On the morning of the third day from the time I have written of, I was surprised by seeing my servant, Nicol, coming into my study with a grave face, as if he had some weighty matter to tell. Since I had come home, I purposed to keep him always with me, to accompany me in sport and see to many things on the land, which none could do better than he. Now he sought an audience with a half-timid, bashful look, and, when I bade him be seated, he flicked his boots uneasily with his hat and looked askance. "I hae come to bid ye fareweel, sir," at length he said, slowly. I sprang up in genuine alarm. "What nonsense is this?" I cried. "You know fine, Nicol, that you cannot leave me. We have been too long together." "I maun gang," he repeated, sadly; "I’m loth to dae ’t, but there’s nae help for ’t." "But what?" I cried. "Have I not been a good friend to you, and your comrade in a thousand perils? Is there anything I can do more for you? Tell me, and I will do it." "Na, na, Maister John, ye’ve aye been the best o’ maisters. I’ve a’ thing I could wish; dinna think I’m no gratefu’." "Then for Heaven’s sake tell me the reason, man. I never thought you would treat me like this, Nicol." "Oh, sir, can ye no see?" the honest fellow cried with tears in his eyes. "Ye’ve been sae lang wi’ me, that I thocht ye kenned my natur’. Fechtin’ and warstlin’ and roamin’ aboot the warld are the very breath o’ life to me. I see ye here settled sae braw and canty, and the auld hoose o’ Barns lookin’ like itsel’ again. And I thinks to mysel’, ’Nicol Plenderleith, lad, this is no for you. This is no the kind of life that ye can lead. Ye’ve nae mair business here than a craw among throstles.’ And the thocht maks me dowie, for I canna get by ’t. I whiles think o’ mysel’ bidin’ quiet here and gettin’ aulder and aulder, till the time passes when I’m still brisk and venturesome, and I’m left to naething but regrets. I maun be up and awa’, Laird, I carena whither. We a’ made different, and I was aye queer and daft and no like ither folk. Ye winna blame me." I tried to dissuade him, but it was to no purpose. He heard me patiently, but shook his head. I did not tax him with ingratitude, for I knew how little the charge was founded. For myself I was more sorry than words, for this man was joined to me by ties of long holding. I longed to see him beside me at Barns, an unceasing reminder of my stormy days. I longed to have his sage counsel in a thousand matters, to have him at my hand when I took gun to the hills or rod to the river. I had grown to love his wind-beaten face and his shrewd, homely talk, till I counted them as necessary parts of my life. And now all such hopes were dashed, and he was seeking to leave me. "But where would you go?" I asked.