oken wave--blending into one
vanishing dream of a troubled, yet, oh, how precious night past and
gone!

Once, about an hour before he went, Donal heard him murmur, "When I
wake I am still with thee!"

Doory was perfectly calm. When he gave his last sigh, she sighed too,
said, "I winna be lang, Anerew!" and said no more. Eppy wept bitterly.

Donal went every day to see them till the funeral was over. It was
surprising how many of the town's folk attended it. Most of them had
regarded the cobbler as a poor talkative enthusiast with far more
tongue than brains! Because they were so far behind and beneath him,
they saw him very small!

One cannot help reflecting what an indifferent trifle the funeral,
whether plain to bareness, as in Scotland, or lovely with meaning as
often in England, is to the spirit who has but dropt his hurting shoes
on the weary road, dropt all the dust and heat, dropt the road itself,
yea the world of his pilgrimage--which never was, never could be, never
was meant to be his country, only the place of his sojourning--in which
the stateliest house of marble can be but a tent--cannot be a house,
yet less a home. Man could never be made at home here, save by a
mutilation, a depression, a lessening of his being; those who fancy it
their home, will come, by growth, one day to feel that it is no more
their home than its mother's egg is the home of the lark.

For some time Donal's savings continued to support the old woman and
her grand-daughter. But ere long Doory got so much to do in the way of
knitting stockings and other things, and was set to so many light jobs
by kindly people who respected her more than her husband because they
saw her less extraordinary, that she seldom troubled him. Miss
Carmichael offered to do what she could to get Eppy a place, if she
answered certain questions to her satisfaction. How she liked her
catechizing I do not know, but she so far satisfied her interrogator
that she did find her a place in Edinburgh. She wept sore at leaving
Auchars, but there was no help: rumour had been more cruel than untrue,
and besides there was no peace for her near the castle. Not once had
lord Forgue sought her since he gave her up to Donal, and she thought
he had then given her up altogether. Notwithstanding his kindness to
her house, she all but hated Donal--perhaps the more nearly that her
conscience told he had done nothing but what was right.

Things returned into the old grooves at