to show mercy unto
others," and the Rabbi looked at Carmichael with such sweetness, that
the lad's sullenness began to yield, although he made no sign.

"Moreover," and the Rabbi's voice took a lower tone, "as often as I
look on one of those men of the highways, there cometh to me a vision
of Him who was an outcast of the people, and albeit some may be as
Judas, peradventure one might beg alms of me, a poor sinful man, some
day, and lo it might be . . . the Lord Himself in a saint," and the
Rabbi bowed his head and stood awhile much moved.

"Rabbi," after a pause, during which Carmichael's face had changed,
"you are incorrigible. For years we have been trying to make you a
really good and wise man, both by example and precept, and you are
distinctly worse than when we began--more lazy, miserly, and
uncharitable. It is very disheartening.

"Can you receive another tramp and give him a bed, for I am in low
spirits, and so, like every other person in trouble, I come to you, you
dear old saint, and already I feel a better man."

"Receive you, John? It is doubtless selfish, but it is not given to
you to know how I weary to see your faces, and we shall have much
converse together--there are some points I would like your opinion
on--but first of all, after a slight refreshment, we must go to Mains:
behold the aid to memory I have designed"--and the Rabbi pointed to a
large square of paper hung above Chrysostom, with "Farewell, George
Pitillo, 3 o'clock." "He is the son's son of my benefactor, and he
leaves his father's house this day to go into a strange land across the
sea: I had a service last night at Mains, and expounded the departure
of Abraham, but only slightly, being somewhat affected through the
weakness of the flesh. There was a covenant made between the young man
and myself, that I should meet him at the crossing of the roads to-day,
and it is in my mind to leave a parable with him against the power of
this present world."

Then the Rabbi fell into a meditation till the dog-cart came up, Mains
and his wife in the front and George alone in the back, making a brave
show of indifference.

"George," said the Rabbi, looking across the field and speaking as to
himself, "we shall not meet again in this world, and in a short space
they will bury me in Kilbogie kirkyard, but it will not be in me to lie
still for thinking of the people I have loved. So it will come to pass
that I may rise--you have ears to under