Aunt Fanny--always a talker--told me all. How, on that fatal night, my
father,--irritated by my prolonged absence, and probably more anxious
than he cared to show, had been fierce and imperious, even beyond his
wont, to Gregory; had upbraided him with his father's poverty, his own
stupidity which made his services good for nothing--for so, in spite of
the old shepherd, my father always chose to consider them. At last,
Gregory had risen up, and whistled Lassie out with him--poor Lassie,
crouching underneath his chair for fear of a kick or a blow. Some time
before, there had been some talk between my father and my aunt respecting
my return; and when aunt Fanny told me all this, she said she fancied
that Gregory might have noticed the coming storm, and gone out silently
to meet me. Three hours afterwards, when all were running about in wild
alarm, not knowing whither to go in search of me--not even missing
Gregory, or heeding his absence, poor fellow--poor, poor fellow!--Lassie
came home, with my handkerchief tied round her neck. They knew and
understood, and the whole strength of the farm was turned out to follow
her, with wraps, and blankets, and brandy, and every thing that could be
thought of. I lay in chilly sleep, but still alive, beneath the rock
that Lassie guided them to. I was covered over with my brother's plaid,
and his thick shepherd's coat was carefully wrapped round my feet. He
was in his shirt-sleeves--his arm thrown over me--a quiet smile (he had
hardly ever smiled in life) upon his still, cold face.

My father's last words were, "God forgive me my hardness of heart towards
the fatherless child!"

And what marked the depth of his feeling of repentance, perhaps more than
all, considering the passionate love he bore my mother, was this: we
found a paper of directions after his death, in which he desired that he
might lie at the foot of the grave, in which, by his desire, poor Gregory