houghts of fate, thoughts of
scepticism jostled each other: pictures came; she saw the apple tree
breaking through Lashnagar; she saw a landslide many years ago on Ben
Grief that had torn bare strange coloured rocks in the escarpment. Just
as she fell asleep, worn out, she thought that perhaps something
beautiful might outcrop from her family, something different, something
transforming. And then she was too tired to think any more and went to
sleep.

CHAPTER III

The "last lap" was not a very long one; it grew in distress as the days
went on. The worn-out heart that the Edinburgh doctor had graphically
described as a frail glass bubble, in his attempt to make Andrew
Lashcairn nurse his weakness, played cruel tricks with its owner. It
choked him so that he could not lie down; it weakened him so that he
could not stand up. He would gasp and struggle out of bed, leaning on
Marcella so heavily that she felt she could not bear his weight for more
than another instant. But the weight would go on, and somehow from
somewhere she would summon strength to bear it. But after a while his
frail strength would be exhausted, and he would have to fall back on the
bed, fighting for breath and with every struggle increasing the sense of
suffocation. But all the time, when his breath would let him, he would
pray for courage--as time went on he prayed more for courage to bear his
burden than for alleviation of it, though sometimes a Gethsemane prayer
would be wrung from him.

"O Lord," he would whisper, his trembling hand gripping the girl's arm
until it bruised the flesh, "I am the work of Thy hands. Break me if
Thou wilt. But give me courage not to cry out at the breaking."

One night when it became impossible, because of the stiffness and
heaviness of his swollen legs, for him to walk about, he prayed for
death, and Marcella, forced to her knees by his passionately pleading
eyes, sobbed at his words.

"Lord, I am trying hard to be patient with Thee," he gasped. "But I am
man and Thou art God. I cannot match Thy patience with mine. I am trying
so hard not to cry out beneath Thy hand. But give me more courage--more
courage, O Lord, or I must play the coward. Take Thy cup from me until
to-morrow, when I shall have more strength to lift it to my lips--or let
me die, Lord, rather than crack like this."

Then, after a pause, words were wrung from his lips.

"Justice--not mercy. I would not take mercy even from Thee. The full