gus, if you look at both sides of it.
What is stronger than water, when the wind blows it with power? And you
know who is compared to the wind. `Awake, O North Wind, and come, Thou
South; blow upon my garden, that the spices thereof may flow out.' It
is the wind of God's Spirit that we want, to blow the water--powerless
of itself--in the right direction. It will carry all before it then."

"Oh, yes, all that sounds very well," said Angus, but in a pleasanter
tone than before--not so much like a big growling dog. "But you don't
know, Duncan--you don't know! You have no temptations. What can you
know about it? I tell you I _can't_ keep out of it. It is no good
talking."

"`No temptations!' I wish that were true. But you are quite right as
to yourself; you cannot keep out of it. Do you mean to add that God
cannot keep you?"

I did not hear Angus's reply, and I fancy it came in a gesture, and not
in words. But Mr Keith said, very softly,--

"Angus, will you let Him keep you?"

Instead of the answer for which I was eagerly listening, another sound
came to my ear, which made me jump up in a hurry, almost without caring
whether I was heard or not. That was the clock of Brocklebank Church
striking twelve. I should be ever so much too late for dinner; and what
would my Aunt Kezia say? I got away as quietly as I could for a few
yards, and then ran down the Scar as fast as I dared for fear of
falling, and came into the dining-room, feeling hot and breathless, just
as Cecilia, looking fresh and bright as a white lily, was entering it
from the other end. The rest were seated at the table. Of course Mr
Keith and Angus were not there.

"Caroline, where have you been?" saith my Aunt Kezia.

I trembled, for I knew what I had to expect when my Aunt Kezia said
Caroline in full.

"I am very sorry, Aunt," said I. "I went up the Scar, and--well, I am
afraid I forgot all about the time."

My Aunt Kezia nodded, as if my frank confession satisfied her, and
Father said, "Good maid!" as I slipped into the chair where I always
sit, on his left hand. But Cecilia, who was arranging her skirts just
opposite, said in that way which men seem to call charming, and women
always see through and despise (at least my Aunt Kezia says so),--

"Am I a little late?"

"Don't name it!" said Father.

"Dear, no, my charmer!" cried Hatty. "Cary's shockingly late, of
course: but you are not--quite impossible."

Cecilia gave one o