little child knows his mysterious mother. And from
behind him, the pale-blue, star-crowded sky shone upon his head, through
the window that looked upwards only.

Mrs. Falconer saw that he still went away as he had been wont, and
instituted observations, the result of which was the knowledge that
he went to his own room. Her heart smote her, and she saw that the boy
looked sad and troubled. There was scarce room in her heart for increase
of love, but much for increase of kindness, and she did increase it. In
truth, he needed the smallest crumb of comfort that might drop from the
table of God's 'feastful friends.'

Night after night he returned to the parlour cold to the very heart.
God was not to be found, he said then. He said afterwards that even then
'God was with him though he knew it not.'

For the very first night, the moment that he knelt and cried, 'O Father
in heaven, hear me, and let thy face shine upon me'--like a flash of
burning fire the words shot from the door of his heart: 'I dinna care
for him to love me, gin he doesna love ilka body;' and no more prayer
went from the desolate boy that night, although he knelt an hour
of agony in the freezing dark. Loyal to what he had been taught, he
struggled hard to reduce his rebellious will to what he supposed to be
the will of God. It was all in vain. Ever a voice within him--surely the
voice of that God who he thought was not hearing--told him that what he
wanted was the love belonging to his human nature, his human needs--not
the preference of a court-favourite. He had a dim consciousness that
he would be a traitor to his race if he accepted a love, even from God,
given him as an exception from his kind. But he did not care to have
such a love. It was not what his heart yearned for. It was not love.
He could not love such a love. Yet he strove against it all--fought for
religion against right as he could; struggled to reduce his rebellious
feelings, to love that which was unlovely, to choose that which was
abhorrent, until nature almost gave way under the effort. Often would he
sink moaning on the floor, or stretch himself like a corpse, save that
it was face downwards, on the boards of the bedstead. Night after night
he returned to the battle, but with no permanent success. What a success
that would have been! Night after night he came pale and worn from
the conflict, found his grandmother and Shargar composed, and in the
quietness of despair sat down beside