“And she’s true and aefauld, but she’s wiser than the like o’ you,” said the mother through her tears, “I see what she meant now; but she wadna tell me this, for fear I did hope, and my hope was vain. Oh, wha kens--wha kens but the Lord? but if it happened to ane, it might happen to twa, and His mercy has nae measure. It wadna be merciful to send him to his grave wi’ his faither’s wrath upon him.” The old man’s harsh, stern voice was broken at every word, by the convulsive sob which he could not restrain. “Haud your peace, Marget; say ony ill o’ me; but if He slew your dearest ten times ower, dinna daur to malign the Lord.” When they left these old, agitated, sorrowful people alone with their grief and their hope, the banker did not venture to reprove his child for her want of wisdom. His own mind was full. This youthful faith and boldness--this clear uplooking to the heavens--rash as it might be, and inconsistent with worldly prudence, was a higher wisdom than his. He felt that the girl at his side had met in her simplicity, difficulties with which he dared not measure his strength--that the grand, sublime, original emotions were fitter for the handling of the child than for the man. It made him humble and it made him proud; for the fearless girl’s voice of Hope speaking to the desolate had touched him to the heart. “Should I not have said it, father?” said Hope, after a considerable silence. “Do you think it was wrong?” “I cannot tell, Hope,” said the subdued strong man, “it may turn out the best and wisest thing. It may--I cannot tell, Hope--you have got beyond the regions of expediency.” He was not able to cope with these things--he confessed it involuntarily. “Because Helen did not tell them, father,” said Hope. “If Helen had thought it was right, she would have told them.” “Does Helen visit them, Hope?” Hope had forgotten for the moment the antagonism of Helen and her father. “She goes sometimes--sometimes since poor Peter went away.” “And what does Helen say about Saunders, Hope?” “I don’t know, father, except that she is sorry; but I mind once what Mossgray said. Mossgray said it was a good thing that folk were able to change, and that it was very miserable that Saunders did not change till it was too late--very miserable--that was what Mossgray said; but Mossgray should have told Saunders, father, about the gentleman.” “Mossgray is wise; we are all wiser than you are, Hope,” said the banker; “even your Helen. And that was what Mossgray said? too late--he did not change till it was too late?” Too late--too late to keep the due honour of a wise father, too late gracefully to approve and sanction the righteous purposes of a good son. Too late! The words rang into his ear as the musical air of night swept by in its waving circles, and the moon rose in a haze mild and silvery. The gentle warmth of change was loosing the chains about his heart. CHAPTER XII.