There was no coach from Aberdeen
till eight the following morning, and before that he would be there.
It was a dreary journey without Ericson. Every turn of the road
reminded him of him. And Ericson too was going a lonely unknown
way.
Did ever two go together upon that way? Might not two die together
and not lose hold of each other all the time, even when the sense of
the clasping hands was gone, and the soul had withdrawn itself from
the touch? Happy they who prefer the will of God to their own even
in this, and would, as the best friend, have him near who can be
near--him who made the fourth in the fiery furnace! Fable or fact,
reader, I do not care. The One I mean is, and in him I hope.
Very weary was Robert when he walked into his grandmother's house.
Betty came out of the kitchen at the sound of his entrance.
'Is Mr. Ericson--?'
'Na; he's nae deid,' she answered. 'He'll maybe live a day or twa,
they say.'
'Thank God!' said Robert, and went to his grandmother.
'Eh, laddie!' said Mrs. Falconer, the first greetings over, 'ane 's
ta'en an' anither 's left! but what for 's mair nor I can faddom.
There's that fine young man, Maister Ericson, at deith's door; an'
here am I, an auld runklet wife, left to cry upo' deith, an' he
winna hear me.'
'Cry upo' God, grannie, an' no upo' deith,' said Robert, catching at
the word as his grandmother herself might have done. He had no such
unfair habit when I knew him, and always spoke to one's meaning, not
one's words.
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