nting on its use for
his advancement in life, and he would rather not talk about it. He
does not hate or scorn his own people, he is only looking out for his
future love, and his future living. That is such a common and natural
feeling, we need not wonder and weep over it. There must be other
excuses to make, if I knew all about Neil's life and hopes, and for
the rest of the faults against him--forgive them, as God forgives your
faults against His long suffering love and patience."

"Mebbe that is the right way, but----"

"Right! Say that word to yourself, Margot. Say it till it rings like a
shout in your soul, till you feel it in your hand like a drawn sword.
It is a conquering word. Say it till your weak heart grows strong."

"Mither will feel better in a few days, Sir."

"To be sure she will. Neither joy nor sorrow leaves us where it found
us. Poor Neil!"

"Why 'poor Neil,' Sir?"

"Because he cannot see beyond his limit, and his limit is self, and
selfishness is utter loss. They conquer who endure. Live it down.
Deserting our own is a cruel, silent treason even if they deserve it.
It is a sin that our souls are ashamed of. Margot, your weakness
tonight came o'er you in a moment when you were slack in Faith. You
are naturally and spiritually a brave woman, Margot. What have you to
fear?"

"I dinna want the lad I hae nursed at my breast to be ashamed o'
me--that is my fear, Domine. I dinna want to lose his love."

"Does a man ever forget the mother who bore him? I can't believe it.
When all other loves fade, that is green. It is nearly fifty years
since I bid my mother 'good-by' for ever in this life. She is the
dearest and sweetest mother to me yet. I remember her eyes, the touch
of her lips, the soft caress of her hands, as if I had seen her
yesterday. A man, however wicked, is not beyond hope, who yet loves
his mother. Neil is not a bad boy. He will love you to the end."

"I fear, I fear, Domine, that----"

"No! You do not fear. You have nothing to fear. There was a noted
preacher and poet, who shall tell you what your fear is. His name was
Crashaw, and he was an Englishman, who died just about two hundred
years ago and he says to a fearful soul:

"There is no storm but this
Of your own cowardice,
That braves you out.
You are the storm that mocks
Yourself, you are the rocks
Of your own doubt.
Besides this fear of danger, there's
No danger here,
And they that here fear dange