"That's just beautiful," he said. "I do not mind to have heard anything
like it; it's as fine as Burns when he wished deliverance to one--that is
prayed for in no kirk. Ay, ay! so he would have you console the poor lost
spirit? God bless the boy! There's something more than common in that,
Colonel Mortimer. And also the faith of him in his father!--I would like
to put that into a sermon." Then the old gentleman gave me an alarmed
look, and said, "No, no; I was not meaning a sermon; but I must write it
down for the 'Children's Record.'" I saw the thought that passed through
his mind. Either he thought, or he feared I would think, of a funeral
sermon. You may believe this did not make me more cheerful.

I can scarcely say that Dr. Moncrieff gave me any advice. How could any
one advise on such a subject? But he said, "I think I'll come too. I'm an
old man; I'm less liable to be frightened than those that are further off
the world unseen. It behooves me to think of my own journey there. I've
no cut-and-dry beliefs on the subject. I'll come too; and maybe at the
moment the Lord will put into our heads what to do."

This gave me a little comfort,--more than Simson had given me. To be
clear about the cause of it was not my grand desire. It was another thing
that was in my mind,--my boy. As for the poor soul at the open door, I
had no more doubt, as I have said, of its existence than I had of my own.
It was no ghost to me. I knew the creature, and it was in trouble. That
was my feeling about it, as it was Roland's. To hear it first was a great
shock to my nerves, but not now; a man will get accustomed to anything.
But to do something for it was the great problem; how was I to be
serviceable to a being that was invisible, that was mortal no longer?
"Maybe at the moment the Lord will put it into our heads." This is very
old-fashioned phraseology, and a week before, most likely, I should have
smiled (though always with kindness) at Dr. Moncrieff's credulity; but