d now returning, for she went on--

"Ay, Robin, I'm tellin' ye the truth. Yir faither's thocht o' ye is the
thocht he had when ye were a bit bairn in his airms."

The anguished father flung himself upon his knees beside the bed, his
hand gently stroking his wife's withered cheek.

"Tell him that again, mither; tell him my thocht o' him was aye the same
as yir ain, when I thocht o' him atween God an' me. Tell him me an' you
baith thocht the same. Bid him hame, Elsie. Oh, mither, I've been the
wanderer masel', an' I'm weary."

My heart melted in me at this, for the eternal fatherly was sobbing
through his voice.

The familiar tones seemed to call Elsie back from her delirium, for she
suddenly looked upon us as if we had not been there before.

"Oh, faither, Robin's comin' hame the nicht. Is the lamp kindled in the
window? We've baith been wae these mony years, but the mirk'll be past
an' by when oor laddie's safe hame wi' us again."

A strange sense of the nearness of the supernatural took possession of
me, for Elsie's voice was not the voice of fevered fancy; the fast
ebbing tide of life seemed to flow back again, her strength visibly
increased, as if she must remain till her Robin had been welcomed home.

In spite of reason, I fell to listening eagerly, wondering if this were
indeed the act of God. Why should it be thought a thing incredible with
us that the Rebuilder of Bethany's desolated house should still ply His
ancient industry?

"Raise me up a little, faither, for I maun watch the gate."

Donald lifted his dying wife with caressing easiness.

"That'll dae; ay, we've baith been wae these mony years, but the mirk is
bye.

"'Long hath the night of sorrow reigned,
The dawn shall bring us light.'

The morn is wi' us, Donal', an' Robin's at the gate."

Far past the flickering lamp she gazed, and her eyes' light rose and
fell in unison with approaching steps.

"He's bye the gate," she cried; and joy held death at bay, for the words
chimed like cathedral bells.

Fearsome to behold was the awestruck face which Donald turned to mine,
and full of questioning dread, I doubt not, were the eyes that met his
own. Was this the doing of the Lord, or was it but the handiwork of
death, that wizard oculist, so often lending mystic vision to pilgrims
setting under darkness out to sea?

Leaving death and Elsie to their unequal conflict, we started with one
impulse to the window; but Donald was there be