“Eh, Tom,” I’ll say.  “Here’s a bit o’ luck!  Here’s the week frae September fifteenth on next year when I’ve no dates!”

“Aye, Harry,” he’ll answer me.  “D’ye no remember?  We’ll be on the ocean then, bound for America.  That’s why there’s no dates that week.”

But the time will be coming soon when I can stop and rest and tak’ life easy.  ’Twill no be as happy a time as I’d dreamed it micht be.  His mither and I had looked forward to settling doon when ma work was done, wi’ my boy John living nearby.  I bought my farm at Dunoon that he micht ha’ a place o’ his ain to tak’ his wife tae when he married her, and where his bairns could be brought up as bairns should be, wi’ glen and hill to play wi’.  Aweel, God has not willed that it should be sae.  Mrs. Lauder and I canna have the grandchildren we’d dreamed aboot to play at our knees.

But we’ve one another still, and there’s muckle tae be thankfu’ for.

One thing I liked fine aboot living in London as I did.  I got to know my boy better than I could ha’ done had we stayed at hame ayant the Tweed.  I could sleep hame almost every nicht, and I’d get up early enough i’ the morning to spend some time wi’ him.  He was at school a great deal, but he was always glad tae see his dad.  He was a rare hand wi’ the piano, was John—­a far better musician than ever I was or shall be.  He’d play accompaniments for me often, and I’ve never had an accompanist I liked sae well.  It’s no because he was my boy I say that he had a touch, and a way of understanding just what I was trying tae do when I sang a song, that made his accompaniment a part of the song and no just something that supported ma voice.

But John had no liking for the stage or the concert platform.  It was the law that interested him.  That aye seemed a little strange tae me.  But I was glad that he should do as it pleased him.  It was a grand thing, his mother and I thought, that we could see him gae to Cambridge, as we’d dreamed, once, many years before it ever seemed possible, that he micht do.  And before the country called him to war he took his degree, and was ready to begin to read law.

We played many a game o’ billiards together, John and I, i’ the wee hoose at Tooting.  We were both fond o’ the game, though I think neither one of us was a great player.  John was better than I, but I was the stronger in yon days, and I’d tak’ a great swipe sometimes and pocket a’ the balls.  John was never quite sure whether I meant to mak’ some o’ the shots, but he was a polite laddie, and he’d no like to be accusing his faither o’ just being lucky.

“Did ye mean that shot, pal” he’d ask me, sometimes.  I’d aye say yes, and, in a manner o’ speaking, I had.

Aweel, yon days canna come again!  But it’s gude to think upon them.  And it’s better to ha’ had them than no, no matter what Tennyson sang once.  “A sorrow’s crown of sorrow—­to remember happier things.”  Was it no sae it went?  I’m no thinking sae!  I’m glad o’ every memory I have of the boy that lies in France.