“I had no one else to turn to in this, my hour of trouble,” murmured Gilbert brokenly. “If ye can help me without impoverishing yoursel’, for God’s sake do it, or I shudder to think what will become of the dear ones at home.” Robert was silent. He thought with anxious loving concern of his own little flock, of the slender resources at his command, of the gravity of his own situation, sick as he was and with such gloomy prospects staring him in the face—and yet was he not better off after all than they at Mossgiel? Had he not his salary, small as it was, and the promise of the supervisorship, besides the money that Thompson would pay him for his poem? He had much to thank God for, he thought gratefully. “I see ’tis no use delaying longer,” said Armour, looking at the serious, downcast faces before him. “I have given ye fair warning, Gilbert Burns, an’ noo I’ll go.” He had reached the door, when Robert spoke quietly but firmly. “Wait!” he called. “Ye shall have the money, ye Shylock.” “Thank God!” cried Gilbert with a loving glance at his brother’s calm face. Jean looked at him in speechless amazement. What did he mean? How could he help others when they were in such dire need themselves? she asked herself apprehensively. “Robert,” she whispered anxiously, “ye dinna’ ken what ye say.” “My brother will meet ye at sundown, at the Inn,” continued Robert without heeding her warning, although his face took on a whiter hue. “He will bring ye every farthing of what is due ye. Noo go; there is the door; your business here is ended. Ye have brought naught but misery and trouble into my life by your unreasonable hatred o’ me, but the time will come, Squire Armour, when all the unhappiness and suffering ye have caused me and mine will rise up before ye like a hideous phantom, robbin’ ye of all peace o’ mind on earth, and your hopes of salvation hereafter.” He drew nearer the gaping man, who was regarding him with angry, sullen eyes, and continued with a bitter, unforgiving intensity that filled his listeners with awe and horror, “An’ when ye feel the chill icy hand of grim death clutching at your heart, ye’ll cry out for the sympathy and love of those whom ye cast out of your life, but ye’ll cry in vain, an’ ye’ll die as ye have lived, a miserable wretched ending to a miserable selfish life.” As he finished his grim prophecy, Squire Armour gave a cry of nervous fear, and with blanched face and wild eyes he strove to speak, but the words would not pass his white, trembling lips. Finally he gasped in a frightened whisper which gradually rose to angry defiance: