The Auld Licht, however, who meant marriage seldom loitered in the streets.

By and by there came a time when the clock looked down through its cracked glass upon the hemmed in square and saw him not.

His companions, gazing at each other's boots, felt that something was going on, but made no remark.
A month ago, passing through the shabby familiar square, I brushed against a withered old man tottering down the street under a load of yarn.

It was piled on a wheelbarrow which his feeble hands could not have raised but for the rope of yarn that supported it from his shoulders; and though Auld Licht was written on his patient eyes, I did not immediately recognize Jamie Whamond.

Years ago Jamie was a sturdy weaver and fervent lover whom I had the right to call my friend.