. trust . . .
in Him." He drew two or three long breaths and was still. After a
little he was heard again with a new note--"He that believeth . . . in
Him . . . shall not be confounded," and again "A bruised reed . . .
shall He not . . ." Then he opened his eyes and raised his head--but
he saw neither Kate nor Carmichael, for the Rabbi had done with earthly
friends and earthly trials--and he, who had walked in darkness and seen
no light, said in a clear voice full of joy, "My Lord, and my God."

It was Kate that closed his eyes and laid the old scholar's head on the
pillow, and then she left the room, casting one swift glance of pity at
Carmichael, who was weeping bitterly and crying between the sobs,
"Rabbi, Rabbi."

CHAPTER XXII.

WITHOUT FEAR AND WITHOUT REPROACH.

Doctor Davidson allowed himself, in later years, the pleasant luxury of
an after luncheon nap, and then it was his habit--weather
permitting--to go out and meet Posty, who adhered so closely to his
time-table--notwithstanding certain wayside rests--that the Doctor's
dog knew his hour of arrival, and saw that his master was on the road
in time. It was a fine April morning when the news of the great
disaster came, and the Doctor felt the stirring of spring in his blood.
On the first hint from Skye he sprang from his chair, declaring it was
a sin to be in the house on such a day, and went out in such haste that
he had to return for his hat. As he went up the walk, the Doctor
plucked some early lilies and placed them in his coat; he threw so many
stones that Skye forgot his habit of body and ecclesiastical position;
and he was altogether so youthful and frolicsome that John was
seriously alarmed, and afterwards remarked to Rebecca that he was not
unprepared for calamity.

"The best o's tempts Providence at a time, and when a man like the
Doctor tries tae rin aifter his dog jidgment canna be far off. A 'm no
sayin'," John concluded, with characteristic modesty, "that onybody cud
tell what was coming, but a' jaloused there wud be tribble."

The Doctor met Posty in the avenue, the finest bit on our main road,
where the road has wide margins of grass on either side, and the two
rows of tall ancient trees arch their branches overhead. Some day in
the past it had been part of the approach to the house of Tochty, and
under this long green arch the Jacobite cavaliers rode away after black
John Carnegie's burial. No one could stand beneath those st