“This letter 'ill gie ye a sair hert for mony a day, but ye wull coont the sairness a blessing an' no an ill. Never lat it slip frae yir mind that twa true weemen loved ye an' prayed for ye till the laist, deem' wi' yir name on their lips. Ye 'ill be a man yet, Chairlie. “Dinna answer this letter--answer yon fond herts that luve an' pray for ye. Gin ye be ever in tribble, lat me ken. A' wes yir grand-mither's freend and Lily's freend; sae lang as a'm here, coont me yir freend for their sake. “James Soutar.” It was half an hour before he read the second letter. “Dear Chairlie,--A 'm verra sober noo, an' canna rise; but gin ony medeecine cud hae cured me, it wud hae been yir letter. A' thae years a've been sure ye were fechtin' yir battle, an' that some day news wud come o' yir victory. “Man, ye've dune weel--a pairtner, wi' a hoose o' yir ain, an' sic an income. Ye aye hed brains, an' noo ye've turned them tae accoont. A' withdraw every word a' ca'd ye, for ye 're an honour noo tae Drumtochty. Gin they hed only been spared tae ken o' yir success! “A 've divided the money amang yir sisters in Muirtown, and Doctor Davidson 'ill pit the lave intae a fund tae help puir laddies wi' their education. Yir name 'ill never appear, but a 'm prood tae think o' yir leeberality, and mony will bless ye. Afore this reaches ye in America a 'll be awa, and ithers roond me are near their lang hame. Ye 'ill maybe tak a thocht o' veesiting the Glen some day, but a' doot the neeburs that githered in the kirkyaird 'ill no be here tae wush ye weel, as a' dae this day. A 'm glad a' lived tae get yir letter. God be wi' ye.” The letter dropped from his hand, and the exile looked into the far distance with something between a smile and a tear. “They were gude men 'at githered ablow the beech-tree in the kirkyaird on a Sabbath mornin',” he said aloud, and the new accent had now lost itself altogether in an older tongue; “and there wesna a truer hert amang them a' than Jamie. Gin he hed been'spared tae gie me a shak o' his hand, a' wud hae been comforted; an' aifter him a' wud like a word, “James Soutar.” Frae Drumsheugh. A' wunner gin he be still tae the fore. “Na, na,” and his head fell on his chest, “it's no possible; o' a' the generation 'at condemned me, no ane 'ill be leevin' tae say forgiven. But a' cudna hae come hame suner--till a' hed redeemed masel.”