though the glory was dissolved by the doubting,
nothing could quite rob him of his blessing; in the midst of the
sternest realities of his rough daily toil he found himself musing
on those wonderful days when angels went and came among men as
they threshed their wheat or worked at their handicrafts, when
prayer was visibly answered and the fire dropped from heaven on the
accepted sacrifice.

He thought the more on this subject because his father was visibly
dying from some internal disease, which was dissolving with rapid,
inexorable suffering the house of clay in which the soul of Liot
Borson dwelt. Liot was aware of it, and had borne with silent
courage the enemy's advances toward the citadel of life. Very
reluctantly he had given up his duties one by one, until the day came
when nothing remained for him to do but to wait and to suffer; then
he spoke plainly to David. It happened to be the lad's twenty-sixth
birthday, and Liot had his own memories of the first one. Almost
inadvertently the name of Karen passed his lips, and then he talked
long of her goodness, her love, and her beauty; and David listened
with an interest that tempted more confidence than Liot had ever
thought to give.

"If you had such a wife as Karen Sabiston was to me," he said, "then,
David, you would be happy even in this place. But you will not stay
here. When I am gone away to the land very far off, then you will go
back to Shetland--to your own land and your own people."

"I will do as you wish, father."

"You will marry; that is to be looked for. I have seen that girl
of Talisker's watching you, and luring you with her sly smiles
and glances. Give her no notice. I like not these Celtic women,
with their round black eyes and their red color and black hair. In
Shetland you will see women that you may safely love--good and
beautiful girls of your own race; there must be no strange women
among the Borsons. Your Bible tells you what sorrow comes from
marrying daughters of Heth and their like. Go to Shetland for your
wife."

"I will, father."

"You will find friends and kindred there--my good cousin Paul, and
his sons and daughters, and your mother's family in Yell, and Matilda
Sabiston. I would say something of her, but she is doubtless in the
grave by this time, and gone to the mercy of the Merciful."

"Was she of our kindred, then?"

"Of your mother's kin. They were ill friends here, but yonder all
may--all _will_ be different."

Du