when he left the train. The train flew on, uncaring,
for trains know not that they are carriers unto destiny.

Michael Blake looked long at the rising sun--it was the same. Then his
eyes caressed the surrounding hills, playfellows of bygone years--they
had not changed. The flowers still were there, the grass had never
withered; the heather, too, in unfading purity.

And the trees, the old mighty elms, these were still the same--the
foliage of a larger life they had, but the selfsame branches held out
their kindly hands as in the long ago. Still upturned were their
reverent heads, still seeking God--and the baptism of the morning was
upon them, attested by the morning light.

He turned towards one of the familiar hills and began the old boyhood
climb.

Midway, he came to a spring, and a great thirst clutched his heart. It
was life's long, quenchless thirst, crying out again for the children's
portion. His face is close to its crystal water, his lips burning with
desire. Another's face moves upward to greet his own--but it is not the
same--and memory swiftly paints another till he actually sees it, the
ardent face of youth. And beside it is a maiden's face--for they had
often stooped together--a maiden's face, laughing for very love. But
they vanish and he sees again his own, worn and wrinkle-signed--and
alone.

Yet the spring still is there, unwrinkled and unworn, and his fevered
lips drink deeply. How sweet, how delicious, and how wondrous cool! It
is still the same as when rosy lips of love sipped from its surface long
ago. He rises and turns from the hallowed spot; but the flood-gates of
memory are unloosed, and his heart melts within him. The tears are
flowing fast and the old luxury, because the old innocence, of
childhood, seems to bathe his broken heart.

"Oh, God," he cries aloud, "hast Thou no fountain for the soul, no
living springs farther up the hill?" and as he cried, he glanced again
into the limpid spring. And lo! that gentle face was there again, love's
laughter still upon its lips, and a great hope looking out from grave
and tender eyes.

Then farther up the hill he climbed, the quick step of boyhood coming
back--and soon he stood upon its brow. He threw himself upon the grass
and cast his eyes over all the unforgotten valley. It was slumbering
still, for the sun is over early in Scottish latitudes, and he quickly
searched the hillside that confronted him. Behind a sheltering bush he
lay, peerin