Except his own daughters there was no one who mourned so deeply for the loss of Mr Cowie as Annie Anderson. She had left his church and gone to the missionars, and there found more spiritual nourishment than Mr Cowie's sermons could supply, but she could not forget his kisses, or his gentle words, or his shilling, for by their means, although she did not know it, Mr Cowie's self had given her a more confiding notion of God, a better feeling of his tenderness, than she could have had from all Mr Turnbull's sermons together. What equal gift could a man give? Was it not worth bookfuls of sound doctrine? Yet the good man, not knowing this, had often looked back to that interview, and reproached himself bitterly that he, so long a clergyman of that parish, had no help to give the only child who ever came to him to ask such help. So, when he lay on his death-bed, he sent for Annie, the only soul, out of all his pariah, over which he felt that he had any pastoral cure. When, with pale, tearful face, she entered his chamber, she found him supported with pillows in his bed. He stretched out his arms to her feebly, but held her close to his bosom, and wept. "I'm going to die, Annie," he said. "And go to heaven, sir, to the face o' God," said Annie, not sobbing, but with the tears streaming silently down her face. "I don't know, Annie. I've been of no use; and I'm afraid God does not care much for me." "If God loves you half as much as I do, sir, ye'll be well off in heaven. And I'm thinkin' he maun love ye mair nor me. For, ye see, sir, God's love itsel'." "I don't know, Annie. But if ever I win there, which'll be more than I deserve, I'll tell him about you, and ask him to give you the help that I couldn't give you." Love and Death make us all children.--Can Old Age be an evil thing, which does the same? The old clergyman had thought himself a good Protestant at least, but even his Protestantism was in danger now. Happily Protestantism was nothing to him now. Nothing but God would do now. Annie had no answer but what lay in her tears. He called his daughter, who stood weeping in the room. She came near. "Bring my study Bible," he said to her feebly. She went and brought it--a large quarto Bible. "Here, Annie," said the dying man, "here's my Bible that I've made but ower little use o' mysel'. Promise me, if ever ye have a house o' your own, that ye'll read out o' that book every day at worship. I want you not to forget me, as, if all's well, I shall never forget you." "That _will_ I, sir," responded Annie earnestly. "And ye'll find a new five-pound note between the leaves. Take it, for my sake." Money! Ah, well! Love can turn gold into grace. "Yes, sir," answered Annie, feeling this was no time for objecting to anything. "And good-bye, Annie. I can't speak more." He drew her to him again, and kissed her for the last time. Then he turned his face to the wall, and Annie went home weeping, with the great Bible in her arms.