ose?"

"Forty-six. Quite a lad, for these parts!"

"Things look all right, certainly," was my summing up.

Val wrote to the factor, but the result was not over-promising. He
knew of nothing suitable at present. But he would keep the case in
mind, and write at once should he hear of anything available.

Both Val and I were keen on getting the matter settled, and often
talked it over together, discussing ways and means. But the weeks
slipped by, and we found ourselves no nearer to a solution of the
difficulty. We little dreamed of the quarter from which it was
eventually to come!

One day as we sat at breakfast Elsie brought in a telegram for Val. It
was a somewhat unusual occurrence; for we were a good way from the
office, and, porterage being expensive, we had carefully instructed our
ordinary correspondents that we preferred the humbler post-card, as a
rule. When a telegram did arrive, therefore, it generally presaged
something of unusual importance. I saw Val's face change as he read
it. He passed it over to me as he rose to write a reply. This is what
I saw:

"Gowan dying wants to see you come immediately."

It was signed by a Glasgow doctor, and sent from one of the chief
hotels of the city.

I followed Val to his den, where he was writing the answer.

"Would you mind my coming with you?" I asked.

"I should like it of all things," was his reply.

In less than half an hour we had started, and before night had arrived
at our destination.

It always seems to me that one feels one's personal insignificance more
keenly in a big city than anywhere else. The hurry and bustle on all
sides witness to the self-interest which rules every individual of the
crowd, to the exclusion of any sincere concern for others. The feeling
was accentuated when we reached the hotel. There all was brightness
and movement; in the brilliantly lighted dining-room guests were
eating, drinking, chatting, and enjoying life; in the hall and on the
staircases attendants were moving swiftly about, visitors were coming
and going. Each one's pleasures, comforts, and advantages were the
business of the hour. Yet in some chamber overhead a momentous crisis
was at hand for one poor, lonely man, who had to leave behind him this
scene of busy life, to enter upon an eternity of weal or woe. Upon the
passing moments everything depended for him; he had to prepare to meet
his God. Around him things were taking their usual course