“What is the matter with your master?” he asked.

“God knows, sir.”

 

“What is the use of telling me that? I want you to tell me what you know.”

 

“I don't know anything, sir.”

 

“What do you think then?”

 

“I should think old age had something to do with it, sir.”

 

“Likely enough, but you know more than that!”

 

“I shouldn't wonder, sir, if he were troubled in his mind.”

 

“What makes you think so?”

 

“It is reasonable to think so, sir. He knows he must die before long, and it is dreadful to leave everything you care for, and go where there is nothing you care for!”

 

“How do you know there is nothing he would care for?”

 

“What is there, sir, he would be likely to care for?”

 

“There is his wife. He was fond of her, I suppose, and you pious¹ people fancy you will see each other again.”

 

“The thought of seeing her would give him little comfort, I am afraid, in parting with the things he has here. He believes a little somehow—I can't understand how.”

 

“What does he believe?”

 

“He believes a little—he is not sure—that what a man soweth he shall also reap.”

 

“How do you know what he is or is not sure off? It can't be a matter of interest to you?”

 

“Those that come of one Father must have interest in one another.”

 

“How am I to tell we come of one Father—as you call Him? I like to have a thing proved before I believe it. I know neither where I came from, nor where I am going; how then can I know that we come from the same father?”

 

“I don't know how you're to know it, sir. I take it for granted, and find it good. But there is one thing I am sure of.”

 

“What is that?”

 

“That if you were my master's friend you would not rest till you got him to do what was right before he died.”

 

“I will not be father-confessor to any man. I have enough to do with myself. A good worthy² old man like the laird must know better than any other what he ought to do.”

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