Then Oliver called himself back. Had he any right to sit in stern judgment on Harry Stanhope’s weakness, granted that it was weakness even to self-indulgence? What if this were the sole refuge for Harry Stanhope, the only means by which the man whom Fan had so loved and striven to win, could be won to virtue and temperance? What if this were the single method by which Harry could serve his fellow-creatures? There are dull or besotted scholars who can receive no teaching save from homely, broad personalities, and there are primitive teachers who if they are not personal are nothing. Such teaching might appear little better than foolish and despicable to Oliver Constable, and yet what assurance had he, in his arrogance and self-sufficiency, that it was not among the foolish things which God has chosen to confound the wise? Might not Fan, from her peace among the angels, regard these ebullitions—which were at least frank and guileless—that vexed Oliver’s soul, in an altogether different light from that in which she would have seen them, had she been still living an erring woman on earth? No; let poor Harry do what seemed good unto him. God forbid that Oliver should put hindrances in Harry’s path—the path which was, perhaps, best suited for his stumbling feet. CHAPTER XXIX. FRESH SERVICE. On the night of his return, Oliver had been tempted to say— My wound is deep, I fain would sleep, Take thou the vanguard of the three; but the next day found him again leading the van. Happy the wounded who have still strength for the fight, and whose presence is yet wanted in the thick of the fray. Sally Pope arrived at an early hour the following morning, and gave her master her greeting. She was so full of self-reproach for her unlucky absence the previous evening that it diverted her in some degree from the loud condolences which he was only too content to be spared. And Sally was a shrewd woman; she knew that ‘men-folk do not care to return to the topic of their grief, as poor critters of women will discuss it at large, and find comfort in dwelling on their trials;’ so when her single heartfelt lamentation for ‘poor Miss Fan as were that nimble and clever,’ had been made, Sally set herself to divert Oliver from the cold comfort of his lonely home-coming, by retailing to him all the latest news of Friarton. ‘Lord, Master Oliver, we’re not singular in our troubles! There’s young Dadd down with fever, lying between life and death. Not a critter will enter Dadd’s shop—not to say the house, and the old people are nigh besides themselves.’ ‘Poor Jack! poor souls!’ said Oliver. ‘But what has become of the Sister—the wonderful nurse Mrs. Hilliard imported into the town?’