On the day appointed, the different members of the Grippy family assembled at Kittlestonheugh. Mrs. Charles and her two children were the last that arrived; and during the drive from Camrachle, both James and Mary repeated many little instances of Walter’s kindness, so lasting are the impressions of affection received in the artless and heedless hours of childhood; and they again anticipated, from the recollection of his good nature, a long summer day with him of frolic and mirth.

But they were now several years older, and they had undergone that unconscious change, by which, though the stores of memory are unaltered, the moral being becomes another creature, and can no longer feel towards the same object as it once felt. On alighting from the carriage, they bounded with light steps and jocund hearts in quest of their uncle; but, when they saw him sitting by himself in the garden, they paused, and were disappointed.

They recognised in him the same person whom they formerly knew, but they had heard he was daft; and they beheld him stooping forward, with his hands sillily hanging between his knees; and he appeared melancholy and helpless.

‘Uncle Watty,’ said James, compassionately, ‘what for are ye sitting there alone?’

Watty looked up, and gazing at him vacantly for a few seconds, said, ‘’Cause naebody will sit wi’ me, for I’m a daft man.’ He then drooped his head, and sank into the same listless posture in which they had found him.

‘Do ye no ken me?’ said Mary.

He again raised his eyes, and alternately looked at them both, eagerly and suspiciously. Mary appeared to have outgrown his recollection, for he turned from her; but, after some time, he began to discover James; and a smile of curious wonder gradually illuminated his countenance, and developed itself into a broad grin of delight, as he said,—

‘What a heap o’ meat, Jamie Walkinshaw, ye maun hae eaten to mak you sic a muckle laddie;’ and he drew the boy towards him to caress him as he had formerly done; but the child, escaping from his hands, retired several paces backward, and eyed him with pity, mingled with disgust.

Walter appeared struck with his look and movement; and again folding his hands, dropped them between his knees, and hung his head, saying to himself,—‘But I’m daft; naebody cares for me noo; I’m a cumberer o’ the ground, and a’ my Betty Bodles are ta’en away.’

The accent in which this was expressed touched the natural tenderness of the little girl; and she went up to him, and said,—‘Uncle, I’m your wee Betty Bodle; what for will ye no speak to me?’

His attention was again roused, and he took her by the hand, and, gently stroking her head, said, ‘Ye’re a bonny flower, a lily-like leddy, and leil in the heart and kindly in the e’e; but ye’re no my Betty Bodle.’ Suddenly, however, something in the cast of her countenance reminded him so strongly of her more childish appearance, that he caught her in his arms, and attempted to dandle her; but the action was so violent that it frightened the child, and she screamed, and struggling out of his hands, ran away. James followed her; and their attention being soon drawn to other objects, poor Walter was left neglected by all during the remainder of the forenoon.

At dinner he was brought in and placed at the table, with one of the children on each side; but he paid them no attention.

‘What’s come o’er thee, Watty?’ said his mother. ‘I thought ye would hae been out o’ the body wi’ your Betty Bodle; but ye ne’er let on ye see her.’

‘’Cause she’s like a’ the rest,’ said he sorrowfully. ‘She canna abide me; for ye ken I’m daft—It’s surely an awfu’ leprosy this daftness, that it gars every body flee me; but I canna help it—It’s no my fau’t, but the Maker’s that made me, and the laws that found me guilty. But, Geordie,’ he added, turning to his brother, ‘what’s the use o’ letting me live in this world, doing nothing, and gude for naething?’

Mrs. Charles felt her heart melt within her at the despondency with which this was said, and endeavoured to console him; he, however, took no notice of her attentions, but sat seemingly absorbed in melancholy, and heedless to the endeavours which even the compassionate children made to induce him to eat.

‘No,’ said he; ‘I’ll no eat ony mair—it’s even down wastrie for sic a useless set-by thing as the like o’ me to consume the fruits o’ the earth. The cost o’ my keep would be a braw thing to Bell Fatherlans, so I hope, Geordie, ye’ll mak it o’er to her; for when I gae hame I’ll lie doun and die.’

‘Haud thy tongue, and no fright folk wi’ sic blethers,’ exclaimed his mother; ‘but eat your dinner, and gang out to the green and play wi’ the weans.’

‘An I were na a daft creature, naebody would bid me play wi’ weans—and the weans ken that I am sae, and mak a fool o’ me for’t—I dinna like to be every body’s fool. I’m sure the law, when it found me guilty, might hae alloot me a mair merciful punishment. Meg Wilcat, that stealt Provost Murdoch’s cocket-hat, and was whippit for’t at the Cross, was pitied wi’ many a watery e’e; but every body dauds and dings the daft Laird o’ Grippy.’

‘Na! as I’m to be trusted,’ exclaimed the Leddy, ‘if I dinna think, Geordie, that the creature’s coming to its senses again;’ and she added laughing, ‘and what will come o’ your braw policy, and your planting and plenishing? for ye’ll hae to gie’t back, and count in the Court to the last bawbee for a’ the rental besides.’

George was never more at a loss than for an answer to parry this thrust; but, fortunately for him, Walter rose and left the room, and, as he had taken no dinner, his mother followed to remonstrate with him against the folly of his conduct. Her exhortations and her menaces were, however, equally ineffectual; the poor natural was not to be moved; he felt his own despised and humiliated state; and the expectation which he had formed of the pleasure he was to enjoy, in again being permitted to caress and fondle his Betty Bodle, was so bitterly disappointed, that it cut him to the heart. No persuasion, no promise, could entice him to return to the dining-room; but a settled and rivetted resolution to go back to Glasgow obliged his mother to desist, and allow him to take his own way. He accordingly quitted the house, and immediately on arriving at home went to bed. Overpowered by the calls of hunger, he was next day allured to take some food; and from day to day after, for several years, he was in the same manner tempted to eat; but all power of volition, from the period of the visit, appeared to have become extinct within him. His features suffered a melancholy change, and he never spoke—nor did he seem to recognize any one; but gradually, as it were, the whole of his mind and intellect ebbed away, leaving scarcely the merest instincts of life. But the woeful form which Nature assumes in the death-bed of fatuity admonishes us to draw the curtain over the last scene of poor Watty.