She confessed that what she read was only the last chapter, owing to a consuming curiosity to know whether "she got him." She read all the London part, however, of "The Heart of Midlothian," because London was where Jamie lived, and she and I had a discussion about it which ended in her remembering that Thrums once had an author of its own.
"Bring oot the book," she said to Leeby; "it was put awa i' the bottom drawer ben i' the room sax year syne, an' I sepad it's there yet." Leeby came but with a faded little book, the title already rubbed from its shabby brown covers.

I opened it, and then all at once I saw before me again the man who wrote and printed it and died.

He came hobbling up the brae, so bent that his body was almost at right angles to his legs, and his broken silk hat was carefully brushed as in the days when Janet, his sister, lived.

There he stood at the top of the brae, panting.
I was but a boy when Jimsy Duthie turned the corner of the brae for the last time, with a score of mourners behind him.

While I knew him there was no Janet to run to the door to see if he was coming.