“Toy here, toy there!” returned Jeames; “sae far as ony cawpabeelity o’ mine, or ony puir skeel I hae, will alloo o’ testimony--though min’ ye, laird, I winna tak the consequences o’ bein’ i’ the wrang--though I wad raither tak them, an’ ower again, nor be i’ the wrang,--” The laird turned and went out, followed by Cosmo. He began to think the man must have lost his reason. But when the watchmaker saw them walking steadily along the street in the direction of home, he darted out of the door and ran after them. “Gien ye _wad_ gang, laird,” he said, in an injured tone, “ye mecht hae jist latten me en’ the sentence I had begun!” “There’s nae en’ to ony o’ yer sentences, man!” said the laird; “that’s the only thing i’ them ’at was forgotten, ’cep’ it was the sense.” “Weel, guid day to ye laird!” returned Jeames. “Only,” he added, drawing a step nearer, and speaking in a subdued confidential voice, “dinna lat yer harsie rin awa’ upo’ the ro’d hame, for I sweir til ye, gien there be only trowth i’ the laws o’ natur, he’s no siller, nor onything like it--” “Hoots!” said the laird, and turning away, walked off with great strides. “But,” the watchmaker continued, almost running to keep up with him, and speaking in a low, harsh, hurried voice, as if thrusting the words into his ears, “naither mair nor less nor solid gowd--pure gowd, no a grain o’ alloy!” That said, he turned, went back at the same speed, shot himself into his cottage, and closed the door. The father and son stopped, and looked at each other for a moment. Then the laird walked slowly on. After a minute or two, Cosmo glanced up in his face, but his father did not return the glance, and the boy saw that he was talking to another. By and by he heard him murmur to himself, “The gifts of God are without repentance.”