonnie man.” These were the last words she said to him alone. When some one came to relieve him, Edgar went out with a full heart into the silvery night. Not a sound of humanity broke the still air, which yet had in it a sharpness of the spring frosts. The loch rose and fell upon its pebbles, as if it hushed its own very waves in sorrow. The moon shone as if with a purpose--as if holding her lovely lamp to light some beloved wayfarer up the shining slope. “Heaven’s but a step on such a night,” he said to himself, with tears of which his manhood was not ashamed. And so the moon lighted the traveller home.