“Do you think, for instance,” he continued, thus driven, “that a man is bound to tell _everything_—even to the friend he loves best?” “I think,” answered the soutar after a moment’s thought, “that we must answer the _what_, before we enter upon the _how much_. And I think, first of all we must ask—to _whom_ are we bound to confess?—and there surely the answer is, to him to whom we have done the wrong. If we have been grumbling in our hearts, it is to God we must confess: who else has to do with the matter? To _Him_ we maun flee the moment oor eyes are opent to what we’ve been aboot! But, gien we hae wranged ane o’ oor fallow-craturs, wha are we to gang til wi’ oor confession but that same fallow-cratur? It seems to me we maun gang to that man first—even afore we gang to God himsel. Not one moment must we indulge procrastination on the plea o’ prayin! From our vera knees we maun rise in haste, and say to brother or sister, ‘I’ve done ye this or that wrang: forgie me.’ God can wait for your prayer better nor you, or him ye’ve wranged, can wait for your confession! Efter that, ye maun at ance fa’ to your best endeevour to mak up for the wrang. ‘Confess your sins,’ I think it means, ‘each o’ ye to the ither again whom ye hae dene the offence.’—Divna ye think that’s the cowmonsense o’ the maitter?” “Indeed, I think you must be right!” replied the minister, who sat revolving only how best, alas, to cover his retreat! “I will go home at once and think it all over. Indeed, I am even now all but convinced that what you say must be what the Apostle intended!” With a great sigh, of which he was not aware, Blatherwick rose and walked from the kitchen, hoping he looked—not guilty, but sunk in thought. In truth he was unable to think. Oppressed and heavy-laden with the sense of a duty too unpleasant for performance, he went home to his cheerless manse, where his housekeeper was the only person he had to speak to, a woman incapable of comforting anybody. There he went straight to his study, but, kneeling, found he could not pray the simplest prayer; not a word would come, and he could not pray without words! He was dead, and in hell—so far perished that he felt nothing. He rose, and sought the open air; it brought him no restoration. He had not heeded his friend’s advice, had not entertained the thought of the one thing possible to him—had not moved, even in spirit, toward Isy! The only comfort he could now find for his guilty soul was the thought that he could do nothing, for he did not know where Isy was to be found. When he remembered the next moment that his friend Robertson must be able to find her, he soothed his conscience with the reflection that there was no coach till the next morning, and in the meantime he could write: a letter would reach him almost as soon as he could himself!