r son's child, but Andrew was in bed and suffering great pain.
The moment Donal saw him he went for the doctor. He said a rib was
broken, bound him up, and gave him some medicine. All done that could
be done, Donal sat down to watch beside him.

He lay still, with closed eyes and white face. So patient was he that
his very pain found utterance in a sort of blind smile. Donal did not
know much about pain: he could read in Andrew's look his devotion to
the will of him whose being was his peace, but he did not know above
what suffering his faith lifted him, and held him hovering yet safe.
His faith made him one with life, the eternal Life--and that is
salvation.

In closest contact with the divine, the original relation restored, the
source once more holding its issue, the divine love pouring itself into
the deepest vessel of the man's being, itself but a vessel for the
holding of the diviner and divinest, who can wonder if keenest pain
should not be able to quench the smile of the prostrate! Few indeed
have reached the point of health to laugh at disease, but are there
none? Let not a man say because he cannot that no one can.

The old woman was very calm, only every now and then she would lift her
hands and shake her head, and look as if the universe were going to
pieces, because her husband lay there by the stroke of the ungodly. And
if he had lain there forgotten, then indeed the universe would have
been going to pieces! When he coughed, every pang seemed to go through
her body to her heart. Love is as lovely in the old as in the
young--lovelier when in them, as often, it is more sympathetic and
unselfish--that is, more true.

Donal wrote to Mrs. Brookes that he would not be home that night; and
having found a messenger at the inn, settled himself to watch by his
friend.

The hours glided quietly over. Andrew slept a good deal, and seemed to
have pleasant visions. He was finding yet more saving. Now and then his
lips would move as if he were holding talk with some friendly soul.
Once Donal heard the murmured words, "Lord, I'm a' yer ain;" and noted
that his sleep grew deeper thereafter. He did not wake till the day
began to dawn. Then he asked for some water. Seeing Donal, and divining
that he had been by his bedside all the night, he thanked him with a
smile and a little nod--which somehow brought to his memory certain
words Andrew had spoken on another occasion: "There's ane, an' there's
a'; an' the a' 's ane,