“I thought I had some skill in men,” said Robbie Caryl, as he turned back to his cottage, vehemently pulling down his eyelid on pretence that some particle of the innocent wet sand had entered his eye. “I thocht I could see through maist folk, but this ane’s beat me. The auld dour whig o’ a man! wasna I feared to face him when the word came that the lad was dead? and was I no fleyed for him fenting like the women folk for sake o’ the joy? Ne’er a bit o’ him--he taks his son hame as canny as I would tak little Sandy out o’ a dub. Are ye there again in the saut water, ye wee black dielie? I’ll pin ye in the net amang the grilse, and sell ye up in the toun for a fat flounder, as sure as the next tide--wife! is this bairn to drown itsel, ance for a’, the day?” “I’m sure it’s mair your business, Robbie, to keep the laddies out o’ mischief than mine,” answered Robbie’s wife, who was spreading out the large stake nets on long ropes to dry, the season of fishing being now over; “but what hae ye dune wi’ Peter? has he gane hame?” “I gied him in a present to his faither,” said the fisherman, lifting the little wet obstreperous Sandy upon his shoulders, “and Saunders took him as quiet as that cuddie taks the thrissles--so a’ the splore’s dune, Jean, and I maun awa into the toun wi’ the flounders; whaur’s the creels?” “Mr Oswald,” said Saunders Delvie solemnly, looking in at the door of the banker’s private room, as he passed the bank on his way home. “I hae gotten back my son; he was dead and is alive again--he was lost and is found--and I’ve come to offer ye my thanks, Sir, for your guid counsel. The Lord sent grief sae lang as I called His name to witness my wrath against the lad, but now, when I hae learned better, behold the mercy! I’m thankfu’ to you, Maister Oswald--I’m an auld man, but I needed to learn--and I’m thankfu’ aboon a’ to Him that pat words o’ guid counsel into your mouth, and garred my heart change--for now I’m taking Peter hame.” The banker fell back in his chair as Saunders withdrew, looking and feeling very much disconcerted; for _he_ had offered no good counsel--had given no advice. The thanks which he did not deserve fell on him with the strength of just reproof. The pen fell from his fingers--the solemn joy and thanksgiving of the stern old peasant moved him almost as much as his grief had done. It touched the conscience of the obdurate father of William Oswald. “And was you killed at the same place as the gentleman, Peter, my man?” said Peter’s mother, wiping her eyes, as the first excitement of their meeting subsided. The cottage too was in very solemn order, and the house-mother had put on her Sabbath gown. There was a grave significance in these changes.