w words of comfort and courage and a final
prayer. Old Angus read, as he so often did when his son was leaving,
the one hundred and thirty-ninth psalm, the great assurance that no
matter how far one might go from home and loved ones, one might never
go away from the presence of God.

"If I ascend up into Heaven thou art there. If I make my bed in hell
behold thou art there. If I take the wings of the morning and dwell in
the uttermost parts of the sea, even there shall thy hand lead me and
thy right hand shall uphold me."

The prayer was simple and direct, as were all Old Angus's communions
with his Father. He had come to-day to a place where the way was very
puzzling, and Roderick, knowing him so well, understood why he prayed
for himself, that he might not be troubled with the why of it all, but
that he might know that God was guiding them all aright. But there was
an anguished note in his voice new to the Lad, and one that made the
pain in his heart grow almost unbearable. He had heard that sound in
his father's voice once before; and was puzzled to remember when. And
then there came vividly to his heart's ear, the cry that had rung out
over the dark waters to him the night the little boy was lost.
"Roderick, my son, where are you?" The father's heart was uttering
that cry now, and the son's heart heard it. There were tears in the
eyes of both men when they arose from their knees.

Aunt Kirsty came to him for her farewell with a big bundle in her arms.
It was done up carefully in a newspaper and tied with yarn, and
contained a huge lunch, composed of all the good things she had been
able to cook in a day's baking. Roderick felt as if he could not eat
anything between home and Montreal, but he took the bulky parcel
gratefully and tenderly. She put her arms about him, the tears
streaming down her face, then fled from the room as fast as her ample
size would permit, and gave vent to her grief in loud sobs and wails.
Old Angus followed his son out to the cutter in the shed. He stumbled
a little. He seemed to have suddenly become aged and decrepit. It was
not the physical parting that was weighing him down so heavily. Had
Roderick been called to go as a missionary to some far-off land, as his
father had so often dreamed in his younger days that he might, Old
Angus would have sent him away with none of the foreboding which filled
his heart to-day when he saw his boy leave to take a high position in
the wo