A couch,
too, had been brought in for the watcher at night, and a great
flowered chair. In this now sat Mrs. Grizel Kerr, a pleasant, elderly,
comely body, noted for her housewifery and her garden of herbs. Behind
her, out of a shadowy corner, gleamed the white mutch of Tibbie Ross,
the best nurse in that countryside. Jamie and Alice took two chairs
that had been set for them near the bed. Strickland moved to the
recess of a window. Outside the snow fell in very large flakes, large
and many, straight and steady, there being no wind.
In a chair drawn close to the great bed, on a line with the sick man's
hand lying on the coverlet, sat the heir of Glenfernie. He sat leaning
forward, with one hand near the hand of his father. The laird's eyes
were closed. He had been given a stimulant and he now lay gathering
his powers that were not far from this life's frontier. The curtains
of the bed had been drawn quite back; propped by pillows into a
half-sitting posture, he was plain to all in the room, in the ruddy
light of the fire. A clock upon the wall ticked, ticked. Those in the
room sat very still.
The laird drew a determined breath and opened his eyes. "Alexander!"
"Father!"
"You look like myself sitting there, and yet not myself. I am going to
die."
"If that's your will, father."
"Aye, it's my will, for I've made it mine.
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