utmost care in clothing me for the journey,
which would certainly be a much longer one in regard of time than of
space. In half an hour we were all mounted and on our way--the groom,
who had so lately traversed the road, a few yards in front.

I have already said, perhaps more than once, that my father took
comparatively little notice of us as children, beyond teaching us of a
Sunday, and sometimes of a week-evening in winter, generally after we
were in bed. He rarely fondled us, or did anything to supply in that
manner the loss of our mother. I believe his thoughts were tenderness
itself towards us, but they did not show themselves in ordinary shape:
some connecting link was absent. It seems to me now sometimes, that
perhaps he was wisely retentive of his feelings, and waited a better
time to let them flow. For, ever as we grew older, we drew nearer to
my father, or, more properly, my father drew us nearer to him,
dropping, by degrees, that reticence which, perhaps, too many parents
of character keep up until their children are full grown; and by this
time he would converse with me most freely. I presume he had found, or
believed he had found me trustworthy, and incapable of repeating
unwisely any remarks he made. But much as he hated certain kinds of
gossip, he believed that indifference to your neighbour and his
affairs was worse. He said everything depended on the spirit in which
men spoke of each other; that much of what was called gossip was only
a natural love of biography, and, if kindly, was better than
blameless; that the greater part of it was objectionable, simply
because it was not loving, only curious; while a portion was amongst
the wickedest things on earth, because it had for its object to
believe and make others believe the worst. I mention these opinions of
my father, lest anyone should misjudge the fact of his talking to me
as he did.

Our horses made very slow progress. It was almost nowhere possible to
trot, and we had to plod on, step by step. This made it more easy to
converse.

"The country looks dreary, doesn't it, Ranald?" he said.

"Just like as if everything was dead, father," I replied.

"If the sun were to cease shining altogether, what do you think would
happen?"

[Illustration]

I thought a bit, but was not prepared to answer, when my father spoke
again.

"What makes the seeds grow, Ranald--the oats, and the wheat, and the
barley?"

"The rain, father," I said, with half-kno