My will's i' the bottom drawer upo' the left han' i'
my writin' table i' the leebrary:--I hae left ye ilka plack 'at I
possess. Only there's ae thing that I want ye to do. First o' a',
ye maun gang on as yer doin' in London for ten year mair. Gin
deein' men hae ony o' that foresicht that's been attreebuted to them
in a' ages, it's borne in upo' me that ye wull see yer father again.
At a' events, ye'll be helpin' some ill-faured sowls to a clean
face and a bonny. But gin ye dinna fa' in wi' yer father within ten
year, ye maun behaud a wee, an' jist pack up yer box, an' gang awa'
ower the sea to Calcutta, an' du what I hae tellt ye to do i' that
wull. I bind ye by nae promise, Robert, an' I winna hae nane.
Things micht happen to put ye in a terrible difficulty wi' a
promise. I'm only tellin' ye what I wad like. Especially gin ye
hae fund yer father, ye maun gang by yer ain jeedgment aboot it, for
there 'll be a hantle to do wi' him efter ye hae gotten a grup o'
'im. An' noo, I maun lie still, an' maybe sleep again, for I hae
spoken ower muckle.'
Hoping that he would sleep and wake yet again, Robert sat still.
After an hour, he looked, and saw that, although hitherto much
oppressed, he was now breathing like a child. There was no sign
save of past suffering: his countenance was peaceful as if he had
already entered into his rest. Robert withdrew, and again seated
himself. And the great universe became to him as a bird brooding
over the breaking shell of the dying man.
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