James himself objected bitterly to such waste,
as he called it, saying what remained of his life was not worth it.
But the laird, learning the mood the old man was in, rose, and
climbed the stair, and stood before his bed, and said to him
solemnly, "Jeames, wha are ye to tell the Lord it's time he sud tak
ye? what KIN' o' faith is 't, to refuse a sup,'cause ye see na
anither spunefu' upo' the ro'd ahin' 't?"
James hid his old face in his old hands. The laird went back to his
bed, and nothing more ever passed on the subject.
The days went on, the money ran fast away, no prospect appeared of
more, but still they had enough to eat.
One morning in the month of January, still and cold, and dark
overhead, a cheerless day in whose bosom a storm was coming to
life, Cosmo, sitting at his usual breakfast of brose, the simplest
of all preparations of oatmeal, bethought himself whether some of
the curiosities in the cabinets in the drawing-room might not, with
the help of his friend the jeweller, be turned to account. Not
waiting to finish his breakfast, for which that day he had but
little relish, he rose and went at once to examine the family
treasures in the light of necessity.
The drawing-room felt freezing-dank like a tomb, and looked weary
of its memories. It was so still that it seemed as if sound would
die in it. Not a mouse stirred. The few pictures on the walls
looked perishing with cold and changelessness.
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