erhood against some mother's homeless boy. Such malediction, thank
God, my soul has never won, for if there be one sight which more than
another fills me with hopeful pity, it is the spectacle of some peasant
lad making the great venture of an untried shore, pressing in to those
who were also foreigners one far-back cheerless day, and asking if this
Western land may harbour still another exile from the poverty he seeks
to flee. Especially is this true of Scottish laddies; for upon their
faces seems to be written: "I ask for but a chance such as thou hadst
thyself," which was the plea of Tom Carlyle when he first knocked at
London's mighty door.

So I drew nearer to him, and my heart flowed through my voice as I said
again--

"When did you land, Angus lad? and tell me all about yourself. I have
heard that mother's cry before." For I was thinking of my own mother's
parting blessing, save that hers was wondrously exultant as becometh one
who calls back from the unseen Chariot of God.

"I landed yesterday at Montreal, and I cam' ower on the _Lake Ontario_.
And I hae but little to tell, and it wunna tak' me lang. Ma mither
weaves in Ettrick, and I herded sheep upon the hills sin' I was able.
But I was aye hame at nicht, and she aye keepit a licht in the window
when the nicht was dark and her shadow fell upon it, for she aye cam'
oot to meet me when she heard me lilt the sang. And she lilted tae, and
we baith sang it thegither till we met, and then we gaed ben thegither
and gaed na mair oot till the mirk was by."

I detected the serious and lofty figure in his words, and the vision of
Scotland's lowly altars and thatched cathedrals rose before me. No man
could mistake the ritual of which that strain was bred.

"And why came you here, Angus?"

"I cam' here," he answered, "to better masel'. I heard tell o' Canada
sin' I was a bairn, and they a' spak' it fair for a land whaur an honest
man micht mak' an honest leevin'--and mair tae," he added, true to the
Scotch afterthought of an extra.

"And what line do you propose to follow? What work do you intend to do?"

"Ilka line that's straight, an' ony wark that willna soil the soul even
gin it may soil the hands," he answered quickly.

My soul went out to the lad, for I saw that his heart's roots were deep
in the best heart-soil the world hath known, and that the Atlantic's
billows had not quenched the light of his mother's cottage fire.

"Your father is dead, is he, Angus