"Sir," said Dr. Moncrieff, "an old man like me is sometimes not very
sure what he believes. There is just one thing I am certain of--and that
is the loving-kindness of God."

"But I thought that was in this life. I am no theologian--"

"Sir," said the old man again, with a tremor in him which I could feel
going over all his frame, "if I saw a friend of mine within the gates of
hell, I would not despair but his Father would take him by the hand
still, if he cried like _you_."

"I allow it is very strange, very strange. I cannot see through it. That
there must be human agency, I feel sure. Doctor, what made you decide
upon the person and the name?"

The minister put out his hand with the impatience which a man might show
if he were asked how he recognized his brother. "Tuts!" he said, in
familiar speech; then more solemnly, "How should I not recognize a person
that I know better--far better--than I know you?"

"Then you saw the man?"

Dr. Moncrieff made no reply. He moved his hand again with a little
impatient movement, and walked on, leaning heavily on my arm. And we went
on for a long time without another word, threading the dark paths, which
were steep and slippery with the damp of the winter. The air was very
still,--not more than enough to make a faint sighing in the branches,
which mingled with the sound of the water to which we were descending.
When we spoke again, it was about indifferent matters,--about the height
of the river, and the recent rains. We parted with the minister at his