where he had been before, for there was the irregular circular track of
his former wandering upon the snow. Trenholme counted himself a fool to
have been able before to suppose that there was no track because he had
not seen it. But he had hardly time for even this momentary glance at so
small a matter, for the old man was standing with face uplifted to the
stars, and he was praying aloud that the Divine Son of Man would return
to earth and set up His kingdom.

Sometimes there was more light upon the dark scene, sometimes less, for
giant rays of the northern light stalked the sky, passing from it,
coming again, giving light faintly.

Trenholme felt an uncontrollable excitement come over him. His mind was
carried out of himself, not so much to the poor man who was praying, as
to the Divine Man to whom the supplication was addressed; for the voice
of prayer spoke directly from the heart of the speaker to One who he
evidently felt was his friend. The conviction of this other man that he
knew to whom he was speaking caught hold of Alec Trenholme's mind with
mastering force; he had no conviction of his own; he was not at all
sure, as men count certainty, whether there was, or was not, any ear but
his own listening to the other's words; but he did not notice his own
belief or unbelief in the matter, any more than he noticed the air
between him and the stars. The colourlessness of his own mind took on
for the time the colour of the other's.

And the burden of the prayer was this: Our Father, thy kingdom come.
Even so, come, Lord Jesus.

The hardihood of the prayer was astonishing; all tender arguments of
love were used, all reasonable arguments as of friend with friend and