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head was bent towards the earth。 I kept away。 They made a turn
from home。 I still followed at a distance。 The evening began to
grow dark。 The autumn wind met us again； colder； stronger； yet more
laden with the odours of death and the frosts of the coming winter。
But it no longer blew as from the charnel…house of the past； it
blew from the stars through the chinks of the unopened door on the
other side of the sepulchre。 It was a wind of the worlds； not a
wind of the leaves。 It told of the march of the spheres； and the
rest of the throne of God。 We were going on into the universehome
to the house of our Father。 Mighty adventure！ Sacred repose！ And
as I followed the pair； one great star throbbed and radiated over my
head。
CHAPTER XVIII。
THREE GENERATIONS。
The next week I went back to my work； leaving the father and son
alone together。 Before I left； I could see plainly enough that the
bonds were being drawn closer between them。 A whole month passed
before they returned to London。 The winter then had set in with
unusual severity。 But it seemed to bring only health to the two
men。 When I saw Andrew next； there was certainly a marked change
upon him。 Light had banished the haziness from his eye； and his
step was a good deal firmer。 I can hardly speak of more than the
physical improvement； for I saw very little of him now。 Still I did
think I could perceive more of judgment in his face； as if he
sometimes weighed things in his mind。 But it was plain that Robert
continued very careful not to let him a moment out of his knowledge。
He busied him with the various sights of London； for Andrew；
although he knew all its miseries well； had never yet been inside
Westminster Abbey。 If he could only trust him enough to get him
something to do！ But what was he fit for？ To try him； he proposed
once that he should write some account of what he had seen and
learned in his wanderings； but the evident distress with which he
shrunk from the proposal was grateful to the eyes and heart of his
son。
It was almost the end of the year when a letter arrived from John
Lammie； informing Robert that his grandmother had caught a violent
cold； and that； although the special symptoms had disappeared； it
was evident her strength was sinking fast； and that she would not
recover。
He read the letter to his father。
'We must go and see her； Robert； my boy；' said Andrew。
It was the first time that he had shown the smallest desire to visit
her。 Falconer rose with glad heart； and proceeded at once to make
arrangements for their journey。
It was a cold； powdery afternoon in January； with the snow thick on
the ground； save where the little winds had blown the crown of the
street bare before Mrs。 Falconer's house。 A post…chaise with four
horses swept wearily round the corner； and pulled up at her door。
Betty opened it； and revealed an old withered face very sorrowful；
and yet expectant。 Falconer's feelings I dare not； Andrew's I
cannot attempt to describe； as they stepped from the chaise and
entered。 Betty led the way without a word into the little parlour。
Robert went next； with long quiet strides； and Andrew followed with
gray； bowed head。 Grannie was not in her chair。 The doors which
during the day concealed the bed in which she slept； were open； and
there lay the aged woman with her eyes closed。 The room was as it
had always been； only there seemed a filmy shadow in it that had not
been there before。
'She's deein'； sir；' whispered Betty。 'Ay is she。 Och hone！'
Robert took his father's hand； and led him towards the bed。 They
drew nigh softly； and bent over the withered； but not even yet very
wrinkled face。 The smooth； white； soft hands lay on the sheet；
which was folded back over her bosom。 She was asleep； or rather；
she slumbered。
But the soul of the child began to grow in the withered heart of the
old man as he regarded his older mother； and as it grew it forced
the tears to his eyes； and the words to his lips。
'Mother！' he said； and her eyelids rose at once。 He stooped to kiss
her； with the tears rolling down his face。 The light of heaven
broke and flashed from her aged countenance。 She lifted her weak
hands； took his head； and held it to her bosom。
'Eh！ the bonnie gray heid！' she said； and burst into a passion of
weeping。 She had kept some tears for the last。 Now she would spend
all that her griefs had left her。 But there came a pause in her
sobs； though not in her weeping； and then she spoke。
'I kent it a' the time； O Lord。 I kent it a' the time。 He's come
hame。 My Anerew； my Anerew！ I'm as happy 's a bairn。 O Lord！ O
Lord！'
And she burst again into sobs； and entered paradise in radiant
weeping。
Her hands sank away from his head； and when her son gazed in her
face he saw that she was dead。 She had never looked at Robert。
The two men turned towards each other。 Robert put out his arms。
His father laid his head on his bosom； and went on weeping。 Robert
held him to his heart。
When shall a man dare to say that God has done all he can？
CHAPTER XIX。
THE WHOLE STORY。
The men laid their mother's body with those of the generations that
had gone before her； beneath the long grass in their country
churchyard near Rothiedena dreary place； one accustomed to trim
cemeteries and sentimental wreaths would call itto Falconer's mind
so friendly to the forsaken dust； because it lapt it in sweet
oblivion。
They returned to the dreary house； and after a simple meal such as
both had used to partake of in their boyhood； they sat by the fire；
Andrew in his mother's chair； Robert in the same chair in which he
had learned his Sallust and written his versions。 Andrew sat for a
while gazing into the fire； and Robert sat watching his face； where
in the last few months a little feeble fatherhood had begun to dawn。
'It was there； father； that grannie used to sit； every day；
sometimes looking in the fire for hours； thinking about you； I
know；' Robert said at length。
Andrew stirred uneasily in his chair。
'How do you know that？' he asked。
'If there was one thing I could be sure of； it was when grannie was
thinking about you； father。 Who wouldn't have known it； father；
when her lips were pressed together； as if she had some dreadful
pain to bear； and her eyes were looking away through the fireso
far away！ and I would speak to her three times before she would
answer？ She lived only to think about God and you； father。 God and
you came very close together in her mind。 Since ever I can
remember； almost； the thought of you was just the one thing in this
house。'
Then Robert began at the beginning of his memory； and told his
father all that he could remember。 When he came to speak about his
solitary musings in the garret； he saidand long before he reached
this part； he had relapsed into his mother tongue：
'Come and luik at the place； father。 I want to see 't again；
mysel'。'
He rose。 His father yielded and followed him。 Robert got a candle
in the kitchen； and the two big men climbed the little narrow stair
and stood in the little sky of the house； where their heads almost
touched the ceiling。
'I sat upo' the flure there；' said Robert； 'an' thoucht and thoucht
what I wad du to get ye； father； and what I wad du wi' ye whan I had
gotten ye。 I wad greit whiles； 'cause ither laddies had a father
an' I had nane。 An' there's whaur I fand mamma's box wi' the letter
in 't and her ain picter： grannie gae me that ane o' you。 An'
there's whaur I used to kneel doon an' pray to God。 An' he's heard
my prayers； and grannie's prayers； and here ye are wi' me at last。
Instead o' thinkin' aboot ye； I hae yer ain sel'。 Come； father； I
want to say a word o' thanks to God； for hearin' my prayer。'
He took the old man's hand； led him to the bedside； and kneeled with
him there。
My reader can hardly avoid thinking it was a poor sad triumph that
Robert had after all。 How the dreams of the boy had dwindled in
settling down into the reality！ He had his father； it was true； but
what a father！ And how little he had him！
But this was not the end； and Robert always believed that the end
must be the greater in proportion to the distance it was removed； to
give time for its true fulfilment。 And when he prayed aloud beside
his father； I doubt not that his thanksgiving and his hope were
equal。
The prayer over； he took his father's hand and led him down again to
the little parlour； and they took their seats again by the fire； and
Robert began again and went on with his story； not omitting the
parts belonging to Mary St。 John and Eric Ericson。
When he came to tell how he had encountered him in the deserted
factory：
'Luik here； father； here's the mark o' the cut；' he said； parting
the thick