window that he might watch each day close. It was a pleasant room
now, when the curtains were drawn, and the light of the lamp fell on
the books he loved, and which bade him welcome. One by one he had
arranged the hard-bought treasures of student days in the little
book-case, and had planned for himself that sweetest of pleasures,
an evening of desultory reading. But his books went out of mind as
he looked at the sermon shining beneath the glare of the lamp, and
demanding judgment. He had finished its last page with honest pride
that afternoon, and had declaimed it, facing the southern window,
with a success that amazed himself. His hope was that he might be
kept humble, and not called to Edinburgh for at least two years; and
now he lifted the sheets with fear. The brilliant opening, with its
historical parallel, this review of modern thought reinforced by
telling quotations, that trenchant criticism of old-fashioned views,
would not deliver. For the audience had vanished, and left one
careworn, but ever beautiful face, whose gentle eyes were waiting
with a yearning look. Twice he crushed the sermon in his hands, and
turned to the fire his aunt's care had kindled, and twice he
repented and smoothed it out. What else could he say now to the
people? and then in the stillness of the room he heard a voice,
"Speak a gude word for Jesus Christ."

Next minute he was kneeling on the hearth, and pressing the
_magnum opus_, that was to shake Drumtochty, into the heart of
the red fire, and he saw, half-smiling and half-weeping, the
impressive words, "Semitic environment," shrivel up and disappear.
As the last black flake fluttered out of sight, the face looked at
him again, but this time the sweet brown eyes were full of peace.

It was no masterpiece, but only the crude production of a lad who