The anchor had been cast, and the good ship, panting, lay at rest. The bugle note had followed the departing tender with wistful strains of "Auld Lang Syne," and the emancipated passengers were pouring out upon old England's hospitable soil. The happy crowd, catching already the contagion of English jollity, swayed about the landing stage, then flowed in separate streams into the Customs pen; for this is the first tug of the tether, just when all who have escaped the sea think they are safe at last. Out through the fingers of the stern inspectors flowed the crowd in still thinner streams, till all this community of the deep is scattered to the winds.

Swift-hurrying, they go their separate ways, and the happy little bubble has burst and vanished, as its successors, now forming on the bosom of the deep, will burst and vanish too. What friendships, what ardent loves, what molten vows, ocean born, have begun to languish on the wharf at Liverpool, like sunfish separated from their native wave!

Michael Blake hailed a hansom and drove to the North-Western. As he passed through the turbid streets, dense loneliness settled about him like a fog. This was old England, this the land which exiles across the sea in their fondness call the "old country."

But he could not free himself from the thought that, when he left it, youth's sun was burning bright; and now more than the early afternoon was gone.

"The evening too will pass, as the afternoon has passed," he said to himself, "only more quickly." And he glanced at the descending sun, God's metaphor of warning, the recurring epitome of life. His lips moved to speak a text, the native instinct strong therefor. They had meant to say "the night cometh"; but some one interfered and he said to himself: "The night is far spent—the day is at hand," for, after all, the setting sun has morning in its heart.

He dismissed the cab, and entering the hotel, made some enquiry about the trains for the North. He could not start North before midnight. The evening was fine, and he walked out. St. George's Hall arrested him with its elaborate grandeur. What beauty, what chastity, what becoming signs of civic wealth! When he came to its massive steps he cast his eyes upon them, and behold, they were dripping with poverty! The victims of want in mid-career were there, and drooping age, unequally yoked with poverty, and frowzy women with ribald face; and chief among them all, little children, some blear-eyed, some pallid with want, some with the legacy of sores—for they had been shapen in iniquity.

But all alike—and herein was the anguish of it—all alike were bent on play, and persisted pitifully in the cruel farce. The little bare feet pattered up and down the steps—but the steps were stone.

Michael Blake thought of his adopted home across the sea and its green fields and tree-graced meadows. Then he thought of the far Western plains, vast beyond human fancy, waiting and calling for the tired feet of all who spend weary lives in the old land, playing on stone steps, while wealth and grandeur smile above them. In a few minutes he turned away, for the folk of his country are not accustomed to the sight of hungry children; and a woman under drink is something that many of their eldest have never seen at all.

The sound of martial music, and the voice of cheering thousands, fell upon his ear. He moved towards it. Soon the surging procession broke upon him. "Who are these?" he asked, "these fellows in Khaki?" They had their rifles in their hands, and some were slightly lame, and some had the signs of wounds—and all had the rich stain of battle on them. "Art thou only a stranger?" he is asked in turn, "and knowest not the things that are come to pass? These are they who have come out of Paardeburg, homeward bound by way of the ancestral home, and the tide of British love and gratitude wafts them on their course."

He is soon caught in the swelling throng, his own head bare, his own voice blending in the Imperial hosannah. He catches a familiar face among the soldiers; he hears the strain of the "Maple Leaf" mingling with the mighty bass of the Mother Anthem. He beholds the Union Jack, enriched with the Canadian emblem. Gazing on the battered few, he sees the survivors of the battle, and he knows that the unreturning feet rest in the soil they have won to freedom; Canadian lads were these who have insisted with dying lips that Britains never shall be slaves. His adopted land has given of its choicest blood to swell the sacred tide that for centuries hath laved the shores of liberty.

All this surges in upon him, and the savage joy of empire fills his heart. His loneliness has fled, and he feels that beyond the ocean he is at home, the old home, with its ever open gate for its far-flung children. The mighty roar becomes the gentle whisper of Britain's lips, bidding him draw closer to the imperial fireside and warm himself at its imperishable flame.

He follows them for a time, then turns and slowly wends his way back to the hotel. As he walks on, the shouting and the tumult die, the banners gleam no more, and he is left alone with the empire of his heart, and with other worlds to conquer. We need no swift-flying transport to bear us to life's greatest battle-fields.

A little waif, a boy of ten, pinched and ragged, was gazing in a window as Mr. Blake passed along. A question from the man, a quick and pathetic answer from the boy—and they went in together. Then the man came out alone, and the fervent joy of an hour ago was gone, but a deeper gladness had taken the room it left behind. It is still there—a life-tenant—for its lease cannot be broken till memory dies.

When he re-entered the hotel, the clerk recognized him and said:

"Your train goes in an hour, sir. You are going up to Scotland, I think you said."

Scotland! The word inflamed him; and he hurried to his room to prepare for departure.

The guard's sharp whistle sounded, and the train, with British promptness, flew out of the Lime Street station, one heart at least strangely thrilled, one face steadfastly set towards Scotland's waiting hills.

He was alone in the compartment, and the long night seemed only like a watch thereof. He was alone, yet not alone—for Memory sat beside him, and Conscience, and Hope. No, he was not alone; for there wrestled a Man with him till the breaking of the day. And still the train flew on, as though it knew; on it flew, as though the unseen Wrestler himself had his hand upon the engine's throat.

The sun was rising when he left the train. The train flew on, uncaring, for trains know not that they are carriers unto destiny.

Michael Blake looked long at the rising sun—it was the same. Then his eyes caressed the surrounding hills, playfellows of bygone years—they had not changed. The flowers still were there, the grass had never withered; the heather, too, in unfading purity.

And the trees, the old mighty elms, these were still the same—the foliage of a larger life they had, but the selfsame branches held out their kindly hands as in the long ago. Still upturned were their reverent heads, still seeking God—and the baptism of the morning was upon them, attested by the morning light.

He turned towards one of the familiar hills and began the old boyhood climb.

Midway, he came to a spring, and a great thirst clutched his heart. It was life's long, quenchless thirst, crying out again for the children's portion. His face is close to its crystal water, his lips burning with desire. Another's face moves upward to greet his own—but it is not the same—and memory swiftly paints another till he actually sees it, the ardent face of youth. And beside it is a maiden's face—for they had often stooped together—a maiden's face, laughing for very love. But they vanish and he sees again his own, worn and wrinkle-signed—and alone.

Yet the spring still is there, unwrinkled and unworn, and his fevered lips drink deeply. How sweet, how delicious, and how wondrous cool! It is still the same as when rosy lips of love sipped from its surface long ago. He rises and turns from the hallowed spot; but the flood-gates of memory are unloosed, and his heart melts within him. The tears are flowing fast and the old luxury, because the old innocence, of childhood, seems to bathe his broken heart.

"Oh, God," he cries aloud, "hast Thou no fountain for the soul, no living springs farther up the hill?" and as he cried, he glanced again into the limpid spring. And lo! that gentle face was there again, love's laughter still upon its lips, and a great hope looking out from grave and tender eyes.

Then farther up the hill he climbed, the quick step of boyhood coming back—and soon he stood upon its brow. He threw himself upon the grass and cast his eyes over all the unforgotten valley. It was slumbering still, for the sun is over early in Scottish latitudes, and he quickly searched the hillside that confronted him. Behind a sheltering bush he lay, peering far beyond.

All the valley is forgotten now—for, across the ravine beneath him, he sees a cottage. The same, the very same it is, save that the thatch has been renewed! A humble shepherd's cottage, only a but and a ben, built long ago by thrifty hands—but he first learned to worship there.

Yet is it still the same? He knows not—but he knows the risk of passing years. Unchanged the cottage stands, and the same gate hangs half open as in the far back yesterday. Yet it is the spirit alone that giveth life, and of this he may not know. He looks at his watch—it is near six o'clock, and he had seen a man walk sleepily to the byre from a distant house. He waits and watches, while a strange fever burns his heart, unknown to youthful passion. His lips are parched, though the water from the spring is scarce dry upon them yet.

Still gazing, he sees no sign of life about the house. He thinks, yet knows not why, of Mary and the empty tomb. Hope is sinking fast, when of a sudden a timid wreath of smoke flows slowly from the chimney, and Michael Blake's hand reaches swiftly towards his heart. "Be still, be still," he murmurs, "who knows that it is for thee?" but his eyes follow it greedily, for it is to him a soul-signal from afar, God's altar smoke, and he knows now that the house is not a sepulchre.

"Now I shall go and knock," he said to himself; but a new thought possessed him, and he bowed again behind the slender furze, his eyes still fixed upon the house.

They were but minutes that he waited, but they came disguised as hours—for God can compel us to rehearse eternity. He must have felt it coming, for his eyes have forsaken all else, and are fixed upon the cottage door. Yes, it moved, it surely moved; and the strong man's eyes are numb. They rally and renew the vigil. Yes, it moves, wider still—and the flutter of a dress is seen. His heart leaps wildly, and his eyes fly at the face that follows. It is too far to see clearly—but he soon must know!

A comely form emerges from the door, and the face looks up at the morning sun. The woman walks out and on, lithe grace in every movement. Then the valley swims before him—for it is, it is, the woman he had loved. He knows the dainty step, the erect carriage, the shapely frame. Nearer still she comes, skirting the base of the hill he had climbed, still often looking towards the sun, pausing now and then to pluck a flower by the way. Where can she be going?

No bonnet binds her waving hair, and now he can catch the light of the morning sun upon it. Streaks of gray, here and there, can be seen, but they are few; the breeze rallies the loose-flowing strands and they make merry and are glad together. He can see the pure bosom, lightly robed, that swells with buoyant life. She is nearer to him now, and the face swims in upon him across the chasm of long silent years, the same pure face, still bright with tender love. She is now beside the spring—for thither was she bent—and the overflowing pail is laid down beside her.

She too glances into the bosom of the water and he wonders if memory guides the wistful gaze. Does she too see another face preserved against the years in the pure keeping of the spring? He knows not—but he thinks, yes, he is sure he saw the movement of the lips, and her face is again upturned—but its thought is far beyond the sun. He uncovers his head and joins the holy quest.

She has returned to the cottage and the door is closed; but Michael Blake has never moved. Now he steps out from behind his shelter and starts towards the house. Then he stops, turns back and begins to descend the hill by the same course as had led him up. Yet once more he turns and gazes long at the dwelling-place, starts towards it, stops again.

"Not now," he said to himself, "I cannot—it is too light."

And he walked back to the hamlet; he was waiting for the tender dark.