ld not invent the idea of a God--could we, Robert?
Nothing would be our God. If we come from God, nothing is more natural,
nothing so natural, as to want him, and when we haven't got him, to try
to find him.--What if he should be in us after all, and working in us
this way? just this very way of crying out after him?'

'Mr. Ericson,' cried Robert, 'dinna say ony mair 'at ye dinna believe in
God. Ye duv believe in 'im--mair, I'm thinkin', nor onybody 'at I ken,
'cep', maybe, my grannie--only hers is a some queer kin' o' a God to
believe in. I dinna think I cud ever manage to believe in him mysel'.'

Ericson sighed and was silent. Robert remained kneeling by his bedside,
happier, clearer-headed, and more hopeful than he had ever been. What if
all was right at the heart of things--right, even as a man, if he could
understand, would say was right; right, so that a man who understood in
part could believe it to be ten times more right than he did understand!
Vaguely, dimly, yet joyfully, Robert saw something like this in the
possibility of things. His heart was full, and the tears filled his
eyes. Ericson spoke again.

'I have felt like that often for a few moments,' he said; 'but
always something would come and blow it away. I remember one spring
morning--but if you will bring me that bundle of papers, I will show you
what, if I can find it, will let you understand--'

Robert rose, went to the cupboard, and brought the pile of loose leaves.
Ericson turned them over, and, Robert was glad to see, now and then
sorted them a little. At length he drew out a sheet, carelessly written,
carelessly corrected, and hard to read.

'It is not finished, or likely to be,' he said, as he put the paper in
Robert's hand.

'Won't you read it to me yourself, Mr. Ericson?' suggested Robert.

'I would sooner put it in the fire,' he answered--'it's fate, anyhow. I
don't know why I haven't burnt them all long ago. Rubbish, and diseased
rubbish! Read it yourself, or leave it.'

Eagerly Robert took it, and read. The following was the best he could
make of it:

Oh that a wind would call
From the depths of the leafless wood!
Oh that a voice would fall
On the ear of my solitude!
Far away is the sea,
With its sound and its spirit-tone:
Over it white clouds flee,
But I am alone, alone.

Straight and steady and tall
The trees stand on their feet;
Fast by the old stone wall
The mo