The session drew to a close.  He eschewed all idleness; shut himself up, after class hours, with his books; ate little, studied hard, slept irregularly, working always best between midnight and two in the morning; carried the first honours in most of his classes; and at length breathed freely, but with a dizzy brain, and a face that revealed, in pale cheeks, and red, weary eyes, the results of an excess of mental labour—­an excess which is as injurious as any other kind of intemperance, the moral degradation alone kept out of view.  Proud of his success, he sat down and wrote a short note, with a simple statement of it, to David; hoping, in his secret mind, that he would attribute his previous silence to an absorption in study which had not existed before the end of the session was quite at hand.  Now that he had more time for reflection, he could not bear the idea that that noble rustic face should look disapprovingly or, still worse, coldly upon him; and he could not help feeling as if the old ploughman had taken the place of his father, as the only man of whom he must stand in awe, and who had a right to reprove him.  He did reprove him now, though unintentionally.  For David was delighted at having such good news from him; and the uneasiness which he had felt, but never quite expressed, was almost swept away in the conclusion, that it was unreasonable to expect the young man to give his time to them both absent and present, especially when he had been occupied to such good purpose as this letter signified.  So he was nearly at peace about him—­though not quite.  Hugh received from him the following letter in reply to his; dictated, as usual, to his secretary, Margaret:—­

“My dear sir,

“Ye’ll be a great man some day, gin ye haud at it.  But things maunna be gotten at the outlay o’ mair than they’re worth.  Ye’ll ken what I mean.  An’ there’s better things nor bein’ a great man, efter a’.  Forgie the liberty I tak’ in remin’in’ ye o’ sic like.  I’m only remin’in’ ye o’ what ye ken weel aneuch.  But ye’re a brave lad, an’ ye hae been an unco frien’ to me an’ mine; an’ I pray the Lord to thank ye for me, for ye hae dune muckle guid to his bairns—­meanin’ me an’ mine.  It’s verra kin’ o’ ye to vrite till’s in the verra moment o’ victory; but weel ye kent that amid a’ yer frien’s—­an’ ye canna fail to hae mony a ane, wi’ a head an’ a face like yours—­there was na ane—­na, no ane, that wad rejoice mair ower your success than Janet, or my doo, Maggie, or yer ain auld obleeged frien’ an’ servant,

“David Elginbrod.

“P.S.—­We’re a’ weel, an’ unco blythe at your letter.

Maggy—­

“P.S. 2.—­Dear Mr. Sutherland,—­I wrote all the above at my father’s dictation, and just as he said it, for I thought you would like his Scotch better than my English.  My mother and I myself are rejoiced at the good news.  My mother fairly grat outright.  I gaed out to the tree where I met you first.  I wonder sair sometimes if you was the angel I was to meet in the fir-wood.  I am,