“Ye hiv it noo, Drumsheugh, and that’s hoo a’ need yir help.” “Man, Hillocks,” Drumsheugh used to moralise, as often as he remembered that critical night, “it wes humblin’ tae see how low sickness can bring a pooerfu’ man, an’ ocht tae keep us frae pride. “A month syne there wesna a stronger man in the Glen than Saunders, an’ noo he wes juist a bundle o’ skin and bone, that naither saw nor heard, nor moved nor felt, that kent naethin’ that was dune tae him. “Hillocks, a’ wudna hae wished ony man tae hev seen Saunders—for it wull never pass frae before ma een as long as a’ live—but a’ wish a’ the Glen hed stude by MacLure kneelin’ on the floor wi’ his sleeves up tae his oxters and waitin’ on Saunders. “Yon big man wes as pitifu’ an’ gentle as a wumman, and when he laid the puir fallow in his bed again, he happit him ower as a mither dis her bairn.” Thrice it was done, Drumsheugh ever bringing up colder water from the spring, and twice MacLure was silent; but after the third time there was a gleam in his eye. “We’re haudin’ oor ain; we’re no bein’ maistered, at ony rate; mair a’ canna say for three oors. “We ’ill no need the water again, Drumsheugh; gae oot and tak a breath o’ air; a’m on gaird masel’.” It was the hour before daybreak, and Drumsheugh wandered through the fields he had trodden since childhood. The cattle lay sleeping in the pastures; their shadowy forms, with a patch of whiteness here and there, having a weird suggestion of death. He heard the burn running over the stones; fifty years ago he had made a dam that lasted till winter. The hooting of an owl made him start; one had frightened him as a boy so that he ran home to his mother—she died thirty years ago. The smell of ripe corn filled the air; it would soon be cut and garnered. He could see the dim outlines of his house, all dark and cold; no one he loved was beneath the roof. The lighted window in Saunders’ cottage told where a man hung between life and death, but love was in that home. The futility of life arose before this lonely man, and overcame his heart with an indescribable sadness. What a vanity was all human labor; what a mystery all human life! But while he stood, a subtle change came over the night, and the air trembled round him as if one had whispered. Drumsheugh lifted his head and looked eastward. A faint gray stole over the distant horizon, and suddenly a cloud reddened before his eyes. The sun was not in sight, but was rising, and sending forerunners before his face. The cattle began to stir, a blackbird burst into song, and before Drumsheugh crossed the threshold of Saunders’ house, the first ray of the sun had broken on a peak of the Grampians.