He walked on over the field,
thinking of Shargar's mother. If he could but find her! He walked
on and on. He had no inclination to go home. The solitariness of
the night, the uncanniness of the moon, prevents most people from
wandering far: Robert had learned long ago to love the night, and to
feel at home with every aspect of God's world. How this peace
contrasted with the nights in London streets! this grass with the
dark flow of the Thames! these hills and those clouds half melted
into moonlight with the lanes blazing with gas! He thought of the
child who, taken from London for the first time, sent home the
message: 'Tell mother that it's dark in the country at night.' Then
his thoughts turned again to Shargar's mother! Was it not possible,
being a wanderer far and wide, that she might be now in Rothieden?
Such people have a love for their old haunts, stronger than that of
orderly members of society for their old homes. He turned back, and
did not know where he was. But the lines of the hill-tops directed
him. He hastened to the town, and went straight through the
sleeping streets to the back wynd where he had found Shargar sitting
on the doorstep. Could he believe his eyes? A feeble light was
burning in the shed. Some other poverty-stricken bird of the night,
however, might be there, and not she who could perhaps guide him to
the goal of his earthly life. He drew near, and peeped in at the
broken window.
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