avid and the misty Hebrides there was now many a league of
the separating, changeful, dangerous, tragic sea, but the journey
over this great waterway had been a singularly fortunate one.
David, indeed, had frequently likened himself to the young Tobias
on a similar errand; for his father had particularly pointed out
this history, and had read aloud to him with an emphasis not to
be forgotten the old Hebrew father's parting charge: "Go! and
God, which dwelleth in heaven, prosper your journey, and the angel
of God keep you company."

To David this angelic companionship was no impossible hope and
reliance. As the south winds drove him north and the west winds sent
him east just at the proper times, he believed that some wise and
powerful pilot stood at the wheel unseen; and he went about his boat
with the cheerful confidence of a child who is sure his father can
take care of him. Sometimes he kept so close to the shore that he
rippled the shadows of the great cliffs, and sometimes he ran into
little coves and replenished his water-casks, or bought in the
seaward clachans a supply of fresh cakes or fish. He met no very bad
weather. The unutterable desolation of the misty miles of sullen
water did give him times of such weariness as makes the soul sink
back upon itself and retire from all hope and affection. But such
hours were evanescent; they were usually ended by a brisk wind,
bringing peril to the little bark, and then David's first instinct
was heavenward. He knew if the winds and waves rose mightily, as it
was their wont in that locality, there was no human help, and
his trust was instantly in the miraculous. Such hours were, however,
rare. As a general thing the days and the nights followed each
other with a stillness and beauty full of the presence of God. And in
the sweetness of this presence he threw himself unperplexed upon
infinite love and power, and seeking God with all his heart found him.

Also, he was not forgetful of the human interest of his journey. His
father had always felt himself to be a stranger and an exile in
Skye, and in his later years the "homing" instinct for the Shetlands
had been a passionate longing, which had communicated itself to
David. He had been glad to leave Uig, for he had not a single happy
memory of the little hut in which they two had dwelt and suffered
together. As for the bleak kirkyard, over which the great winds blew
the sea-foam, it made his heart ache to remember it. He fe