“Through ways unlooked for, and through many lands,

Far from the rich folds built with human hands,

The gracious footprints of His love I trace.”

Lowell.

Angus Linklater was in no danger of mistaking the traveller for a Brownie; one of his long, keen glances told him much of the truth about Ralph, for he had the rare gift of insight and his kindly heart warmed to the tired wayfarer.

He at once protested that it was out of the question to go on in such weather to Dalnacardoch, and invited Ralph to take shelter in his cottage, which was but a few minutes’ walk.

Ralph hesitated for a moment. The rain streamed down his face and neck, his boots felt like a couple of reservoirs, and the thought of shelter was very tempting.

“I will tell you just how it is with me,” he said; “I have but a few pence left and must reach Stirling before I have a chance of getting my letters and further supplies. I think I must press on, for there is no time to be lost.”

“Put ony thought o’ troublin’ us oot o’ your head, sir,” said Angus, instantly reading his companion’s thoughts, and beginning to walk on beside him. “The hame is just a but and a ben, and you’re kindly welcome to a’ that we can gie you in the way o’ food and shelter for the night.”

“You are very good,” said Ralph. “If you can conveniently take me in I shall be thankful. But don’t be putting yourselves out for me. When I tell you that I slept last night in the ruins of the old castle at Kingussie, and in a hay-cart near Grantown the night before, you will see that to be under a roof at all will be a luxury to me.”

He laughed. The shepherd gave him another of those sympathetic, discerning looks.

“You have had trouble I see,” he said. “But I’m thinkin’ that you’re meetin’ it in the right way.”

“Oh,” said Ralph lightly, “I’m just an actor out of work. For several weeks we have had plenty to do and no money; now we have neither money nor work, and I am hoping to get into another company.”

“It’s no right that ony man should work without wages,” said Angus; “it’s clean against Scripture. But just for a wee while I’m thinkin’ that it’s maybe no sic an ill thing for us to learn that a man’s life consisteth not in the abundance o’ the things which he possesseth.”

“Well, it’s not hard to agree to that now that I’m close to your house,” said Ralph, “but I’ll confess to you that I was beginning to despair before I met you.”

“Ay,” said Angus, a smile crossing his face, “Ilka ane o’ us is apt to be like this stray lamb that was tryin’ to mak’ its way hame and was scairt almost to death with encounterin’ deefficulties. It might have hed the sense to know that as the sayin’ goes, ‘Where twa are seekin’ they’re sure to find.’”

“Is that one of your Scottish proverbs?” said Ralph, struck by the beauty of the thought.

“Ay, it is, sir, and it often comes to my mind when I’m after the sheep. Ye mauna despair though you’re oot o’ work. We are maist o’ us ready to say ‘The Lord’s my shepherd,’ but at the first glint o’ trouble we change the psalm and say ‘but I’m terrible feart that I’ll come to want.’”

There was a sort of dry humour in his manner of saying these last words, and Ralph smiled.

“I see you are a thought-reader,” he said, “as well as a thinker.”

“Oh, as for that,” said the shepherd, “those that spend their lives amang the mountains have aye mickle time for thinkin’. It’s a gran’ preevilege to be set to mind the sheep.”

They were now within sight of the cottage and Angus Linklater led the way through a little garden; at the sound of their footsteps his wife opened the door, it seemed almost as though she were expecting her husband to bring some one back with him, but after one glance at the visitor her eagerness died away; she was a grave woman with dark hair parted plainly beneath her white mutch, and with a certain sadness in her eyes and in her voice. Her welcome was, however, as hearty as the shepherd’s and before long she had furnished Ralph with her husband’s Sunday garments and was busily preparing tea. When the tired traveller emerged again from the back room in dry clothes, he thought nothing had ever looked more comfortable than that homely little kitchen with its fire of logs, its old grandfather clock, and its quaint, corner cupboard, black with age. Some lines of Stevenson’s came to his mind as Mrs. Linklater made room for him by the hearth.

“Noo is the soopit ingle sweet,

An’ liltin’ kettle.”

Delicious too was the tea and the oatcake after his monotonous bread and water diet. Angus was still out attending to the lamb he had brought home, and Ralph wondered whether the shepherd and his wife lived alone in this quiet place. Among the few books on the shelf, he noticed, however, sundry modern adventuring books which had been the delight of his childhood. “I see you have some children,” he said, finding his hostess not nearly so talkative as the shepherd had been.

“We hae a son,” she replied, her eyes filling with tears, and crossing the room she took down “The Dog Crusoe” and showed him the inscription on the flyleaf.

It was a prize for good conduct awarded to Dugald Linklater. Ralph instantly felt that he had touched on a sore subject but whether the son were dead or a source of trouble to the mother he could not guess. The book was still in his hand when Angus returned.

“Ah,” he said, with a sigh, “you’re lookin’ at puir Dugald’s prizes. We’ve lost him, sir. But he’ll come hame yet. I’m no dootin’ that. He’ll come hame.”

Little by little Ralph gathered the facts of the case. It seemed that Dugald had been a clever and promising lad, that Lord Ederline having a fancy for him had taken him as his valet, and for a time all had gone well. But London life had proved too full of temptation for the young Scotsman, the betting mania had seized him, and had swiftly dragged him down, until ruined and disgraced he had disappeared into those hidden depths which are sought by the failures of all classes. It was now three years since anything had been heard of him, but the father and mother still lived in the belief that he would return, and Ralph understood now the expectant look which he had noticed in the sad face of his hostess as he walked up the garden path with her husband.

The absent son seemed to dominate their thoughts and it was with something almost like envy that Ralph, in his singularly desolate life, thought of this apparent waste of love. Was it pride, or shame or sheer wickedness that kept Dugald away from such a home, he wondered?

The Linklaters kept very early hours, and after “taking the Book” and “composing their minds to worship,” they bade their guest good-night. A bed had been extemporised for him on a comfortable old settle where, with the shepherd’s plaid to keep him warm, he thought himself in luxurious quarters. But sleep would not come to him at that hour in the evening and he lay for a long time watching the ruddy glow from the dying fire on the hearth and musing over many things. He was glad that the storm had overtaken him and that he had found shelter in this Highland cottage, for in its atmosphere there was something curiously peaceful and homelike. It was many, many years since he had felt so much at one with any household—almost it seemed to him like a return to his old home. For, perhaps, nothing has more effect on a sensitive, receptive mind than moral atmosphere; while those sweet, subtle associations, which are the aftermath of a happy childhood, are more readily awakened by this native air of the soul than by things which can be actually seen.

He took leave the next morning with a sense that these people had become his friends, and that somehow they would meet again. The shepherd would fain have helped him on his way, but he knew better than to offer what his guest would little like to receive; nor did he, of course, realise how very few were the pence still remaining to him. They gave him the best breakfast the house would furnish, and Mrs. Linklater insisted on wrapping up a shepherd’s pasty, which she said would make a luncheon for him; then, with kindly cordiality, they bade him farewell, begging him to let them know how he prospered.

Cheered by their friendliness, Ralph walked in very good spirits through the Gaick Forest to Dalnacardoch, and thence, after a brief rest, made his way southward to Tummel Bridge. The air felt fresh after the storm and walking was delightful, but he found no friendly shepherd’s cottage to shelter him, and passed a very cold and comfortless night under the shelter of a rick, which proved distinctly uncomfortable as sleeping quarters. Twice he was roused by mice running over his face, and in the dead of night a groan and the falling of some heavy object at his very feet made him start up. It proved to be a drunken and very dirty tramp, whose neighbourhood was highly undesirable, and Ralph shifted his quarters to the other side of the rick where the keen, north-east wind was far from pleasant. He woke again in the grey dawn, feeling stiff and miserable. The tramp still retained the leeward side of the rick, so there was nothing for it but to resume his journey, and gradually the morning mist cleared and the sun rose, revealing the fine outline of Schiehallion and chasing away the chill discomfort of the night. Indeed, by the time Ralph had reached the village of Fortingall, he was both hot and sleepy, and finding the kirkyard deserted, he lay down on a sunny patch of grass, with his head resting on one of the stone ledges that flanked the railings round the famous yew tree of three thousand years old. How long he slept he could not tell, but he awoke at length to the consciousness of hunger. Having eaten all the bread he had saved from the previous night, he wandered towards the kirk, and hearing the sound of a voice through the open windows, realised for the first time that it was Sunday. The preacher was giving out the One hundred and twenty-first psalm, and pausing to listen, he heard, to the familiar tune of “French,” the following quaint metrical version.

“I to the hills will lift mine eyes.

From whence doth come my aid?

My safety cometh from the Lord,

Who heav’n and earth hath made.

Thy foot he’ll not let slide nor will

He slumber that thee keeps.

Behold he that keeps Israel

He slumbers not nor sleeps.

“The Lord thee keeps, the Lord thy shade

On thy right hand doth stay;

The moon by night thee shall not smite,

Nor yet the sun by day.

The Lord shall keep thy soul; he shall

Preserve thee from all ill.

Henceforth thy going out and in

God keep for ever will.”

As the last words were sung, Ralph made his way to the door and entered the little building, just as the congregation stood up to pray. He felt, as he had done in the shepherd’s cottage, that sense of fellowship which was what he needed in his loneliness; nor could the length of the sermon, with its bewildering array of heads, spoil for him that May morning, and the strengthening influence of the calm worship hour, which seemed to him more spiritual, more grand in its simplicity, than elaborately ornate and showy ceremonials.

He went on his way refreshed, and, taking the road to Fearnan, soon reached the shores of Loch Tay. Away in the distance Ben Lawers rose rugged and stern against the pale blue of the sky, and the walk left nothing to be wished in the way of beauty. The only drawback was the growing sense of fatigue that come over him. He wondered that a walk of eighteen miles could so exhaust him. It was true he had been out of training when he started from Forres, and had walked many miles each day upon short rations, but he was dismayed to find that his powers of endurance were not greater.

It was evening by the time he reached the Bridge of Lochay, and learnt that he was within a mile of Killin. Feeling now tired out, he resolved to go no further; moreover, he had learnt from experience that it was better to sleep at a little distance from towns or villages. He paused to talk to an old labouring man who was leaning over the bridge. To the left there was a lovely little wood closely shutting in the river; to the right, the stream wound its way through green hayfields, and on through the wild beauty of Glen Lochay to the distant hills which were bathed now in a mellow, sunset light. Learning from his companion that he could get food close at hand, Ralph made his way to the little white old-fashioned inn just beyond the bridge. Its walls were covered with creepers, its garden gay with flowers, and in the porch were two comfortable chairs. The landlady seemed a little surprised at his request for two penny worth of bread: she would have been yet more surprised had she known that he gave her his very last coins in payment; for the rest, she answered his questions about Killin, and the distance from thence to Callander, and let him rest as long as he liked in the porch, bidding him a friendly good-night when at dusk he once more resumed his journey. Evidently the inn closed early on the Sabbath, for Ralph heard the door shut and bolted behind him.

He paused, and looked round in search of shelter. Not far off, the ground sloped steeply up, and fir-trees were planted about it. Climbing over the low stone wall, he made his way towards a fallen tree, the wide-spreading roots of which pointed darkly up against the twilight sky. It lay just as it had fallen in a wintry gale, its rough bark was veiled here and there by clumps of brake fern, and the turf still grew between the roots as it had grown when the tree was torn out of the earth by the storm. It proved a good shelter from the cold night wind, and Ralph crept closely down beneath it, and soon slept. His sleep, however, was disturbed by horrible dreams, and when in the early morning he awoke unrefreshed and with aching head, he felt no inclination to stay longer in his lair. Stretching his stiff limbs, he stood for a minute looking at the wonderful view before him. Beyond the river there lay a grand panorama of mountains; here and there were large plantations of fir, then came wild, bare tracks of heather, black and cheerless now without its bloom, but relieved at intervals by grey boulders and patches of grass, while little, white cottages were dotted, like rare pearls, about the landscape.

A good swim in the river revived him, after which he went on to Killin, and, seeing little chance of selling his mackintosh there, hoped for better luck that night at Callander; and learning that there was a short cut to Glen Ogle, left the road and struck across the mountainside, gaining, as he walked, fine views of Ben Vorlich. Toiling up in the sun proved warm work, however, and by the time he reached the gloomy, narrow glen he was thankful to wait and rest. He wondered whether it was the effect of the place or merely his own fault that such deadly depression began to creep over him. The stern, purple mountains seemed to frown on him, the tiny stream down below in the middle of the glen looked miserably insufficient for its wide, rocky bed, and the lingering mists of early morning still hung about in weird wreaths. This was the sixth day on which he had been a vagabond, and he began to wonder whether he should ever reach Glasgow. With an effort he shook off for a time the sense of impending evil, and forced himself to eat the remains of the loaf he had bought on the previous night.

“Now,” he thought to himself, as once more he tramped on, “I am bound, whatever happens, to reach Callander this evening. I must walk or starve; that will be a good sort of goad.”

The road was mostly down hill, and he made a brave start, passed Loch Earn, which lay far below in the valley, looking exquisitely lovely in the May sunshine, and then toiled up again towards Strathyre, pausing only to ask for some water at a grey, slate-roofed farm on the outskirts of the village. Here he learned the comforting fact that it was but “eight miles and a bittock” to Callander, and went on in better spirits. Away to the right he caught beautiful glimpses of the Braes of Balquhidder, and at last, to his relief, came down to the shores of Loch Lubnaig.

But the loch was nearly five miles long, and before he had gone half its length such intolerable pain and weariness overpowered him that he could hardly drag one foot after another. He was forced to rest for a while; then once more blindly staggered on, wondering what was going to happen to him and counting the milestones with the eagerness of despair. At length the loch was passed, and the two railway bridges. He knew that he must be in the Pass of Leny, and as he toiled up the hill could hear the rushing sound of the river among the trees to the right. Then came the moment when he could do no more, but sank down half-fainting by the roadside, his head resting on a rough seat which had been placed against the wall. How long he lay there he could not tell, but he was roused by the sound of footsteps close at hand. Half opening his eyes he caught sight of two hard-featured men, who glanced at him critically and shrugged their shoulders.

“Drunk,” he heard one of them say, “and as early in the afternoon as this!”

The words rankled in poor Ralph’s mind.

“If I had not tried to be honest it would never have come to this,” he reflected. “Because my clothes are shabby and my boots in holes they judge me. Well, it’s what the poor always have to put up with!”

He dragged himself to his feet, and, noticing for the first time some steps in the wall and a path leading down to the river, thought he would hide his misery and escape from further comments. He was parched with thirst, too, but to reach the water proved hopeless. Though the river was swollen with the recent storm, it went surging and foaming below him among the rocks in a way which made him feel sick and giddy. He just staggered on by the narrow, rocky track and the wooden gallery till he reached the smoother path beyond, which led into a little wood, and here once more his powers deserted him, and he again lost consciousness.

When he came to himself he was lying uneasily across the path, his head on the mossy bank and his feet hanging perilously over the water. It just crossed his mind that he might easily enough have lost his life had he fallen in the opposite direction, and he wondered dreamily whether it would not have simplified matters, yet, wretched as he was, he felt somehow glad to be alive. Away in the distance he could see Ben Ledi rising in its tranquil beauty beyond the foaming river. There was a rocky islet, too, in the centre of the flood, with a tall, stately fir-tree growing upon it, the dark foliage strongly contrasting with the white foam and the vivid green of the trees on the further bank. To his fancy, the rushing river seemed to ring out the tune of

“I to the hills will lift mine eyes,”

as he had heard it sung on the previous day at Fortingall Kirk.

All sorts of half-misty memories thronged his fevered brain. He thought he was walking again with Angus Linklater as he carried the ugly little black lamb; or he was out boating with his father; or he was at rehearsal, and Mrs. Skoot was wrathfully haranguing him. Through all these feverish fancies, there remained the ever-present consciousness of physical misery, and the rankling recollection of the words he had heard from the two men who had passed him on the road. Presently, yet another fancy took possession of him. He was sitting with Evereld in a theatre, and could distinctly hear the actual words of Shylock’s part:

“What, what, what? ill luck, ill luck?”

“I thank God, I thank God. Is’t true, is’t true?”

“I thank thee good Tubal; good news! good news! ha,

ha, where? In Genoa?”

The voice was certainly not Washington’s. He was puzzled.

“Thou stickest a dagger in me,” it resumed, then suddenly broke off, and in the pause that followed he heard steps approaching. He opened his eyes, but saw only the familiar view of Ben Ledi and the foaming river. He had no notion that just behind him stood a tall, striking figure, and that some one was keenly studying him, not with the critical harshness of the passers-by in the road, but with the reverent sympathetic manner of the artist.