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MacDonald, George, 1824-1905

"Robert Falconer"

He himself had said of them, 'They are spirit and
they are life;' and what folly to buttress life and spirit with
other powers than their own! From that day to the last, as often
and as long as the dying man was able to listen to him, he read from
the glad news just the words of the Lord. As he read thus, one
fading afternoon, the doctor broke out with,
'Eh, Robert, the patience o' him! He didna quench the smokin' flax.
There's little fire aboot me, but surely I ken in my ain hert some
o' the risin' smoke o' the sacrifice. Eh! sic words as they are!
An' he was gaein' doon to the grave himsel', no half my age, as
peacefu', though the road was sae rouch, as gin he had been gaein'
hame till 's father.'
'Sae he was,' returned Robert.
'Ay; but here am I lyin' upo' my bed, slippin' easy awa. An' there
was he--'
The old man ceased. The sacred story was too sacred for speech.
Robert sat with the New Testament open before him on the bed.
'The mair the words o' Jesus come into me,' the doctor began again,
'the surer I am o' seein' my auld Brahmin frien', Robert. It's true
I thought his religion not only began but ended inside him. It was
a' a booin' doon afore and an aspirin' up into the bosom o' the
infinite God. I dinna mean to say 'at he wasna honourable to them
aboot him. And I never saw in him muckle o' that pride to the lave
(rest) that belangs to the Brahmin. It was raither a stately
kin'ness than that condescension which is the vice o' Christians.


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