“Oh! yes, please,” cried Harry; and in a moment he was on Hugh’s back once more, cantering joyously to the barn. After various improvements, including some enlargement of the interior, Hugh and Harry sat down together in the low yellow twilight of their cave, to enjoy the result of their labours. They could just see, by the light from the tunnel, the glimmer of the golden hollow all about them. The rain was falling heavily out-of-doors; and they could hear the sound of the multitudinous drops of the broken cataract of the heavens like the murmur of the insects in a summer wood. They knew that everything outside was rained upon, and was again raining on everything beneath it, while they were dry and warm. “This is nice!” exclaimed Harry, after a few moments of silent enjoyment. “This is your first lesson in architecture,” said Hugh. “Am I to learn architecture?” asked Harry, in a rueful tone. “It is well to know how things came to be done, if you should know nothing more about them, Harry. Men lived in the cellars first of all, and next on the ground floor; but they could get no further till they joined the two, and then they could build higher.” “I don’t quite understand you, sir.” “I did not mean you should, Harry.” “Then I don’t mind, sir. But I thought architecture was building.” “So it is; and this is one way of building. It is only making an outside by pulling out an inside, instead of making an inside by setting up an outside.” Harry thought for a while, and then said joyfully: “I see it, sir! I see it. The inside is the chief thing—not the outside.” “Yes, Harry; and not in architecture only. Never forget that.” They lay for some time in silence, listening to the rain. At length Harry spoke: “I have been thinking of what you told me yesterday, Mr. Sutherland, about the rain going to look for the seeds that were thirsty for it. And now I feel just as if I were a seed, lying in its little hole in the earth, and hearing the rain-drops pattering down all about it, waiting—oh, so thirsty!—for some kind drop to find me out, and give me itself to drink. I wonder what kind of flower I should grow up,” added he, laughing. “There is more truth than you think, in your pretty fancy, Harry,” rejoined Hugh, and was silent—self-rebuked; for the memory of David came back upon him, recalled by the words of the boy; of David, whom he loved and honoured with the best powers of his nature, and whom yet he had neglected and seemed to forget; nay, whom he had partially forgotten—he could not deny. The old man, whose thoughts were just those of a wise child, had said to him once: