sible Peace, with
that voice of woman's truth, said, 'God has heard me!' What better
testimony could an angel have brought him? Or why should an angel's
testimony weigh more than such a woman's? The mere understanding of a
man like Ericson would only have demanded of an angel proof that he was
an angel, proof that angels knew better than he did in the matter in
question, proof that they were not easy-going creatures that took for
granted the rumours of heaven. The best that a miracle can do is to
give hope; of the objects of faith it can give no proof; one spiritual
testimony is worth a thousand of them. For to gain the sole proof of
which these truths admit, a man must grow into harmony with them. If
there are no such things he cannot become conscious of a harmony that
has no existence; he cannot thus deceive himself; if there are, they
must yet remain doubtful until the harmony between them and his own
willing nature is established. The perception of this harmony is their
only and incommunicable proof. For this process time is needful; and
therefore we are saved by hope. Hence it is no wonder that before
another half-hour was over, Ericson was asleep by Robert's side.

They were aroused in the cold gray light of the morning by the blast
of Hector's horn. Miss St. John was ready in a moment. The coach was
waiting for them at the end of the grassy road that led from the house.
Hector put them all inside. Before they reached Rothieden the events of
the night began to wear the doubtful aspect of a dream. No allusion
was made to what had occurred while Robert slept; but all the journey
Ericson felt towards Miss St. John as Wordsworth felt towards the
leech-gatherer, who, he says, was

like a man from some far region sent,
To give me human strength, by apt admonishment.

And Robert saw a certain light in her eyes which reminded him of how she
looked when, having repented of her momentary hardness towards him, she
was ministering to his wounded head.

CHAPTER XVII. HOME AGAIN.

When Robert opened the door of his grandmother's parlour, he found the
old lady seated at breakfast. She rose, pushed back her chair, and met
him in the middle of the room; put her old arms round him, offered her
smooth white cheek to him, and wept. Robert wondered that she did not
look older; for the time he had been away seemed an age, although in
truth only eight months.

'Hoo are ye, laddie?' she said. 'I'm richt glaid,