I never thought to hear more of him.  Did not want to.  He was lost.  He had married a barmaid, and I knew where his father and mother lay under the sod.  And my own old mater kept flowers on the two graves summer and winter.

One night I was working here late—­green tea, towel round my head—­oral next morning.  There was a knock at the door.  The landlady was in bed, so I went.  There was a laddie there, bare-legged and with a voice like a rip-saw.

“If ye please, there’s a man wants awfu’ to see ye at Grant’s Land at the back o’ the Pleasance.”

I took my stick and went out into the night.  It was just coming light, and the gas-jets began to look foolish.  I stumbled up to the door, and the boy showed me in.  It was a poor place—­of the poorest.  The stair was simply filthy.

But the room into which I was shown was clean, and there on a bed, with the gas and the dawn from the east making a queer light on his face, sat Fenwick Major.

He held out his hand.

“How are you, Chirnside?  Kind of you to come.  This is the little wife!” was what he said, but I can tell you he looked a lot more.

At the word a girl in black stole silently out of the shadow, in which I had not noticed her.

She had a white, drawn face, and she watched Fenwick Major as a mother watches a sick child that is going to be taken from her up at the hospital.

“I wanted to see you, old chap, before I went—­you know.  It’s a long way to go, and there’s no use in hanging back even if I could.  But the little wife says she knows the road, and that I won’t find it dark.  She can’t read much, the little wife—­education neglected and all that.  Precious lot I made of mine, medals and all!  But she’s a trump.  She made a man of me.  Worked for me, nursed me.  Yes, you did, Sis, and I shall say it.  It won’t hurt me to say it.  Nothing will hurt me now, Sis.”

“James, do not excite yourself!” said the little wife just then.

I had forgotten his name was James.  He was only Fenwick Major to me.

“Now, little wife,” he said, “let me tell Chirnside how I’ve been a bad fellow, but the Little ’Un pulled me through.  It was the best day’s work I ever did when I married Sis!”

“James!” she said again, warningly.

“Look here, Chirnside,” Fenwick went on, “the Little ’Un can’t read; but, do you know, she sleeps with my old mother’s Bible under her pillow.  I can’t read either, though you would hardly know it.  I lost my sight the year I married (my own fault, of course), and I’ve been no better than a block ever since.  I want you to read me a bit out of the old Book.”

“Why didn’t you send for a minister, Fenwick?” I said.  “He could talk to you better than I can.”

“Don’t want anybody to speak to me.  Little ’Un has done all that.  But I want you to read.  And, see here, Chirnside, I was a brute beast to you once—­quarrelled with you years ago—­”