Davie was delighted at the proposal and gay as a child; old memories of
days long past crowded into both men's minds, and they ate and drank,
and then wandered on almost happily. Davie knew very well where they
were going, but he determined now to put off saying a word until the
last moment. He had Sandy all to himself for this hour; they might never
have such another; Davie was determined to take all the sweetness of it.

As they got lower down the avenue, Sandy became more and more silent;
his eyes looked straight before him, but they were brimful of tears, and
the smile with which he answered Davie's pleasant prattle was almost
more pitiful than tears.

At length they came in sight of a certain building, and Sandy gave a
start and shook himself like a man waking out of a sleep. His words were
sharp, his voice almost like that of a man in mortal danger, as he
turned Davie quickly round, and said:

"We must go back now, father. I will not go another step this road--no,
by heaven! though I die for it!"

"Just a little further, Sandy."

And Davie's thin, childlike face had an inquiry in it that Sandy very
well understood.

"No, no, father, no further on this road, please God!"

Then he hailed a passing car, and put the old man tenderly in it, and
resolutely turned his back upon the hated point to which he had been