that　a　thing　is　the　will　of　God；　save　by　seeing　into　its　nature　and
  character；　and　beholding　its　goodness。　　Whatever　God　does　must　be
  right；　but　are　we　sure　that　we　know　what　he　does？　　That　which　men
  say　he　does　may　be　very　wrong　indeed。
  This　burden　she　in　her　turn　laid　upon　Robertnot　unkindly；　but　as
  needful　for　his　training　towards　well…being。　　Her　way　with　him　was
  shaped　after　that　which　she　recognized　as　God's　way　with　her。　'Speir
  nae　questons；　but　gang　an'　du　as　ye're　tellt。'　　And　it　was　anything
  but　a　bad　lesson　for　the　boy。　　It　was　one　of　the　best　he　could　have
  hadthat　of　authority。　　It　is　a　grand　thing　to　obey　without　asking
  questions；　so　long　as　there　is　nothing　evil　in　what　is　commanded。
  Only　grannie　concealed　her　reasons　without　reason；　and　God　makes　no
  secrets。　　Hence　she　seemed　more　stern　and　less　sympathetic　than　she
  really　was。
  She　sat　with　her　feet　on　the　little　wooden　stool；　and　Robert　sat
  beside　her　staring　into　the　fire；　till　they　heard　the　outer　door
  open；　and　Shargar　and　Betty　come　in　from　church。
  CHAPTER　XIII。
  ROBERT'S　MOTHER。
  Early　on　the　following　morning；　while　Mrs。　Falconer；　Robert；　and
  Shargar　were　at　breakfast；　Mr。　Lammie　came。　　He　had　delayed
  communicating　the　intelligence　he　had　received　till　he　should　be
  more　certain　of　its　truth。　　Older　than　Andrew；　he　had　been　a　great
  friend　of　his　father；　and　likewise　of　some　of　Mrs。　Falconer's　own
  family。　　Therefore　he　was　received　with　a　kindly　welcome。　　But　there
  was　a　cloud　on　his　brow　which　in　a　moment　revealed　that　his　errand
  was　not　a　pleasant　one。
  'I　haena　seen　ye　for　a　lang　time；　Mr。　Lammie。　　Gae　butt　the　hoose；
  lads。　　Or　I'm　thinkin'　it　maun　be　schule…time。　　Sit　ye　doon；　Mr。
  Lammie；　and　lat's　hear　yer　news。'
  'I　cam　frae　Aberdeen　last　nicht；　Mistress　Faukner；'　he　began。
  'Ye　haena　been　hame　sin'　syne？'　she　rejoined。
  'Na。　I　sleepit　at　The　Boar's　Heid。'
  'What　for　did　ye　that？　　What　gart　ye　be　at　that　expense；　whan　ye
  kent　I　had　a　bed　i'　the　ga'le…room？'
  'Weel；　ye　see；　they're　auld　frien's　o'　mine；　and　I　like　to　gang　to
  them　whan　I'm　i'　the　gait　o'　't。'
  'Weel；　they're　a　fine　faimily；　the　Miss　Napers。　　And；　I　wat；　sin'
  they　maun　sell　drink；　they　du　't　wi'　discretion。　　That's　weel　kent。'
  Possibly　Mr。　Lammie；　remembering　what　then　occurred；　may　have
  thought　the　discretion　a　little　in　excess　of　the　drink；　but　he　had
  other　matters　to　occupy　him　now。　　For　a　few　moments　both　were
  silent。
  'There's　been　some　ill　news；　they　tell　me；　Mrs。　Faukner；'　he　said　at
  length；　when　the　silence　had　grown　painful。
  'Humph！'　returned　the　old　lady；　her　face　becoming　stony　with　the
  effort　to　suppress　all　emotion。　'Nae　aboot　Anerew？'
  ''Deed　is　't；　mem。　　An'　ill　news；　I'm　sorry　to　say。'
  'Is　he　ta'en？'
  'Ay　is　heby　a　jyler　that　winna　tyne　the　grup。'
  'He's　no　deid；　John　Lammie？　　Dinna　say　't。'
  'I　maun　say　't；　Mrs。　Faukner。　　I　had　it　frae　Dr。　Anderson；　yer　ain
  cousin。　　He　hintit　at　it　afore；　but　his　last　letter　leaves　nae　room
  to　doobt　upo'　the　subjeck。　　I'm　unco　sorry　to　be　the　beirer　o'　sic
  ill　news；　Mrs。　Faukner；　but　I　had　nae　chice。'
  'Ohone！　　Ohone！　the　day　o'　grace　is　by　at　last！　　My　puir　Anerew！'
  exclaimed　Mrs。　Falconer；　and　sat　dumb　thereafter。
  Mr。　Lammie　tried　to　comfort　her　with　some　of　the　usual　comfortless
  commonplaces。　　She　neither　wept　nor　replied；　but　sat　with　stony　face
  staring　into　her　lap；　till；　seeing　that　she　was　as　one　that　heareth
  not；　he　rose　and　left　her　alone　with　her　grief。　　A　few　minutes　after
  he　was　gone；　she　rang　the　bell；　and　told　Betty　in　her　usual　voice　to
  send　Robert　to　her。
  'He's　gane　to　the　schule；　mem。'
  'Rin　efter　him；　an'　tell　him　to　come　hame。'
  When　Robert　appeared；　wondering　what　his　grandmother　could　want　with
  him；　she　said：
  'Close　the　door；　Robert。　　I　canna　lat　ye　gang　to　the　schule　the　day。
  We　maun　lea'　him　oot　noo。'
  'Lea'　wha　oot；　grannie？'
  'Him；　himAnerew。　　Yer　father；　laddie。　　I　think　my　hert　'll　brak。'
  'Lea'　him　oot　o'　what；　grannie？　　I　dinna　unnerstan'　ye。'
  'Lea'　him　oot　o'　oor　prayers；　laddie；　and　I　canna　bide　it。'
  'What　for　that？'
  'He's　deid。'
  'Are　ye　sure？'
  'Ay；　ower　sureower　sure；　laddie。'
  'Weel；　I　dinna　believe　't。'
  'What　for　that？'
  ''Cause　I　winna　believe　't。　　I'm　no　bund　to　believe　't；　am　I？'
  'What's　the　gude　o'　that？　　What　for　no　believe　't？　　Dr。　Anderson's
  sent　hame　word　o'　't　to　John　Lammie。　　Och　hone！　och　hone！'
  'I　tell　ye　I　winna　believe　't；　grannie；　'cep'　God　himsel'　tells　me。
  As　lang　's　I　dinna　believe　'at　he's　deid；　I　can　keep　him　i'　my
  prayers。　　I'm　no　gaein'　to　lea'　him　oot；　I　tell　ye；　grannie。'
  'Weel；　laddie；　I　canna　argue　wi'　ye。　　I　hae　nae　hert　til　't。　　I
  doobt　I　maun　greit！　　Come　awa'。'
  She　took　him　by　the　hand　and　rose；　then　let　him　go　again；　saying；
  'Sneck　the　door；　laddie。'
  Robert　bolted　the　door；　and　his　grandmother　again　taking　his　hand；
  led　him　to　the　usual　corner。　　There　they　knelt　down　together；　and
  the　old　woman's　prayer　was　one　great　and　bitter　cry　for　submission
  to　the　divine　will。　　She　rose　a　little　strengthened；　if　not
  comforted；　saying；
  'Ye　maun　pray　yer　lane；　laddie。　　But　oh　be　a　guid　lad；　for　ye're　a'
  that　I　hae　left；　and　gin　ye　gang　wrang　tu；　ye'll　bring　doon　my　gray
  hairs　wi'　sorrow　to　the　grave。　　They're　gray　eneuch；　and　they're
  near　eneuch　to　the　grave；　but　gin　ye　turn　oot　weel；　I'll　maybe　haud
  up　my　heid　a　bit　yet。　　But　O　Anerew！　my　son！　my　son！　　Would　God　I
  had　died　for　thee！'
  And　the　words　of　her　brother　in　grief；　the　king　of　Israel；　opened
  the　floodgates　of　her　heart；　and　she　wept。　　Robert　left　her　weeping；
  and　closed　the　door　quietly　as　if　his　dead　father　had　been　lying　in
  the　room。
  He　took　his　way　up　to　his　own　garret；　closed　that　door　too；　and　sat
  down　upon　the　floor；　with　his　back　against　the　empty　bedstead。
  There　were　no　more　castles　to　build　now。　　It　was　all　very　well　to
  say　that　he　would　not　believe　the　news　and　would　pray　for　his
  father；　but　he　did　believe　themenough　at　least　to　spoil　the
  praying。　　His　favourite　employment；　seated　there；　had　hitherto　been
  to　imagine　how　he　would　grow　a　great　man；　and　set　out　to　seek　his
  father；　and　find　him；　and　stand　by　him；　and　be　his　son　and　servant。
  Oh！　to　have　the　man　stroke　his　head　and　pat　his　cheek；　and　love
  him！　　One　moment　he　imagined　himself　his　indignant　defender；　the
  next　he　would　be　climbing　on　his　knee；　as　if　he　were　still　a　little
  child；　and　laying　his　head　on　his　shoulder。　　For　he　had　had　no
  fondling　his　life　long；　and　his　heart　yearned　for　it。　　But　all　this
  was　gone　now。　　A　dreary　time　lay　before　him；　with　nobody　to　please；
  nobody　to　serve；　with　nobody　to　praise　him。　　Grannie　never　praised
  him。　　She　must　have　thought　praise　something　wicked。　　And　his　father
  was　in　misery；　for　ever　and　ever！　　Only　somehow　that　thought　was　not
  quite　thinkable。　　It　was　more　the　vanishing　of　hope　from　his　own
  life　than　a　sense　of　his　father's　fate　that　oppressed　him。
  He　cast　his　eyes；　as　in　a　hungry　despair；　around　the　empty　roomor；
  rather；　I　should　have　said；　in　that　faintness　which　makes　food　at
  once　essential　and　loathsome；　for　despair　has　no　proper　hunger　in
  it。　　The　room　seemed　as　empty　as　his　life。　　There　was　nothing　for
  his　eyes　to　rest　upon　but　those　bundles　and　bundles　of　dust…browned
  papers　on　the　shelves　before　him。　　What　were　they　all　about？　　He
  understood　that　they　were　his　father's：　now　that　he　was　dead；　it
  would　be　no　sacrilege　to　look　at　them。　　Nobody　cared　about　them。　　He
  would　see　at　least　what　they　were。　　It　would　be　something　to　do　in
  this　dreariness。
  Bills　and　receipts；　and　everything　ephemeralto　feel　the　interest
  of　which；　a　man　must　be　a　poet　indeedwas　all　that　met　his　view。
  Bundle　after　bundle　he　tried；　with　no　better　success。　　But　as　he
  drew　near　the　middle　of　the　second　shelf；　upon　which　they　lay
  several　rows　deep；　he　saw　something　dark　behind；　hurriedly　displaced
  the　packets　between；　and　drew　forth　a　small　workbox。　　His　heart　beat
  like　that　of　the　prince　in　the　fairy…tale；　when　he　comes　to　the　door
  of　the　Sleeping　Beauty。　　This　at　least　must　have　been　hers。　　It　was
  a　common　little　thing；　probably　a　childish　possession；　and　kept　to
  hold　trifles　worth　more　than　they　looked　to　be。　　He　opened　it　with
  bated　breath。　　The　first　thing　he　saw　was　a　half…finished　reel　of
  cottona　pirn；　he　called　it。　　Beside　it　was　a　gold　thimble。　　He
  lifted　the　tray。　　A　lovely　face　in　miniature；　with　dark　hair　and
  blue　eyes；　lay　looking　earnestly　upward。　　At　the　lid　of　this　coffin
  those　eyes　had　looked　for　so　many　years！　　The　picture　was　set　all
  round　with　pearls　in　an　oval　ring。　　How　Robert　knew　them　to　be
  pearls　he　could　not　tell；　for　he　did　not　know　that　he　had　ever　seen
  any　pearls　before；　but　he　knew　they　were　pearls；　and　that　pearls　had
  something　to　do　with　the　New　Jerusalem。　　But　the　sadness　of　it　all
  at　length　ov