"And George Pitillo, what of him, Andrew?

"'Oh, it's a peety you didna live langer, Mr. Saunderson, for George
hes risen in the warld and made a great fortune.'

"How does it go with his soul, Andrew?

"'Well, you see, Mister Saunderson, George hes hed many things to think
about, and he maybe hasna hed time for releegion yet, but nae doot
he'll be turnin' his mind that wy soon.'

"Poor George, that I baptized and admitted to the Sacrament and . . .
loved: exchanged his soul for the world."

The sun was setting fast, and the landscape--bare stubble-fields,
leafless trees, still water, long, empty road--was of a blood-red
colour fearsome to behold, so that no one spake, and the horse chafing
his bit made the only sound.

Then the Rabbi began again.

"And George Pitillo--tell me, Andrew?

"'Weel, ye see, Mister Saunderson, ye wud be sorry for him, for you and
he were aye chief; he's keepit a gude name an' workit hard, but hesna
made muckle o' this warld.'

"And his soul, Andrew?