The first thought that came to him was, that his daughter must not see him so. He tied up his jaw, laid him straight on the sofa, lighted fresh candles, left them burning by the dead, and went to call Grizzie: a doctor was out of the question. He felt his way down the dark stair, and fought it through the wind to the kitchen, whence he climbed to Grizzie’s room. He found she was already out of bed, and putting on her clothes. She had not been asleep, she said, and added something obscure, which the laird took to mean that she had been expecting a summons. “Whan Ane’s oot, there’s nane in!” she said. “Hoo’s the auld reprobat, laird--an’ I beg yer pardon?” “He’s gane til ’s accoont, Grizzie,” answered the laird, in a trembling voice. “Say ye sae, laird?” returned Grizzie with perfect calmness. “Eh, sirs!” Not a single remark did she then offer. If she was cool, she was not irreverent before the thought of the awful thing that lay waiting her. “Ye winna wauk the hoose, will ye, sir?” she added presently. “I dinna think it wad be ony service to deid or livin’.” “I’ll no du that, Grizzie; but come ye an’ luik at him,” said the laird, “an’ tell me what ye think. I makna a doobt he’s deid, but gien ye hae ony, we’ll du what we can; an’ we’ll sit up wi’ the corp thegither, an’ lat yoong an’ auld tak the rist they hae mair need o’ nor the likes o’ you an’ me.” It was a proud moment in Grizzie’s life, one never forgotten, when the laird addressed her thus. She was ready in a moment, and they went together. “The prince is haein’ his ain w’y the nicht!” she murmured to herself, as they bored their way through the wind to the great door. When she came where the corpse lay, she stood for some moments looking down upon it without uttering a sound, nor was there any emotion in the fixed gaze of her eye. She had been brought up in a stern and nowise pitiful school. She made neither solemn reflection, nor uttered hope which her theology forbade her to cherish. “Ye think wi’ me ’at he’s deid--dinna ye, Grizzie?” said the laird, in a voice that seemed to himself to intrude on the solemn silence. She removed the handkerchief, and the jaw fell. “He’s gane til ’s accoont,” she said. “It’s a great amoont; an’ mair on ae side nor he’ll weel bide. It’s sair eneuch, laird, whan we hae to gang at the Lord’s call, but whan the messenger comes frae the laich yett (_low gate_), we maun jist lat gang an’ forget. But sae lang’s he’s a man, we maun do what we can--an’ that’s what we did last nicht; sae I’ll rin an’ get het watter.” She did so, and they used every means they could think of for his recovery, but at length gave it up, heaped him over with blankets, for the last chance of spontaneous revival, and sitting down, awaited the slow-travelling, feeble dawn. After they had sat in silence for nearly an hour, the laird spoke: “We’ll read a psalm thegither, Grizzie,” he said.