gaein' tae mak ye suffer for a' yir ill usage. Div ye understand noo?"
said Jamie, savagely.

For a while MacLure was silent, and then he only said:

"It's little a' did for the puir bodies; but ye hev a gude hert, Jamie,
a rael good hert."

It was a bitter December Sabbath, and the fathers were settling the
affairs of the parish ankle deep in snow, when MacLure's old housekeeper
told Drumsheugh that the doctor was not able to rise, and wished to see
him in the afternoon. "Ay, ay," said Hillocks, shaking his head, and
that day Drumsheugh omitted four pews with the ladle, while Jamie was so
vicious on the way home that none could endure him.

Janet had lit a fire in the unused grate, and hung a plaid by the window
to break the power of the cruel north wind, but the bare room with its
half-a-dozen bits of furniture and a worn strip of carpet, and the
outlook upon the snow drifted up to the second pane of the window and
the black firs laden with their icy burden, sent a chill to Drumsheugh's
heart.

The doctor had weakened sadly, and could hardly lift his head, but his
face lit up at the sight of his visitor, and the big hand, which was now
quite refined in its whiteness, came out from the bed-clothes with the
old warm grip.

[Illustration: "WITH THE OLD WARM GRIP"]

"Come in by, man, and sit doon; it's an awfu' day tae bring ye sae far,