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spirit of man like a mighty sea； ready to rush in at the smallest
chink in the walls that shut him out from his ownwalls which even
the tone of a violin afloat on the wind of that spirit is sometimes
enough to rend from battlement to base； as the blast of the rams'
horns rent the walls of Jericho。 And now to the day of his death；
the shoemaker had need of nothing。 Food； wine； and delicacies were
sent him by many who； while they considered him outside of the
kingdom； would have troubled themselves in no way about him。 What
with visits of condolence and flattery； inquiries into his
experience； and long prayers by his bedside； they now did their best
to send him back among the swine。 The soutar's humour； however；
aided by his violin； was a strong antidote against these evil
influences。
'I doobt I'm gaein' to dee； Robert；' he said at length one evening
as the lad sat by his bedside。
'Weel； that winna do ye nae ill；' answered Robert； adding with just
a touch of bitterness'ye needna care aboot that。'
'I do not care aboot the deein' o' 't。 But I jist want to live lang
eneuch to lat the Lord ken 'at I'm in doonricht earnest aboot it。 I
hae nae chance o' drinkin' as lang's I'm lyin' here。'
'Never ye fash yer heid aboot that。 Ye can lippen （trust） that to
him； for it's his ain business。 He'll see 'at ye're a' richt。
Dinna ye think 'at he'll lat ye aff。'
'The Lord forbid；' responded the soutar earnestly。 'It maun be a'
pitten richt。 It wad be dreidfu' to be latten aff。 I wadna hae him
content wi' cobbler's wark。I hae 't；' he resumed； after a few
minutes' pause； 'the Lord's easy pleased； but ill to saitisfee。 I'm
sair pleased wi' your playin'； Robert； but it's naething like the
richt thing yet。 It does me gude to hear ye； though； for a' that。'
The very next night he found him evidently sinking fast。 Robert
took the violin； and was about to play； but the soutar stretched out
his one left hand； and took it from him； laid it across his chest
and his arm over it； for a few moments； as if he were bidding it
farewell； then held it out to Robert； saying；
'Hae； Robert。 She's yours。Death's a sair divorce。Maybe they 'll
hae an orra3 fiddle whaur I'm gaein'； though。 Think o' a Rothieden
soutar playin' afore his grace！'
Robert saw that his mind was wandering； and mingled the paltry
honours of earth with the grand simplicities of heaven。 He began to
play The Land o' the Leal。 For a little while Sandy seemed to follow
and comprehend the tones； but by slow degrees the light departed
from his face。 At length his jaw fell； and with a sigh； the body
parted from Dooble Sanny； and he went to God。
His wife closed mouth and eyes without a word； laid the two arms；
equally powerless now； straight by his sides； then seating herself
on the edge of the bed； said；
'Dinna bide； Robert。 It's a' ower noo。 He's gang hame。 Gin I war
only wi' 'im wharever he is！'
She burst into tears； but dried her eyes a moment after； and seeing
that Robert still lingered； said；
'Gang； Robert； an' sen' Mistress Downie to me。 Dinna greitthere's
a gude lad； but tak yer fiddle an' gang。 Ye can be no more use。'
Robert obeyed。 With his violin in his hand； he went home； and； with
his violin still in his hand； walked into his grandmother's parlour。
'Hoo daur ye bring sic a thing into my hoose？' she said； roused by
the apparent defiance of her grandson。 'Hoo daur ye； efter what's
come an' gane？'
''Cause Dooble Sanny's come and gane； grannie； and left naething but
this ahint him。 And this ane's mine； whase ever the ither micht be。
His wife's left wi'oot a plack； an' I s' warran' the gude fowk o'
Rothieden winna mak sae muckle o' her noo 'at her man's awa'； for
she never was sic a randy as he was； an' the triumph o' grace in her
's but sma'； therefore。 Sae I maun mak the best 'at I can o' the
fiddle for her。 An' ye maunna touch this ane； grannie； for though
ye way think it richt to burn fiddles； ither fowk disna； and this
has to do wi' ither fowk； grannie； it's no atween you an' me； ye
ken；' Robert went on； fearful lest she might consider herself
divinely commissioned to extirpate the whole race of stringed
instruments；'for I maun sell 't for her。'
'Tak it oot o' my sicht；' said Mrs。 Falconer； and said no more。
He carried the instrument up to his room； laid it on his bed； locked
his door； put the key in his pocket； and descended to the parlour。
'He's deid； is he？' said his grandmother； as he re…entered。
'Ay is he； grannie；' answered Robert。 'He deid a repentant man。'
'An' a believin'？' asked Mrs。 Falconer。
'Weel； grannie； I canna say 'at he believed a' thing 'at ever was；
for a body michtna ken a' thing。'
'Toots； laddie！ Was 't savin' faith？'
'I dinna richtly ken what ye mean by that； but I'm thinkin' it was
muckle the same kin' o' faith 'at the prodigal had； for they baith
rase an' gaed hame。'
''Deed； maybe ye're richt； laddie；' returned Mrs。 Falconer； after a
moment's thought。 'We'll houp the best。'
All the remainder of the evening she sat motionless； with her eyes
fixed on the rug before her； thinking； no doubt； of the repentance
and salvation of the fiddler； and what hope there might yet be for
her own lost son。
The next day being Saturday； Robert set out for Bodyfauld； taking
the violin with him。 He went alone； for he was in no mood for
Shargar's company。 It was a fine spring day； the woods were
budding； and the fragrance of the larches floated across his way。
There was a lovely sadness in the sky； and in the motions of the
air； and in the scent of the earthas if they all knew that fine
things were at hand which never could be so beautiful as those that
had gone away。 And Robert wondered how it was that everything
should look so different。 Even Bodyfauld seemed to have lost its
enchantment； though his friends were as kind as ever。 Mr。 Lammie
went into a rage at the story of the lost violin； and Miss Lammie
cried from sympathy with Robert's distress at the fate of his bonny
leddy。 Then he came to the occasion of his visit； which was to beg
Mr。 Lammie； when next he went to Aberdeen； to take the soutar's
fiddle； and get what he could for it； to help his widow。
'Poor Sanny！' said Robert； 'it never cam' intil 's heid to sell her；
nae mair nor gin she had been the auld wife 'at he ca'd her。'
Mr。 Lammie undertook the commission； and the next time he saw
Robert； handed him ten pounds as the result of the negotiation。 It
was all Robert could do； however； to get the poor woman to take the
money。 She looked at it with repugnance； almost as if it had been
the price of blood。 But Robert having succeeded in overcoming her
scruples； she did take it； and therewith provide a store of
sweeties； and reels of cotton； and tobacco； for sale in Sanny's
workshop。 She certainly did not make money by her merchandise； for
her anxiety to be hones