No one, not even the widow, wept more at the grave than did Donald McPherson. The once light-hearted, mischief-loving, whiskey-drinking Donald was overcome with sorrow and contrition. He took Rab's death greatly to heart, and, standing by that open grave, he firmly resolved that from that hour he would change his manner of life; that he would fear and serve God, and never again place a stumbling-block in the way of his fellow-creatures. After the funeral he went to honest Wullie's cottage, "to see if there was onything to be dune," as he said.

Wullie thanked him for his kindness, adding, "The little that is to be dune I can do mysel. I would liefer be busy than not. But I am glad to see you, for a' that." Then, laying his hand on McPherson's shoulder, he said, "Ye will no forget the lesson o' this day, Donald!"

"I trust I never shall."

The widow had bowed to Donald as he entered, and then left the room. She went to attend the children; but she was glad of the excuse, for memory was too busy with the past to render the presence of Rab's old comrade desirable on that sad day.

Donald went slowly from the home of mourning to his own cottage. He hung his bonnet on a peg, then went and sat down beside his wife. She was holding a troublesome child and trying to sew at the same time. "Here, gie me the bairn," said he. He took the child in his strong arms and dandled him, much to the satisfaction of wee Donald. Then with much seriousness he addressed his wife.

"Katy, I dinna think I will gie you as muckle trouble as I hae dune. I maun gie up auld habits. They wunna do ony langer. I hae just seen Mistress Murdoch, and I hae been thinkin' what if it had been yoursel, Katy, that this day was clad in garments o' dool instead o' her, where would the soul o' Donald McPherson hae been noo!"

The person addressed was a tall, straight, well-formed woman, whose face showed both thoughtfulness and firmness. She only replied, "It is weel to think."

"I hae thought, and I hae felt as weel. Noo dinna think there is nae gude in me, wifie, but trust me ance mair. I am no gaen to drink any mair whiskey. I hae promised him that they this day laid law that I wouldna, and that I would gang to kirk. Noo I will tell ye my plans. I will gang to Daft Jamie's but ance mair, and that will be to pay fourpence ha'penny, for that is a' I owe them, I am blithe to say; and then never a penny mair will I gie for grog; but I will save a' that I can earn, and we will soon hae decent claes, and gang to the kirk like Christian folk."

"That sounds gude, and I hope ye will do as ye say; and ye may do it if ye look to the Strang for help."

After supper Donald put on his bonnet and went to Daft Jamie's. Mrs. McAllister smiled very blandly as he entered.

"Gude evenin' to ye, Donald. Ye hae keepit yoursel a great stranger o' late. What will ye be wantin'?"

"I am wantin' naething but to pay a bit debt. A man maun pay his debts, I suppose, though what he has bought has dune him no gude."

"Hoot, man! Hae ye taen to preachin'? Ye ken as weel as ony ane that it is gude whiskey we keep; and a drap o' gude whiskey hurts naebody."

"Na, Mistress McAllister, a drap wunna hurt ony ane; but wha stops at a drap, tell me?"

"Weel, Donald, ye ken it is a decent hoose we keep, and we dinna want ony drunken folk around us."

"Ay, I ken it; and that is ane reason why puir Rab went oot i' the cauld the night he got his death."

"Weel, weel, hae your ain opeenion aboot it, but dinna stand quarrellin' wi' me. Sin' ye dinna want onything ye may as weel be gaen."

"I will, Mistress McAllister, and there'll be mony a weet day afore I again cross your doorstane. Gude evenin' to ye."

Donald was soon at home again, much to the joy of his wife; for she thought if he could go to Daft Jamie's and return without the scent of liquor about him, there was indeed some room for hope.