orget to ax the Almighty to help yo'.'
And so saying, Matt went out in despair into the wild November
day.

As he rushed into the raw air the wind dashed the rain in his face
as though to beat him back within his cottage home. Heedless of
these, however, he pressed forward, wild with grief, seeking to
lose his own madness amid the whirl and confusion of the storm.
Low-lying, angry clouds seethed round the summits of the distant
hills, and mists, like shrouds, hung over the drear and leafless
cloughs. The moorland grasses lay beaten and colourless--great
swamps--reservoirs where lodged the moisture of a long autumn's
rain, while the roads were limp and sodden, and heavy for the
wayfarer's foot. But Matt was heedless of these; and striking a
drift path that crossed the hills, he followed its trend. Along it
he walked--nay, raced rather, like a man pursued. And pursued he
was; for he sought in vain to escape the passions that preyed on
him, tormenting him. Sorrow, anguish, death; these were at his
heels; and, worse than all, he thought his dying wife was
following him, pleading for his return. Why had he forsaken her?
Was it not cowardice--the cowardice and selfishness of his grief?
Once or twice a fascination took hold of him, and, despite the
terror that awed him, he threw a glance over his shoulder to see
if after all he were pursued by the shadow he so much feared to
meet. Then the wind began to utter strange sounds--wailings and
lamentations--its burden being a wild entreaty to return; and once
he thought he heard an infant's cry, and he paused in his despair.

A steep and rugged path lay before him--a path that led under
trees whose swaying branches flung off raindrops in blinding
showers, and a gleam of light shot shaft-like from a rift in the
sombre clouds, and falling across his feet, led him to wonder how
heaven could shed a fitful smile on sorrow like his own.

Familiar with the moods of nature, he deemed the hour to be that
of noon; nor was he mistaken, for the sky began to clear, and with
the light came the return to a calmer mind. He now, for the first
time, realized the folly--probably the disaster--of his flight.
Might he not be needed at the cottage? Was not his dying wife's
prayer for his presence and succour? Had not an unmanly
selfishness led him to play the coward? Thoughts like these led
him to marshal his resolves, and turn his steps towards the valley
below.

No sooner did he do this than a s