“I dinna think,” said Maggie aloud to herself, as she trudged along beside the delightfully silent Andrew, “that my father would be the least astonished—only filled wi’ an awfu’ glaidness—if at ony moment, walkin at his side, the Lord was to call him by his name, and appear til him. He would but think he had just steppit oot upon him frae some secret door, and would say,—‘I thoucht, Lord, I would see you some day! I was aye greedy efter a sicht o’ ye, Lord, and here ye are!’” CHAPTER V The same moment to her ears came the cry of an infant. Her first thought was, “Can that be Himsel, come ance again as he cam ance afore?” She stopped in the dusky starlight, and listened with her very soul. “Andrew!” she cried, for she heard the sound of his steps as he plodded on in front of her, and could vaguely see him, “Andrew, what was yon?” “I h’ard naething,” answered Andrew, stopping at her cry and listening. There came a second cry, a feeble, sad wail, and both of them heard it. Maggie darted off in the direction whence it seemed to come; nor had she far to run, for it was not one to reach any distance. They were at the moment climbing a dreary, desolate ridge, where the road was a mere stony hollow, in winter a path for the rain rather than the feet of men. On each side of it lay a wild moor, covered with heather and low berry-bearing shrubs. Under a big bush Maggie saw something glimmer, and, flying to it, found a child. It might be a year old, but was so small and poorly nourished that its age was hard to guess. With the instinct of a mother, she caught it up, and clasping it close to her panting bosom, was delighted to find it cease wailing the moment it felt her arm. Andrew, who had dropped the things he carried, and started at once after her, met her half-way, so absorbed in her treasure trove, and so blind to aught else, that he had to catch them both in his arms to break the imminent shock; but she slipped from them, and, to his amazement, went on down the hill, back the way they had come: clearly she thought of nothing but carrying the infant home to her father; and here even the slow perception of her companion understood her. “Maggie, Maggie,” he cried, “ye’ll baith be deid afore ye win hame wi’ ’t! Come on to my mither. There never was wuman like her for bairns! She’ll ken a hantle better nor ony father what to dee wi’ ’t!” Maggie at once recovered her senses, and knew he was right—but not before she had received an instantaneous insight that never after left her: now she understood the heart of the Son of Man, come to find and carry back the stray children to their Father and His. When afterward she told her father what she had then felt, he answered her with just the four words and no more— “Lassie, ye hae ’t!”