The very next night he found him evidently sinking fast. Robert took the violin, and was about to play, but the soutar stretched out his one left hand, and took it from him, laid it across his chest and his arm over it, for a few moments, as if he were bidding it farewell, then held it out to Robert, saying, 'Hae, Robert. She's yours.--Death's a sair divorce.--Maybe they 'll hae an orra [3] fiddle whaur I'm gaein', though. Think o' a Rothieden soutar playin' afore his grace!' Robert saw that his mind was wandering, and mingled the paltry honours of earth with the grand simplicities of heaven. He began to play The Land o' the Leal. For a little while Sandy seemed to follow and comprehend the tones, but by slow degrees the light departed from his face. At length his jaw fell, and with a sigh, the body parted from Dooble Sanny, and he went to God. His wife closed mouth and eyes without a word, laid the two arms, equally powerless now, straight by his sides, then seating herself on the edge of the bed, said, 'Dinna bide, Robert. It's a' ower noo. He's gang hame. Gin I war only wi' 'im wharever he is!' She burst into tears, but dried her eyes a moment after, and seeing that Robert still lingered, said, 'Gang, Robert, an' sen' Mistress Downie to me. Dinna greit--there's a gude lad; but tak yer fiddle an' gang. Ye can be no more use.' Robert obeyed. With his violin in his hand, he went home; and, with his violin still in his hand, walked into his grandmother's parlour. 'Hoo daur ye bring sic a thing into my hoose?' she said, roused by the apparent defiance of her grandson. 'Hoo daur ye, efter what's come an' gane?' ''Cause Dooble Sanny's come and gane, grannie, and left naething but this ahint him. And this ane's mine, whase ever the ither micht be. His wife's left wi'oot a plack, an' I s' warran' the gude fowk o' Rothieden winna mak sae muckle o' her noo 'at her man's awa'; for she never was sic a randy as he was, an' the triumph o' grace in her 's but sma', therefore. Sae I maun mak the best 'at I can o' the fiddle for her. An' ye maunna touch this ane, grannie; for though ye may think it richt to burn fiddles, ither fowk disna; and this has to do wi' ither fowk, grannie; it's no atween you an' me, ye ken,' Robert went on, fearful lest she might consider herself divinely commissioned to extirpate the whole race of stringed instruments,--'for I maun sell 't for her.' 'Tak it oot o' my sicht,' said Mrs. Falconer, and said no more. He carried the instrument up to his room, laid it on his bed, locked his door, put the key in his pocket, and descended to the parlour. 'He's deid, is he?' said his grandmother, as he re-entered. 'Ay is he, grannie,' answered Robert. 'He deid a repentant man.' 'An' a believin'?' asked Mrs. Falconer. 'Weel, grannie, I canna say 'at he believed a' thing 'at ever was, for a body michtna ken a' thing.' 'Toots, laddie! Was 't savin' faith?'