“It disna maitter though, for he 's in oor herts an' canna be forgotten. Ye 've hed a gude sleep, Weelum, an' sair ye needed it. Some o's 'ill no be lang o' followin' ye noo.” Then he went over to Geordie's grave and read a fresh inscription: Margaret Howe, his mother. “They're thegither noo,” he said softly, “an' content. O Marget, Marget,” and the voice was full of tears, “there wes nane like ye.” As he turned to go, the two men met, and Grant recognised Drumsheugh. “Gude nicht, Drumsheugh,” he said; “a' ken yir face, though ye hae forgotten mine, an' nae doot it 's sair changed wi' sin and sorrow.” “Are ye Drumtochty?” and Drumsheugh examined Charlie closely; “there wes a day when a' cud hae pit his name on every man that cam oot o' the Glen in ma time, but ma een are no what they were, an' a'm failin' fast masel.” “Ay, a' wes born an' bred in Drumtochty, though the pairish micht weel be ashamed o' ma name. A' cam tae visit ma dead, an' a'm gaein' awa for gude. Naebody hes seen me but yersel, an' a 'll no deny a 'm pleased tae get a sicht o' yir face.” “Ye're no,” and then Drumsheugh held out his hand, “Chairlie Grant. Man, a'm gled a' cam intae the kirkyaird this day, and wes here tae meet ye. A' bid ye welcome for the Glen and them 'at's gane.” “A'm no worthy, Drumsheugh, either o' them 'at's livin' or them 'at's dead, but Gude kens a've repentit, an' the grip o' an honest hand, an' maist o' a' yir ain, 'ill gie me hert for the days tae come.” “Nane o's is worthy o' some of them 'at's lyin' here, Chairlie, naither you nor me, but it's no them 'at will be hardest on oor fauts. Na, na, they ken an' luve ower muckle, an' a 'm houpin' that's sae... wi' the Almichty. “Man, Chairlie, it did me gude tae hear that ye hed played the man in Ameriky, and that ye didna forget the puir laddies o' Drumtochty. Ay, Jamie telt me afore he deed, an' prood he wes aboot ye. 'Lily's gotten her wish,' he said; 'a' kent she wud.' “He wes sure ye wud veesit the auld Glen some day, an' wes feared there wudna be a freend tae gie ye a word. Ye wes tae slip awa tae Muirtown the nicht withoot a word, an' nane o's tae ken ye hed been here? Na, na, gin there be a cauld hearth in yir auld hame, there 's a warm corner in ma hoose for Lily's brither,” and so they went home together. When they arrived, Saunders was finishing the last stack, and broke suddenly into speech. “Ye thocht, Drumsheugh, we would never get that late puckle in, but here it is, safe and soond, an' a'll warrant it 'ill buke (bulk) as weel as ony in the threshin'.” “Ye're richt, Saunders, and a bonnie stack it maks;” and then Charlie Grant went in with Drumsheugh to the warmth and the kindly light, while the darkness fell upon the empty harvest field, from which the last sheaf had been safely garnered. End of Project Gutenberg's The Days of Auld Lang Syne, by Ian MacLaren