amuse him, raising a deep question in his mind,
and one worthy to be asked. This book was the translation of Klopstock's
Messiah, to which I have already referred. It was not one of his
grandmother's books, but had probably belonged to his father: he had
found it in his little garret-room. But as often as she saw him reading
it, she seemed rather pleased, he thought. As to the book itself, its
florid expatiation could neither offend nor injure a boy like Robert,
while its representation of our Lord was to him a wonderful relief from
that given in the pulpit, and in all the religious books he knew. But
the point for the sake of which I refer to it in particular is this:
Amongst the rebel angels who are of the actors in the story, one of
the principal is a cherub who repents of making his choice with Satan,
mourns over his apostasy, haunts unseen the steps of our Saviour, wheels
lamenting about the cross, and would gladly return to his lost duties
in heaven, if only he might--a doubt which I believe is left unsolved
in the volume, and naturally enough remained unsolved in Robert's
mind:--Would poor Abaddon be forgiven and taken home again? For although
naturally, that is, to judge by his own instincts, there could be no
question of his forgiveness, according to what he had been taught there
could be no question of his perdition. Having no one to talk to, he
divided himself and went to buffets on the subject, siding, of course,
with the better half of himself which supported the merciful view of
the matter; for all his efforts at keeping the Sabbath, had in his own
honest judgment failed so entirely, that he had no ground for believing
himself one of the elect. Had he succeeded in persuading himself that he
was, there is no saying to what lengths of indifference about others the
chosen prig might have advanced by this time.

He made one attempt to open the subject with Shargar.

'Shargar, what think ye?' he said suddenly, one day. 'Gin a de'il war to
repent, wad God forgie him?'

'There's no sayin' what fowk wad du till ance they're tried,' returned
Shargar, cautiously.

Robert did not care to resume the question with one who so circumspectly
refused to take a metaphysical or a priori view of the matter.

He made an attempt with his grandmother.

One Sunday, his thoughts, after trying for a time to revolve in due
orbit around the mind of the Rev. Hugh Maccleary, as projected in a
sermon which he had botched up out o