“Lob” contains some of Julie’s brightest flashes of humour, and ends happily, but in it, as in many of her tales, “the dusky strand of death” appears, inwoven with, and thereby heightening, the joys of love and life.  It is a curious fact that, though her power of describing death-bed scenes was so vivid, I believe she never saw any one die; and I will venture to say that her description of McAlister’s last hours surpasses in truth and power the end of Leonard’s “Short Life”; the extinction of the line of “Old Standards” in Daddy Darwin; the unseen call that led Jan’s Schoolmaster away; and will even bear comparison with Jackanapes’ departure through the Grave to that “other side” where “the Trumpets sounded for him.”

In order to appreciate the end, it is almost necessary, perhaps, to have followed John Broom, the ne’er-do-weel lad, and McAlister, the finest man in his regiment, through the scenes which drew them together, and to read how the soldier, who might and ought to have been a “sairgent,” tried to turn the boy back from pursuing the downward path along which he himself had taken too many steps; and then learn how the vagrant’s grateful love and agility enabled him to awaken the sleeping sentinel at his post, and save “the old soldier’s honour.”

John Broom remained by his friend, whose painful fits of coughing, and of gasping for breath, were varied by intervals of seeming stupor.  When a candle had been brought in and placed near the bed, the Highlander roused himself and asked: 

     “Is there a Bible on yon table?  Could ye read a bit to me, laddie?”

     There is little need to dwell on the bitterness of heart with which
     John Broom confessed: 

     “I can’t read big words, McAlister!”

     “Did ye never go to school?” said the Scotchman.

     “I didn’t learn,” said the poor boy; “I played.”

     “Aye, aye.  Weel ye’ll learn when ye gang hame,” said the
     Highlander, in gentle tones.

     “I’ll never get home,” said John Broom, passionately.  “I’ll never
     forgive myself.  I’ll never get over it, that I couldn’t read to ye
     when ye wanted me, McAlister.”

“Gently, gently,” said the Scotchman.  “Dinna daunt yoursel’ ower much wi’ the past, laddie.  And for me—­I’m not that presoomtious to think I can square up a misspent life as a man might compound wi’s creditors.  ’Gin He forgi’es me, He’ll forgi’e; but it’s not a prayer up or a chapter down that’ll stan’ between me and the Almighty.  So dinna fret yoursel’, but let me think while I may.”

     And so, far into the night, the Highlander lay silent, and John
     Broom watched by him.

     It was just midnight when he partly raised himself, and cried: 

     “Whist, laddie! do ye hear the pipes?”