Mr Oswald hesitated a good deal; he had not much power of expression, and though he might show his sympathy practically if it was much excited, he could not manage to speak about it. In his capacity as elder, he could administer reproof with very becoming solemnity, and overawe the scorner with the grave dignity of his office; but to encourage, to soothe, to console--these were out of Mr Oswald’s way--he was shy of adventuring upon them. “Father,” said Hope, “when Saunders heard that Peter was dead he came to you--he wanted _you_ to advise him and not Mossgray; and now when there is no good word about poor Peter, will you not come and see Saunders, father? for they say he will break his heart and die.” “People do not die of broken hearts,” said Mr Oswald, hastily. “But I think Saunders has broken his heart even if he does not die,” said Hope, with reverence, “and I think that is harder than if God had taken him away like Peter; but, father, Robbie Caryl says that he heard Saunders at his worship on Saturday night, and he _minded_ Peter. Father, Saunders minded Peter in his prayer as if he were not dead.” Mr Oswald shook his head. “I am afraid there is very little chance of that, Hope.” But Hope reiterated her prayer. “Will you come with me to see Saunders, father?” “Wait till the evening, Hope,” said the banker: “I will go then.” And Hope, when the evening came, would suffer no evasion of the promise. Mr Oswald permitted himself to be led away somewhat reluctantly, for he felt the duty a very difficult and painful one. The door of Saunders Delvie’s cottage was closed when they came up, and from it issued the voice of psalms. It was earlier than the usual carefully-observed hour of worship, but Saunders and his wife were both weary and sick at heart, and they were glad to shut out the world and its gay daylight, and to seek the merciful oblivion of rest as soon as they could. The cottage was dimly lighted by the fire, and through the window the quick eyes of Hope discerned the two well-known figures seated on either side, and mingling their old cracked, trembling voices in the psalm. It was strange music--the wife’s low, murmuring, crooning tones, and the deeper voice of the old man with that shrill break in it--more pathetic than any sweeter woe of music. Old, poor, bereaved, and solitary, they omitted no night their usual “exercise”--they never forgot, with these sinking, wearied hearts and broken tones of theirs, to praise the God who chastised them. The banker and his daughter stood without, waiting till their worship ended; the low, grave murmur of Saunders’ voice as he read the chosen chapter came to them indistinctly through the gloom, and then Hope saw the two old solitary people kneel down to prayer.