“Don’t say that, Robert; you’ll be on your feet in a few days now,” and she looked hopefully into his worn and haggard face. He pressed her hand gently. “I haven’t been the best of husbands, lass,” he said after a pause. “I have sore tried your patience and your love ofttimes, by my unfaithfulness, my unworthiness.” “I do not complain, Robert,” she answered quietly. “No, ye have never done that,” he said with a tender smile, “frequent though my lapses in sobriety and propriety have been.” He paused thoughtfully; presently he continued in mournful reflection, “But I was punished for those sins afterward, for then came remorse, shame, regret, the three hell hounds that ever dog my steps and bay at my heels.” “If it is God’s will——” began Jean, but he interrupted her. “Ah, no, Jean,” he replied bitterly. “’Tis not God’s will that I should be here, racked with pain and tortured by the sins that come staring me in the face, each one telling a more bitter tale than his fellow. ’Tis only the result of my own headstrong folly.” She wiped away the drops of perspiration from his brow with tender fingers, while he lay panting from the excitement that the recital of his sorrows had occasioned. “There, do not distress yourself with such bitter thoughts,” she told him gently. “What is done, is done, and all our sins will be blotted out in that other life.” “That other life,” he repeated dreamily. “Can it be possible that when I resign this feverish being I shall find myself in conscious existence, enjoying and enjoyed? Would to God I as firmly believed it as I ardently wish it. If there is another life,” he continued with a flash of his old whimsical brightness, “it must be for the just, the benevolent, the amiable only, and the good. I’m sore afraid Rob Burns will na’ be able to get even a peep through the Pearly Gates.” “Hush, dear,” replied Jean with tender reproach. “’Twill be open to all. ‘Let whosoever will, come and have eternal life,’ the Master said.” He mused a while on that sweet thought. “Ah, weel, just noo,” he returned with a sigh, “this life is what we must face, and which I must cling to as long as I can for the sake of my little flock. Poverty and misfortune must be overcome, and at once. Our salvation now lies in my getting the supervisorship and increased salary; then we need have no fear of the future; we can laugh at fate.” “You sent your last poem, ‘Prettiest maid on Devon’s bank,’ to Mr. Thompson, didn’t ye, laddie?” asked Jean anxiously. “Aye,” he replied, closing his eyes wearily. “And I implored him for God’s sake to send me a few pounds to tide me over the present, till I got my promotion. I am not asking a loan, ’tis a business transaction,” he continued proudly, “and I ken he will send whatever he is able to spare. He is a good friend, and it grieves me bitterly to be obliged to ask help of him to keep us from starving. But,” and a note of independence crept into his voice, “my song is worth whatever he sends.”