'But what's to be done in this case, Robert? Where's the work that you can do in order to understand? Where's your long division, man?' 'Ye're ayont me noo. I canna tell that, Mr. Ericson. It canna be gaein' to the kirk, surely. Maybe it micht be sayin' yer prayers and readin' yer Bible.' Ericson did not reply, and the conversation dropped. Is it strange that neither of these disciples should have thought of turning to the story of Jesus, finding some word that he had spoken, and beginning to do that as a first step towards a knowledge of the doctrine that Jesus was the incarnate God, come to visit his people--a very unlikely thing to man's wisdom, yet an idea that has notwithstanding ascended above man's horizon, and shown itself the grandest idea in his firmament? In the evening Ericson asked again for his papers, from which he handed Robert the following poem:-- WORDS IN THE NIGHT. I woke at midnight, and my heart, My beating heart said this to me: Thou seest the moon how calm and bright The world is fair by day and night, But what is that to thee? One touch to me--down dips the light Over the land and sea. All is mine, all is my own! Toss the purple fountain high! The breast of man is a vat of stone; I am alive, I, only I! One little touch and all is dark; The winter with its sparkling moons The spring with all her violets, The crimson dawns and rich sunsets, The autumn's yellowing noons. I only toss my purple jets, And thou art one that swoons Upon a night of gust and roar, Shipwrecked among the waves, and seems Across the purple hills to roam; Sweet odours touch him from the foam, And downward sinking still he dreams He walks the clover field at home, And hears the rattling teams. All is mine; all is my own! Toss the purple fountain high! The breast of man is a vat of stone; I am alive, I, only I! Thou hast beheld a throated fountain spout Full in the air, and in the downward spray A hovering Iris span the marble tank, Which as the wind came, ever rose and sank Violet and red; so my continual play Makes beauty for the Gods with many a prank Of human excellence, while they, Weary of all the noon, in shadows sweet Supine and heavy-eyed rest in the boundless heat: Let the world's fountain play! Beauty is pleasant in the eyes of Jove; Betwixt the wavering shadows where he lies He marks the dancing column with his eyes Celestial, and amid his inmost grove Upgathers all his limbs, serenely blest, Lulled by the mellow noise of the great world's unrest.