Saunders.

"He's nae waur; an' it's half six noo; it's ower sune tae say mair, but
a'm houpin' for the best. Sit doon and take a sleep, for ye're needin'
't, Drumsheugh, an', man, ye hae worked for it."

As he dozed off, the last thing Drumsheugh saw was the doctor sitting
erect in his chair, a clenched fist resting on the bed, and his eyes
already bright with the vision of victory.

He awoke with a start to find the room flooded with the morning
sunshine, and every trace of last night's work removed.

The doctor was bending over the bed, and speaking to Saunders.

"It's me, Saunders, Doctor MacLure, ye ken; dinna try tae speak or move;
juist let this drap milk slip ower--ye 'ill be needin' yir breakfast,
lad--and gang tae sleep again."

[Illustration: "A CLENCHED FIST RESTING ON THE BED"]

Five minutes, and Saunders had fallen into a deep, healthy sleep, all
tossing and moaning come to an end. Then MacLure stepped softly across
the floor, picked up his coat and waistcoat, and went out at the door.
Drumsheugh arose and followed him without a word. They passed through
the little garden, sparkling with dew, and beside the byre, where Hawkie
rattled her chain, impatient for Bell's coming, and by Saunders' little
strip of corn ready for the scythe, till they reached an open field.
There they came to a halt, and Doctor MacLure for once allowed himself
to go.