Part 8 (2/2)

”Ay, ay,” said the good doctor, when he met me; ”I always feared the worst about Mr. Ronaldson. Not good for man to be alone, sir. I always advised him to take a wife. Never would take my advice. You see the result, Mr. M'Lauchlin. However, we must see the poor man.”

When we arrived, we found all as Mrs. Birnie had said; indeed by this time matters had become worse and worse, and a goodly number of the neighbors were gathered. One old lady recommended that the barber should be sent for to shave Ronaldson's head. This was the least necessary, as his head, poor fellow, was already as bald and smooth as a ball of ivory. Another kind neighbor had brought in some brandy, and Old Ronaldson had taken several gla.s.ses, and p.r.o.nounced it capital; which everyone said was a sure sign ”he was coming to himself.” One of his tender-hearted neighbors, who had helped herself to a breakfast cupful of this medicine, was shedding tears profusely, and as she kept rocking from side to side, nursing her elbows, she cried bitterly: ”Poor Mr.

Ronaldson's lost his senses!”

The instant Dr. Macnab appeared, Old Ronaldson stepped forward, shook him warmly by the hand, and said: ”I'm truly glad to see you, doctor.

You will soon put it all right. I have only lost my _senses_--that's all! That's what all these women are making this row about.”

”Let me feel your pulse,” said the doctor gently.

”Oh, nonsense, doctor,” cried Ronaldson--”nonsense; I've only lost my _senses_.” And he made as if he would fly at the heap of drawers, dust, and rubbish which lay in the centre of the floor, and have it all raked out again.

”Oh, lost your senses, have you?” said the doctor with a bland smile.

”You'll soon get over that--that's a trifle.” But he deliberately pulled out his big gold repeater and held Ronaldson by the wrist. ”Just as I feared. Pulse ninety-five, eye troubled, face flushed, muckle excitement,” etc. So there and then, Old Ronaldson was doomed. I did not wish a painful scene; so, when I got my certificate signed by the doctor, I quietly slipped out, got a pair of horses and a close carriage, and asked Mr. Ronaldson to meet me, if he felt able, at the inn in half an hour, as I felt sure a walk in the open air would do him good. He gladly fell in with this plan, and promised to be with me at noon certain.

As I have said, he is an old soldier, was an officer's servant in fact, and is a most tidy and punctual person. But old Mrs. Birnie had, with much thoughtfulness, the moment he began to make preparations for this, put his razors out of the way. Hereupon he got worse and worse, stamped and stormed, and at last worked himself into a terrible pa.s.sion. I grew tired waiting at the inn, and so returned, and found him in a sad state.

When he saw me, he cried: ”Oh, Mr. M'Lauchlin, the deil's in this house this day.”

”Very true,” said Mrs. Birnie to me in an aside. ”You see, sir, he speaks sense--whiles.”

”Everything has gone against me this day,” he went on; ”but,” said he, ”I'll get out of this if my beard never comes off. Hand me my Wellington boots, Mrs. Birnie; I hope you have not swallowed them, too!”

The moment Ronaldson began to draw on his boots, affairs changed as if by magic. ”There,” cried he triumphantly--”There is that confounded paper of yours which has made all this row! See, Mrs. Birnie,” he exclaimed, flouris.h.i.+ng my census paper in his hand; ”_I've found my senses_!”

”Oh,” cried the much affected widow, ”I am glad to hear it,” and in her ecstatic joy she rushed upon the old soldier, took his head to her bosom, and wept for joy. I seized the opportunity to beat a hasty retreat, and left the pair to congratulate each other upon the happy finding of Old Ronaldson's _senses_.

=It's a Gran' Nicht=

The following is a fine comic sketch of an interview between a Scotch peasant lover and ”Kirsty,” his sweetheart, who was only waiting for him to speak. It is in fine contrast with the confident, rus.h.i.+ng away in which that sort of thing is done in other countries.

The young lover stands by the cottage gable in the fading light, declaring, ”It's a gran' nicht!” Ever so often he says it, yet he feels its grandeur not at all, for the presence of something grander or better, I suppose--the maiden, Kirsty Grant. Does he whisper soft somethings of her betterness, I wonder, while thus he lingers? His only communication is the important fact, ”It's a gran' nicht.” He would linger, blessed in her presence, but the closing day warns him to be gone. It will be midnight before he can reach his village home miles away. Yet was it sweet to linger. ”It's a very gran' nicht, but I maun haist awa'. Mither 'ill be wunnerin',” said he.

”'Deed, ye'll hae tae draw yer feet gey fast tae win hame afore the Sabbath; sae e'en be steppin',” she answered, cooly.

”It's gran'!” said he; ”I wish ilka Sait.u.r.day nicht was lik' this ane.”

”Wi' ye, Sait.u.r.day nicht shud maist be lik' Sunday morn, if ye bevil it richt,” said she, with a toss of her head, for she rightly guessed that somehow the lad's pleasure was referable to herself. ”I maun shut up the coo.”

”Good-nicht!” said he.

”Good-nicht!” said she, disappearing.

He stepped away in the muirland, making for home. ”Isn't she smairt?”

said he to himself; ”man, isn't she smairt? Said she, 'Sait.u.r.day nicht shud aye be wi' ye lik' Sunday morn, if ye beviled it richt!' Was it na a hint for me? Man, I wish I daur spaik oot to her!”

<script>