I don't think I had any feeling about this as I turned away from that
common bustle of the railway which made my private preoccupations feel so
strangely out of date. There had been a distinct satisfaction in my mind
before, that his scepticism had been so entirely defeated. But the more
serious part of the matter pressed upon me now. I went straight from the
railway to the manse, which stood on a little plateau on the side of the
river opposite to the woods of Brentwood. The minister was one of a class
which is not so common in Scotland as it used to be. He was a man of good
family, well educated in the Scotch way, strong in philosophy, not so
strong in Greek, strongest of all in experience,--a man who had "come
across," in the course of his life, most people of note that had ever
been in Scotland, and who was said to be very sound in doctrine, without
infringing the toleration with which old men, who are good men, are
generally endowed. He was old-fashioned; perhaps he did not think so much
about the troublous problems of theology as many of the young men, nor
ask himself any hard questions about the Confession of Faith; but he
understood human nature, which is perhaps better. He received me with a
cordial welcome.

"Come away, Colonel Mortimer," he said; "I'm all the more glad to see
you, that I feel it's a good sign for the boy. He's doing well?--God be
praised,--and the Lord bless him and keep him. He has many a poor body's
prayers, and that can do nobody harm."

"He will need them all, Dr. Moncrieff," I said, "and your counsel too."
And I told him the story,--more than I had told Simson. The old clergyman
listened to me with many suppressed exclamations, and at the end the
water stood in his eyes.