He recalled his younger brother in a score of tender situations: the schoolhouse in which they had studied cheek to cheek over one book; the little stream in which they had paddled and fished on holidays, the fir-wood, the misty corries, and the heathery mountains of Argyle; above all, he remembered the last time that he had ever seen the bright young face marching at the head of his company down Buchanan street on his way to India.

David's mother was a still tenderer memory, and John Callendar's eyes grew misty as his heart forced him to recall that dark, wintry afternoon when she had brought David to him, and he had solemnly promised to be a father to the lad.

It was the last promise between them; three weeks afterwards he stood at her grave's side.
Time is said to dim such memories as these.

It never does.

After many years some sudden event recalls the great crises of any life with all the vividness of their first occurrence.
Confused as these memories were, they blended with an equal confusion of feelings.