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 seas--a captain o' sodgers.'

'It's