The dominie knew nothing of this terrible struggle going on ever in the man’s soul who sat by his side.  He saw that Crawford was irritable and moody, but he laid the blame of it on Colin.  Oh, if the lad would only write, he would go himself and bring him back to his father, though he should have to seek him at the ends of the earth.  But four years passed away, and the prodigal sent no backward, homeward sign.  Every night, then, the laird looked a moment into the dominie’s face, and always the dominie shook his head.  Ah, life has silences that are far more pathetic than death’s.

One night Crawford said, almost in a whisper,

“He’ll be dead, Tallisker.”

And Tallisker answered promptly,

“He’ll come hame, laird.”

No other words about Colin passed between the two men in four years.  But destiny loves surprises.  One night Tallisker laid a letter on the table.

“It is for you, laird; read it.”

It was a singular letter to come after so long a silence, and the laird’s anger was almost excusable.

“Listen, Tallisker; did e’er you hear the like?

“’Dear father:  I want, for a very laudable purpose, L4,000.  It is not for myself in any way.  If you will let me have it, I will trouble you with the proper explanations.  If not, they will not be necessary.  I have heard that you are well.  I pray God to continue his mercy to you.

“’Your dutiful son,

“‘Colin Crawford.’

“‘Laudable purpose!’” cried the unhappy father, in a passion.  “The lad is altogether too laudable.  The letter is an insult, Tallisker.  I’ll ne’er forgive him for it.  Oh, what a miserable father I am!”

And the dominie was moved to tears at the sight of his old friend’s bitter anguish.

Still he asserted that Colin had meant it to be a kind letter.

“Dinna tak want o’ sense for want o’ affection laird.  The lad is a conceited prig.  He’s set up wi’ himsel’ about something he is going to do.  Let him hae the money.  I would show him you can gie as grandly as he can ask loftily.”

And, somehow, the idea pleased the laird.  It was something that Colin had been obliged to ask him for money at all.  He sat down and wrote out a check for the amount.  Then he enclosed it with these words: 

“Son Colin Crawford:  I send you what you desire.  I am glad your prospects are sae laudable; maybe it may enter your heart, some day, to consider it laudable to keep the Fifth Command.  Your sister is dead.  Life is lonely, but I thole it.  I want nae explanations.

“Your father,

“Alex.  Crawford.”

“What’s the address, Tallisker?”

“Regent’s Place, London.”