Gertrude, the second sister, was now Mrs. Donaldson, wife of Hector Donaldson, advocate. At the time, it was considered a middling sort of marriage; since his cross-examination of the co-respondent in Macpherson _v._ Macpherson and Tattenham-Welby, it had been considered a creditable marriage; and if his practice continued its present rate of increase, it would soon become a good marriage. In any case, she had justified the Walkingshaw reputation for investing money or person soundly and shrewdly. She resembled her father, and he had always been considered a fine-looking man. Both Andrew and Maggie thought she got too many of her clothes in London. They made her a little conspicuous, and they hoped she could afford it. Still, one heard very encouraging things said of Hector nowadays. Mr. Walkingshaw was evidently weakening. He lay back with his eyes closed till they were all assembled, and then Andrew, who seemed to have the entire management of the melancholy ceremony, stepped up to the bedside and, with lowered eyelids, murmured-- "They are all here now." Mr. Walkingshaw opened his eyes. "I'm likely to be taken," he said in a weak voice. "Andrew'll have told you." He paused: and one little stifled sob was heard, too gentle to catch his ear. It came from Jean. "I'd just like to say a word to you all before I go. I've tried my best to do my duty by my children and my sister and my kinsfolk." At this specific inclusion of herself the sympathetic widow could keep silence no longer. "Indeed you have, Heriot!" she murmured. "Hush!" said Andrew sternly. "Let them say what they feel, Andrew," said his father, with a glance of melancholy kindness at the widow. "It's natural enough." Mrs. Ramornie at once took that hint, and her brief words of eulogy were corroborated by a general murmur. "Thank you, thank you," said Mr. Walkingshaw. "I may possibly have made mistakes now and then--I am but human. At the same time, I think there's none will gainsay I've shown a kind of respectable example. It's a great thing to be thankful for if one can die without making an exhibition of oneself--a great thing to be thankful for." The master of ceremonies by a grave glance indicated to the company that another approving murmur would be appropriate, and his own voice led the hum. "I've another thing to be thankful for," resumed the invalid, "and that's my eldest son. Andrew'll take good care of you all--of you and the business both. Oh, Frank, my lad, he's a fine example to you; just as your sister Maggie is to you, Jean. Mind you both follow them. You'll never give folks reason to talk about you then. Don't get yourselves talked about! That's the main thing. Of course, you'll take every opportunity of bettering yourselves, both of you; but do it in a kind of sober, decent way. Do it like Andrew: I can say no more than that."