and that they were no more than in time to hear a dying confession, which astonished Lewis beyond measure, and almost crushed the heart out of Alan.

CHAPTER X.

A DEATH-BED CONFESSION.

ALEXANDER DALZIEL might live for one or even two days; but it was nevertheless evident to Mr. Dundas that he could not survive much longer, if so long. He was in that condition which gives death an hourly chance of dealing the final blow for victory.

Sandy was perfectly well aware that his end was fast approaching, and that only one Physician could heal him of his disease. Yet, although the idea of death had for him no terror, he seemed haunted by some profound anxiety. An observer who knew him not would have thought that he had failed to find that final peace of soul and resignation to the will of God which makes the translation of the dying believer from the mortal to the immortal so divine and so beautiful a spectacle. This, however, although a right inference from the appearances of the case, would have been altogether wrong as an inference from the actual facts.

Sandy Dalziel had all his life been a well-living man, which does not mean merely that he had regularly and faithfully attended to all the visible offices of religion. That, indeed, may mean all that is involved in being a Christian; but it may mean quite otherwise. We can well understand how Sandy did seem to some of his neighbours to be deficient in religious fervour. He was certainly not a convulsionary in the manifestation of his faith, and he never seemed to have been converted. But the truth is that the work of conversion, which sometimes appears to come like a shock, was in him the silent and almost invisible process of years. Religious feelings, sentiments, and convictions grew with his growth, and did not strike him suddenly, like flashes of lightning. His faith was silent, deep, and constant; and therefore it was that now, on his death-bed, though fully conscious of his own vast demerit, he was yet at peace with God, towards whom he looked, while leaning joyously on the strong tender arm of the Redeemer.

Yet there was in the manner of the sick man a singular air of anxiety, which was evidently fully shared by his weeping wife; and the feeling in both seemed to grow keener as they looked at Alan. In his grief, the young man could see nothing that was not attributable to the solemnity of the scene; but Mr. Dundas suspected that there was something on

the mind of his kinsman which he wished to communicate before leaving the world. What that was, Lewis tried to guess by running over in his mind all the subjects that he could possibly think of; but in vain. He concluded, however, that it probably referred to the future interests of Alan and his mother.

After some earnest conversation, Sandy beckoned Lewis and Alan close to his bedside, the mother sitting near also, apparently knowing what was coming. Leaning forward upon a little table that stood near, she gazed sadly upon her husband's face, herself hardly less pale and haggard than the dying man. He tried to speak several times, but as his eye caught that of Alan, he stopped like one struck suddenly dumb. Seeing this, his wife rose and gave him a little wine mixed with water, and whispered in his ear,

'Hae, courage, Sandy. It's a waefu' wark; but ye ken it maun be done. It's a' my faut.'

'Nae, wifie, ye maunna say that; it's mine-a' mine the Lord forgie me!'

Clasping his thin white hands, and closing his eyes for a moment, as if in prayer or summoning up courage for his task, he seemed more composed, and looked at his son with a strange tenderness. Then, addressing Mr. Dundas in the first instance, he said,

'Lewis, my days are numbered; and I hae sent

for you and Alan to hear a story that I couldna in conscience tak' wi' me to the grave.'

He paused again and gazed at Alan, whose curiosity, like that of his companion, was thoroughly roused by the solemn words of his father.

'We thought to keep it secret for a while langer, but it'll no keep; and something tells me we hae done wrang in no letting ye baith ken afore this. Prepare yoursel', Alan, to hear a thing that'll maybe mak' ye think less o' us than ye hae done.'

'No, father, no! That's impossible! I can never love or serve you enough, for your love and goodness to me. God knows, I have not always been the best of sons; but He knows that both of you have been to me the best and kindest of parents.'

Ah, that's it,' said the invalid tremulously; 'we may hae been mair or less guid and kind to ye; but, Alan, my puir lad, we're no your faither and mither, and ye are no our son. O Lord that ye were!'

'Good heavens!' gasped Alan, in a low husky voice, overwhelmed with astonishment;

then, am I?'

whose son,

'That's the mystery,' groaned Sandy, we dinna ken oursels.'

'O Alan, Alan,' moaned piteously the poor wife, as she slipped round and took his hand in one of her own, while she twined the other about his neck,

and fondled him with motherly tenderness. 'Hae

patience a wee,' she whispered, and it'll maybe a' come clear in the end. Whasever son ye be, ye cam' like a son o' God to us, and brought wi' ye the joy that was denied us in ane o' our ain. Wha were your faither and mither? Mony a time hae we speered that at oursels, and tried to fin' out frae ither folk that we thought might hae kent something. But naething could we learn; and then we gied it up, and we believed that God, wha had surely sent ye for guid, would be a Faither to ye, as He is to a' the freenless and the forlorn. Ye were like a wee helpless, bleatin' lammie, Alan, when ye cam' to us; but as ye grew aulder by days and months, our hearts opened to ye mair and mair; and sae, when ye began to toddle about, and chirp out bits o' words, like a birdie learnin' to sing, we kent in our hearts what a comfort and a blessing the Lord had sent us. Ye were a bonnie wean, wi' your curly gowden hair-and aye sae cheery as ye were !—and now that ye're man-muckle, and sae braw and handsome, it's hard, hard to lose ye a'thegither.'

The poor mother, as we shall still call her, was quite overpowered by these early reminiscences, and sobbed on Alan's shoulder. Alan himself was greatly affected, and wailed rather than spoke, in a voice choked with emotion

'Mother, mother, mother!'