er and her need of him.

For the dead level of the life which he saw stretching out before him
seemed even worse to him than that--the life of ceaseless,
ill-remunerated labour, the companionship of men grown dull through a
changeless routine of toilsome days, or debased through ignorance or
self-indulgence, a life and a companionship with which he might at last
grow content, being no stronger or wiser than other men.

These were dark days for the young man. At last he took his mother's
gently spoken words of counsel to heart, and opened the box in which she
had secretly packed his college-books, and where they had lain hidden
all this time. But the sight of them, and the associations they called
up, made him heartsick and ashamed, and it was only by the exercise of
strong self-restraint that he made himself pretend to take some interest
in them for his mother's sake. After this he fell into the way of
taking long walks in all directions, and did a turn of work here and
there as he could get it, and generally came home hungry, and tired, and
ready for his bed, so that no reading could be expected of him.

But the days were growing short, and the dark hours many and long, and
the mother's heart "grew wae" for her son many a time. By and by
something happened.

It was a good thing for the minister's Davie that John Beaton was within
sound of the voices of the lad's terrified companions the day that he
fell into "Burney's Pot," and it was a good thing also for John. The
little lad was nearly gone when he was pulled out of the water, and
having no knowledge of his home or name, since his young companions had
taken to their heels as soon as they saw Davie safe, John took him home
to his mother, and together they did what could be done for his help.

This was the beginning. Davie was allowed to fall asleep in Mrs
Beaton's bed, and in the gloaming John carried him home wrapped in a
blanket, and then he saw the minister and his wife and Marjorie. It was
the beginning for John of more than can well be told.

His manner of life from that time was changed. Not that he went often
to the manse at first, though the door was always open to him, and a
welcome awaiting him. But the life he saw there, the words he heard,
and the spirit that showed in all that was done, or said, or planned, in
great things and in small, came like a new revelation to him; and the
more he saw and thought of it all, the less he thought about hi