on of my benefactor, and he
leaves his father's house this day to go into a strange land across the
sea: I had a service last night at Mains, and expounded the departure
of Abraham, but only slightly, being somewhat affected through the
weakness of the flesh. There was a covenant made between the young man
and myself, that I should meet him at the crossing of the roads to-day,
and it is in my mind to leave a parable with him against the power of
this present world."

Then the Rabbi fell into a meditation till the dog-cart came up, Mains
and his wife in the front and George alone in the back, making a brave
show of indifference.

"George," said the Rabbi, looking across the field and speaking as to
himself, "we shall not meet again in this world, and in a short space
they will bury me in Kilbogie kirkyard, but it will not be in me to lie
still for thinking of the people I have loved. So it will come to pass
that I may rise--you have ears to understand, George--and I will
inquire of him that taketh charge of the dead about many and how it
fares with them."

[Illustration: "WE SHALL NOT MEET AGAIN IN THIS WORLD."]

"And George Pitillo, what of him, Andrew?

"'Oh, it's a peety you didna live langer, Mr. Saunderson, for George
hes risen in the warld and made a great fortune.'

"How does it go with his soul, Andrew?

"'Well, you see, Mister Saunderson, George hes hed many things to think
about, and he maybe hasna hed time for releegion yet, but nae doot
he'll be turnin' his mind that wy soon.'

"Poor George, that I baptized and admitted to the Sacrament and . . .
loved: exchanged his soul for the world."

The sun was setting fast, and the landscape--bare stubble-fields,
leafless trees, still water, long, empty road--was of a blood-red
colour fearsome to behold, so that no one spake, and the horse chafing
his bit made the only sound.

Then the Rabbi began again.

"And George Pitillo--tell me, Andrew?

"'Weel, ye see, Mister Saunderson, ye wud be sorry for him, for you and
he were aye chief; he's keepit a gude name an' workit hard, but hesna
made muckle o' this warld.'

"And his soul, Andrew?

"'Oo, that's a' richt; gin we a' hed as gude a chance for the next
warld as George Pitillo we micht be satisfied.'

"That is enough for his old friend; hap me over again, Andrew, and I'll
rest in peace till the trumpet sound."

Carmichael turned aside, but he heard something desperately like a sob
from the back of