e, whom you were so kind to at Tochty. Will you let
me be your nurse? I learned in India, and know what to do." It was
only wounded soldiers who knew how gentle her voice could be, and how
soft her hands.

"It is I that . . . should be serving you . . . the first time you have
come to the manse . . . no woman has ever done me . . . such kindness
before. . . ." He followed her as she tried to bring some order out of
chaos, and knew not that he spoke aloud. "A gracious maid . . . above
rubies."

His breathing was growing worse, in spite of many wise things she did
for him--Doctor Manley, who paid no compliments, but was a strength
unto every country doctor in Perthshire, praises Kate unto this
day--and the Rabbi did not care to speak. So she sat down by his side
and read to him from the _Pilgrim's Progress_--holding his hand all the
time--and the passage he desired was the story of Mr. Fearing.

"This I took very great notice of, that the valley of the shadow of
Death was as quiet while he went through it as ever I knew it before or
since. I suppose these enemies here had now a special check from our
Lord and a command not to meddle until Mr. Fearing was passed over
it. . . . Here also I took notice of what was very remarkable: the
water of that river was lower at this time than ever I saw it in all my
life. So he went over at last, not much above wet-shod. When he was
going up to the gate . . ."

The Rabbi listened for an instant.

"It is John's step . . . he hath a sound of his own . . . my only
earthly desire is fulfilled."

"Rabbi," cried Carmichael, and half kneeling, he threw one arm round
the old man, "say that you forgive me. I looked for you everywhere on
Monday, but you could not be found."

"Did you think, John, that I . . . my will was to do you an injury
or . . . vex your soul? Many trials in my life . . . all God's
will . . . but this hardest . . . when I lost you . . . nothing left
here . . . but you . . .--my breath is bad, a little chill--. . . do
you understand?"

"I always did, and I never respected you more; it was my foolish pride
that made me call you Doctor Saunderson in the study; but my love was
the same, and now you will let me stay and wait on you."

The old man smiled sadly, and laid his hand on his boy's head.

"I cannot let you . . . go, John, my son."

"Go and leave you, Rabbi!" Carmichael tried to laugh. "Not till you
are ready to appear at the Presbytery again.