mportance to him. So it was
Allison to whom he first spoke of his wish to go home. He said how
weary he had grown of the dull room, and the din of the town, and even
of the sight of the doctors' faces, and he said how sure he was that he
would never gather strength lying there. It would give him new life, he
declared, to get home to his own house, and to the free air of the
hills.

Allison listened in silence, and when he would be answered, she murmured
something about the coming of the summer days making such a move
possible, and said that the doctors would have to decide what would be
the wisest thing to do.

"They will be the wisest to decide _how_ it is to be done, but it is
decided already that the change is to be made. You speak of the summer
days! Count ye the months till then, and ask if I could have the
patience to wait for them? Yes, there is a risk, I ken that weel, but I
may as well die there as here. And to that I have made up my mind."

Allison did not answer him, and he said no more. He had grown wary
about wasting his strength, or exciting himself to his own injury, and
so he lay quiet.

"You might take the Book," said he in a little.

Yes, there was always "The Book." Allison took the Bible, and as it
fell open in her hand, she read: "I will lead the blind by a way they
know not," and her head was bowed, and the tears, which were sometimes
very near her eyes, fell fast for a single moment. But they fell
silently. No sound of voice or movement of hand betrayed her, and there
was no bitterness in her tears.

"Yes, it is for me--this word. For surely I am blind. I canna see my
way through it all. But if I am to be led by the hand like a little
child, and upheld by One who is strong, and who cares for me, who `has
loved me,' shall I be afraid?"

And if her voice trembled now and then as she read, so that at last
Brownrig turned uneasily to get a glimpse of her face, he saw no shadow
of doubt of fear upon it, nor even the quiet to which he had become
accustomed, but a look of rest and peace which it was not given to him
to understand. Allison took her work and sat as usual by the window.

"I may have my ups and downs as I have ay had them," she was saying to
herself, "but I dinna think I can ever forget--I pray God that I may
never forget--that I am `led.'"

Brownrig lay quiet, but he was not at his ease, Allison could see. He
spoke at last.

"Are you sure that you have forgiven