"God is our refuge and our strength, In straits a present aid; Therefore, although the earth remove, We will not be afraid: Though hills amidst the sea be cast; Though waters roaring make, And troubled be; yea, though the hills By swelling seas do shake. "A river is, whose streams do glad The city of our God; The holy place, wherein the Lord Most high hath his abode. God in the midst of her doth dwell; Nothing shall her remove: The Lord to her our helper will, And that right early, prove." But when she had got so far, he said— "Margaret—I hope ye will not take it ill—if I interrupt ye—it is no unkindness I mean, my lass—but, ye see, ye’ve got the English speech, as is natural—and I was trying to think how my father used to read out the Psalm at family worship—and ye’ve not got the Scotch way—nor the strong emphasis—how could ye?—how could ye? Ye’ll not take it ill," he went on, with the most piteous concern visible in his face—"ye’ll not think it’s any unkindness——" "No, no, no, grandfather!" she said. "Of course not. Shall I ask Mrs. MacGill to come up, to read to you in the Scotch way?" "No, no one but you, Maisrie—no one but you—perhaps if you take the CXXVI. Psalm—’When Sion’s bondage God turned back, as men that dreamed were we’—I mind, they used to sing that to the tune of _Kilmarnock_—and the young women’s voices sounded beautiful. But you’re not vexed, Maisrie!—for I did not mean any unkindness to ye, my dear——" "No, no, grandfather," she said; and she turned to this other Psalm, and read it to him; and even after that it was some time before she could assure him that she had not been in the least hurt. Two more of those long and anxious days went by; the fever waxing and waning by turns; but all the time the strength of that once powerful frame was slowly ebbing away. For one thing, his mind was well content. He had no more anxiety about Maisrie; he appeared to regard her future as well assured. He lay quietly murmuring to himself; and they could make out, from chance sentences here and there, that he was going over his boyhood’s days again—bird’s-nesting in the spring woods, making swaying seats out of the shelving branches of the beeches, guddling for trout in the small hill burns. An old refrain seemed to haunt him— ’Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie, And O to be lying beyond thee: O sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep, That’s laid in the bed beyond thee.’