h her God where the Ettrick water
hears her prayer. And this is the man whose hands would convey the grace
of God!"

He stopped; and the blanched faces before him gave back a voice, half
cry, half sob, anguish rending every heart. They were a proud folk in
St. Cuthbert's; besides no man of all the elders was so dear to them as
Mr. Blake, his piety and philanthropy so long tried and proved. Although
we know it not, there is no asset held more dear than the solvency of a
man in whom we vest the precious savings of our confidence.

Every eye and heart seemed turned towards the man so fiercely accused,
silently entreating him to relieve the cruel tension.

None doubted that his swift denial would confirm the confidence of our
loyal hearts. But the silence drew itself out, moment after moment, each
bequeathing its legacy of pain to its successor. Mr. Blake's eyes were
raptly fixed on his accuser--his traducer, as we secretly defined him.
Their light was not the glow of wrath, nor of resentment, but of a
strange wistful curiosity, mixed with eager yearning. Fear and love
seemed to look out together.

In the pause that followed, Angus swiftly handed to me a small picture,
encased after an ancient fashion.

"Look at that, sir," he said, "that will tell its tale--that is my
father's face."

I looked with eager intentness, and it required but a glance to show
that the pictured face before me, and the pallid face beside me, were
the same. The picture was evidently taken long years before, and the
stamp of youth and hope and ardent faith was upon the face. Locks raven
black, and an unwrinkled brow, had been exchanged for those that bore
the scar of time and care; but no careful eye could fail to see that the
youthful face of the picture and the ashen face of the elder were one
and the same.

But,--more striking and fatal far--the photograph's evidence was not
required. No man who saw, as I saw, the faces of Michael Blake and Angus
Strachan side by side need wait for other evidence. Often had I seen
them thus before--but never in the nakedness of passion.

Passion has the artist's magic hand and her master sketch is ever of her
home. As Titian's immortal hills were but the reproduction of his
far-off dwelling-place, genius plighting its troth to childhood, so doth
passion illumine first the environs of her long time home, how humble so
ever it may be. Passion paints the eternal childlike that is in us all.
The face is the