many a year. I hae
not indeed hid the Lord's talent in a napkin, but I hae done a warse
thing; I hae been trading wi' it for my ain proper advantage. O
dominie, I hae been a wretched man through it all. Nane ken better
than I what a hard master the deil is."

Then he told the dominie of Helen's bequest. He went over all the
arguments with which he had hitherto quieted his conscience, and he
anxiously watched their effect upon Tallisker. He had a hope even yet
that the dominie might think them reasonable. But the table at which
they sat was not less demonstrative than Tallisker's face; for once he
absolutely controlled himself till the story was told. Then he said to
Crawford,

"I'll no tak any responsibility in a matter between you and your
conscience. If you gie it, gie it without regret and without holding
back. Gie it cheerfully; God loves a cheerful giver. But it isna wi'
me you'll find the wisdom to guide you in this matter. Shut yoursel'
in your ain room, and sit down at the foot o' the cross and think it
out. It is a big sum to gie away, but maybe, in the face o' that
stupendous Sacrifice it willna seem so big. I'll walk up in the
evening, laird; perhaps you will then hae decided what to do."

Crawford was partly disappointed. He had hoped that Tallisker would in
some way take the burden from him--he had instead sent him to the foot
of the cross. He did not feel as if he dared to neglect the advice; so
he went thoughtfully to his own room and locked the door. Then he took
out his private ledger. Many a page had been written the last ten
years. It was the book of a very rich man. He thought of all his
engagements and plans and hopes, and of how the withdrawal of so large
a sum would affect them.

Then he took out Helen's last message, and sat down humbly with it
where Tallisker had told him to sit. Suddenly Helen's last words came
back to him, "Oh! the unspeakable riches!" What of? The cross of
Christ--the redemption from eternal death--the promise of eternal
life! Sin is like a nightmare; when we stir under it, we awake.
Crawford sat thinking until his heart burned and softened, and great
tears rolled slowly down his cheeks and dropped upon the paper in his
hands. Then he thought of the richness of his own life--Colin and
Hope, and the already beloved child Alexander--of his happy home, of
the prosperity of his enterprises, of his loyal and loving friend
Tallisker. What a contrast to the Life he had been tol