J. J. Bell

“ Other men besides Joseph Redhorn have in such wise been pressed to the verge—and over.
It was one of those nights which we may call—according to our mood—late autumn or early winter. A tempest of wind and rain raged over the loch. Doors and windows rattled, chimney-cans toppled, slates and tiles hurtled from the village roofs. Fairport, save one man, was abed, for the hour was late, yet Fairport for the greater part was awake, quaking. ”

“ He reached down his hand in the dark, and felt the comforting lick. Then the terrier made springs at the edge of the bed. "Was ye wantin' up? Was ye feelin' lanesome? Come then!" He drew her up to him. She nestled against him, licking his face.
"Oh, wee dug," he whispered, "ye've surely got a soul, for it's only the things wi' souls that feel lanesome."
On the fifth and following nights she slept on the bed. Joseph continued to rest well, but his days were unsettled by hopes and fears—hopes that the owner might never turn up, fears lest he should arrive at any moment. ”

“ A little later, Joseph Redhorn rose stiffly. His face was ghastly in the lamplight; his pale blue eyes were glazed and strange. He wiped his wet brow, muttering—"God, it's nae use. I couldna thole anither day.... There'll be naebody aboot noo.... I'll mak' an end—A man that doesna matter to onybody—doesna matter to onybody." ”