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"Hooever they war gotten," rejoined the laird, there can be no question but the only w'y o' cleansin' them is to put them to the best use we possibly can."

"An' what wad ye ca' the best use, father?"

"Whatever maks o' a man a neebour. A true life efter God's notion is the sairest bash to Sawtan. To gie yer siller to ither fowk to spread is to jink the wark laid oot for ye. I' the meantime hadna ye better beery yer deid again? They maun lie i' the dark, like human sowls, till they're broucht to du the deeds o' licht."

"Dinna ye think," said Cosmo, "I micht set oot the morn efter a', though on a different eeran', an' gang straucht to Mr. Burns? He'll sune put's i' the w'y to turn them til accoont. They're o' sma' avail as they lie there."

"Ye canna du better, my son," answered the old man.

So Cosmo gathered the gems together into the horse, lifting them in handfuls. But, peeping first into the hollow of the animal, to make sure he had found all that was in it, he caught sight of a bit of paper that had got stuck, and found it a Bank of England note for five hundred pounds. This in itself would have been riches an hour ago—now it was only a convenience.

"It's queer to think," said Cosmo, "'at though we hae a' this siller, I maun tramp it the morn like ony caird. Wha is there in Muir o' Warlock could change't, an' wha wad I gang til wi' 't gien he could?"

His father replied with a smile,

"It brings to my min' the words o' the apostle—'Noo I say, that the heir, sae lang as he's but a bairn, differeth naething frae a servan', though he be lord o' a'.' Eh, Cosmo, but the word admits o' curious illustration!"

Cosmo set the horse, as soon as he had done giving him his supper of diamonds, again in his old stall, and replaced the stones that had shut him in as well as he could. Then he wedged up the door, and having nothing to make paste, glued the paper again to the wall which it had carried with it. He next sought the kitchen and Grizzie.

CHAPTER LVI
MR. BURNS

"Grizzie," he said, "I'm gaein' a lang tramp the morn, an' I'll need a great poochfu' o' cakes."

"Eh, sirs! An' what's takin' ye frae hame this time, sir?" returned Grizzie.

"I'm no gaein' to tell ye the nicht, Grizzie. It's my turn to hae a secret noo! But ye ken weel it's lang sin' there's been onything to be gotten by bidin' at hame."

"Eh, but, sir! ye're never gaein' to lea' the laird! Bide an' dee wi' him, sir."

"God bless ye, Grizzie! Hae ye ony baubees?"

"Ay; what for no! I hae sax shillin's, fower pennies, an' a baubeefardin'!" answered Grizzie, in the tone of a millionaire.

"Weel, ye maun jist len' me half a croon o' 't."

"Half a croon!" echoed Grizzie, staggered at the largeness of the demand. 'Haith, sir, ye're no blate (BASHFUL)!"

"I dinna think it's ower muckle," said Cosmo, "seein' I hae to tramp five an' thirty mile the morn. But bake ye plenty o' breid, an' that'll haud doon the expence. Only, gien he can help it, a body sudna be wantin' a baubee in 's pooch. Gien ye had nane to gie me, I wad set oot bare. But jist as ye like, Grizzie! I cud beg to be sure—noo ye hae shawn the gait," he added, taking the old woman by the arm with a laugh, that she might not be hurt, "but whan ye ken ye sudna speir, an' whan ye hae, ye hae no richt to beg."

"Weel, I'll gie ye auchteen pence, an' considerin' a' 'at 's to be dune wi' what's left, ye'll hae to grant it 's no an oonfair portion."

"Weel, weel, Grizzie! I'm thinkin' I'll hae to be content."

"'Deed, an' ye wull, sir! Ye s' hae nae mair."

That night the old laird slept soundly, but Cosmo, ever on the brink of unconsciousness, was blown back by a fresh gust of gladness. The morning came golden and brave, and his father was well enough to admit of his leaving him. So he set out, and in the strength of his relief walked all the way without spending a half-penny of Grizzie's eighteen pence: two days before, he would consult his friend how to avoid the bitterest dregs of poverty; now he must find from him how to make his riches best available!

He did not tell Mr. Burns, however, what his final object was—only begged him, for the sake of friendship and old times, to go with him for a day or two to his father's.

"But, Mr. Warlock," objected the jeweller, "that would be taking the play, and we've got to be diligent in business."

"The thing I want you for is business," replied Cosmo.

"But what's to be done with the shop? I have no assistant I can trust."

"Then shut it up, and give your men a holiday. You can put up a notice informing the great public when you will be back."

"Such a thing was never heard of!"

"It is quite time it should be heard of then. Why, sir, your business is not like a doctor's, or even a baker's. People can live without diamonds!"

"Don't speak disrespectfully of diamonds, Mr. Warlock. If you knew them as I do, you would know they had a thing or two to say."

"Speak of them disrespectfully you never heard me, Mr. Burns."

"Never, I confess. I was only talking from the diamond side. Like all things else, they give us according to what we have. To him that hath shall be given. The fine lady may see in her fine diamonds only victory over a rival; the philosopher may read embodied in them law inexorably beautiful; and the Christian poet—oh, I have read my Spenser, Mr. Warlock!—will choose the diamond for its many qualities, as the best and only substance wherein to represent the shield of the faith that overcometh the world. Like the gospel itself, diamonds are a savour of life unto life, or a savour of death unto death, according to the character of them that look on them."

"That is true enough. Every gift of God is good that is received with faith and thanksgiving, and whatsoever is not of faith is sin. But will you come?"

Mr. Burns did at length actually consent to close his shop for three days, and go with Cosmo.

"It will not be a bad beginning," he said, as if in justification of himself to himself, "towards retiring from business altogether—which I might have done long ago," he added, "but for you, sir!"

"It is very well for me you did not," rejoined Cosmo, but declined to explain. This piqued Mr. Burns's curiosity, and he set about his preparations at once.

In the mean time things went well at Castle Warlock, with—shall I say?—one exception: Grizzie had a severe fit of repentance, mourning bitterly that she had sent away the youth she worshipped with only eighteen pence in his pocket.

"He's sure to come to grief for the want o' jist that ae shillin' mair!" she said over and over to herself; "an' it'll be a' an' only my wite! What gien we never see 'im again! Eh, sirs! it's a terrible thing to be made sae contrairy! What'll come o' me in the neist warl', it wad be hard for onybody to say!"

On the evening of the second day, however, while she was "washing up" in the gloomiest frame of mind, in walked Cosmo, and a gentleman after him.

"Hoo's my father, Grizzie?" asked Cosmo.

"Won'erfu' weel, sir," answered Grizzie, with a little more show ofrespect than usual.

"This is Grizzie, Mr. Burns," said Cosmo. "I have told you about Grizzie that takes care of us all!"

"How do you do, Grizzie?" said Mr. Burns, and shook hands with her.

"I am glad to make your acquaintance."

"Here, Grizzie!" said Cosmo; "here's the auchteen pence ye gae me for expences: say ye're pleased I haena waured it.—Jist a word wi' ye, Grizzie!—Luik here—only dinna tell!"

He had drawn her aside to the corner where stood the meal-chest, and now showed her a bunch of banknotes. So many she had never seen—not to say in a bunch, but scattered over all her life! He took from the bunch ten pounds and gave her.

"Mr. Burns," he said aloud, "will be staying over to-morrow, I hope."

Grizzie GLOWERED at the money as if such a sum could not be canny, but the next moment, like one suddenly raised to dignity and power, she began to order Aggie about as if she were her mistress, and an imperious one. Within ten minutes she had her bonnet on, and was setting out for Muir o'Warlock to make purchases.

But oh the pride and victory that rose and towered and sank weary, only to rise and tower again in Grizzie's mind, as she walked to the village with all that money in her pocket! The dignity of the house of Warlock had rushed aloft like a sudden tidal wave, and on its very crest Grizzie was borne triumphing heavenwards. From one who begged at strange doors for the daily bread of a decayed family, all at once she was the housekeeper of the most ancient and honourable castle in all Scotland, steering the great ship of its fortunes! With a reserve and a dignity as impressive as provoking to the gossips of the village, from one shop to another she went, buying carefully but freely, rousing endless curiosity by her look of mystery, and her evident consciousness of infinite resource. But when at last she went to the Warlock Arms, and bought a half dozen of port at the incredible price of six shillings a bottle, there was not a doubt left in the Muir that "the auld laird" had at last and somehow come in for a great fortune. Grizzie returned laden herself, and driving before her two boys carrying a large basket between them. Now she was equal to the proper entertainment of the visitor, for whom, while she was away, Aggie, obedient to her orders, was preparing the state bedroom—thinking all the time of that night long ago when she and Cosmo got it ready for Lord Mergwain.

Cosmo and Mr. Burns found the laird seated by the fire in his room; and there Cosmo recounted the whole story of the finding of the gems, beginning far back with the tales concerning the old captain, as they had come to his knowledge, just touching on the acquisition of the bamboo, and the discovery of its contents, and so descending to the revelations of the previous two days. But all the time he never gave the jeweller a hint of what was coming. In relating the nearer events, he led him from place to place, acting his part in them, and forestalling nothing, never once mentioning stone or gem, then suddenly poured out the diamonds on the rug in the firelight.

Leaving the result to the imagination of my reader, I will now tell him a thing that took place while Cosmo was away.

CHAPTER LVII
TOO SURE COMES TOO LATE

The same day Cosmo left, Lord Lick-my-loof sent to the castle the message that he wanted to see young Mr. Warlock. The laird returned the answer that Cosmo was from home, and would not be back till the day following.

In the afternoon came his lordship, desiring an interview with the laird; which, not a little against his liking, the laird granted.

"Set ye doon, my lord," said Grizzie, "an' rist yer shins. The ro'd atween this an' the ludge, maun be slithery."

His lordship yielded and took the chair she offered, for he would rather propitiate than annoy her, seeing he was more afraid of Grizzie than aught in creation except dogs. And Grizzie, appreciating his behaviour, had compassion upon him and spared him.

"His lairdship," she said, "maunna be hurried puttin' on his dressin'-goon. He's no used to see onybody sae ear'. I s' gang an' see gien I can help him; he never wad hae a man aboot 'im 'cep' the yoong laird himsel'."

Relieved by her departure, his lordship began to look about the kitchen, and seeing Aggie, asked after her father. She replied that he was but poorly.

"Getting old!"

"Surely, my lord. He's makin' ready to gang."

"Poor old man!"

"What wad yer lordship hae? Ye wadna gang on i' this warl' for ever?"

"'Deed and I would have no objection—so long as there were pretty girls like you in it."

"Suppose the lasses had a ch'ice tu, my lord?"

"What would they do?"

"Gang, I'm thinkin'."

"What makes you so spiteful, Aggie? I never did you any harm that I know of."

"Ye ken the story o' the guid Samaritan, my lord?" said Aggie.

"I read my bible, I hope."

"Weel, I'll tell ye a bit mair o' 't nor ye'll get there. The Levite an' the Pharisee—naebody ever said yer lordship was like aither o' them—"

"No, thank God! nobody could."

"—they gaed by o' the ither side, an' loot him lie. But there was ane cam up, an' tuik 'im by the legs,'cause he lay upo' his lan', an'wad hae pu'dhim aff. But jist i' the nick o' time by cam the guid Samaritan, an' set him rinnin'. Sae it was sune a sma' maitter to onybody but the ill neebour, wha couldna weel gang straucht to Paradise. Abraham wad hae a fine time o' 't wi' sic a bairn in 's bosom!"

"Damn the women! Young and old they're too many for me!" said his lordship to himself,—and just then Grizzie returning invited him to walk up to the laird's room, where he made haste to set forth the object of his visit.

"I said to your son, Glenwarlock, when he came to me the other morning, that I would not buy."

"Yes, my lord."

"I have however, lawyer though I be, changed my mind, and am come to renew my offer."

"In the meantime, however, we have changed our minds, my lord, and will not sell."

"That's very foolish of you."

"It may seem so, my lord; but you must allow us to do the best with what modicum of judgment we possess."

"What can have induced you to come to such a fatal resolution! I am thoroughly acquainted with the value of the land all about here, and am convinced you will not get such a price from another, be he who he may."

"You may be right, my lord, but we do not want to sell."

"Nobody, I repeat, will make you a better—I mean an equal offer."

"I could well believe it might not be worth more to anyone else—so long, that is, as your lordship's property shuts it in on every side; but to your lordship—"

"That is my affair; what it is worth to you is the question.

"It is worth more to us than you can calculate."

"I daresay, where sentiment sends prices up! But that is not in the market. Take my advice and a good offer. You can't go on like this, you know. You will lose your position entirely. Why, what are you thinking of!"

"I am thinking, my lord, that you have scarcely been such a neighbour as to induce us to confide our plans to you. I have said we will not sell—and as I am something of an invalid—"

Lord Lick-my-loof rose, feeling fooled—and annoyed with himself and everybody in "the cursed place."

"Good morning, Glenwarlock," he said. "You will live to repent this morning."

"I hope not, my lord. I have lived nearly long enough. Good morning!"

His lordship went softly down the stair, hurried through the kitchen, and walked slowly home, thinking whether it might not be worth his while to buy up Glenwarlock's few remaining debts.

CHAPTER LVIII.
A LITTLE LIFE WELL ROUNDED

"Pirate or not, the old gentleman was a good judge of diamonds!" said Mr. Burns, laying down one of the largest. "Not an inferior one in all I have gone over! Your uncle was a knowing man, sir: diamonds are worth much more now than when he brought them home. These rough ones will, I trust, turn out well: we cannot be so sure of them."

"How much suffering the earlier possession of them would have prevented!" said the laird. "And now they are ten times more welcome that we have the good of that first."

"Sapphires and all of the finest quality!" continued Mr. Burns, in no mood for reflection. "I'll tell you what you must do, Mr. Cosmo: you must get a few sheets of tissue paper, and wrap every stone up separately—a long job, but the better worth doing! There must be a thousand of them!"

"How can they hurt, being the hardest things in the world?" said Cosmo.

"Put them in any other company you please—wheel them to the equator in a barrowful of gravel, or line their box with sand-paper, and you may leave them naked as they were born! But, bless thy five wits! did you never hear the proverb,'Diamond cut diamond'? They're all of a sort, you see! I'd as soon shut up a thousand game-cocks in the same cellar. If they don't scratch each other, they may, or they might, or they could, or they would, or at any rate they should scratch each other. It was all very well so long as they lay in the wall of this your old diamond-mine. But now you'll be for ever playing with them! No, no! wrap each one up by itself, I say."

"We're so far from likely to keep fingering them, Mr. Burns," said Cosmo, "that our chief reason for wishing you to see them was that you might, if you would oblige us, take them away, and dispose of them for us!"

"A-ah!" rejoined Mr. Burns, "I fear I am getting too old for a transaction of such extent! I should have to go to London—to Paris—to Amsterdam—who knows where?—that is, to make the best of them—perhaps to America! And here was I thinking of retiring!"

"Then let this be your last business-transaction. It will not be a bad one to finish up with. You can make it a good thing for yourself as well as for us."

"If I undertake it, it shall be at a fixed percentage."

"Ten?" suggested Cosmo.

"No; there is no risk, only labour in this. When I took ten for that other diamond, I paid you the money for it, you will remember: that makes a difference. I wish you would come with me; I could help you to see a little of the world."

"I should like it greatly, but I could not leave my father."

Mr. Burns was a little nervous about the safety of the portmanteau that held such a number of tiny parcels in silver paper, and would not go inside the coach although it rained, but took a place in sight of his luggage. I will not say what the diamonds brought. I would not have my book bristle with pounds like a French novel with francs. They more than answered even Mr. Burns's expectations.

When he was gone, and all hope for this world vanished in the fruition of assured solvency, the laird began to fail. While Cosmo was yet on the way with Mr. Burns and the portmanteau to meet the coach, he said to his faithful old friend,

"I'm tired, Grizzie; I'll gang to my bed, I think. Gien ye'll gie me a han', I winna bide for Cosmo."

"Eh, sir, what for sud ye be in sic a hurry to sleep awa' the bonny daylicht?" remonstrated Grizzie, shot through with sudden fear, nor daring allow to herself she was afraid. "Bide till the yoong laird comes back wi' the news: he winna be lang."

"Gien ye haena time, Grizzie, I can manage for mysel'. Gang yer wa's, lass. Ye hae been a richt guid freen' to yer auld mistress! Ye hae dune yer best for him 'at she left!"

"Eh, sir! dinna speyk like that. It's terrible to hearken til!—I' the verra face o' the providence 'at's been takin' sic pains to mak up to ye for a' ye hae gang throu'—noo whan a 's weel, an' like to be weel, to turn roon' like this, an' speyk o' gaein' to yer bed! It's no worthy o' ye, laird!"

He was so amused with her expostulation that he laughed heartily, brightened up, and did not go to bed before Cosmo came—kept up, indeed, a good part of the day, and retired with the sun shining in at his western window.

The next day, however, he did not rise. But he had no suffering to speak of, and his face was serene as the gathering of the sunrays to go down together; a perfect yet deepening peace was upon it. Cosmo scarcely left him, but watched and waited, with a cold spot at his heart, which kept growing bigger and bigger, as he saw his father slowly drifting out on the ebb-tide of this earthly life. Cosmo had now to go through that most painful experience of all—when the loved seem gradually withdrawing from human contact and human desires, their cares parting slowly farther and farther from the cares of those they leave—a gulf ever widening between, already impassable as lapsing ages can make it. But when final departure had left the mind free to work for the heart, Cosmo said to himself—"What if the dying who seem thus divided from us, are but looking over the tops of insignificant earthly things? What if the heart within them is lying content in a closer contact with ours than our dull fears and too level outlook will allow us to share? One thing their apparent withdrawal means—that we must go over to them; they cannot retrace, for that would be to retrograde. They have already begun to learn the language and ways of the old world, begun to be children there afresh, while we remain still the slaves of new, low—bred habits of unbelief and self-preservation, which already to them look as unwise as unlovely. But our turn will come, and we shall go after, and be taught of them. In the meantime let us so live that it may be the easier for us in dying to let the loved ones know that we are loving them all the time."

The laird ceased to eat, and spoke seldom, but would often smile—only there was in his smile too that far-off something which troubled his son. One word he often murmured—PEACE. Two or three times there came as it were a check in the drift seaward, and he spoke plainly. This is very near what he said on one of these occasions:

"Peace! peace! Cosmo, my son, ye dinna ken hoo strong it can be! Naebody can ken what it's like till it comes. I hae been troubled a' my life, an' noo the verra peace is 'maist ower muckle for me! It's like as gien the sun wad put oot the fire. I jist seem whiles to be lyin' here waitin' for ye to come intil my peace, an' be ane wi' me! But ye hae a lang this warl's life afore ye yet. Eh! winna it be gran' whan it's weel ower, an' ye come! You an' me an' yer mother an' God an' a'! But somehoo I dinna seem to be lea'in' ye aither—no half sae muckle as whan ye gaed awa' to the college, an' that although ye're ten times mair to me noo than ye war than. Deith canna weel be muckle like onything we think aboot it; but there maun surely be a heap o' fowk unco dreary an' fusionless i' the warl' deith taks us til; an' the mair I think aboot it, the mair likly it seems we'll hae a heap to du wi' them—a sair wark tryin' to lat them ken what they are, an' whaur they cam frae, an' hoo they maun gang to win hame—for deith can no more be yer hame nor a sair fa' upo' the ro'd be yer bed. There may be mony ane there we ca'd auld here,'at we'll hae to tak like a bairn upo' oor knees an' bring up. I see na anither w'y o' 't. The Lord may ken a better, but I think he's shawn me this. For them 'at are Christ's maun hae wark like his to du, an' what for no the personal ministrations o' redemption to them 'at are deid, that they may come alive by kennin' him? Auld bairns as weel as yoong hae to be fed wi' the spune."

The day before that on which he went, he seemed to wake up suddenly, and said,—

"Cosmo, I'm no inclined to mak a promise wi'regaird to ony possible communication wi' ye frae the ither warl', nor do I the least expec' to appear or speyk to ye. But ye needna for that conclude me awa' frae ye a' thegither. Fowk may hae a hantle o' communication ohn aither o' them kent it at the time, I'm thinkin'. Min' this ony gait: God's oor hame, an' gien ye be at hame an' I be at hame, we canna be far sun'ert!"

As the sun was going down, closing a lovely day of promise, the boat of sleep, with a gentle wind of life and birth filling its sail, bore, softly gliding, the old pilgrim across the faint border between this and that. It may be that then, for a time, like a babe new-born, he needed careful hands and gentle nursing; and if so, there was his wife, who must surely by now have had time to grow strong. Cosmo wept and was lonely, but not broken-hearted; for he was a live man with a mighty hope and great duties, each of them ready to become a great joy. Such a man I do not think even diamonds could hurt, although, where breathes no wind of life, those very crystals of light are amongst the worst in Beelzebub's army to fly-blow a soul into a thing of hate and horror.