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The two men turned towards each other。 Robert put out his arms。
His father laid his head on his bosom； and went on weeping。 Robert
held him to his heart。
When shall a man dare to say that God has done all he can？
CHAPTER XIX。
THE WHOLE STORY。
The men laid their mother's body with those of the generations that
had gone before her； beneath the long grass in their country
churchyard near Rothiedena dreary place； one accustomed to trim
cemeteries and sentimental wreaths would call itto Falconer's mind
so friendly to the forsaken dust； because it lapt it in sweet
oblivion。
They returned to the dreary house； and after a simple meal such as
both had used to partake of in their boyhood； they sat by the fire；
Andrew in his mother's chair； Robert in the same chair in which he
had learned his Sallust and written his versions。 Andrew sat for a
while gazing into the fire； and Robert sat watching his face； where
in the last few months a little feeble fatherhood had begun to dawn。
'It was there； father； that grannie used to sit； every day；
sometimes looking in the fire for hours； thinking about you； I
know；' Robert said at length。
Andrew stirred uneasily in his chair。
'How do you know that？' he asked。
'If there was one thing I could be sure of； it was when grannie was
thinking about you； father。 Who wouldn't have known it； father；
when her lips were pressed together； as if she had some dreadful
pain to bear； and her eyes were looking away through the fireso
far away！ and I would speak to her three times before she would
answer？ She lived only to think about God and you； father。 God and
you came very close together in her mind。 Since ever I can
remember； almost； the thought of you was just the one thing in this
house。'
Then Robert began at the beginning of his memory； and told his
father all that he could remember。 When he came to speak about his
solitary musings in the garret； he saidand long before he reached
this part； he had relapsed into his mother tongue：
'Come and luik at the place； father。 I want to see 't again；
mysel'。'
He rose。 His father yielded and followed him。 Robert got a candle
in the kitchen； and the two big men climbed the little narrow stair
and stood in the little sky of the house； where their heads almost
touched the ceiling。
'I sat upo' the flure there；' said Robert； 'an' thoucht and thoucht
what I wad du to get ye； father； and what I wad du wi' ye whan I had
gotten ye。 I wad greit whiles； 'cause ither laddies had a father
an' I had nane。 An' there's whaur I fand mamma's box wi' the letter
in 't and her ain picter： grannie gae me that ane o' you。 An'
there's whaur I used to kneel doon an' pray to God。 An' he's heard
my prayers； and grannie's prayers； and here ye are wi' me at last。
Instead o' thinkin' aboot ye； I hae yer ain sel'。 Come； father； I
want to say a word o' thanks to God； for hearin' my prayer。'
He took the old man's hand； led him to the bedside； and kneeled with
him there。
My reader can hardly avoid thinking it was a poor sad triumph that
Robert had after all。 How the dreams of the boy had dwindled in
settling down into the reality！ He had his father； it was true； but
what a father！ And how little he had him！
But this was not the end； and Robert always believed that the end
must be the greater in proportion to the distance it was removed； to
give time for its true fulfilment。 And when he prayed aloud beside
his father； I doubt not that his thanksgiving and his hope were
equal。
The prayer over； he took his father's hand and led him down again to
the little parlour； and they took their seats again by the fire； and
Robert began again and went on with his story； not omitting the
parts belonging to Mary St。 John and Eric Ericson。
When he came to tell how he had encountered him in the deserted
factory：
'Luik here； father； here's the mark o' the cut；' he said； parting
the thick hair on the top of his head。
His father hid his face in his hands。
'It wasna muckle o' a blow that ye gied me； father；' he went on；
'but I fell against the grate； and that was what did it。 And I
never tellt onybody； nae even Miss St。 John； wha plaistered it up；
hoo I had gotten 't。 And I didna mean to say onything aboot it； but
I wantit to tell ye a queer dream； sic a queer dream it garred me
dream the same nicht。'
As he told the dream； his father suddenly grew attentive； and before
he had finished； looked almost scared； but he said nothing。 When he
came to relate his grandmother's behaviour after having discovered
that the papers relating to the factory were gone； he hid his face
in his hands once more。 He told him how grannie had mourned and
wept over him； from the time when he heard her praying aloud as he
crept through her room at night to their last talk together after
Dr。 Anderson's death。 He set forth； as he could； in the simplest
language； the agony of her soul over her lost son。 He told him then
about Ericson； and Dr。 Anderson； and how good they had been to him；
and at last of Dr。 Anderson's request that he would do something for
him in India。
'Will ye gang wi' me； father？' he asked。
'I'll never leave ye again； Robert； my boy；' he answered。 'I have
been a bad man； and a bad father； and now I gie mysel' up to you to
mak the best o' me ye can。 I daurna leave ye； Robert。'
'Pray to God to tak care o' ye； father。 He'll do a'thing for ye；
gin ye'll only lat him。'
'I will； Robert。'
'I was mysel' dreidfu' miserable for a while；' Robert resumed； 'for
I cudna see or hear God at a'； but God heard me； and loot me ken
that he was there an' that a' was richt。 It was jist like whan a
bairnie waukens up an' cries oot； thinkin' it 's its lane； an'
through the mirk comes the word o' the mither o' 't； sayin'； 〃I'm
here； cratur： dinna greit。〃 And I cam to believe 'at he wad mak you
a good man at last。 O father； it's been my dream waukin' an'
sleepin' to hae you back to me an' grannie； an' mamma； an' the
Father o' 's a'； an' Jesus Christ that's done a'thing for 's。 An'
noo ye maun pray to God； father。 Ye will pray to God to haud a grip
o' yewillna ye； father？'
'I will； I will； Robert。 But I've been an awfu' sinner。 I believe
I was the death o' yer mother； laddie。'
Some closet of memory was opened； a spring of old tenderness gushed
up in his heart； at some window of the past the face of his dead
wife looked out： the old man broke into a great cry； and sobbed and
wept bitterly。 Robert said no more； but wept with him。
Henceforward the father clung to his son like a child。 The heart of
Falconer turned to his Father in heaven with speechless
thanksgiving。 The ideal of his dreams was beginning to dawn； and
his life was new…born。
For a few days Robert took Andrew about to see those of his old
friends who were left； and the kindness with whic