The night before the end George was carried out to his corner, and
Domsie, whose heart was nigh unto the breaking, sat with him the
afternoon. They used to fight the College battles over again, with
their favourite classics beside them, but this time none of them
spoke of books. Marget was moving about the garden, and she told me
that George looked at Domsie wistfully, as if he had something to
say and knew not how to do it.

After a while he took a book from below his pillow, and began, like
one thinking over his words:

"Maister Jamieson, ye hae been a gude freend tae me, the best I ever
hed aifter my mither and faither. Wull ye tak this buik for a
keepsake o' yir grateful scholar? It's a Latin 'Imitation' Dominie,
and it's bonnie printin'. Ye mind hoo ye gave me yir ain Virgil, and
said he was a kind o' Pagan sanct. Noo here is my sanct, and div ye
ken I've often thocht Virgil saw His day afar off, and was glad.
Wull ye read it, Dominie, for my sake, and maybe ye 'ill come to
see--" and George could not find words for more.

But Domsie understood. "Ma laddie, ma laddie, that I luve better
than onythin' on earth, I'll read it till I die, and, George, I'll
tell ye what livin' man does na ken. When I was your verra age I had
a cruel trial, and ma heart was turned frae faith. The classics hae
been my bible, though I said naethin' to ony man against Christ. He
aye seemed beyond man, and noo the veesion o' Him has come to me in
this gairden. Laddie, ye hae dune far mair for me than I ever did
for you. Wull ye mak a prayer for yir auld dominie afore we pairt?"

There was a thrush singing in the birches and a sound of bees in the