“What a day it wes, Drum; a' can see Sandie's heels in the air when he coupit intae the black hole abune Gormack, an' you pullin' him oot by the seat o' his breeks, an' his Latin Reader, 'at hed fa'en oot o' his pocket, sailin' doon the water, an' 'Squinty' aifter it, scram-mellin' ower the stanes;” and the doctor laughed aloud. “Ye 've forgot hoo ye sent me in tae beg for a piece frae the gude wife at Gormack, an' she saw the lave o' ye coorin' ahint the dyke, an' gied us a flytin' for playin' truant.” “Fient a bit o't,” and Maclure took up the running again; “an' then she got a sicht o' Sandie like a drooned rat, and made him come in tae dry himsel, and gied us pork an' oat cake. My plate hed a burn on it like the Sheuchie--a' cud draw the pattern on a sheet o' paper till this day--that wes Gormack's mither's; it's no sae lang since she deed; a' wes wi' her the laist nicht.” “An' the tawse next day frae the auld Dominie, him 'at wes afore Domsie; he hed a fine swing. A' think a' feel the nip still,” and Drumsheugh shuffled in his chair; “an' then we got anither lickin' frae oor faithers; but, man,” slapping his knee, “it wes worth it a'; we 've never hed as gude a day again.” “It s juist like yesterday, Drum, but it cam tae an end; and div ye mind hoo we were feared tae gae hame, and didna start till the sun wes weel doon ahint Ben Urtach? “Four o's,” resumed Maclure; “an' Sandie got a Russian bayonet through his breist fech-tin' ae snawy nicht in the trenches, an' puir Squinty deed oot in Ameriky wearyin' for the Glen an' wishin' he cud be buried in Drumtochty kirkyaird. Fine laddies baith, an' that's twa o' the fower truants that hae gane hame. “You an' me, Drum, hed the farthest road tae traivel that nicht, an' we 're the laist again; the sun's settin' for us tae; we 've hed a gude lang day, and ye 'ill hae a whilie aifter me, but we maun follow the ither twa.” “Ye're richt, Weelum, aboot the end o't, whichever gangs first,” said Drumsheugh. Another silence fell on the two men, and both looked steadfastly into the fire, till the dog rose and laid his head on Drumsheugh's hand. He was also getting old, and now had no other desire than to be with his master. Drumsheugh moved his chair into the shadow, and sighed. “It's no the same though, Weelum, it's no the same ava.... We did what we sudna, an' wes feared tae meet oor faithers, nae doot, but we kent it wud be waur oot on the cauld hill, an' there wes a house tae shelter 's at ony rate.” Maclure would not help, and Drumsheugh went on again as if every word were drawn from him in agony. “We dinna ken onything aboot...”--and he hesitated--“aboot... the ither side. A 've thocht o't often in the gloamin' o' a simmer nicht, or sittin' here alane by the fire in winter time; a man may seem naething but an auld miserly fairmer, an' yet he may hae his ain thochts.