“She was nae strong enough, Jamie, man,” the doctor told him.  “Yell ha’ an invalid wife on your hands for months.  Gie her gude food, and plenty on’t, when she can eat again let her ha’ plenty rest.  She’ll be richt then—­she’ll be better, indeed, than she’s ever been.  But not if things go badly—­she can never stand that.”

Jamie had aye been carefu’ wi’ his siller; when he knew the wife was going to present him wi’ a bairn he’d done his part to mak’ ready.  So the few pound he had in the bank had served, at the start, weel enough.  The strikers got a few shillings each week frae the union; just enough, it turned out, in Jamie’s case, to pay the rent and buy the bare necessities of life.  His own siller went fast to keep mither and wean alive when she was worst.  And when they were gone, as they were before that day I talked wi’ him, things looked black indeed for Jamie and the bit family he was tryin’ to raise.

He could see no way oot.  And then, one nicht, there came a knocking at the door.  It was the doctor—­a kindly, brusque man, who’d been in the army once.  He was popular, but it was because he made his patients afraid of him, some said.  They got well because they were afraid to disobey him.  He had a very large practice, and, since he was a bachelor, with none but himself to care for, he was supposed to be almost wealthy—­certainly he was rich for a country doctor.

“Weel, Jamie, man, and ho’s the wife and the wean the day?” he asked.

“They’re nane so braw, doctor,” said Jamie, dolefully.  “But yell see that for yersel’, I’m thinkin’.”

The doctor went in, talked to Jamie’s wife a spell, told her some things to do, and looked carefully at the sleeping bairn, which he would not have awakened.  Then he took Jamie by the arm.

“Come ootside, Jamie,” he said.  “I want to hae a word wi’ ye.”

Jamie went oot, wondering.  The doctor walked along wi’ him in silence a wee bit; then spoke, straight oot, after his manner.

“Yon’s a bonnie wean o’ yours, Jamie,” he said.  “I’ve brought many a yin into the world, and I’m likin’ him fine.  But ye can no care for him, and he’s like to dee on your hands.  Yer wife’s in the same case.  She maun ha’ nourishin’ food, and plenty on’t.  Noo, I’m rich enough, and I’m a bachelor, with no wife nor bairn o’ my ain.  For reasons I’ll not tell ye I’ll dee, as I’ve lived, by my lain.  I’ll not be marryin’ a wife, I mean by that.

“But I like that yin of yours.  And here’s what I’m offerin’ ye.  I’ll adopt him, gi’en you’ll let me ha’ him for my ain.  I’ll save his life.  I’ll bring him up strong and healthy, as a gentleman and a gentleman’s son.  And I’ll gie ye a hundred pounds to boot—­a hundred pounds that’ll be the saving of your wife’s life, so that she can be made strong and healthy to bear ye other bairns when you’re at work again.”

“Gie up the wean?” cried Jamie, his face working.  “The wean my Annie near died to gie me?  Doctor, is it sense you’re talking?”