ar with the letter of its
awful law.

Here, then, was a child whom a sad destiny had led far away from
happiness. His nature was singularly affectionate, yet he had no
memory of a mother's kiss, or, indeed, of any tender human kindness.
No one petted or loved him; no one heeded his childish sorrows and
sufferings. He had toothaches and earaches, about which he felt it
useless to speak. He went into the boats with his father as soon as
he could bait a line, and was forced to endure all that men endured
from salt-water boils, chilblains, frost-bites, and the lashing
of spray-laden winds. Cold and hunger, heat and thirst, and the
frequent intolerable sleepiness of overtaxed strength made up the
sad drama of his childhood; and he played his part in it with a
patient submission that sometimes won from his father astonishment
and a few words of praise or admiration.

Such words made glorious epochs in the boy's life; he could remember
every one of them. Once, when Liot could get no one to launch a boat
and go with him to the help of four men drowning before their eyes,
the ten-year-old lad came radiantly forward and said, "Take me,
father; I will go with you." And the two went on the desperate
errand together, and brought back safely the men ready to perish.
Then, when all was well over and the child stood trembling with
exhaustion, Liot drew him close to his side, and pushed his wet
hair from his brow, and said with proud tenderness, "You are a
good, brave boy. God bless you, David!" And the happy upward look of
the child had his mother's smile in it, and before Liot knew what he
was doing he had stooped and kissed him. The event was a wonderful
one, and it made a tie between the father and the son that it was
beyond the power of time to loosen.

Liot's own boyhood had been filled with the dreams and stories
of the elder world. He had been conscious all his life of this
influence streaming up from the centuries behind him, and coloring,
and even moving, his present existence. The fierce hatred he felt
for Bele Trenby came from unchristened ancestors, and the dumb
murder, which had darkened his life and sent him to Uig, from the
same source. He told David none of these stirring sagas. He was
resolved that the knowledge of the thrall's curse should not call
sorrow to him. He never named the heroic Gisli in his hearing.
And once, when he found an old fisherman reciting "Ossian" to
David, he fell into such anger as terrifie