‘It is my decided opinion,’ said the doctor, ‘that Mr. Lindsay is not likely to live long. I think he ought to be told so, and advised to put his affairs in order.’ And thereupon Dr. Sheepshanks took his leave. Miss Lindsay sat perfectly still for some minutes. She reproached herself for making light of her cousin’s complaints; and felt that she was almost humiliated in being forced to bring to the invalid the unwelcome tidings. But it was clearly her duty. She rose suddenly, and went upstairs to his room. ‘How are ye, Jeems?’ she asked, sitting down by the bedside. ‘Vera frail, Jean; I doubt I’m no long for this world. Did the haddies come frae Dundee?’ ‘Yes--but--the fact is, Jeems, I doubt ye’re waur than I thocht ye.’ The sick man closed his eyes with a contented sigh. It was satisfactory to find that his obdurate relative at last believed that he was really ill. Miss Lindsay wanted to make some apology for her former attitude, but apologies did not come readily to her tongue. ‘We ought a’ to be prepared for our hinner en’, Jeems,’ she said at last. Mr. Lindsay opened his eyes suddenly, and stared at his cousin. Such words from her meant something. ‘What mak’s ye say that?’ he asked. Aunt Jean moved uneasily in her seat and cleared her throat before replying. ‘Weel, ye’re no sae young as ye were, and life’s an uncertain thing, and ye’re vera far frae weel.’ The old man again closed his eyes, with a resigned expression of countenance. He had no idea of the truth. His cousin saw she must speak plainly. ‘_And the doctor said I had better warn you._’ The old man opened his eyes with a start, and stared at his companion. A look of horror crept into his face. He tried to speak, but the words would not come. ‘Did the doctor say that?’ he asked in a whisper. ‘He did that,’ said the old lady. ‘I thocht it was no kindness to hide it from ye, Jeems.’ And after moving about restlessly for a few moments, she escaped from the room. There was not a sound but the faint crackling of the coals in the grate, and the soft fall, now and then, of a cinder into the ashes. He was to die. Few men can hear the sentence unmoved, and James Lindsay was at heart a coward. He trembled at the thought of facing the unseen world--trembled as a murderer when the long-expected hand is suddenly placed on his shoulder. For more than an hour he lay still, and his thoughts wandered back to the time when he was a ragged urchin at a little village school. He remembered the school-house well--the great tree under which he used to play. He remembered cheating a schoolfellow once, and the thought of it troubled him. He wished he had confessed it and made restitution. It was impossible to make restitution now.