The roads were in such an impassable condition that by nine o'clock at night Wee Andra had not returned, and Duncan Polite had been laid in his coffin, ready for his long rest. One dim lamp burned near the head of the bier, and at its foot sat old Andrew, his head bowed, his face in his hands. Across the hall the sorrowing neighbours had gathered in the dining-room, where some of Duncan Polite's friends were leading in prayer for the bereaved relatives. Peter McNabb had asked the minister to open the service, but had accepted his refusal in silent sympathy, wondering somewhat at the young man's grief-stricken face. Mr. Ansdell's gentle voice was raised in a petition that the brave deed might be a lesson to all, and the house was very still, when the front door opened softly and a man glided into the parlour. He crossed the room silently and stood gazing down at the figure in the coffin. At the sight of him, the dog lying by old Andrew's side arose and, crossing to where he stood, crouched at his feet, whining pitifully as though begging for help. Aroused by the movement the old man raised his head. "Donald!" he cried aloud, startled by the sight of the young man's ghastly face and wild eyes. But Donald did not seem to be aware of his presence. He looked around the room as if dazed. "It's true, then!" he cried in a harsh whisper, "it's true." His eyes were fixed unmeaningly on the elder. "He was more than a father to me; and I murdered him," he added distinctly. Andrew Johnstone rose stiffly and came over to where the boy stood. "Wheesht, Donald!" he whispered in alarm. "Wheesht, lad, it is the Lord's will!" Donald stared at him stupefied. Even half-crazed as he was, there came to his tossed soul a kind of vague wonder that Splinterin' Andra did not scourge him with a pitiless condemnation. "I did it," he repeated, clinging to the one thought he was capable of comprehending. "We were at the tavern when the boom broke--I murdered him!" "Come awa', lad, an' sit ye doon here, till Ah tell ye"--Andrew Johnstone took hold of the boy's shoulder gently. A wonderful change seemed to have come over the stern old man during the vigil by his dead; the mantle of Duncan Polite seemed to have fallen upon him. "Come awa," he whispered. But Donald flung off the hand fiercely. He turned again to look at his uncle, and the fire slowly died from his eyes as he gazed at the beloved face. His strength seemed to suddenly leave him. Andrew Johnstone stepped towards him fearing he would fall, but with one more glance at the dead Donald turned and groped his way to the door like one blind.