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that a thing is the will of God； save by seeing into its nature and
character； and beholding its goodness。 Whatever God does must be
right； but are we sure that we know what he does？ That which men
say he does may be very wrong indeed。
This burden she in her turn laid upon Robertnot unkindly； but as
needful for his training towards well…being。 Her way with him was
shaped after that which she recognized as God's way with her。 'Speir
nae questons； but gang an' du as ye're tellt。' And it was anything
but a bad lesson for the boy。 It was one of the best he could have
hadthat of authority。 It is a grand thing to obey without asking
questions； so long as there is nothing evil in what is commanded。
Only grannie concealed her reasons without reason； and God makes no
secrets。 Hence she seemed more stern and less sympathetic than she
really was。
She sat with her feet on the little wooden stool； and Robert sat
beside her staring into the fire； till they heard the outer door
open； and Shargar and Betty come in from church。
CHAPTER XIII。
ROBERT'S MOTHER。
Early on the following morning； while Mrs。 Falconer； Robert； and
Shargar were at breakfast； Mr。 Lammie came。 He had delayed
communicating the intelligence he had received till he should be
more certain of its truth。 Older than Andrew； he had been a great
friend of his father； and likewise of some of Mrs。 Falconer's own
family。 Therefore he was received with a kindly welcome。 But there
was a cloud on his brow which in a moment revealed that his errand
was not a pleasant one。
'I haena seen ye for a lang time； Mr。 Lammie。 Gae butt the hoose；
lads。 Or I'm thinkin' it maun be schule…time。 Sit ye doon； Mr。
Lammie； and lat's hear yer news。'
'I cam frae Aberdeen last nicht； Mistress Faukner；' he began。
'Ye haena been hame sin' syne？' she rejoined。
'Na。 I sleepit at The Boar's Heid。'
'What for did ye that？ What gart ye be at that expense； whan ye
kent I had a bed i' the ga'le…room？'
'Weel； ye see； they're auld frien's o' mine； and I like to gang to
them whan I'm i' the gait o' 't。'
'Weel； they're a fine faimily； the Miss Napers。 And； I wat； sin'
they maun sell drink； they du 't wi' discretion。 That's weel kent。'
Possibly Mr。 Lammie； remembering what then occurred； may have
thought the discretion a little in excess of the drink； but he had
other matters to occupy him now。 For a few moments both were
silent。
'There's been some ill news； they tell me； Mrs。 Faukner；' he said at
length； when the silence had grown painful。
'Humph！' returned the old lady； her face becoming stony with the
effort to suppress all emotion。 'Nae aboot Anerew？'
''Deed is 't； mem。 An' ill news； I'm sorry to say。'
'Is he ta'en？'
'Ay is heby a jyler that winna tyne the grup。'
'He's no deid； John Lammie？ Dinna say 't。'
'I maun say 't； Mrs。 Faukner。 I had it frae Dr。 Anderson； yer ain
cousin。 He hintit at it afore； but his last letter leaves nae room
to doobt upo' the subjeck。 I'm unco sorry to be the beirer o' sic
ill news； Mrs。 Faukner； but I had nae chice。'
'Ohone！ Ohone！ the day o' grace is by at last！ My puir Anerew！'
exclaimed Mrs。 Falconer； and sat dumb thereafter。
Mr。 Lammie tried to comfort her with some of the usual comfortless
commonplaces。 She neither wept nor replied； but sat with stony face
staring into her lap； till； seeing that she was as one that heareth
not； he rose and left her alone with her grief。 A few minutes after
he was gone； she rang the bell； and told Betty in her usual voice to
send Robert to her。
'He's gane to the schule； mem。'
'Rin efter him； an' tell him to come hame。'
When Robert appeared； wondering what his grandmother could want with
him； she said：
'Close the door； Robert。 I canna lat ye gang to the schule the day。
We maun lea' him oot noo。'
'Lea' wha oot； grannie？'
'Him； himAnerew。 Yer father； laddie。 I think my hert 'll brak。'
'Lea' him oot o' what； grannie？ I dinna unnerstan' ye。'
'Lea' him oot o' oor prayers； laddie； and I canna bide it。'
'What for that？'
'He's deid。'
'Are ye sure？'
'Ay； ower sureower sure； laddie。'
'Weel； I dinna believe 't。'
'What for that？'
''Cause I winna believe 't。 I'm no bund to believe 't； am I？'
'What's the gude o' that？ What for no believe 't？ Dr。 Anderson's
sent hame word o' 't to John Lammie。 Och hone！ och hone！'
'I tell ye I winna believe 't； grannie； 'cep' God himsel' tells me。
As lang 's I dinna believe 'at he's deid； I can keep him i' my
prayers。 I'm no gaein' to lea' him oot； I tell ye； grannie。'
'Weel； laddie； I canna argue wi' ye。 I hae nae hert til 't。 I
doobt I maun greit！ Come awa'。'
She took him by the hand and rose； then let him go again； saying；
'Sneck the door； laddie。'
Robert bolted the door； and his grandmother again taking his hand；
led him to the usual corner。 There they knelt down together； and
the old woman's prayer was one great and bitter cry for submission
to the divine will。 She rose a little strengthened； if not
comforted； saying；
'Ye maun pray yer lane； laddie。 But oh be a guid lad； for ye're a'
that I hae left； and gin ye gang wrang tu； ye'll bring doon my gray
hairs wi' sorrow to the grave。 They're gray eneuch； and they're
near eneuch to the grave； but gin ye turn oot weel； I'll maybe haud
up my heid a bit yet。 But O Anerew！ my son！ my son！ Would God I
had died for thee！'
And the words of her brother in grief； the king of Israel； opened
the floodgates of her heart； and she wept。 Robert left her weeping；
and closed the door quietly as if his dead father had been lying in
the room。
He took his way up to his own garret； closed that door too； and sat
down upon the floor； with his back against the empty bedstead。
There were no more castles to build now。 It was all very well to
say that he would not believe the news and would pray for his
father； but he did believe themenough at least to spoil the
praying。 His favourite employment； seated there； had hitherto been
to imagine how he would grow a great man； and set out to seek his
father； and find him； and stand by him； and be his son and servant。
Oh！ to have the man stroke his head and pat his cheek； and love
him！ One moment he imagined himself his indignant defender； the
next he would be climbing on his knee； as if he were still a little
child； and laying his head on his shoulder。 For he had had no
fondling his life long； and his heart yearned for it。 But all this
was gone now。 A dreary time lay before him； with nobody to please；
nobody to serve； with nobody to praise him。 Grannie never praised
him。 She must have thought praise something wicked。 And his father
was in misery； for ever and ever！ Only somehow that thought was not
quite thinkable。 It was more the vanishing of hope from his own
life than a sense of his father's fate that oppressed him。
He cast his eyes； as in a hungry despair； around the empty roomor；
rather； I should have said； in that faintness which makes food at
once essential and loathsome； for despair has no proper hunger in
it。 The room seemed as empty as his life。 There was nothing for
his eyes to rest upon but those bundles and bundles of dust…browned
papers on the shelves before him。 What were they all about？ He
understood that they were his father's： now that he was dead； it
would be no sacrilege to look at them。 Nobody cared about them。 He
would see at least what they were。 It would be something to do in
this dreariness。
Bills and receipts； and everything ephemeralto feel the interest
of which； a man must be a poet indeedwas all that met his view。
Bundle after bundle he tried； with no better success。 But as he
drew near the middle of the second shelf； upon which they lay
several rows deep； he saw something dark behind； hurriedly displaced
the packets between； and drew forth a small workbox。 His heart beat
like that of the prince in the fairy…tale； when he comes to the door
of the Sleeping Beauty。 This at least must have been hers。 It was
a common little thing； probably a childish possession； and kept to
hold trifles worth more than they looked to be。 He opened it with
bated breath。 The first thing he saw was a half…finished reel of
cottona pirn； he called it。 Beside it was a gold thimble。 He
lifted the tray。 A lovely face in miniature； with dark hair and
blue eyes； lay looking earnestly upward。 At the lid of this coffin
those eyes had looked for so many years！ The picture was set all
round with pearls in an oval ring。 How Robert knew them to be
pearls he could not tell； for he did not know that he had ever seen
any pearls before； but he knew they were pearls； and that pearls had
something to do with the New Jerusalem。 But the sadness of it all
at length ov