the Coogate."

"A lang climb for an auld man," John Traill said,
compassionately; then, optimistic as usual, "but it's a lang
climb or a foul smell, in the poor quarters of Edinburgh."

"Ay. It's weel aboon the fou' smell." With some comforting
thought that he did not confide to Mr. Traill but that ironed
lines out of his old face, Auld Jock went to sleep again. Well,
the landlord reflected, he could remain there by the fire until
the closing hour or later, if need be, and by that time the storm
might ease a bit, so that he could get to his lodging without
another wetting.

For an hour the place was silent, except for the falling clinkers
from the grate, the rustling of book-leaves, and the plumping of
rain on the windows, when the wind shifted a point. Lost in the
romance, Mr. Traill took no note of the passing time or of his
quiet guests until he felt a little tug at his trouser-leg.

"Eh, laddie?" he questioned. Up the little dog rose in the
begging attitude. Then, with a sharp bark, he dashed back to his
master.

Something was very wrong, indeed. Auld Jock had sunk down in his
seat. His arms hung helplessly over the end and back of the
settle, and his legs were sprawled limply before him. The bonnet
that he always wore, outdoors and in, had fallen from his scant,
gray locks, and his head had dropped forward on his chest. His
breathing was labored, and he muttered in his sleep.