Robert Falconer

-only a long ethereal twilight. He walked through the sleeping town so full of memories, all q

yarn. The terrible boiler that used to send up from its depths bubbling and boiling spouts and peaks and ridges, lay empty and cold. The little house behind, where its awful furnace used to glow, and which the pungent chlorine used to fill with its fumes, stood open to the wind and the rain: he could see the slow river through its unglazed window beyond. The water still went slipping and sliding through the deserted places, a power whose use had departed. The canal, the delight of his childhood, was nearly choked with weeds; it went flowing over long grasses that drooped into it from its edges, giving a faint gurgle once and again in its flow, as if it feared to speak in the presence of the stars, and escaped silently into the river far below. The grass was no longer mown like a lawn, but was long and deep and thick. He climbed to the place where he had once lain and listened to the sounds of the belt of fir-trees behind him, hearing the voice of Nature that whispered God in his ears, and there he threw himself down once more. Al

ked on and on. He had no inclination to go home. The solitariness of the night, the uncanniness of the moon, prevents most people from wandering far: Robert had learned long ago to love the night, and to feel at home with every aspect of God's world. How this peace contrasted with the nights in London streets! this grass with the dark flow of the Thames! these hills and those clouds half melted into moonlight with the lanes blazing with gas! He thought of the child who, taken from London for the first time, sent home the message: 'Tell mother that it's dark in the country at night.' Then his thoughts turned again to Shargar's mother! Was it not possible, being a wanderer far and wide, that she might

nd a voice called

Shargar, ye sh

took up the candle, snuffed it as he best could, and approached the woman. When the

nna lat me dee in p

bert Fa

ne'er-do-weel o' a fath

he an

that ah

hin' me,' an

ha's that ahi

I never

hat for doesna he c

wer the seas-a ca

rel no to come till 's mither an' bid

he'll tak ye oot o' the v

s. Na, na. There's nae gude o' that. There's nae time to repent noo. I

be gotten. He cam to save

s no like atween you and me. He'll hae naething t

as ill-used. Ye maunna sin ony mair. Come, and I'll help ye." He wad

! She'll come to hell efter me to girn at me, an' set them on

thority as he could assume. But she rolled hers

lconer, 'and I'll tak her oot o

tared at him for a few

ur nor mysel',' she said a

ye, gin ye tell

' Clare Market. I dinna min' upo' the name o' 't, though I cud gang till 't

I'll fin' her oot. An' I'm thinkin' it winna be lang or I hae

il aff o' me. He has a grup o' my hert noo, rivin

t can be dune for ye. What's the

capable of justice and love. The night was more than warm, but she had fits of shivering. He wrapped his coat round her, and wiped from the poor degraded face the damps of suffering. The woman-heart was alive still, for she took the hand that ministered to her and kissed it with a moan. When the morning came she fell asleep. He crept out and went to his grandmother's, where

an' I'm deein', I tell ye I'm deein', and that'll

ving her heart; but Falconer had a hold of her now. Nothing could be done for her body except to render its death as easy as might be; but something might be done for herself. He made no attempt to produce this or that condition of mind in the poor creature. He never made such attempts. 'How can I tell the next lesson a soul is capable of learning?' he would say. 'The Spirit of God is the teacher. My part is to tell the good news. Let that work as it ought, as it can, as it will.' He knew that pain is with some the only harbinger that can prepare the way for the entrance of kindness: it is not understood till then. In the lulls of her pain he told her about the man Christ Jesus-what he did for the poor creatures who came to him-how kindly he spoke to them-how he cured them. He told her how gentle he was with the sinning women, how he forgave them and told them to do so no more. He left the story without comment to work that faith which alone can redeem from se

to this, that when he was in London, he used to lodge at the house of an old Scotchwoman of the name of Macallister, who lived in Paradise Gardens, somewhere betw

the dying woman till she was beyond the reach of his comfort: he was her keeper now. And 'he that believeth shall not make h

ing his hand. They were alone. He kneel

up in her soul, that she may love and trust thee, O light, O gladness. I thank thee that thou hast blessed me with thi

nd told her all. She put her arms rou

e will; he will. Noo gang yer wa's, and do the wark

yet a day among their fields, he sat on the top of the Aberdeen coach, o