“Sandy had one just like it,” he would say.  “We bought them thegither in Aberdeen.  Twa braw lads were we then.  I’m wonderin’ where poor Sandy is the day!”

So, if anybody remembers the little spare man, with the child-like, candid face and the big blue bonnet, let them recall him kindly.  It is his true history I am telling to-day.

Davie had, as I said before, a hard boyhood.  He knew what cold, hunger and long hours meant as soon as he knew anything; but it was glorified in his memory by the two central figures in it—­a good mother, for whom he toiled and suffered cheerfully, and a big brother who helped him bravely over all the bits of life that were too hard for his young feet.

When the mother died, the lads sailed together for America.  They had a “far-awa’” cousin in New York, who, report said, had done well in the plastering business, and Sandy never doubted but that one Morrison would help another Morrison the wide world over.  With this faith in their hearts and a few shillings in their pockets, the two lads landed.  The American Morrison had not degenerated.  He took kindly to his kith and kin, and offered to teach them his own craft.

For some time the brothers were well content; but Sandy was of an ambitious, adventurous temper, and was really only waiting until he felt sure that wee Davie could take care of himself.  Nothing but the Great West could satisfy Sandy’s hopes; but he never dreamt of exposing his brother to its dangers and privations.

“You’re nothing stronger than a bit lassie, Davie,” he said, “and you’re no to fret if I don’t take you wi’ me.  I’m going to make a big fortune, and when I have gotten the gold safe, I’se come back to you, and we’ll spend it thegither dollar for dollar, my wee lad.”

“Sure as death!  You’ll come back to me?”

“Sure as death, I’ll come back to you, Davie!” and Sandy thought it no shame to cry on his little brother’s neck, and to look back, with a loving, hopeful smile at Davie’s sad, wistful face, just as long as he could see it.

It was Davie’s nature to believe and to trust.  With a pitiful confidence and constancy he looked for the redemption of his brother’s promise.  After twenty years of absolute silence, he used to sit in the evenings after his work was over, and wonder “how Sandy and he had lost each other.”  For the possibility of Sandy forgetting him never once entered his loyal heart.

He could find plenty of excuses for Sandy’s silence.  In the long years of their separation many changes had occurred even in a life so humble as Davie’s.  First, his cousin Morrison died, and the old business was scattered and forgotten.  Then Davie had to move his residence very frequently; had even to follow lengthy jobs into various country places, so that his old address soon became a very blind clew to him.

Then seven years after Sandy’s departure the very house in which they had dwelt was pulled down; an iron factory was built on its site, and probably a few months afterward no one in the neighborhood could have told anything at all about Davie Morrison.  Thus, unless Sandy should come himself to find his brother, every year made the probability of a letter reaching him less and less likely.