“And what will you do wi’ yours, Sandy?”

“I am going to buy a farm in New Jersey, Davie.  I was talking with Mr. Black about it this morning.  It will cost twelve thousand dollars, but the gentleman says it will be worth double that in a very few years.  I think that myself, Davie, for I went yesterday to take a good look at it.  It is never well to trust to other folks’ eyes, you know.”

“Then, Sandy, I’ll go shares wi’ you.  We’ll buy the farm together and we’ll live together—­that is, if you would like it.”

“What would I like better?”

“Maybe you have a wife, and then—­”

“No, I have no wife, Davie.  She died nearly thirty years ago.  I have no one but you.”

“And we will grow small fruits, and raise chickens and have the finest dairy in the State, Sandy.”

“That is just my idea, Davie.”

Thus they talked until the winter evening began to close in upon them, and then Davie recollected that his boy, Sandy, would be more than uneasy about him.

“I’ll not ask you there to-night, brother; I want them all to myself to-night.  ’Deed, I’ve been selfish enough to keep this good news from them so long.”

So, with a hand-shake that said what no words could say, the brothers parted, and Davie made haste to catch the next up-town car.  He thought they never had traveled so slowly; he was half inclined several times to get out and run home.

When he arrived there the little kitchen was dark, but there was a fire in the stove and wee Davie—­his namesake—­was sitting, half crying, before it.

The child lifted his little sorrowful face to his grandfather’s, and tried to smile as he made room for him in the warmest place.

“What’s the matter, Davie?”

“I have had a bad day, grandfather.  I did not sell my papers, and Jack Dacey gave me a beating besides; and—­and I really do think my toes are frozen off.”

Then Davie pulled the lad on to his knee, and whispered

“Oh, my wee man, you shall sell no more papers.  You shall have braw new clothes, and go to school every day of your life.  Whist! yonder comes mammy.”

Sallie came in with a worried look, which changed to one of reproach when she saw Davie.

“Oh, father, how could you stay abroad this way?  Sandy is fair daft about you, and is gone to the police stations, and I don’t know where—­”

Then she stopped, for Davie had come toward her, and there was such a new, strange look on his face that it terrified her, and she could only say:  “Father! father! what is it?”

“It is good news, Sallie.  My brother Sandy is come, and he has just given me fifteen thousand dollars; and there is a ten-dollar bill, dear lass, for we’ll have a grand supper to-night, please God.”

By and by they heard poor Sandy’s weary footsteps on the stair, and Sallie said: 

“Not a word, children.  Let grandfather tell your father.”