into four such perfect lines:

"Thou wilt not leave us in the dust:
Thou madest man, he knows not why;
He thinks he was not made to die,
And Thou hast made him--Thou are just."

Thus musing, Mr. Cardross followed up stairs toward the magnificent
nursery, which had been prepared months before, with a loving eagerness
of anticipation, and a merciful blindness to futurity, for the expected
heir of the Earls of Cairnforth. For, as before said, the only hope of
the lineal continuance of the race was in this one child. It lay in a
cradle resplendent with white satin hangings and lace curtains, and
beside it sat the nurse--a mere girl, but a widow already--Neil
Campbell's widow, whose first child had been born only two days after
her husband was drowned. Mr. Cardross knew that she had been suddenly
sent for out of the clachan, the countess having, with her dying breath,
desired that this young woman, whose circumstances were so like her own,
should be taken as wet-nurse to the new-born baby.

So, in her widow's weeds, grave and sad, but very sweet-looking--she
had been a servant at the Castle, and was a rather superior young woman
--Janet Campbell took her place beside her charge with an expression
in her face as if she felt it was a charge left her by her lost
mistress, which must be kept solemnly to the end of her days--as it
was.

The minister shook hands with her silently--she had gone through sore
affliction--but the lawyer addressed her in his quick, sharp,
business tone, under which he often disguised more emotion than he liked