he kent.He loved God--nae a God like Jesus Christ, but the God he kent--and that was a' he could.The second comman'ment--that glorious recognition o' the divine in humanity makin' 't fit and needfu' to be loved, that claim o' God upon and for his ain bairns, that love o' the neebour as yer'sel--he didna ken.Still there was religion in him; and he who died for the sins o' the whole world has surely been revealed to him lang er' noo, and throu the knowledge o'
him, he noo dwalls in that God efter whom he aspired.'
Here was the outcome of many talks which Robert and the doctor had had together, as they laboured amongst the poor.
'Did ye never try,' Robert asked, 'to lat him ken aboot the comin'
o' God to his world in Jesus Christ?'
'I couldna do muckle that way honestly, my ain faith was sae poor and sma'.But I tellt him what Christians believed.I tellt him aboot the character and history o' Christ.But it didna seem to tak muckle hauld o' him.It wasna interesstin' till him.Just ance whan I tellt him some things he had said aboot his relation to God--sic as, "I and my Father are one,"--and aboot the relation o'
a' his disciples to God and himsel'--"I in them, and thou in me, that they may be made perfect in one," he said, wi' a smile, "The man was a good Brahmin."'It's little,' said Robert, 'the one great commandment can do withoot the other.It's little we can ken what God to love, or hoo to love him, withoot "thy neighbour as thyself." Ony ane o' them withoot the ither stan's like the ae factor o' a multiplication, or ae wing upo' a laverock (lark).'
Towards the close of the week, he grew much feebler.Falconer scarcely left his room.He woke one midnight, and murmured as follows, with many pauses for breath and strength:
'Robert, my time's near, I'm thinkin'; for, wakin' an' sleepin', I'm a bairn again.I can hardly believe whiles 'at my father hasna a grup o' my han'.A meenute ago I was traivellin' throu a terrible driftin' o' snaw--eh, hoo it whustled and sang! and the cauld o' 't was stingin'; but my father had a grup o' me, an' I jist despised it, an' was stampin' 't doon wi' my wee bit feet, for I was like saven year auld or thereaboots.An' syne I thocht I heard my mither singin', and kent by that that the ither was a dream.I'm thinkin'
a hantle 'ill luik dreamy afore lang.Eh! I wonner what the final waukin' 'ill be like.'
After a pause he resumed,'Robert, my dear boy, ye're i' the richt gait.Haud on an' lat naething turn ye aside.Man, it's a great comfort to me to think that ye're my ain flesh and blude, an' nae that far aff.My father an' your great-gran'father upo' the gran'mither's side war ain brithers.I wonner hoo far doon it wad gang.Ye're the only ane upo' my father's side, you and yer father, gin he be alive, that Ihae sib to me.My will's i' the bottom drawer upo' the left han' i'
my writin' table i' the leebrary:--I hae left ye ilka plack 'at Ipossess.Only there's ae thing that I want ye to do.First o' a', ye maun gang on as yer doin' in London for ten year mair.Gin deein' men hae ony o' that foresicht that's been attreebuted to them in a' ages, it's borne in upo' me that ye wull see yer father again.
At a' events, ye'll be helpin' some ill-faured sowls to a clean face and a bonny.But gin ye dinna fa' in wi' yer father within ten year, ye maun behaud a wee, an' jist pack up yer box, an' gang awa'
ower the sea to Calcutta, an' du what I hae tellt ye to do i' that wull.I bind ye by nae promise, Robert, an' I winna hae nane.
Things micht happen to put ye in a terrible difficulty wi' a promise.I'm only tellin' ye what I wad like.Especially gin ye hae fund yer father, ye maun gang by yer ain jeedgment aboot it, for there 'll be a hantle to do wi' him efter ye hae gotten a grup o'
'im.An' noo, I maun lie still, an' maybe sleep again, for I hae spoken ower muckle.'
Hoping that he would sleep and wake yet again, Robert sat still.
After an hour, he looked, and saw that, although hitherto much oppressed, he was now breathing like a child.There was no sign save of past suffering: his countenance was peaceful as if he had already entered into his rest.Robert withdrew, and again seated himself.And the great universe became to him as a bird brooding over the breaking shell of the dying man.
On either hand we behold a birth, of which, as of the moon, we see but half.We are outside the one, waiting for a life from the unknown; we are inside the other, watching the departure of a spirit from the womb of the world into the unknown.To the region whither he goes, the man enters newly born.We forget that it is a birth, and call it a death.The body he leaves behind is but the placenta by which he drew his nourishment from his mother Earth.And as the child-bed is watched on earth with anxious expectancy, so the couch of the dying, as we call them, may be surrounded by the birth-watchers of the other world, waiting like anxious servants to open the door to which this world is but the wind-blown porch.
Extremes meet.As a man draws nigh to his second birth, his heart looks back to his childhood.When Dr.Anderson knew that he was dying, he retired into the simulacrum of his father's benn end.
As Falconer sat thinking, the doctor spoke.They were low, faint, murmurous sounds, for the lips were nearly at rest.Wanted no more for utterance, they were going back to the holy dust, which is God's yet.
'Father, father!' he cried quickly, in the tone and speech of a Scotch laddie, 'I'm gaein' doon.Haud a grup o' my han'.'
When Robert hurried to the bedside, he found that the last breath had gone in the words.The thin right hand lay partly closed, as if it had been grasping a larger hand.On the face lay confidence just ruffled with apprehension: the latter melted away, and nothing remained but that awful and beautiful peace which is the farewell of the soul to its servant.
Robert knelt and thanked God for the noble man.