and I laid my drowned bairn on her mother’s knee.  Everything that could be done was done, and a doctor was brought frae Dunse; but the spark o’ life was out o’ my bit Jeannie.  I felt the bereavement very bitterly; and for many a day, when Margaret and Andrew sat down at the table by our sides, my heart filled; for as I was helpin’ their plates, I wad put out my hand again to help anither, but there was nae ither left to help.  But Jeannie took our bairn’s death far sairer to heart than even I did.  For several years she never was hersel’ again, and just seemed dwinin’ awa.  Sea-bathing was strongly recommended; and as she had a friend in Portobello, I got her to gang there for a week or twa during summer.  Our daughter Margaret was now about eighteen, and her brother Andrew about fifteen; and as I thought it would do them good, I allowed them to gang wi’ their mither to the bathing.  They were awa for about a month, and I firmly believe that Jeannie was a great deal the better o’t.  But it was a dear bathing to me on mony accounts for a’ that.  Margaret was an altered lassie a’thegither.  She used to be as blithe as a lark in May, and now there was nae gettin’ her to do onything; but she sat couring and unhappy, and seighin’ every handel-a-while, as though she were miserable.  It was past my comprehension, and her mother could assign nae particular reason for it.  As for Andrew, he did naething but yammer, yammer, frae morn till night, about the sea; or sail boats, rigged wi’ thread and paper sails, in the burn.  When he was at the bathing he had been doun aboot Leith, and had seen the ships, and naething wad serve him but he would be a sailor.  Night and day did he torment my life out to set him to sea.  But I wadna hear tell o’t—­his mother was perfectly wild against it, and poor auld grannie was neither to hand nor to bind.  We had suffered enough frae the burn at our door, without trusting our only son upon the wide ocean.  However, all we could say had nae effect—­the craik was never out o’ his head; and it was still, ’I will be a sailor.’  Ae night he didna come in as usual for his four-hours, and supper time cam, and we sent a’ round about to seek him, but naebody had heard o’ him.  We were in unco distress, and it struck me at ance that he had run to sea.  I saddled my horse that very night and set out for Leith, but could get nae trace o’ him.  This was a terrible trial to us, and ye may think what it was when I tell ye it was mair than a twelvemonth before we heard tell o’ him; and the first accounts we had was a letter by his ain hand, written frae Bengal.  We had had a cart down at Dunse for some bits o’ things, and the lad brought the letter in his pocket; and weel do I mind how Jeannie cam’ fleein’ wi’ it open in her hand across the fields to where I was looking after some workers thinnin’ turnips, crying, ‘David!  David! here’s a letter frae Andrew!’ ‘Read it! read it!’ cried I, for my een were blind wi’ joy.  But Andrew’s rinnin’ awa wasna the only