Let us now look at our friends ten years later. We find some of them at life's sunset. But no storms of adversity have marred the serenity of the declining day of these simple people. Honest Wullie's years have already numbered more than fourscore. The locks that adorn his temples are no longer gray, but white. His frame is bent with labor and years.

Gradually he had left the heavier work to younger hands, and after a few years he had ceased to take his place among the laborers. In summer, however, he still planted and cultivated his little garden, and in winter he took care of the cows and kept the fires burning. But the time came when spade, mattock, and hoe were laid aside, and honest Wullie occupied his easy-chair. This was sorely against his will, as he said, for he liked to be of use to his family; but the infirmities of age left him no choice.

Then it was that the beauty of his soul shone forth in a clearer light, proving that "they also serve who only stand and wait." Always cheerful himself, he encouraged the despondent, mildly reproved those who were unduly elated, arrogant, or unyielding, and meted out to each the counsel most needed.

He looked patriarchal among his children and grandchildren, who vied with each other in manifesting their regard for him. He loved to have his grandchildren near him, and he often smiled at their innocent amusements. His wife, several years younger than himself, was still in good health. She was most attentive to the comfort of her aged husband, who for so many years had been her stay and support. Both were mindful of the many mercies that had attended them during their long life.

"When I look at you, Wullie, wi' sae mony comforts and sae few cares, and at a' our children sae weel provided for, I am reminded o' David of auld when he said, 'I have been young, and now am auld; yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread.' Ay, Wullie, the blessings o' the righteous man hae been gien to you."

"Ay, Jeannie, we hae had a lang life, and mony joys as weel as sorrows. The Lord aye gies his children what is best for them. He remembereth our frame; he knoweth we are but dust, and he doesna pit upon us what we are no able to bear."

In the very evening of his days he had the pleasure of seeing his benefactor, the donor of the ten-pound note, whom he not only thanked and blessed, but whose bounty he offered to repay. "No, no, honest Wullie," said the good man, "I have never been the poorer for that gift, nor for any other given in like manner."

And now we come to the close of the good man's earthly pilgrimage. The chair in the chimney nook is vacant, and on the bed lies the once strong and active William Murdoch. The helplessness of age and exhaustion is upon him. He has no malady; he is simply passing away. The silver cord is being loosed, the golden bowl is being broken.

The sun was slowly sinking. The soft summer breeze came in at the cottage window and puffed the snowy curtains at either side. Order and quiet prevailed. Near the bed sat the faithful wife. Her knitting was not in her hands, neither was it in her lap. She sat with a sad yet composed expression on her face, thinking of the past, the present, and the future, all of which seemed now to be brought together. Near the ingle sat a younger, matronly woman, hushing an infant to rest. In her we recognize Annie McPherson, the same Annie, but ripened and softened by added years. From the farmhouse came tripping down the path a sprightly blooming girl, who reminded one of Belle. This was Alice Lindsay, Isabel's oldest child, come to say that her mother would be over to spend the night. She stooped and kissed her sleeping grandfather, and after asking her grandmother if there was anything she could do, she went out to her aunt Jeannie, who was milking the cows.

"Aunt Jeannie," she began, "are ye no weary? Let me milk ane o' the coos."

"Na, Alice, I am a'maist dune. Gang and talk wi' your cousins yonder; they are greetin' aboot their grandfaither. I hae but noo tauld them that he must soon dee."

Alice went to the rear of the cottage: there on a pile of sticks sat two fine little lads, whom Davie had quite naturally named Wullie and Jamie. They saw their cousin approaching, and tried to dry their tears on the back of their hands. She sat down between them and put her arm around Jamie, while Wullie dropped his head in her lap and sobbed out,

"Grandfaither is going to dee, Alice. He is gaen awa frae us, and they will pit him in a box and nail him doun, and pit him in the groun', and he wunna win oot till the resurrection morn, mither says, and we canna mak oot when that will be. Then there will be naebody to pat oor heids when we come to the ingle. Grandmither aye knits, and she never pats oor heids, and says, 'Puir wee lads! puir wee lads!'"

"Grandfaither is going to dee, Alice."

"My puir wee lads," said Alice, "ye will hae freends left to you still. Do ye no ken that grandfaither wearies to be awa wi' his Faither in heaven? Ye canna understand all aboot it noo, Wullie, but ye will some time. Grandfaither is an auld man, and he canna get the pleasure oot o' the warld that you can. He canna rin aboot the green fields here; but yonder where he is gaen he will be made young again, and then he will walk in the green fields o' the heavenly warld, and never graw auld ony more. Sae dry your tears, that is a wee man; grandfaither wouldna like ye to greet sae sairly."

Now they heard footsteps, and, looking up, the lads saw their father coming down the home-path with quickened steps, for he was anxious to know how his father was. As he neared the door he slackened his pace and entered the cottage as noiselessly as possible. He stepped to the bedside and gazed on his father; as he turned away a heavy sigh escaped him.

After Alice had comforted her little cousins she hastened home, and her mother came. The twilight had deepened into night; the cottage door was closed and the candle lighted. In the room were now gathered all the children except Jamie, and of him all were thinking.

"I think your faither is nearer his end than we thought," said the mother. "I ken weel Jamie would like to be here."

"I think we should have sent for him," said Belle.

"I think sae myself," said Davie.

"Annie, ye gang and write a letter till him right awa," said the mother.

Annie promptly obeyed, going into another room, and the conversation continued. They talked without restraint, for if their father should wake he was too deaf to understand ordinary conversation.

"I fear it isna possible for Jamie to come in time to see his faither alive," said Belle.

"I think he willna live the week oot," said Davie.

The mother sat with closed eyes and folded hands. "Jamie was aye fond o' his faither; he was aye a gude lad," she said, thinking aloud.

"Ay, he was that, and his gude fortune hasna spoiled him, either," replied Isabel.

"It would be hard to spoil Jamie, I think," said Davie. "I often thought o' that when I was wi' him in Edinburgh; for he introduced me to a' his grand freends. To be sure, I made my best boo; but ye ken weel I am no like Jamie."

"Weel, ye needna be. The warld maun hae pleughmen as weel as scholars," said his wife.

"Ye are right there. Jamie would hae dune wrang if he hadna treated Davie wi' respect," said Belle.

"Some folk might think his wife is a bit proud, but she didna shaw her pride to me. She is right fond o' Jamie, I could see that, and she would treat me weel for his sake," said Davie.

Thus in conversation pertaining to family affairs the evening passed. Annie had finished her letter, and the time for prayers drew nigh. Davie, on whom this duty then devolved, read and prayed; but his voice was unsteady, and all knew that his heart was too full for a lengthy prayer. They remained on their knees for many moments, each heart silently beseeching the Heavenly Father to give needed grace and strength. As they arose a slight movement attracted their attention towards the aged man. A single gasp, and all was over. Honest Wullie had yielded up his spirit to his Maker.

"He is awa," said the mother.

"Ay, he is gone," said Davie.

There was no violent outburst of grief. Even sadness was, for the time, almost chased away by the near approach of heaven. Only the solemnity that followed the passing of the death-angel pervaded the cottage.