Yours have had shops and investments and
policemen round every corner--there is a difference--Louis, am I
offending you?" she asked anxiously.

"Go on!" he said hoarsely.

"Well, father tried. But trying wasn't any use. He read philosophy to
get himself interested in something. But philosophy wasn't gripping
enough. It seems we've all got to find something to anchor on, and it's
different for almost everyone. That's where we can help each other by
trying to understand each other's needs and offering suggestions. Like
sailors do--with charts and things. All this philosophy of father's! It
reminds me of a horse I saw once at Carlossie Fair. It had a most
horrible ulcer on its shoulder and they'd tried to hide it up by
plaiting its mane and tying it with a great heap of ribbons. That
doesn't cure anything! You know there's a phrase we use often about
people who are miserable--we say, 'Oh, he needs to be taken out of
himself.' Isn't that a vivid way of putting it, if you stop to think?"

He nodded, and still stared fascinated at her, drinking in every slow,
halting word.

"I suppose father brooded just like you do. He used to get very grumpy,
and very, very unhappy. He begged and pleaded with me for understanding,
and I couldn't give it to him. Then one day he got dreadfully drunk,
after a whole year away from it. And mother's cousin came. He talked
to father for five or six hours while Aunt and I kept shivering and
thinking father would murder him. Our people usually do murder people
who annoy them. But Cousin came out of the room and said, 'Andrew has
cast his burden on the Lord.' He said it as if he was saying, 'Andrew
has sneezed, or put some coal on the fire'--the most ordinary way you
can imagine. And that was the end of whisky for father. After that he
tried to make everyone he knew cast their burden on the Lord. I rather
felt like laughing at the time. It seemed rather silly, and just a bit
vulgar--most religion is, isn't it? But since I've been worrying myself
to death about you I've understood all about poor father."

"I don't see it," he said hopelessly.

"Listen. Until father gave up trying himself and realized that he was
weak, he was--was--sort of hiding the ulcer with a bunch of ribbons. But
the minute he gave up, everything was different. He didn't say any more,
'I'm Andrew Lashcairn, the son of generations of drunkards and madmen.'
He changed it and said, 'I'm God's man--I've given Him my homage and