n
the hills, and discoursed of things in heaven and earth. He was an
unconscious follower of the theology of the Reverend John Jasper, of
Richmond, Virginia, and rejected the Copernican theory of the universe
as inconsistent with the history of Joshua. "Gin the sun doesna muve,"
said he, "what for wad Joshua be tellin' him to stond steel? 'A wad
suner beleeve there was a mistak' in the veesible heevens than ae fault
in the Guid Buik." Whereupon we held long discourse of astronomy and
inspiration; but Sandy concluded it with a philosophic word which left
little to be said: "Aweel, yon teelescope is a wonnerful deescovery; but
'a dinna think the less o' the Baible."

III.

WHITE HEATHER.

Memory is a capricious and arbitrary creature. You never can tell
what pebble she will pick up from the shore of life to keep among her
treasures, or what inconspicuous flower of the field she will preserve
as the symbol of

"Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears."

She has her own scale of values for these mementos, and knows nothing
of the market price of precious stones or the costly splendour of rare
orchids. The thing that pleases her is the thing that she will hold
fast. And yet I do not doubt that the most important things are always
the best remembered; only we must learn that the real importance of what
we see and hear in the world is to be measured at last by its meaning,
its significance, its intimacy with the heart of our heart and the life
of our life. And when we find a little token of the past very safely and
imperishably kept among our recollections, we must believe that memory
has made no mistake. It is because that little thing has entered into
our experience most deeply, that it stays with us and we cannot lose it.

You have half forgotten many a famous scene that you travelled far to
look upon. You cannot clearly recall the sublime peak of Mont Blanc,
the roaring curve of Niagara, the vast dome of St. Peter's. The music of
Patti's crystalline voice has left no distinct echo in your remembrance,
and the blossoming of the century-plant is dimmer than the shadow of
a dream. But there is a nameless valley among the hills where you can
still trace every curve of the stream, and see the foam-bells floating
on the pool below the bridge, and the long moss wavering in the current.
There is a rustic song of a girl passing through the fields at sunset,
that still repeats its far-off cadence in your listen