Let him who understands, understand better; let him not say the good is less than perfect, or excuse his supineness and spiritual sloth by saying to himself that a man can go too far in his search after the divine, can sell too much of what he has to buy the field of the treasure.

Either there is no Christ of God, or my all is his.
Robert seemed at length to have ceased his caged wandering.

For a quarter of an hour he had been sitting with his face buried in his hands.

Janet rose, went softly to him, and said in a whisper: "Is Gibbie waur aff, Robert, i' this watter upo' Glashgar, nor the dissiples i' the boat upo' yon loch o' Galilee, an' the Maister no come to them?
Robert, my ain man! dinna gar the Maister say to you, O ye o' little faith! Wharfor did ye doobt?
Tak hert, man; the Maister wadna hae his men be cooards." "Ye're richt, Janet; ye're aye richt," answered Robert, and rose.
She followed him into the passage.
"Whaur are ye gauin', Robert ?" she said.
"I wuss I cud tell ye," he answered.

"I'm jist hungerin' to be my lane.