his　mind　nowquiet　as　the　air　that　ever　broods　over　the　house　where
  a　friend　has　dwelt。　　He　left　the　town　behind；　and　walkedthrough
  the　odours　of　grass　and　of　clover　and　of　the　yellow　flowers　on　the
  old　earthwalls　that　divided　the　fieldssweet　scents　to　which　the
  darkness　is　friendly；　and　which；　mingling　with　the　smell　of　the
  earth　itself；　reach　the　founts　of　memory　sooner　than　even　words　or
  tonesdown　to　the　brink　of　the　river　that　flowed　scarcely　murmuring
  through　the　night；　itself　dark　and　brown　as　the　night　from　its
  far…off　birthplace　in　the　peaty　hills。　　He　crossed　the　footbridge
  and　turned　into　the　bleachfield。　　Its　houses　were　desolate；　for　that
  trade　too　had　died　away。　　The　machinery　stood　rotting　and　rusting。
  The　wheel　gave　no　answering　motion　to　the　flow　of　the　water　that
  glided　away　beneath　it。　　The　thundering　beatles　were　still。　　The
  huge　legs　of　the　wauk…mill　took　no　more　seven…leagued　strides
  nowhither。　　The　rubbing…boards　with　their　thickly…fluted　surfaces　no
  longer　frothed　the　soap　from　every　side；　tormenting　the　web　of　linen
  into　a　brightness　to　gladden　the　heart　of　the　housewife　whose　hands
  had　spun　the　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。　　All　the　old　things；　the　old　ways；　the　old　glories　of
  childhoodwere　they　gone？　　No。　Over　them　all；　in　them　all；　was　God
  still。　　There　is　no　past　with　him。　　An　eternal　present；　He　filled
  his　soul　and　all　that　his　soul　had　ever　filled。　　His　history　was
  taken　up　into　God：　it　had　not　vanished：　his　life　was　hid　with　Christ
  in　God。　To　the　God　of　the　human　heart　nothing　that　has　ever　been　a
  joy；　a　grief；　a　passing　interest；　can　ever　cease　to　be　what　it　has
  been；　there　is　no　fading　at　the　breath　of　time；　no　passing　away　of
  fashion；　no　dimming　of　old　memories　in　the　heart　of　him　whose　being
  creates　time。　　Falconer's　heart　rose　up　to　him　as　to　his　own　deeper
  life；　his　indwelling　deepest　spiritabove　and　beyond　him　as　the
  heavens　are　above　and　beyond　the　earth；　and　yet　nearer　and　homelier
  than　his　own　most　familiar　thought。　'As　the　light　fills　the　earth；'
  thought　he；　'so　God　fills　what　we　call　life。　　My　sorrows；　O　God；　my
  hopes；　my　joys；　the　upliftings　of　my　life　are　with　thee；　my　root；　my
  life。　　Thy　comfortings；　my　perfect　God；　are　strength　indeed！'
  He　rose　and　looked　around　him。　　While　he　lay；　the　waning；　fading
  moon　had　risen；　weak　and　bleared　and　dull。　　She　brightened　and
  brightened　until　at　last　she　lighted　up　the　night　with　a　wan；
  forgetful　gleam。　'So　should　I　feel；'　he　thought；　'about　the　past　on
  which　I　am　now　gazing；　were　it　not　that　I　believe　in　the　God　who
  forgets　nothing。　　That　which　has　been；　is。'　　His　eye　fell　on
  something　bright　in　the　field　beyond。　　He　would　see　what　it　was；　and
  crossed　the　earthen　dyke。　　It　shone　like　a　little　moon　in　the　grass。
  By　humouring　the　reflection　he　reached　it。　　It　was　only　a　cutting
  of　white　iron；　left　by　some　tinker。　　He　walked　on　over　the　field；
  thinking　of　Shargar's　mother。　　If　he　could　but　find　her！　　He　walked
  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　be　now　in　Rothieden？
  Such　people　have　a　love　for　their　old　haunts；　stronger　than　that　of
  orderly　members　of　society　for　their　old　homes。　　He　turned　back；　and
  did　not　know　where　he　was。　　But　the　lines　of　the　hill…tops　directed
  him。　　He　hastened　to　the　town；　and　went　straight　through　the
  sleeping　streets　to　the　back　wynd　where　he　had　found　Shargar　sitting
  on　the　doorstep。　　Could　he　believe　his　eyes？　　A　feeble　light　was
  burning　in　the　shed。　　Some　other　poverty…stricken　bird　of　the　night；
  however；　might　be　there；　and　not　she　who　could　perhaps　guide　him　to
  the　goal　of　his　earthly　life。　　He　drew　near；　and　peeped　in　at　the
  broken　window。　　A　heap　of　something　lay　in　a　corner；　watched　only　by
  a　long…snuffed　candle。
  The　heap　moved；　and　a　voice　called　out　querulously；
  'Is　that　you；　Shargar；　ye　shochlin　deevil？'
  Falconer's　heart　leaped。　　He　hesitated　no　longer；　but　lifted　the
  latch　and　entered。　　He　took　up　the　candle；　snuffed　it　as　he　best
  could；　and　approached　the　woman。　　When　the　light　fell　on　her　face
  she　sat　up；　staring　wildly　with　eyes　that　shunned　and　sought　it。
  'Wha　are　ye　that　winna　lat　me　dee　in　peace　and　quaietness？'
  'I'm　Robert　Falconer。'
  'Come　to　speir　efter　yer　ne'er…do…weel　o'　a　father；　I　reckon；'　she
  said。
  'Yes；'　he　answered。
  'Wha's　that　ahin'　ye？'
  'Naebody's　ahin'　me；'　answered　Robert。
  'Dinna　lee。　　Wha's　that　ahin'　the　door？'
  'Naebody。　　I　never　tell　lees。'
  'Whaur's　Shargar？　　What　for　doesna　he　come　till　's　mither？'
  'He's　hynd　awa'　ower　the　seasa　captain　o'　sodgers。'
  'It's　a　lee。　　He's　an　ill…faured　scoonrel　no　to　come　till　's　mither
  an'　bid　her　gude…bye；　an'　her　gaein'　to　hell。'
  'Gin　ye　speir　at　Christ；　he'll　tak　ye　oot　o'　the　verra　mou'　o'　hell；
  wuman。'
  'Christ！　wha's　that？　　Ow；　ay！　　It's　him　'at　they　preach　aboot　i'　the
  kirks。　　Na；　na。　　There's　nae　gude　o'　that。　　There's　nae　time　to
  repent　noo。　　I　doobt　sic　repentance　as　mine　wadna　gang　for　muckle
  wi'　the　likes　o'　him。'
  'The　likes　o'　him　's　no　to　be　gotten。　　He　cam　to　save　the　likes　o'
  you　an'　me。'
  'The　likes　o'　you　an'　me！　said　ye；　laddie？　　There's　no　like　atween
  you　and　me。　　He'll　hae　naething　to　say　to　me；　but　gang　to　hell　wi'
  ye　for　a　bitch。'
  'He　never　said　sic　a　word　in　's　life。　　He　wad　say；　〃Poor　thing！　she
  was　ill…used。　　Ye　maunna　sin　ony　mair。　　Come；　and　I'll　help　ye。〃　　He
  wad　say　something　like　that。　　He'll　save　a　body　whan　she　wadna　think
  it。'
  'An'　I　hae　gien　my　bonnie　bairn　to　the　deevil　wi'　my　ain　han's！
  She'll　come　to　hell　efter　me　to　girn　at　me；　an'　set　them　on　me　wi'
  their　reid　het　taings；　and　curse　me。　　Och　hone！　och　hone！'
  'Hearken　to　me；'　said　Falconer；　with　as　much　authority　as　he　could
  assume。　　But　she　rolled　herself　over　again　in　the　corner；　and　lay
  groaning。
  'Tell　me　whaur　she　is；'　said　Falconer；　'and　I'll　tak　her　oot　o'
  their　grup；　whaever　they　be。'
  She　sat　up　again；　and　stared　at　him　for　a　few　moments　without
  speaking。
  'I　left　her　wi'　a　wuman　waur　nor　mysel'；'　she　said　at　length。　'God
  forgie　me。'
  'He　will　forgie　ye；　gin　ye　tell　me　whaur　she　is。'
  'Do　ye　think　he　will？　　Eh；　Maister　Faukner！　　The　wuman　bides　in　a
  coort　off　o'　Clare　Market。　　I　dinna　min'　upo'　the　name　o'　't；　though
  I　cud　gang　till　't　wi'　my　een　steekit。　　Her　name's　Widow　Walkeran
  auld　rowdiedamn　her　sowl！'
  'Na；　na；　ye　maunna　say　that　gin　ye　want　to　be　forgien　yersel'。　　I'll
  fin'　her　oot。　　An'　I'm　thinkin'　it　winna　be　lang　or　I　hae　a　grup　o'
  her。　　I'm　gaein'　back　to　Lonnon　in　twa　days　or　three。'
  'Dinna　gang　till　I'm　deid。　　Bide　an'　haud　the　deevil　aff　o'　me。　　He
  has　a　grup　o'　my　hert　noo；　rivin'　at　it　wi'　his　lang　nailsas　lang
  's　birds'　nebs。'
  'I'll　bide　wi'　ye　till　we　see　what　can　be　dune　for　ye。　　What's　the
  maitter　wi'　ye？　　I'm　a　doctor　noo。'
  There　was　not　a　chair　or　box　or　stool　on　which　to　sit　down。　　He
  therefore　kneeled　beside　her。　　He　felt　her　pulse；　questioned　her；
  and　learned　that　she　had　long　been　suffering　from　an　internal
  complaint；　which　had　within　the　last　week　grown　rapidly　worse。　　He
  saw　that　there　was　no　hope　of　her　recovery；　but　while　she　lived　he
  gave　himself　to　her　service　as　to　that　of　a　living　soul　capable　of
  justice　and　love。　　The　night　w