66 "Troth, ye seem na fain yersel' to mak' But the road Dick had taken was not the a wee while ago. Aweel, he was seen here road home. The path he now pursued led last. Ye'll hae to help me to fin' him." him far from the flat barren moss, whose "I'll do nothing of the sort. Excuse me," endless wastes of heathery haggs and grass said Sandy Andrews, for he indeed it was who afforded no means of accomplishing his new | spoke; excuse me, but I can't be neglecting purpose. It took him across the stream; too my business at this time of day to be hunting shallow, it; up the steep bank on the other up all my acquaintances who get lost when in side, among the rocks, into the mists. He their cups. Dick Netherby will turn up again, neither delayed nor hesitated. Life had no never fear. He will be found lying in some charms, but death had horrors-attendant ditch by the roadside; and the less said of horrors-to which, all at once, his starting this last escapade of your fine young keeper eyes were opened. He could elude these if the better." he had but time and a place. Time? So far good; no one had followed on his track -no one had raised a hue and cry whilst he was in the Port. And a place? He knew of several, could he but hit upon them-but the thick, stealthy vapours confused his recollec-hark ye, farmer, I'll tell you the truth. tions; turns on the hillsides which had been That young lout of a fellow took it into his from childhood familiar now came unex- drunken head to be jealous of me and a pectedly; where he had meant to go down, sweetheart he had picked up in Glasgow, he had to go up; and at length, to his further and though 'twas I who took him there, and bewilderment, he found himself obliged to he comes straight from my father's house, he traverse a stretch of moor of which he seemed is so besotted that when he finds she will have to know nothing, and which proved almost nothing to say to him, he rushes upon me all interminable. At length, however, the sheep- at once like a madman, and neither knows track along which the wanderer took his way nor cares whether I'm killed or not! My suddenly ceased. He looked round, knew head aches like anything this morning. Is where he was, and with a cry dashed upwards. it likely that I am going to bother about The dense atmosphere wetted his cheek and whether my gentleman catches cold sleeping hands, wrapping him ever closer and closer out in the damp or not?" in its chill mantle; but he felt only the burning heat of haste, terror, and exultation. was near the end at last! A peak-a craggy precipice below-a veil of mist to shroud the awful deed. He stands still for a moment. There is something like a tear on his cheeksomething like a sigh bursts from his throbbing throat. His arms are slowly raised to heaven his eyes take their last look of earth. He leans over the edge, and drops into the gulf below. * * * * * He Gudesakes, man, hae ye heerd naethin' o' him?" exclaimed the much-perturbed manager of Castle Aird Farm, as he stood, the next morning, before the person whom he considered most likely to be able to afford information regarding Dick Netherby. "Hae ye heerd naethin' o' him? An' here was we made sicker he was wi' you "I know nothing whatever, I assure you," replied Rob's companion sulkily. "He was here for a few minutes yesterday, much the worse for drink, and I very nearly had to turn him out of the house. I never knew such a fellow." He was your ain freend," quoth Rob grimly; "an' you and him was couthy eneugh He had no idea that there was anything more than this. He never knew with what fell intent the blow had in reality been given, nor that Dick had been as sober as he himself, from all but headlong fury, when it was administered. He had been alone when consciousness returned, and it had seemed to him that the first thing to do was to make fast the outer door, and the next to go to bed. He felt sick and faint, and two facts were plain: he must not bruit abroad an affair which could not redound to his own credit, and it would not do to have a man like Dick Netherby for an enemy if he meant to remain at the Port. He must take time and digest both of these considerations. But the temptation to tell Rob McClintock the truth was not to be resisted, coming as it did thus upon him. Rob listened, a sardonic grin upon his rugged features; but having heard all, he did not press further for co-operation in his search. Aweel, I mun gang my lane, then," he said. "Tam McWhinnie, maybe, wad come gif he kenned, but he's na aboot." However, others volunteered, and an expedition was set on foot. It proved fruitless. Then a second party set forth, aided now 1 by several who had not thought it worth their while to bestir themselves before. All the Port was in a ferment presently. It seemed as though each one had known Dick Netherby from his birth upwards. They spoke of his fine figure, his proud firm swinging gait, his mellow voice, and pleasant laugh. They spoke leniently of his failings, tenderly of his misdemeanours,-somehow, they spoke of him as one dead. "He was just a bit o' a ne'er-do-weel," quoth one; "Dick Netherby was naebody's. enemy but his ain, as they say. He could na' haud his way straicht, an' he hadna eneugh to do wi' his keeperin' to mak' him steady by force o'gude hard wark. Then there was thon auld harridan Marion-Gude forgie me for sayin' sae, an' her i' trouble— but whae's fau't is't but her ain that her son is i' sic a plight the day? Ay, puir Dickay, puir Dick!” Gradually silence fell upon all as they rambled on. Height after height was gained, nook after nook was scoured. Must they have to acknowledge a second failure? Would it be necessary to descend themselves for fear of being entrapped by the spreading treacherous fog which was again lowering over the glen? A council was about to be held, but one in front held up his hand and looked back. They knew what he meant. He pointed, and they too saw. They had found him for whom they were seeking,-and perchance not him, but It. CHAPTER XXV.-CONCLUSION. AND how was it then, that after all this terrible time, only a few brief months after, we again behold the widow's son in the land of the living, still at Castle Aird, and still inhabiting the little cottage on the plateau ? It is the mother and not the son who has passed away from the earth, and somehow, though Dick goes about soberly and in mourning-lame too, for the leg he broke in his fall from the heights will never be good for much again-yet, somehow, his poor pale face is not altogether sad, nor has his home an uncared-for, neglected appear ance. Ah, Dick has learned his lesson at last. When he lay moaning at the bottom of the cliffs-a poor dozen feet or so high, so entirely had he been cheated by the merciful clouds when he found his design frustrated, and was compelled to wait, anguished in body and writhing in mental torture all through the long hours of the night, and on and on throughout the succeeding day till evening came again—when he had to face a death of starvation, or, as the only alternative, a death by violence-then out of the depths of his despair arose at length the sinner's cry. Shall we go on? Shall we picture the devils who tormented him, the ministering spirits who drew nigh unto him? It is not our province. We may not say more on so sacred and solemn a subject. But it was not until the sufferer was found, and Dick learned that he was still innocent in the eye of man of his brother's blood, it was not till then that the poor wanderer dared to hope that his, even his guilty stains might be washed away by the blood of Christ. He was laid on a bed of sickness, and in the long days of leisure and long nights of tossing weariness which followed, he had time to think. He tried to lead his poor parent to repentance also, and to have some measure of hope in her death. And then at length Dick grew well again. But it was found that his walking days. were over, and what was now to be done? An excellent idea struck Lord Galt, always the most considerate of masters, and that was to attach to the cottage a joiner's bench and workshop. Dick Netherby had on several occasions shown mechanical skill-every one about felt the need of a local carpenter-the thing was done in a trice. Then how about Nancy? It fell out, one summer evening about three months after our hero was out and about again, that whilst Dick was busy plying his new trade, whistling over his bench, and stopping every now and then to wipe his forehead-wet with honest toil-or perhaps to give a passing sigh to the thought of his poor dead mother, or of his own dearer lost love,-it chanced, we say, that looking up in the soft evening light, whom should he behold coming towards him but bonnie Nancy Irvine herself, and by her side the worthy, homely Meg. Meg knew all about Dick's love-story. How was this? Why, to be sure, Nancy had told herNancy, who had known the McClintocks long ago, and had spoken of them to young Netherby in Glasgow, but had learned to drop the subject: he had not cared for it, she saw. However, one must take one's opportunities as they offer, and with her whole heart now gone out towards her rejected lover, whose repentance and reformation were known to be sincere and abiding, and with no other way of reconciliation open, the McClintocks' friendship made an excellent found at work. She left the two together stepping-stone. So to the Home Farm came Nancy, demure and innocent to all outward appearance, but very soon her secret was let slip. Meg knew for what she had brought her rival up the forester's walk, and across the little plateau where Dick was sure to be there; she was wanted at home, she said. BY THE AUTHOR OF "CHRONICLES OF THE SCHÖNBERG-COTTA FAMILY." IN THE JOURNEY TO EMMAUS. BY THE LATE ARCHIBALD WATSON, D.D., ONE OF HER MAJESTY'S CHAPLAINS. N the brief account which is given of these two men who journeyed between Jerusalem and Emmaus on that memorable day, we read the experience of other lives than theirs. 1. There is an illustration given to us here of a fact or principle which is of almost universal application in the spiritual life, I mean the sense of disappointment and depression which is felt at periods of great change in our religious history. These two men had arrived at such a period; they are passing from one kind of religious faith and hope to another; their old faith has failed them, and as yet no new faith has come in its room. They had known Christ after the flesh, and they have ceased to believe in Him according to their former knowledge, but the truer and higher estimate of Christ has not yet dawned on them; and though they are in a transition from a lower to a higher stage of religious life, the transition is a very painful one, as appears by the question which Jesus puts to them, "What manner of communication are these that ye have one to another, as ye walk, and are sad?" tion, a release from the oppression of the Roman tax-gatherer and from the sight of the Roman legions, when they supposed it was Jesus who was to redeem Israel, and they came to learn that Christ had come to redeem them from their vain conversation received by tradition from their fathers. And even their thoughts of Christ's person were to be modified and changed. They could not think of Him as one who was to suffer and die, and when death did come their whole ideas of Christ were destroyed, their faith in Him was completely overthrown. All that they had looked for had turned out a delusion. They had ceased to believe in Him as the Redeemer of Israel in the old meaning of the words, and they have not yet found the new meaning. No wonder there was sadness on their faces, for there is no deeper sorrow in the world than the sorrow which comes of feeling our standing ground in religion sinking under our feet. As long as a man has within him a foundation for his faith, he has something to fall back upon. He has a life of his own, which cannot be touched, and which is his in misfortune and loss; but if this foundation is destroyed, what can he do? If he feels himself robbed of his treasure, where can he go or whither can he turn his eyes? The change which was passing over them was very marked and deep. "We trusted,” "We trusted," they said, "that it had been he which should have redeemed Israel,” and so far as the words went they were right, and the words were to Such a state of mind is not uncommon. remain true, but every thought in their minds There come times in the life of every one which the words suggested was to be changed, when a man feels as if he had outgrown his and they were to have new thoughts for the old faith; and as yet he has not been clothed words. The Israel which was to be redeemed with a better faith. He is passing from one was not the ancient and limited race which phase of his inner history to another. The dwelt in Palestine, but the human race with faith of his childhood is melting away before the wall of separation broken down. And the opening years of manhood; he cannot they were to have new and larger thoughts be content with the visions of younger years, of the redemption which Jesus was to accom- and with the thoughts which used to fill his plish. They had thought of a national redemp-mind. The material and childlike ideas which he had are fading before the rising light of reason and experience and insight into things. He has ceased to speak as a child, to understand as a child, to think as a child; but he has not yet come to understand or think as a man. Old things are passed away, but the new have not yet come. The stars are dying out of heaven, but the sun has not arisen, and he has neither the lesser nor the greater light to guide him. In such transition periods men sometimes have recourse to the facts and truths which used in other days to give them strength; but it is of no use; it does them no good. They cannot go back any more than these two disciples: they cannot put artificial life into dead forms; they cannot put new wine into old bottles; they cannot supply the want which they feel so deeply by resorting to remedies which belonged to another era of their life. Each new period of spiritual growth demands its own sustenance. Babes and Babes and men must be differently nourished, and the great fact must be recognised, that as the spiritual life advances it must have fresh sources from which to draw. It takes some time to reconcile us to the changes which thus come upon the spirit. It takes some time before we can believe it possible that the old faith has been buried, only to rise again with greater life than ever, and to gather fresh strength. But so it is. The misery of this transition period is only for a time. Have faith in God: and do not suppose that religion is gone, when certain hopes and notions touching it are gone. The time shall come when we shall understand "what the rising from the dead means." 2. We grow into the knowledge of men, and so into the meaning of their words and lives. Nothing is more remarkable than the growth of the disciples into the meaning of Christ's teaching, and of Christ's character after His departure from the world. When He was with them they saw Him, they heard Him, they loved Him, they obeyed Him, they gave up much for Him-some of them gave up everything, and yet they did not understand Him. It was not that His words were unintelligible or ambiguous, but because there was a difference of spirit between Him and them which rendered his meaning obscure. In listening to His words they were really not listening to Him, but to themselves; they were interpreting His teaching through their own thoughts and habits of life-through their expectations and prejudices, and so it happened that the simplest truths were miscon ceived and the plainest words set aside. All that Christ was wont to speak of in regard to His sufferings and death was left out of sight. It was passed by as something which had no bearing upon His life and history. And His disciples heard it as if they heard it not. It was only when they began, long after, to understand Himself that they remembered His words. When sympathy between themselves and Him whom they had known so long began to strengthen, they saw in His teaching what they had never seen before; they felt its power, they learned to know its true meaning, and to grow into His words as they grew into Himself. The nearer they came to His mind the more near they came to His language, and the more direct was the communication between it and their understandings. We We are all accustomed to this fact in the ordinary experience of our daily life and history. There are men with whose works and thoughts we are familiar, and yet it is only years afterwards that we perceive the real meaning of what they do and say. grow into their written and spoken words as we approach their standing in years, or experience, or intellect. We see more than we once saw, simply because by the growth of time and events we are standing nearer the point where they stood, and are looking abroad on nature and on human life from their position. With living men we sometimes think it is they who are changing, and that they are learning better how to speak and deal with us; and so far there is doubtless a foundation for such a thought, for there is a ripening of their minds too, but all the while the great change is not in them so much as in ourselves. In the case of written words, and of the acts and words of those who have passed away, this experience of our growth by sympathy is all the more distinct and outstanding. The child and boy looks on his father's face, and hears his father's words in some moment of anxiety and sorrow, and he seems to himself to comprehend them, but he is only touching the surface of a deep sea of trouble and care. Long years afterwards, when he is himself overtaken by some similar cause of suffering, the memory of the wrinkled brow and the tone of feeling awakens his sympathy, and he reads anew the story which he had read before, but not understood till now. If one studies the production of one of our great writers in boyhood, and then in mature manhood, it looks as if it were the book that had changed; it is the reader. He looks on it with new eyes, with new ex |