pretty clearly the part that Davie had always taken.

"However, I am o'erpaid for every grief I ever had, Sandy," said Davie,
in conclusion, "since I have seen your face again, and you're just
handsomer than ever, and you eight years older than me, too."

Yes, it was undeniable that Alexander Morrison was still a very
handsome, hale old gentleman; but yet there was many a trace of labor
and sorrow on his face; and he had known both.

For many years after he had left Davie, life had been a very hard battle
to him. During the first twenty years of their separation, indeed, Davie
had perhaps been the better off, and the happier of the two.

When the war broke out, Sandy had enlisted early, and, like Davie,
carried through all its chances and changes the hope of finding his
brother. Both of them had returned to their homes after the struggle
equally hopeless and poor.

But during the last eleven years fortune had smiled on Sandy. Some call
of friendship for a dead comrade led him to a little Pennsylvania
village, and while there he made a small speculation in oil, which was
successful. He resolved to stay there, rented his little Western farm,
and went into the oil business.

"And I have saved thirty thousand dollars, hard cash, Davie. Half of it
is yours, and half mine. See! Fifteen thousand has been entered from
time to time in your name. I told you, Davie, that when I came back we
would share dollar for dollar, and I would not touch a cent of your
share no more than I would rob the United States Treasury."